Title: Girlfriend

Author: Hito

Pairing: Rory/Tristan, brief mentions of Luke/Lorelai and Lane/Henry

Rating: NC-17

Feedback: I just re-read this. Dear God, is it really as bad as I think it is? Let me know at hitokamei@yahoo.co.uk. Don’t pull any punches, if you do.

Disclaimer: ASP. The WB. So not me.

Author’s Note: Thanks to Rianna for betaing. Completed July 2002. This is NC-17. If you’re too young to be reading this, please choose something else.

*

Rory was about to leave the diner when Jess swung into the chair beside her. He grabbed her chin, and guided her mouth to his. A minute or two later, Lane cleared her throat.

"Should I just leave? You can catch up with me if you won't be finished by the time the movie starts."

Rory pulled away, and turned to Lane. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

Jess grinned. "Sorry. I'm on the clock. Five minutes; Luke times me."

"Can I catch up with you, Lane? Five minutes."

Lane stood, and reached for her coat. "Sure. But don't think I'm missing the previews for you."

"To the second."

Jess was kissing Rory again before Lane had left the table. He leaned back, still smiling. "Sorry I can't come with you."

"Oh, it's fine. Tomorrow, right?"

Jess looked awkward. "Oh. Ah."

"What?"

"I told Luke that I'd work. I'm sorry."

Rory slid from her chair, shrugging at him. "It's fine. Next weekend."

"Yeah. I promise. I won't forget this time."

"Right."

She smiled as she left, three minutes early.

*

They were wandering towards Lane's house in the gathering twilight, treading on strange shadows. Mrs. Kim was watching from the porch, allowing them the luxury of time, while keeping a close eye on her daughter. Lane was distressed.

"He just forgot," she accused.

"Yes. It's not a big deal."

"It wasn't the first time, or the second."

"He's just forgetful, Lane. It's not like he's cheating on me. I know, I know that he's working when he says he is."

"I know too, but--"

"We can't all have boyfriends as perfect as Henry."

Lane refused to be distracted. "While that is true, Jess is fast approaching the other end of the spectrum, Rory."

"He is not!"

"Four times!"

"He's not blowing me off. He asks me to come to the diner when he's working. He's not doing it to get away from me."

Lane softened. "I know that. You don't think that, do you? Because it's not true. But--he's careless, Rory. He's inconsiderate, and he takes you for granted. He can't keep doing this."

"He doesn't do it on purpose. He's not doing it to make me feel bad."

"No. But it is making you feel bad. You seem to come pretty low on his priority list."

"Luke needs him."

"And you're making excuses. Luke managed before Jess came, and the population of Stars Hollow hasn't suddenly doubled."

"It's not a bad thing that he's putting his uncle before his girlfriend."

Lane sighed in exasperation, and stopped, just outside her mother's earshot. "In this case, it is. The thing is, Rory, if the relationship isn't serious, why bother. This can't be fun. And if it is serious, you should start changing him now, while he's still young and malleable."

"Jess is great. I don't want to change him."

"But you don't want him to treat you like this, either." Mrs. Kim began pacing. "I have to go. I'm sorry I can't do anything with you tomorrow night."

"I'm sure Mom will take care of it."

"I hope so. Call me tomorrow."

Lane jogged towards her mother, and Rory shuffled slowly home, where she would be forced to go through it all again with hers.

*

Rory was sitting on the floor with a pint of Ben and Jerry's; Lorelai was lying on the couch, making tiny, thin plaits in Rory's hair. The repetitive motions were lulling Rory to sleep, so every now and then Lorelai would tug sharply on her strand. Rory's earlier agitation had dissolved under her mother's hands, but they couldn't do anything about the depression.

"These are really tight, so if you leave them in, your hair'll be all wavy in the morning."

Rory yawned. "I'll do that."

"Not that there'll be much point, since you're not going anywhere tomorrow." Rory tensed, waiting for the attack, but it didn't come. Lorelai dropped the half-finished braid, and propped her chin on Rory's shoulder.

"He's a good boyfriend. I'm not saying he's not because you'd bite my head off, and because it'd be untrue. If it wasn't for this, he'd be approaching perfect. Henry standard almost. But there is this, Rory, and you have to stop it. Because he won't."

Rory's heart was heavy in her chest. "I know. But--sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. I mean, if it would be worth it. Because if I have to tell him that I should be a priority, that I matter to him..."

"Oh, honey, you do matter. He's just not very good at showing it, is all..." Lorelai's voice trailed off, and Rory knew that she had nothing to say, because she wouldn't lie. "I think you should give him a chance. You've been putting up with it, and that's why he keeps doing it. You owe him a chance to work on it. One chance. Make it perfectly clear it has to stop -- none of this hinting stuff -- and if it doesn't work out, walk away. Just make sure he knows what he's risking first."

Rory sighed, and succumbed to the logic. She could never handle Lorelai when she got all reasonable. "Fine," she sighed. "One chance."

*

Rory dangled her legs into the pool, watching Henry and Lane splash about in the water, wishing she were in there with them. Her eyes swung around to the reason she wasn't, and she frowned, half-resentful of his presence. They were friends now, but there was no way in hell she'd strip down to her bikini in front of him. She hadn't even taken off her top, but she didn't think she'd last much longer in this heat.

It was only the beginning of June, but the heat was already a tangible weight. Rory wanted to let it push her to the ground, languorous and unresisting, her limbs slack. She could feel the scalding tile through her denim shorts, and shifted uncomfortably.

"You should go in. It's nice and cool."

"That's the third time you've said that. Bored?"

Tristan grinned at her. "I just want to see you all wet. But we could do that in the house too. With air-conditioning."

"I have that in my own house; I think I'll just head home." Rory forced herself to her feet, but Lane's voice stopped her before she had taken a step.

"No. You have to stay."

"Why? Is the security camera broken?"

"No, but I want you to stay, and I have to be home soon anyway."

"Fine."

Rory was too tired to argue. The one bad thing about intense heat was the passivity it induced. She hopped across to the sun lounger in a futile attempt to avoid burning her feet. The plastic was almost as hot as the tile; she leapt back up, peeling the strips off the backs of her thighs and praying she wasn't leaving skin behind. The house was the nearest cool place, so she hopped inside, blazing a trail to her favorite LayZ-Boy.

She sighed in satisfaction, switching the TV on and flicking to the History Channel. She loved Henry's house. The cool chairs, the huge TVs, the purple noodles in the pool. The working air-conditioning...

"Put on Nickelodeon." Tristan flopped down beside her.

"Why are you following me?"

He shrugged. "I was bored. You're more fun than watching those two make G-rated love under the auspices of Henry's mother. She just got home, and she's already pressed against the French windows in her office, glaring at Lane. See what's on Nick."

"I'm watching this."

"It's summer, Rory; give your brain a break. Besides, we did a report on this last year."

"Fine. But only because I like the colours."

"You don't like the humiliated, wailing children?" She smiled reluctantly. "I knew you did."

"Only if they're not really young."

"Because it's better to laugh at a miserable twelve year old than a sobbing eight year old."

"I didn't say I was proud of it."

"Well, don't worry. I won't tell anyone. God, I hate this show, put something else on."

She threw him the remote, and he surfed until he found something she had never seen before, with a loud, obnoxious host. He settled back, grinning.

"Should've stuck with Bloody Sunday while I had the chance," she muttered.

"No, this is fun. You'll like it."

He was right. It was nice watching everybody run about getting sweaty while she lolled about in a nice, cool TV room. She wasn't proud of her Schadenfreude, but it was pointless to deny it. He turned to face her during a commercial.

"How come I never see you any more?"

"Glasses are sexy, invest in a pair."

He didn't smile. "I've been doing all this stuff with Lane and Henry, and you're never there. Do I smell? You can tell me."

"Now that you mention it, I'm not really a fan of Ralph Lauren."

"Is that all? I'll take you shopping with me next time. I was worried we might have to come up with some sort of joint-custody arrangement for our friends."

"I'm not avoiding you Tristan. You know we're past all that. I've just been busy."

"It's summer -- Jess. What are you doing tonight?"

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but he was staring at the TV. She told herself that she was glad that Tristan and Jess got along so well, but she didn't believe it. She wasn't entirely sure she believed in the friendliness either.

"Something that you wouldn't want your grandmother knowing about? I think I'll drop by her house later."

"Nothing like that. We're not doing anything."

"Then why aren't you coming out with us?"

"We were supposed to be doing something."

"He cancelled?"

"Yes. No. He has to work."

"And what, you're going to sit around and watch him?"

"Oh look, Carpet King!"

"Oh, my God! Come with us, Rory. It'll be fun."

"This will be fun too. I get free food. And as much coffee as I want!"

"I'm surprised you don't go into shock. If you made plans, why doesn't Jess get Luke to let him off?"

Lane sprang into the room, and squinted at them. "It's so dark in here. Oh, Henry's coming. I need to talk to you guys about something. Nearest coffee shop?"

*

Lane didn't broach the subject until they were comfortably settled at an outdoor table, watching people stroll down the street.

"God bless the person who invented frapaccino."

"They should teach a class in how to dress in summer. Like, for the good of mankind, keep your shirt on. At least don't sit down in a public place. I don't want to have to wipe your sweat off the back of my chair."

"Okay, ew. It's Henry's birthday two weeks from today."

Rory was smiling sleepily at her cup. "That's nice for him."

"You could have just casually mentioned it tonight and I would have remembered about a present."

"That's not it. Although, don't forget, Rory. His grandparents are coming for the summer, so he can't have a party. Well he's having a party, but his family will be there, so it doesn't count."

Tristan nodded in wholehearted agreement. "I've met his cousins."

"So, I think we should throw our own party for him."

Tristan tilted his head back. "Does that cloud look like a dragon?"

Lane sighed. "Rory?"

"I think more like a cat."

"Rory."

"Do I have to get up?"

"Not right now, no. I have a list of things that you need to do. For you too, Tristan."

They flicked warily through the pads she threw down in front of them.

Tristan finished first. "That's not too bad."

"You didn't read it properly. These are very detailed instructions Lane."

"Everything has to go perfectly. It's not that much to do, it just seems that way because I wrote so much. And you will read what I wrote, and do exactly what it tells you to." She glared about menacingly, but no objection was offered. "We'll be doing some stuff together. It'll be fun."

"It's in Luke's."

Tristan grabbed his pad. "What?"

"Luke can be fun. Besides, it's not like he's coming."

Rory was suspicious. "He's going to let us put up all these decorations? Have you asked him about it?"

Lane leaned back in satisfaction. "I don't have to. Your mother will."

*

Lorelai had faithfully promised to stay away from the diner while Rory talked to Jess. She had agreed to do it that night, desperate to stop Lorelai's impressions of Jerry Springer guests. Now she wished her mother were with her, because her confidence was ebbing.

How could she tell Jess that she was going to break up with him? Not that she was. She didn't want to, and wasn't at all sure that she could bring herself to do it. If she was going to say this, she had to mean it. Faux-ultimatums just let people know that you were willing to let them walk all over you. But she had to say something. He always ate with her after the rush and she would do it then.

Jess looked guilty. He kept glancing at her and smiling apologetically as he hurried around. She wondered what her face looked like; he had never shown any lasting consciousness of having let her down before. She watched him move, trying to decide what she would say to him.

After a minute or two, she abandoned the subject in disgust. She couldn't think straight, and she wouldn't follow whatever course she decided on anyway, so what was the point?

Babette and Maury came in, and she joined them while she waited for Jess.

*

He was as apprehensive as she was. They were sitting across the table from each other, glancing about nervously. They couldn't meet each other's eyes, looking instead at the condiments, the windowpanes, their untouched meals.

Rory sat up straighter, determined to get it over with, and Jess copied her action.

"Why do you keep breaking dates?" She was half-afraid she wouldn't be the one raising the topic of calling it quits.

He blinked at her. "I don't. I mean, I don't mean to."

"Well then why do you?"

"I'm just forgetful. It doesn't mean anything, I swear. I thought you understood, I thought you knew--"

Now that she wasn't afraid, she was angry. "I know that you've backed out of all the plans we've made since summer began. I know that you can never seem to find any time to spend with me anymore, while I'm giving up all mine to you. I'm making an effort and you're not. I'm following you around like a puppy-dog, and I'm not going to do it anymore. You're wasting my time."

She began to stand but he leaned across the table, grabbing her hands, babbling apologies, promises, and she stayed. She wasn't listening to him. She felt detached, watching his terrified face without sympathy or relief. He had given her the desired reaction, and that was all that mattered. He didn't want to lose her, and she had been unable to threaten him with that. They would work on it from there.

*

Rory propped herself on the door, kicking off her shoes and staring at her socks. It was hotter inside than outdoors. The broken air-conditioner still sat in the corner of the room, mocking her. She eventually made her way to the couch and transferred her gaze to the television. Lorelai shifted to face her, waiting in silence. It didn't last long.

"Didn't go well?"

"No, it went fine. He was very sorry, promised not to do it again."

Lorelai bounced up and down happily. "Then why so glum? We should be celebrating! Are you old enough to drink yet? Although maybe you shouldn't start killing those brain cells until school's out for good, and you don't need them anymore."

"Delayed reaction. That was scary."

"Mmm. I mean what if you had been like, 'We have to break up unle--' and he had been all, 'Oh, God, I'm so glad you said that, I didn't know how to! You're so right!' I didn't want to scare you by saying it, but I was scared for you. So what did he say?"

"Just that he was sorry, it meant nothing, he wouldn't do it again. We're going out tomorrow night, he talked Luke into giving him the night off." She wanted to talk about something else. "Speaking of Luke, what's this I hear about you convincing him to host a certain party?"

"Damn. Told Lane not to tell you."

"You knew I'd be annoyed and you still did it."

"Hey, I had your interests at heart. I told her to give Tristan more of those chores, and you less."

"Still, now I'll have to battle with Luke over every damn streamer, and all those candles. He is not going to be happy. Or quiet."

"Candles and streamers?"

"Didn't you read the lists? It is sort of shaping up to be a fire hazard."

"Candles are bad news. Remember that time we set fire to the Christmas Tree? And then you made me call the fire men even after it was out."

Rory sighed reminiscently. "Yeah. It was last year. They were hot. And the carpet was smoldering mom, they had us put it outside under the snow for a whole day."

"And the tree looked so pretty with all the little flames. Before they turned into big scary flames, of course. That reminds me, Tristan called while you were out."

"What did he want?"

"To set up a meeting to get started on those chores. I wrote it down. Also to tell you not to let Lane near your list, because she kept supplementing his while Henry was looking the other way for a microsecond. Really, like six times, and nobody goes to the bathroom that much. I bet he knows already."

"Anything else?"

"No."

Rory knew Lorelai was lying. "How long were you on the phone for?"

"Hour?"

"And nothing else was said."

"Words were exchanged, but nothing that he asked me to pass on to you."

"Expand, please."

"You get to know what I talk to people about now? Nothing interesting. Me, him, you, him, Lane, Jess, you, Henry, him. The general suckiness of school. How cool it is not to see noon, and not to have to worry about your stupid sleeping patterns being thrown off. Various horror movie bad guys. He likes Freddie, from the last one, that weird one. Not the rest. Didn't have much to contribute to that one."

"Why do you listen to people talk about things you have absolutely no interest in? You probably started it too."

"And I'm about to start something else. The movie. I'm not having you criticizing my conversational skills."

They curled up on the couch in their underwear, Rory drawing comfort from the closeness of her mother. She wasn't sure why she felt in need of consolation; everything had gone as she had hoped it would. It irritated her though, that she hadn't threatened Jess with a break up, her resolve washed away by his repentance. It was such a petty thing to be so dissatisfied about. She was impatient with herself, secure in the knowledge that she was brewing a storm in a teacup. She had no reason to feel so confused and disturbed; she had just been thrown off-balance by the unexpected simplicity of the confrontation, and she would be happy in the morning.

The morning. She pulled herself from under her mother, ambling over to the kitchen. The message was on the table, scribbled on the back of an envelope. Tristan, tomorrow, ten thirty. The midday rising must have been Lorelai's, not Tristan's. He had a bad habit of agreeing with anything she said. Although it was just as likely she hadn't waited for a response, zooming off on another tangent.

Rory crumpled up the paper, throwing it into the garbage on her way back to the couch.

Lorelai waited until the credits rolled before pulling the bag from behind the couch, although she had been jittering with impatience for a good half-hour.

"Now that you're all right and all, I'm heading to Luke's. Sorry you can't come, but you're not sleeping with Jess. As far as I know." She squinted in mock suspicion, and Rory widened her eyes innocently. "Not while I'm under the same roof anyway. I don't know what you have against the diner tables."

"I have to eat off of them. I realize plates serve more than one purpose, but that doesn't comfort me. Mom, you and Luke have never--oh, eww..."

"No, no. He's very conscientious. Prude."

"Who?"

"Both of you. Ah, this heat! My kingdom for an ice-cube."

"Mom! Boundaries!"

"God, how old are you? I'm sorry honey, only two weeks now! I'll see you tomorrow. Don't leave any downstairs windows open."

Lorelai threw on a mackintosh and flip-flops before dashing out the door, and Rory flopped back onto the couch, giving serious thought to moving in with her grandparents.

*

Rory squinted, grabbing for her pillow, trying to ignore the sun beaming in on her, and the hands shaking her awake. It wasn't her pillow, though, it was the sofa cushion, and the zip making contact with her eye wasn't a great way to start the day.

She fell off the couch cursing, slapping her hand over her eye, and making a mental resolve to murder whoever was laughing at her. She hauled herself to her knees.

"This isn't funny, Tristan! All those things I never did as a kid, running with scissors, whipping my skipping rope around, and I put my eye out with a sofa cushion?"

His sputtering laughter trailed off. "It's not that bad, is it? Really?"

She dropped her hand reluctantly, and turned her face up to him. "I don't know. Is it?"

He bent over her, touching her lid gently. "You'll have to open it." She cautiously flickered it up, relieved to find her eye wasn't as sore as she'd initially thought. "It's all right; it's not scratched or anything, just watering a bit."

"No thanks to you."

He rolled his eyes. "Go on, how are you going to shift the blame this time?"

"If you hadn't woken me like that, I wouldn't have thought you were my mother, and I wouldn't have reached for a weapon!"

"Okay, you're hurt, so I'll let that slide."

She glowered at him from her one open eye. "What are you smiling at?"

"You."

"Why?"

"Because purple is my favourite colour."

It took a moment for the direction of his gaze to penetrate her pain-fogged mind; her eyes widened in horror as the memory of the previous night returned. So much for the embargo on bikinis.

She scrambled to her feet, trying to cover her chest and her pelvis simultaneously. "I need to shower. I'll be back soon." She bolted for the bathroom, blushing furiously.

"Hey, can I--"

"No, you can't join me!"

He grinned slowly. "What a lovely idea. Thank you for the visual. But I was going to ask if I could grab something to eat."

She hadn't known it was possible to blush so deeply. "If you can find anything."

She locked the door behind her, trying to pretend she had something to be annoyed about.

*

Without the water pounding down, she could hear him moving about outside, getting up, switching on the TV. So he had seen her in her underwear. It didn't matter; it wasn't as if she had been wearing a thong, or anything transparent. But that didn't make what she was about to do any easier.

She padded carefully to the door, leaving wet footprints on the tiles. Easing it open, she peeked out the crack. "Tristan?"

"Hmm?" His mouth was full.

"Could you hand me a towel?"

His eyes flew up in disbelief; he half-stood, choking.

"It's in the kitchen, in a basket. I just forgot..."

He moved towards the kitchen obediently, glancing back over his shoulder. Rory pressed herself to the wood uncomfortably, feeling the water evaporating off her skin. Tristan returned quickly, towel in hand.

"There was only one, sorry..." He stopped just out of her reach, staring at the sliver of her body not hidden by the door. She shrugged, ignoring the prickling of her skin, the flush rising to her cheeks.

"Uh, Tris?"

He shook his head, glancing at her face. His eyes were wide and dark. "Yeah, sorry." He extended an arm slowly, his gaze drifting back down. Her hand twitched nervously; suddenly she very much wanted the door safely closed between them.

"Thanks." She opened the door wider, reaching out and grabbing the towel. As she slammed the door closed, Tristan leant to the side, prolonging the moment as long as possible.

*

Rory grabbed another handful of the colourful packages, flipping through them quickly. Tristan was doing the same, standing closer to her than she would have liked; he wasn't intruding on her personal space, she was just sensitive to his presence. She hadn't quite gotten over her embarrassment at being so near to him naked, although she knew it was ridiculous to be so self-conscious about it. He hadn't seen a thing -- complaining about someone seeing your bare shoulder was like complaining about someone leering at your hands - and he hadn't said a word about it. She was just uncomfortable because he was Tristan, and sexualized everything. There hadn't actually been anything erotic about it.

She dropped the plastic packets in frustration. "There are none, we've looked at them all."

"Well, we should just buy four packets of twenty-four, instead of two of forty-eight. It's the same thing."

"But Lane's instructions said packs of forty-eight, and she said to follow them exactly. If we don't do as she said, she'll just make us take them back."

"I doubt it, because she's not stupid. Or Hitler."

"Well, but she's so worried that sensible arguments won't matter to her. I can come back later and get the right ones."

"I think we should get these, because they are the right ones."

"Well I don't."

"Rory, relax--"

"You relax!"

"You're being irrational, Rory."

"I am not, you are! We're not buying these, and that's final." She stormed over to a rack of balloons, her shoulders tight with anger.

He followed her, pacifying, and finally she relented, throwing four packets into their basket. They made casual conversation until Tristan raised the subject Rory always tried to avoid around him.

"So how's Jess?"

"He's fine. Working today."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"We're going out. Into Hartford."

"If he stands you up again, give me a call. I don't have any plans."

"Jess does not stand me up."

"Oh, I must have misunderstood Lorelai. I thought she said--never mind."

"He doesn't stand me up." It was too easy to get angry with Tristan, and he could always take advantage of her when she was worked up. "He's just a typical teenage boy, always distracted by the other things going on in his life."

"Mmm. You deserve attention, Rory. You deserve someone who appreciates you."

Like that. When she was angry, he always caught her off her guard like that. "Jess appreciates me."

"Well then he should show it. Blue or green?"

Fuming silently, she returned to the decorations. Tristan was wrong, everyone was wrong; Jess was perfect. Perfect for her. It was freakish and unfair that Tristan valued her like that, and he didn't even mean it; he was just saying it to make Jess look bad. Manipulative bastard.

*

"Totally?"

"No, I was wearing mom's Ronald Reagan mask; yes, totally! So what?" Never should have mentioned it.

"And you could look him in the face afterwards?" Her voice was a squeak.

"It's not like he saw me naked, Lane. Can we move on?"

"But--"

"On!"

"Fine, okay. What are you and Jess doing?"

"Eating out, seeing a movie. Some stupid, romantic thing that he thinks I'll like."

"You don't sound overly excited. Don't think he'll show?"

"No, he will. Mom called Luke to find out if Jess had forgotten, and he hadn't. It's just--I don't know."

"What? You don't want to go?"

"It's just, I just feel like Jess is just doing this to satisfy me. Not like he's less invested in our relationship than I am, but that he wants something different. That we want different things. Besides each other, of course."

"Really? Because you don't sound like you're looking forward to being forced to endure his company all that much."

"I am not being -- of course I'm looking forward to it, Lane, it's all I've been asking for all month! What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? Nothing. I believe that's known as ad hominem argument, Rory, and is fundamentally flawed."

"Whatever. I'm going out with my boyfriend tonight, and I'm going to have a fabulous time, and that's all there is to it. Subject change, please."

"Tristan."

"No--"

"Not the nakedness, how he reacted to the nakedness. What did he say?"

"Nothing?"

"Right. I'm your best friend, Rory; I'm not going to laugh at you. Too hard."

"No, he didn't say anything. He leered, sort of. Not insultingly."

"Meaning, you liked it?"

"No!"

"I'm just saying!"

"Well, I didn't! And then he was really nice later. But that was only to take a dig at Jess."

"But Tristan loves Jess."

"Oh, he does not. But before that, he was so obnoxious, about the shopping. We got four bags of party hats, twenty-four in each--"

"Oh, that's fine, as long as you got enough."

"Yeah, we got enough."

*

Rory smiled at Jess across the table, trying desperately to care about what he was saying. The advertisement, yes. She had seen it too. If he was being witty, fine, but he had been talking about it for five minutes, and she hadn't laughed once. Luke, fine. Her mother had told her that last week. But Jess had no way of knowing that. She spoke, informing him that she was bored, although not in so many words. Luke, yes. Her mother had still told her that last week, and Jess knew that now. Did she look twenty-one? She ordered a vodka, and was served.

*

She could see the screen, follow what was happening. It was just when she shifted her eyes, everything surrounding her moved a fraction too late, taking half a second to come into focus. The inanimate objects' fault, not hers.

Jude Law was gorgeous. So sexy he should have looked like Tristan, but he didn't. That puzzled her, and she wished Tristan was there to set her straight, and look after her. She wished Tristan was there, and she was naked again. She was vaguely aware she shouldn't have mixed those drinks.

Jess was leaning forward, over her, forcing her back into the springy cushioning of her chair. He wanted to kiss her, but she was distracted by Jude. She leaned to the side. "I wanna see what'll happen, Jess. Later."

Later, she kissed him, quickly, her curfew already broken.

*

Her mother kept brandy under the sink; she didn't like the taste, and it burned her throat, but she kept drinking it, because of the feelings it induced. She could do anything. The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Rory? Did I wake you?"

"No, I was up. What do you want? Oh, hey, come over!"

"What?"

"Over! My mom's asleep, she hit me when I tried to wake her up, and I'm bored! Come over and entertain me!"

"You're slurring your words, Rory. Have you been drinking?"

"Not too much. I'm not drunk."

Silence. "Are you drunk, Rory?"

"A little bit. Yes."

He laughed. "You're not supposed to admit that, you know."

"Why not? It's the truth! Why not?"

"What have you been doing?"

"I went to the movies with Jess, but he's at home now. Mom doesn't let him stay too late. Are you coming over? Please do, I want you to! Please, come, Tristan."

"Maybe I will. How drunk are you?"

"Very. Are you coming now? I'm bored, and I want you. I mean, I want you to--entertain me."

"Give me twenty minutes."

*

By the time Tristan arrived, Lorelai's brandy was gone, and Rory was on her bed, waiting impatiently. Her foot was bouncing against her mattress, and the ceiling was spinning slowly. She sang snatches of song, without hearing her own voice. Her hand swept repetitively over her body, from her thigh to her clavicle, slapping against her hip, her pillow. For the first time, her breast felt like part of her body, ready for, susceptible to pleasure. She thought she might throw up.

"Tristan! Hey, come here! How did you get in?"

"Your mom told me where the spare key is. Are you going to throw up?"

"No. I'll have to move that, remind me to, if I don't remember anything in the morning."

"No. I like being able to walk in whenever I want to."

"Okay. Because I like you. But don't tell anyone, because it's a secret, just for us."

"I won't tell."

"Good. Lie down."

He slid down onto her bed, moving the empty bottle, pulling her back to his chest. "I like you too. Do you really like me?"

"Of course! Who doesn't like you? You look like Jude Law."

"Um, okay. Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Gwen Stefani is so sexy. I didn't think so earlier, but I do now. I don't know why. Also Britney, although Lane would kill me if she heard me say that. `Put another dime in the jukebox, baby...' And Shakira, even though I don't really like her music. Even Mandy. But Christina is a skank."

"Sssh. Please. Really, please. You're just thinking this because you're drunk. When you're drunk, everyone who's moving looks sexy, because they're all immeasurably more co-ordinated than you are. Even Alanis Morissette."

"Right. Why are you being still, Tris? I want you to touch me. I wanted you to touch me so much, this morning, when I didn't have any clothes on. Do it now."

"You're drunk." His hand was on her stomach, sliding upwards.

"I don't care, Tristan. Please..."

His hand slid across her breast, across her nipple; it was hard, straining towards his hand.

"I want you to come out tomorrow."

She reached for his wrist, pushing his hand down. "Hmm?"

"To this thing in Hartford, that Henry and I are going to, I want you to come, please, Rory..." His fingers tightened.

"Yes." His mouth moved to her shoulder, sucking. "Whatever--whatever you want Tristan, just don't stop, please, I want yo--"

The world darkened; her eyes closed.

*

Lorelai yanked Rory off the bed, thwacking her with the pillow until her hands came up to shield her face.

"Where has my alcohol disappeared to? Okay, stupid question, the answer’s all too obvious. I’ll rephrase: What the hell do you think you’re doing, drinking all that!"

Rory, groaned, rolling over onto her face. "I wasn’t."

Lorelai raised her voice. "I can’t hear you."

Rory hastily covered her ears. "Mom, please…"

"Please WHAT, oh dear daughter of mine? Please get you some ASPIRIN? Or a BASIN, for you to throw UP in, AGAIN?"

"Mom, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…"

Lorelai sighed in exasperation, and hauled Rory into the kitchen, needlessly yanking on her earlobe to get the point across.

By the time the toast was done, Lorelai had calmed down a little. Rory sat sipping tea, trying to tune out the banging of her mother’s spoon against her cup. She winced when it fell to the table with a clatter.

"Okay. I realize that you’re growing up. Or, well, I didn’t, but I do now. I will. But this is unacceptable." Lorelai held up a hand, silencing Rory’s apologies. "Not the drunkenness, because of my previously stated new-found acceptance of your young-adulthood. What I will not tolerate is the part of last night where you puked your guts up into the sink."

Rory’s head jerked up in astonishment. "I didn’t…" Flashes invaded her mind. "Ohh, god. No. I’m, sorry."

"I’m glad. I mean, that you realize that this will not be repeated. Not that the first thing I did this morning was clean up your vomit. Incidentally, if you’re ever suicidal enough to do that again, at least turn on the faucet afterwards. Okay, after-school special time, minus the preachy morality stuff. Don’t mix drinks. I’m leaving aside the topic of just how damn much you must have had to have downed my stash, be grateful."

"Thank you."

Lorelai nodded graciously. "And don’t drink on your own." Her eyes narrowed. "I’m assuming that Jess didn’t encourage this little stunt."

"Oh, no, I did it on my own." A shadowy figure shifted in the recesses of her memory, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.

"Good. Lecture over. I’m not going to forbid you from doing it—that would be exceedingly hypocritical—but in moderation, right? And don’t think I’m financing your descent into alcohol and—all right, I’ve been watching way too much ‘Behind The Music’ lately."

"Oh, I wouldn’t—"

"And you’re working at the inn all this week. Without pay. Consider it your punishment."

"You wouldn’t make me do that if you weren’t short-staffed."

"You’re right. If I didn’t need your help, you’d be grounded until graduation, or at least August, so thank your lucky stars. Get dressed already, we’re late for work."

*

Rory smiled at the man as he followed her mother away from the front desk, before making a face at his back. She shuffled some leaflets idly, lining up the edges, before scattering them again; made minute adjustments to the flower arrangement; traced over letters in the ledger, thickening surnames. The phone rang, and she was in the middle of taking a booking when she saw Tristan approach.

Tristan. Tristan. Oh, God.

Shards of memory that had refused to form a coherent image snapped sharply into place.

"The first week of June, yes. Oh, August, right, okay." She spent more time than was necessary with the customer, keeping her eyes trained stubbornly on the book. She couldn’t think—she didn’t think she had done anything too embarrassing, just rambled about, God, Britney Spears. Why had he even been in her room? It was all his fault. Eventually there was nothing left to say, and she had to face him, return his smile.

"So, my mom told you what happened?"

"Yeah. Never thought I’d see the day. She didn’t seem too upset though."

"Oh, I’m sure she had a mini-breakdown in private." She winced guiltily, imagining Lorelai’s probable reaction to the state of the kitchen.

"Think she’ll let you out tonight?"

"What?" Out? She had snapshots of the previous evening, not a movie, and couldn’t remember if this was something that she should know about.

"You know, the concert at The Red Box. You said you’d come, with Henry and me."

Pretend like she knew what he was talking about. "Oh, yeah. I’m not sure if my mom will let me."

"Well ask, anyway. I’ll call later to find out." He moved away, throwing a last remark over his shoulder as he swung through the doors. "Nice hickey."

She glanced down in horror. The bruise was completely hidden, beneath her shirt. No. Tristan hadn’t— More fragments slotted together, terrifyingly. He had, because she had asked him to. Had wanted him to. What had she been thinking? What was she going to do? She had taken enough teasing from her mother about it this morning, when she had thought—what was she going to say to Jess?

*

Rory ignored Lorelai’s first suggestion. She didn’t know if it was possible to get a grip on your own shoulder with your teeth, and had no intention of finding out. Instead, she took the second: pretend it never happened, and wear long sleeves until it’s gone.

Her mother had looked slightly choleric upon hearing the extra details about Rory’s little experiment, but had held her temper admirably. She had been ready to tar and feather Tristan, until Rory assured her that he had been just as out of it as she had. It might have been true. It had to have been.

She couldn’t remember all that much once she and Jess had left for the movie theatre—she had only intended to have one drink, but had lost count, and her memory, at five. She vaguely recalled sitting at a bar in the theatre lobby. She had liked the film, and watched some TV, and then Tristan’s arms had been around her, and she had been running on at the mouth, about—things that she’d just as soon forget she’d thought, let alone said.

But she had thought them, had felt them again when the sensations of Tristan’s hands and mouth on her body returned to her. She had been disloyal to Jess last night—but she felt like she was still betraying him now, finding pleasure in the memory.

Shaking her head, she shoved the thoughts away, forcing herself to concentrate on the sheets in her arms.

"What’s this about the Red Box?"

Rory glanced over, startled. "What?"

"Tristan called to ask if you were allowed to go."

"What—else did he say?" If he had said anything that contradicted her story about last night, her mother would never forgive her.

"Nothing. What should he have said?"

"Oh, nothing. It’s nothing, I don’t even think I want to go."

"Oh, I already told him you could. You’re not uncomfortable about the biting thing, are you? Because when you’re drunk stuff like that just happens. It doesn’t mean anything."

"I know."

"How do you know? Have you done this before?"

"Stop glaring at me. I just meant, there’s nothing like that between Tristan and me, so obviously it meant nothing."

"Hmph. Anyway, Tristan said you’d agreed to go, and he had the tickets, so I called Jess and told him about it."

"You called Jess? My boyfriend, Jess."

"That would be the one. Tristan won’t say anything, don’t worry."

"You didn’t ask him not to, did you?" Lorelai blinked innocently. "Oh, mom. Now he probably will, just out of perversity."

"He will not, because I warned him that he would have to deal with my wrath if Jess learnt of it from his lips. Also, if he was lying about the innocent nature of any potential revelry."

"And Jess?"

"Is going with you. He’s meeting you in three hours. So go home and get ready. Go! Run, Rory. You should have started prinking this morning!"

*

She felt guiltier about hiding it from Jess than she did about the event itself, but she had no choice; how could she tell him something like that? Even if she hadn’t known what she was doing, and it meant less than nothing to her, it was unforgivable. She couldn’t understand it herself, so there was no way she could expect him to.

She didn’t have all that much summer clothing that would keep the evidence safely concealed, but she finally settled on three-quarter length sleeves – too hot, but the best she could do.

Lane came over to do her makeup; unnecessary, but fun. Rory didn’t say anything to her, and her friend couldn’t tell anything was amiss. She took mindless pleasure in the feeling of someone else grooming her, cosseting her. When it was done, it felt thick and heavy, like face-paint, but her reflection was beautiful; splashes of soft color on her lips, cheeks, eyes like jewels, sumptuous.

Jess arrived on time, kissed her hello, looked happy to see her. She returned his smile, glad she was driving, had an excuse not to look at him.

*

Rory and Jess were alone. Tristan and Henry were further up the room, pressing forwards, trying to get as close to the stage as possible. Coloured lights were streaming down, strands of green, red, and golden brightness flashing on the shifting, surging mass. More people than was safe were crowded into the room, bouncing around; Rory was disconcerted, off-balance.

They were propping up the back wall, staring at nothing. Jess didn’t like the music, the people, anything. She had suggested they leave, but he wanted her to have a good time. She might have been having one, if he wasn’t with her.

She shook the thought away as ridiculous, turning to him, shouting over the music, but he couldn’t hear. She spoke with her lips against his ear, wondering if she still needed to shout.

"I want to go up, to find Henry." It was strange, having to compress everything into a few words. So much she wasn’t saying, so much he needed to read into what she was.

He pulled away, nodding. He yelled down at her, an affirmative, although she wasn’t quite sure what the word was. She pulled him to her again.

"Are you coming?"

He shook his head against hers. "I’ll stay here. I’ll see you later."

He turned back to gaze vacantly at the stage, and she pushed forwards, finding short tunnels of space between the bodies.

She wasn’t even looking for Tristan and Henry, really, she just needed a goal. She didn’t know why she was so frustrated with Jess; he hadn’t done anything wrong -- that was the problem, maybe, he hadn’t done anything. If he had done something, anything that she could have been angry about… But he just stood there, telling her she should have fun, obviously bored out of his mind. Putting himself through this to please her. She had to stay beside him, trying to watch the band, horribly conscious all the while of his unhappiness. And she wanted him gone, and that felt worse than anything. She didn’t know how to stop it, didn’t know how to tell him it wasn’t what she wanted, because he would see it as a rejection, and she didn’t mean it like that at all. This was something she could have enjoyed, and he had ruined it, and she didn’t know how to tell him that. She knew on some level she was projecting, wanting a reason to alleviate her guilt over Tristan, but he was making things so much worse—

There were no clear spaces left, bodies crammed around her; she almost felt as if she were being lifted off her feet. Not floating, falling.

She stumbled to the side, fighting her way through flesh until she reached the wall. Leaning against it, she wasn’t sure she could remain upright. Her clothes were too hot, strangling her, but it was mainly psychological, all the people surrounding her, squeezing against her. If they would just stay still for a moment… The crowd jerked spasmodically in the deceptive lighting, knocking the room off kilter. Her face was sweating under her makeup; she wondered if it was melting, sliding off, taking her skin with it. She could feel the heat of her breath in her throat, her chest tight, scalding.

She shoved her way towards the exit, onwards, endlessly, numbly. Out of the crush, through the doors, unable to muster a smile for the doorman. The brick of the wall scraped her arms, but she needed the support. She felt light-headed, faint, struggling for breath, sucking air into her lungs; it wasn’t cool, but it was still calming.

She stared at the bright lights by the side of the road, wishing the air was clearer. It was full of dust, the stench of exhaust fumes, curiously soft against her skin, but not refreshing. Her racing pulse gradually slowed, the flush faded from her cheeks. She was trying to convince herself to return indoors when the footsteps she had been half-aware of, crunching across the gravel, halted beside her.

She kept her eyes fixed on the stones, willing him to be a figment of her imagination. She had managed to avoid him all night, sticking close to Jess, hoping that he wanted to pretend it had never happened too. There hadn’t been any awkwardness, or significant glances, and she had hoped he had just been teasing her that afternoon, that it hadn’t meant anything to him -- well, she hadn’t wished that. She frowned in dissatisfaction, looking up.

Damn. His eyes were earnest, tentative. He looked scared. So maybe that meant that he did want—that it hadn’t been a stupid mistake on his part. But that didn’t matter, because—

His tongue was in her mouth. Had she opened it? It swept over hers, tangling, pressing against the roof of her mouth, trying to coax a response, slipping back to her lips. She moved forward to meet it, and he pulled away entirely.

He leant casually against the wall, leaving her gasping at air. She slumped back beside him in shock, unsure whether she could justify anger. Bad, Rory, bad. Groping about for something to say, drawing a blank.

"What are you doing out here?"

Avoiding Jess. "Looking at the stars."

He squinted up at the sky, peering through the haze of artificial light. "I think I can see one, there. Just one. Make a wish."

A wish. What did she want? To not feel like this. Or, to feel like that again.

She didn’t make the wish, she took it, blundering against him, pressing him to the wall. His lips parted beneath hers, letting her in, letting her take, whatever she wanted. And really, she didn’t need the extra heat, but it felt so good, so soft, wet, that she couldn’t stop. And then his hands were on her back, pulling her closer against his body, and he was sucking on her tongue, and she didn’t want to stop it anymore.

She didn’t know how long they had been there when the laughter penetrated her mind, the chattering. Moving away reluctantly, she glanced about. People had begun to spill out of the building, swarming around the lot. She hesitated, drifting closer to Tristan, trying to force her brain into some semblance of working order.

"Jess."

She blinked up at him, puzzled. "What?"

He gestured towards the doors with his free hand, the other still on her back, against her skin. "There."

Making his way towards them, smiling in relief at having found them so easily. "Oh, God—"

His arm dropped as he strolled away, to meet her boyfriend. She could still feel his warmth, like loss, and couldn’t decide who she wanted to move to join.

"Oh, God."

*

They stopped at a random diner in Hartford. Rory was too bright, too aware, responding to everything, but nobody seemed to notice. She slipped away to the restroom as soon as they all got settled.

She stared at herself in the yellowed, smeared mirror, glared at her bare lips. Thank God Jess hadn’t thought anything of that. Thank God her lipstick hadn’t ended up all over Tristan’s face. A statistic she had once read on how much lipstick women swallowed in their lifetimes drifted across her mind, but she was too relieved to be squicked by it.

She could still taste Tristan in her mouth, orange juice and something subtler. She spent some time trying to decide what the flavour was before catching herself up angrily. It didn’t matter; all that mattered was making sure Jess couldn’t taste it. She didn’t think he’d notice anything, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance. How was she going to get rid of it? Lorelai had suggested she bring her toothbrush, but Rory hadn’t listened. Her head jerked in astonishment. Surely her mother hadn’t expected this? Irrelevant, and she had been in here too long already. Food. If she ate something the taste would be disguised.

Rory searched her eyes in the mirror, preparing to leave. This shouldn’t have happened. How had she let this happen? Now she had to go back out there and sit beside Tristan, and watch him speak, and eat, and drink, and pretend he didn’t steal her breath away every time he licked his lips. Or smiled at her. Or breathed.

This wasn’t helping, at all. Forcing her face into a semblance of boredom, she returned to the group, grabbing a slice of lemon cheesecake on the way.

Jess was smiling at Tristan as if nothing had happened. She wanted to keep it that way. Keep Jess’ eyes shining, his mouth stretched wide like that, all the time. She had chosen to sit by Tristan.

Tristan was being insufferably smug. He had reason.

*

Rory invited Jess in on impulse. Her mother was at Luke’s again; she wouldn’t have to fend off concerned inquiries while maintaining a façade of normalcy for Jess. The invitation seemed to surprise him, but he eagerly agreed.

Once she had Jess where she wanted him, Rory couldn’t think of anything to say. She stared at the television, searching her mind frantically. Everything she could say would be a lie. Until Jess learnt the truth, she would be doing nothing but lying. He couldn’t learn the truth.

Her silence didn’t seem to bother him; scooting closer, he propped his head on her shoulder, slinging an arm over her body.

It wasn’t such a big secret to keep. It had just been a kiss. A very long kiss, one she had instigated, but still… It wasn’t such a massive betrayal.

Jess wouldn’t see it like that, she was sure. Men were irrational about little things like kisses. He wasn’t an overly possessive boyfriend, but Rory was pretty sure this would push all the wrong buttons. He would blame Tristan, probably, because he wouldn’t want to think nasty things about her, but there was no way she could escape unscathed. Hissy-fits were no fun. Not from the receiving end, anyway.

So he just wouldn’t find out. She didn’t want to go through all that, and there was no reason to tell him. It wasn’t like it had meant anything.

Jess was warm against her, and she was still too hot, but she didn’t want to push him off. His presence was reassuring, his attention soothing the worst of her fears. Pulling himself up the couch, he moved to claim her mouth in a kiss. That was good, though not for the same reasons Tristan’s had been.

Jess wanted her, he did, and everything would be all right if he didn’t find out. It would just hurt him to know. Stupid to even consider telling him. All she had to do was make sure it didn’t happen again, and it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t.

Now she just had to convince Tristan of that.

He wouldn’t mind, not really. It wasn’t like he actually cared about her or anything disastrous like that. He had just wanted to kiss her. Which was fine, because she had wanted to kiss him too. Which wasn’t fine. But she wouldn’t do it again, so everything would be fine in the end. Just fine.

She should call him and make sure, though. She tilted her head to the side, giving Jess room to maneuver. It would be easier to do over the phone. She wouldn’t have to look at him, being all tempting, just by standing there. No point in giving him a chance to change her mind. Once he realized she was firm in her decision he would respect it, but it might be a good idea to stay away from him as much as possible until then. Stupid Lane. If Rory wasn’t firm in her decision it would be all Lane’s fault.

There, a reason for Rory not to change her mind: so Lane could sleep easy at night.

Theoretically, the existence of Jess should have been more than enough reason, but Rory wasn’t sure Tristan was going to make it that easy for her. Or that she wanted him too. But she needed him to, because of Jess. Which was why she needed to avoid him for a little while. Like until she was thirty.

If she could just stop thinking about his kisses… All of them. Even the first, which she barely remembered, held appeal in its mysteriousness. Imagining what he had done, the movements of his lips over hers, his teeth sinking into her flesh to leave that bruise—imagining that did not bode well for her continued resolve.

Jess’ hands were warm on her skin, were doing things that felt good, but she was too caught up in her thoughts to pay much attention.

Then tonight. Rory had never lost herself in a kiss like that. Had never given herself over to someone else so wholly that they were all she could see. Never needed someone’s mouth so much that it was all she could conceive of caring about. Shouldn’t have. Should never have felt like that. Not with Tristan. Because it meant that she couldn’t pretend anymore, couldn’t.

And she had to. Needed to just as much as she needed him.

Jess was pushing up her shirt, slowly, waiting anxiously for a protest. She should just let him. Just let him touch her. It would make him happy, and then things would be better. She wouldn’t have to feel so guilty about kissing Tristan if she were doing more than that with Jess. And she was too hot anyway.

"Rory..."

She shot up, frantically dragging the material back down over her breasts. Couldn’t let Jess find out, and what was she doing? Putting the evidence on display for him. She didn’t need Tristan to fuck this up, she was doing fine all by herself.

She stared at her lap, letting Jess apologize, and hating herself.

*

Rory climbed into bed, clutching the phone in one hand, dragging the sheet up to her hips with the other. Her quilt was in the corner of the room. Lorelai had tripped over it three times this morning. Rory couldn’t figure out how she managed to be so consistent about it.

She inched the sheet down, trying to plan what she would say to Tristan, wondering if her mother would come home tonight. Cars sped by in the distance, sound carrying in the silence. Maury and Babette pulled in next door; they had eaten out tonight. Harsh laughter drifted up, hissed entreaties faded into nothing. A moth fluttered into the room, and she reached out, dimming the light. Lorelai would flip, but Rory wasn’t afraid of insects that flew. Except for Daddy Longlegs.

The light curtain flapped in the breeze. The air always tasted so sweet in summer, laden with the mingled scents of flowers Rory would never know the names of. She would sleep with the window open until the end of August, when the flowers would wilt and fall, leaving their scents behind to float on the air like ghosts, mocking. But that would never happen, because summer would never end. Rory always believed that until the bees started to die.

It was odd being alone so much. It wasn’t as if her mother hadn’t slept over at Luke’s before the air conditioner had kicked the bucket, but she had never done it so often. Rory wasn’t scared, or lonely, it just felt—strange. Freedom was disconcerting.

It was no use; she was never going to be prepared for this conversation. She punched the numbers in from memory before what was left of her nerve deserted her.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

She froze, the words sticking in her throat.

"Rory?"

"Yeah. Hey."

"Hey." He was smiling. He didn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch between them while she rediscovered her resolve.

"Okay."

"Hmm?"

"I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have kissed tonight."

"No, Jess would agree I’m sure. Where is he?"

"Home. That’s not the point."

"What is?"

"It was a mistake."

Silence. Rory could feel her heart frantically beating in her chest. It couldn’t actually beat so fast that she’d keel over. She was too young for that to happen.

"A mistake. You didn’t want it?"

"No. I mean—" She couldn’t deny that, the lie was too obvious. "It doesn’t matter what I wanted. I shouldn’t have kissed you; it was the wrong thing to do. It should never have happened. It was a mistake." There.

"You’re just upset because you have a boyfriend."

She choked. "Well, yeah…"

"So dump him."

"No! God, what—you make that sound so reasonable. I can’t do that!"

"Of course you can. It is reasonable; it’s the sensible thing to do."

"Well I’m not doing it."

"I should have known better than to try and reason with you." Smiling again, damn him. How had she lost control of this conversation so fast? "Why not?"

"Because I don’t want to." It was the truth.

"What do you want?"

Too many answers to that question. "Jess."

"That’s not what it felt like earlier."

"Well, that was earl—"

"It’s really nice when a girl takes charge like that. Not to have to guess what she wants. Just to be pressed back against a wall and taken. You knew what you wanted, and you took it."

"It was just a kiss Tristan. And maybe I’ve changed my mind."

"Was it that bad of a kiss?"

"No, it—That’s not the point."

"Hmm. I disagree. You’re right about one thing though: it was just a kiss. And if it felt that good, imagine what—other things would feel like."

Images flooded her mind, hazy memories. All too clear memories of earlier that night, Jess replaced with Tristan. Tristan’s hands on her skin, Tristan’s mouth, Tristan—He had said something; she hadn’t heard it. "Huh?"

"What are you wearing?"

"What?" She had to be asked that question the one time she could honestly answer ‘nothing.’ "I’m not answering that."

"It’s too hot for it to be much. The white cotton camisole? Yeah, just that. You’re waiting for me."

Regain control, she could do it. Rory shivered in spite of herself. She should hang up, should stop this— "This is stupid, Tristan, and crass."

"Well, yeah, but I bet it’s gonna be effective. Subtlety is way over-rated."

"Tristan—"

"You’re stretched out on your bed, waiting for me. I’m late, but you know I’ll come. I always do. I always come for you."

"Tristan—"

"Hmm?"

Stop. Don’t. Don’t do this to me. "Mmm."

"You’re stretched out, waiting, and you think I’m not coming. You’re playing with the hem of your top. It’s too heavy against your skin, you were expecting it to be taken off, you want me to peel it off. You want it gone, naked. Pull it off, over your head, your hair brushing your pillow as you lie back. You don’t think you can wait for me."

"Tristan—"

"Hmm?"

Don’t. Don’t do this to me. "Nothing."

"Your hand is sweeping over your skin, bare now, prickling against your fingers, reacting to your touch, but not like it does to mine. Still waiting for me, but I’m still not there. Starting to move against the sheets, sliding, imagining, remembering. Spinning out of control and you haven’t even touched yourself. Yet."

"Tristan." His voice in her ear, so unreal.

"What?" Low, assured.

The fabric was rough against her back. Don’t. Don’t stop. "Nothing."

"But you don’t think I’m coming, so you want to change that. You want to touch yourself, like I touch you."

He would never know. No one would ever have to know.

"Your hand slips down, unsure. I might still come, you don’t know. You don’t want to ruin things if I do. But you can’t wait. Won’t. No matter how disappointed I’ll be."

She wasn’t doing it. Wouldn’t.

"Gently. Hardly touching, not really. Just a tip, a brush. Nothing I could blame you for doing without me. Not a caress even, although it feels like it. Back up. Over your stomach, your chest. To your throat, so much. Your lips, wishing I were there. Moving against your fingers, wet."

"God. You’re a tease."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

"Back down, evaporating over your chin, your neck, around your breast. Over."

She wasn’t doing it, so it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter that her fingers were clenching her hip so hard that it hurt. That she was squirming, waiting for the next words from his mouth.

"Pausing. You’re not sure. But you’re so hard, waiting. And your fingers are the next best thing, if mine aren’t there. Drifting down. Puckered. Rough. That skin is so soft usually, like clouds; the softest thing we’ve ever felt. But you’re thinking of me, so it’s different, hard. Better. What are you thinking of, Rory?"

"God. No."

"What?"

"Tristan."

"Yes. And it just hardens under your fingers, and you feel more. You feel so much; it’s too much. You try to make it less, up over your chest, your neck, your face. You want to calm down. And you try, you do, but your hand slides back down, past your breast, skimming over your nipple. You don’t stop, don’t want to, couldn’t."

When had she lost control of this conversation? When? The flesh of her stomach under her hands. How had this happened? Soft, so soft… Didn’t want to—why would she stop? Why would anyone stop, when she felt like this?

"Down. It’s not even your skin, it’s satin, and you can’t stop. We can’t stop, because I’m there with you, and we feel so good. The curve of your stomach, circling your navel, dipping your finger inside. Wetting the tip, dipping it back inside, again, again. That’s what it feels like for me. Almost, because you can’t know, you can’t ever know, and you’re trying to wait, so—but that’s almost what it feels like. Almost."

Kicking the sheet to the bottom of the bed, tracing patterns on her stomach. This wasn’t happening, wasn’t. She wouldn’t do it, couldn’t. If she did, she would regret it so much, tomorrow. Tristan would know; he always knew.

"Over the sheet, so soft against your fingers. But it’s too rough against you, too much, sliding over your skin. It can’t tell—God, it doesn’t know what you want, it can’t feel—Pushing it down, shaking it off your feet, gone. Moving your hand back up, your knee, your thigh. Stroking over that flesh. Not moving higher, but arching up, because God, that feels—feels like you should be doing more."

Soft gasps, hand over the mouthpiece. It was just her thigh, it wasn’t—She wasn’t doing anything, not really.

"I’m still not there, and you can’t wait anymore, you can’t. I wouldn’t expect you to. Dipping down, finally, back out, painting circles, twirling circles, feels so good. Like I do it, pretending that I’m doing it."

Nails digging into her thigh now, teeth into her lip.

"Slicker now, hotter, your finger slipping over swollen flesh. Hips arching against your hand, and that feels so good, why would you stop, pressing down, further, inside-- wet, God, wet Rory—hot and wet and tight, God Rory, you’re so—"

Tang of blood in her mouth. Light flooding the room as the door whooshed open. Rory jerked up, scrabbling for the forgotten sheet with her free hand. What was—?

Tristan fell back against the door, banging against the wall, eyes wide with disbelief.

*

Rory stared at the clock for a second, then returned to her cuticles. She could sit here all night. It was her house: at some point Tristan would have to leave. If not, eventually her mother would return, and throw him out. Unless she was on his side. Which would be just like her.

"Why the frown?"

"Why do you think?" Sulking was very effective. Lorelai had proved this beyond all doubt. Then there was always whining.

"Look, I said I’m sorry, what more do you want?"

"What more do I want?"

"Just tell me, and I’ll do it, I swear."

"If you don’t know, there’s—"

"Oh, God, don’t say it."

"Fine." Silence was good.

"It wasn’t that big a deal."

"You’re right. If this had happened three months ago I would have been swathed in flannel. Two weeks ago, covered by a blanket. It was just my luck—"

"Actually, I think it was mine—"

"—that you invaded my room right when you did. Or maybe it was your design. Anyway, I don’t want anything from you, Tristan. And the sooner you accept that, the better."

"Yeah. You want some ice for that lip or something?"

"Shut up." And pouting.

"Okay."

"And stop staring."

"Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Stop grinning at me. And stop behaving like a child."

"I will when you will."

Which was a fair point, actually. Rory hunkered down, wedging herself into the corner of the couch, scowling harder. Tristan leaned towards her, trying to force her to meet his eyes.

"Look, I don’t mean to push you about the whole Jess thing."

"There is no—"

"I just think that if you’re kissing me -- not even me, just someone besides your boyfriend -- maybe you should look at that, you know? Ignoring it won’t make it go away, much as you may want it to, and—"

"If you don’t want to push, why are you?"

"I’m not! You’re not exactly pushing me away here, Rory. You haven’t. And I don’t see any reason why I should make the decision that you’re going to stick with your boyfriend. Especially when that’s not the decision that I want you to make. It’s your choice, Rory, not mine. You have to make it."

She hated Tristan. Hated him. Tears were pooling in her eyes and her hair wasn’t nearly enough of a curtain. "This isn’t fair."

"I know." He reached out to her, one fingertip gentle against her cheek. "But it will be okay, Rory. You’ll be okay."

And God, she needed to hear that so badly, to believe that, but it shouldn’t be coming from Tristan. She wanted to be hugged and comforted and taken care of and told what to do, and she wanted it now, wanted it from Tristan, and she couldn’t have it. She couldn’t let herself take anything from him, because she might not stop. He was right; she wasn’t pulling away from him. His hand was still on her cheek.

"Hey."

If he went, if he would just leave her alone, she wouldn’t have to think about him. She could think about Jess instead, if Tristan would just let her.

"Hey." He moved closer to her, pulling her hair back from her face. "Hey, it’s all right. It will be okay. You should just break up with Jess—"

She couldn’t even get the word out, but he got the message.

"Okay, okay. Just don’t…" His hand came up again, petting anxiously at her face, but she wasn’t crying, she wasn’t. There was no need to, because everything was fine. She had Jess, and she was keeping him, and Tristan would just have to accept that. He’d just have to.

"Rory, stop."

Her closed eyelids trembled under his fingers. Water shone as he pulled them away. There was something like wonder in his eyes when he looked at her again, rubbing them absently against his mouth. She couldn’t stop. Well, she hadn’t been able to stop anything, so far. What was one more failure?

"You taste like—"

Kisses everywhere, even on the skin that wasn’t wet, and she closed her eyes again. Rain on her face, not real. There was nothing for him to kiss away. Laughter bubbled up in her chest. Nothing for him to kiss away, but she wasn’t stopping him. She couldn’t even fix this in her imagination.

God, her head hurt.

*

Rory woke up in her bed. Her face felt swollen and her head ached. For long moments, she couldn’t remember anything, and then she wished she hadn’t.

This would all be fine if someone was a jerk. Besides her. But Tristan was being so nice, looking after her when she was being a bitch and, hopefully, leading him on, and Jess—God.

She needed to apologize to him. He wouldn’t understand why, but she still had to do it. She should do it in person, but she really didn’t want to see him. It was still early enough that he’d be home.

He picked up immediately, like he’d been waiting for her call.

"Jess."

"Rory, hi—"

She rushed right in before he could begin apologizing, and make her feel worse than she already did. "Jess, I’m really sorry about last night. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was my fault; I just got scared. I mean, I’m not saying it was a bad thing that I was scared, I’m just saying that it wasn’t your fault."

Jess’ reply was everything for which she could have wished, everything she had expected. He didn’t want to push her into anything she wasn’t ready for, didn’t want to rush her. He was glad she had stopped him: he didn’t want her to regret anything they had done together. She had nothing to be sorry for.

So easy. So easy to make him happy, to erase all his doubts. He didn’t have a clue.

*

Rory bent over the bed, tucking the corner of the sheet under the mattress in her best grandmother-approved style. This was as monotonous a job as everything else she had been assigned, but at least she had pretty bedspreads to look at. She pulled one from the top of the stack, tossing it open in mid-air, letting it float down to settle messily on the bed. She had to circle the bed several times to straighten out the cloth. Giving a last cursory glance around the room, she wheeled her cart down to the next, beginning all over again. It would be so much easier if she had a partner.

Jess had offered to come and help but she had politely refused, denying there was any need. How he hadn’t known that that was an outright lie, she had no clue. But she was glad that he had accepted the excuse without question. She felt so awkward around him now, unable to relax. Jess was under the impression that their relationship was perfect, that any problems she had had with it were straightened out. And that the concerns that she had raised with him had vanished without trace.

There was no reason that he should suspect things weren’t fine. He had been trying, so hard, and succeeding; there was no reason on earth for him to believe that she was anything but thrilled with him. Unusually busy perhaps, but uncomplaining, the few times he had seen her.

And what a few times they had been. Less, even, than she had seen Tristan, and that was saying something. It had been imperative that she make a decision and make one she had: she would stay away from them both until she could decide what to do. Rationally, cold-bloodedly. She would weigh her options, and the consequences of any action, and figure out what the best thing to do was. But she needed time for that; any precipitated action would be disastrous. She couldn’t think clearly when Jess made her feel so guilty, and Tristan was all distracting like that. So she had been scurrying around like a frightened rabbit, ducking and diving to avoid them both.

Another pair of hands tugged on the sheet, and Rory glanced up, expecting to see her mother. Tristan smiled back at her.

"Lorelai said you might need some help."

"And you have so much experience with beds."

"I can watch you work, if you like."

"Or you could leave."

Tristan grinned and flung himself down onto the half-made bed. "I’m not leaving yet, Rory. I drove for an hour to get here. Want to come to the beach when you get off?"

Rory folded her arms and glared down at him. "I have better things to do."

"Not according to Lorelai. Just what did you tell her? She nudged me so hard I think she cracked a rib."

"Nothing." She hadn’t told Lorelai anything; Lorelai had guessed. And laughed. Then told her to dump Jess. Everybody was being so helpful.

"What are you doing tonight?"

Well, lies were bad. "Nothing."

"Your mom’s going away." And was going to get an earful about letting that slip. "Not taking advantage of the empty house?"

He rose to stand beside her; she bounced down on the bed. "Luke wouldn’t let Jess come over."

"Did you ask him?"

"There was no point; he wouldn’t."

"Did you ask Jess?"

"Stop arguing semantics Tristan; you’re not going to win that way."

"It’s not semantics. Jess is a wonderful and willing liar. But, okay. Did you want to ask Jess?"

Why was she giving him pointers? She sighed, staring at the spinning ceiling fan. If she let her vision blur, she could almost see the air move. The currents whirled out, cooling her flushed cheeks. Heaven.

"I’ll take that as a ‘no’. I’m really trying not to push you, Rory, but you’re making it very difficult. I mean, even Lorelai agrees with me, she—"

"Could you just not? Please?"

Tristan hesitated, and she glanced over. He looked way too serious for her peace of mind. She didn’t want to think about what she looked like. "All right. Anyway, you shouldn’t waste this opportunity."

"Your parents have been away for weeks. Have you been entertaining every night?" And it wasn’t fair that she cared about the answer to that question. It wasn’t as if he were her boyfriend. She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see into those knowing eyes.

"No. Not every night. I’m not doing anything tonight. If you feel like it, give me a call." He waited, but she didn’t say anything. "If not, I’ll see you tomorrow."

She listened to him pad softly out of the room, suppressing the urge to call him back. To ask him to stay.

*

Rory sat hunched over the steering wheel, fiddling with the radio dial nervously. The radio always worked, though the air conditioner never did. It had always been like this, but it had never been this irritating. Her shirt was clinging to her back, damp with sweat, and her entire body felt moist and sticky. She really needed to get out of her clothes. Finally, she flipped the tuner off in frustration, cutting some country singer off mid- wail. She drove the last two streets carefully, trying to keep thoughts to the minimum necessary to avoid wrecking her mother’s car and her own life.

Pulled up in front of the house, Rory stared up at the darkened windows. It was late. Maybe she had spent too long deciding. She would see him tomorrow—But she couldn’t stay sitting there, staring at his house like a stalker or something.

The heavy air weighed her down as she crunched up the gravel driveway to the doorstep, pushing sweaty, limp strands of hair off her forehead.

Standing on the steps, waiting for the door to open, Rory was cursing the length of his drive. There was no way she could get away without being seen. Which might be okay if the door was opened by a maid… No, no, she had to stay.

By the time the door opened, she was kicking herself; she could have made it safely to her grandparents’.

Tristan was bare-footed and bare-chested, yawning. His eyes were still hazy from sleep, but he snapped into alertness upon seeing Rory.

"I didn’t think you were coming. I mean, I never thought you were coming, but you didn’t even call."

"I wasn’t sure…" Still wasn’t. She let her gaze drift to the floor, carefully keeping it unfocused as it passed over him.

"And you are now?" She didn’t reply, but he waited. She glanced up in silent appeal and he responded instantly. "Oh, I’m sorry! I’m being a terrible host. Come in, come in."

He stepped back, gesturing expansively around the minimalist hallway. It was all marble and steel, and she hated it, but she stepped inside anyway. He closed the door behind her and seemed at a loss. It relieved her.

"I’m glad you came, Rory."

"Me too." He raised an eyebrow and she smiled. "I think. I don’t regret it yet."

"We’ll have to see that you don’t."

He paused, obviously searching for a safe opening sally. He could hardly say, ‘I was just sleeping, want to join me?’ Though she suddenly wished he would. Just to sleep. Make it easy for her. She didn’t reply, waiting for him to speak, watching him. He was still flushed, even in the coolness of the stark hallway. The chill from the marble must be seeping into his feet; he was shuffling uncomfortably.

"We could, uh…"

Rory blinked, shocked, as he glanced around, searching for inspiration in the chessboard floor. Tristan had to know what to do; he always did. He couldn’t actually be as lost as she was. The thought stopped her for a moment as she reorganized her ideas to fall in line with this possibility.

"You want to see my room?" He was smiling tentatively, not pushing at all. Not even hoping, maybe. "I won’t bite. Well, not unless you ask nicely."

"Okay. Lead on."

He jogged up the plushly carpeted stairway, light, tripping movements that left her feeling large and awkward as she disrupted his graceful wake with her nervous jerkiness. He might be as confused as she was, but he still had the edge, and she didn’t know how to get it back. Had never had it.

Tristan pulled up short just inside his doorway, turning back to Rory. "Well, here it is." He began to sweep his arm out again, but aborted the movement quickly.

Rory moved slowly into the room. Neater than she had imagined, but no evidence of maids here. None of the impersonality that she was used to, with her grandparents and the inn. Tristan was an obvious presence, even with the relative lack of visible personal effects. The Tristan she knew, not the stranger standing behind her, eyes on her back. A desk in the corner, clear of papers. Tristan didn’t work during the summer. A dresser, but no mirror. Probably had a full length in the wardrobe. Red fabric caught in a mostly closed drawer. Pictures on the surface; one of her, Tristan, Lane and Henry taken last winter, one of his parents. A stereo, a couple of CDs left out, but no television. A door that must lead to a bathroom. A small bookshelf. She wandered over, running her eye over the titles. Carefully not looking at the bed, sheets still rumpled. It was gigantic. Fit with the room.

Science fiction. Too much variety to tease him about the Laurell K. Hamilton, although she would if there was a chance in hell that she’d bring up sex right now.

She turned back to him finally, meeting his eyes. "I like it. Very you."

"Thanks." His shoulders relaxed fractionally, but his hand moved to the back of his head as he tried to work out how to proceed.

Rory wandered over to the bedside locker, glancing at the open book lying on the top. "Oh, I like Bujold. But you shouldn’t leave books lying like that, it cracks the spines."

"Sorry." Moving over quickly, he closed the book. She glanced up at him in amusement, but refrained from comment. Rory sat carefully on the edge of the bed, even her toes stiff. Tristan hesitated, then slid onto the end of the bed, as far away from her as he could get. "So, why did you come?"

"My thoughts weren’t the most congenial of companions tonight."

"I see." He did, of course. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here. "So you want to talk?"

"No." Not with Jess sitting between them, a silent third in any conversation.

"We could go downstairs, watch a movie."

She considered it for a moment. Spending the night sprawled in front of the television, mocking whatever they watched, like she would with anyone else. Safe, normal. But that wasn’t why she had come and he knew it. He was offering her an escape route, giving her a chance to lessen the importance of her visit. To back out. If she pretended Tristan was just like anyone else she might as well have stayed home. And for all her fear, she was glad she had come.

"No, that’s okay. You want to put some music on?"

A slow female croon filled the room before Tristan lowered the volume. Rory thought for a moment that he would change the CD, but he wandered back to the bed and stood looking down at her. Her top was drying in the cooler air, the ribbed jersey sticking to her skin, and she plucked at the hem, trying to drag it away.

"You want to stay? Just stay, I mean."

"Yeah, okay." She paused before she answered, looked like she was considering it, but it was why she had come, after all. Just—an acknowledgement. Something.

"Okay." Expelled on a long breath, and he sank to the bed again. "I have something you can wear. If you want to change. Or you can have something of my mom’s."

Hmm. Something of his, or something one of his girlfriends had left behind? Surely Tristan couldn’t be that stupid. Not with all the experience he must have dealing with girls. He had to know better than that. But he was a teenager, and Rory had been listening to her mother’s stories about the imbecility of thirty-year-olds for years. Still, you had to weigh the risks with the benefits.

"That’d be great. Something of yours is fine."

And he didn’t really have something she could wear. The t-shirt would come to mid-thigh but the shorts were drawstring. Not really suitable sleepwear, but maybe his usual offering to unexpected female guests, and she was going to stop thinking about that, now.

"I’ll just—" She let her eyes track towards the second door, and he jumped up to open it for her.

"Oh yeah, through here. Feel free to take a shower or anything. I’ll leave you alone, but the door has a lock if you’re worried."

It was a relief to get out of her clothes. They were all sweaty and dirty, and so was she, but the clothes just reminded her of it. She thought about taking a shower to get rid of the faint awareness of dried perspiration on her skin, but then thought about Tristan in the shower, Tristan in those towels, and thought better of it.

The t-shirt would have been enough if she had been with anyone else, but she didn’t want to tempt fate, or herself. The shorts were thin cotton, not made for the beach. The sort of stuff that probably had a thread-count.

She washed her face and dragged his brush through her hair before poking around the bathroom a little, examining his possessions. Cataloguing him. There weren’t as many beauty products as she had expected; although that probably indicated brand loyalty more than anything else. Nothing that she wouldn’t use herself. An aftershave she wouldn’t mind wearing, and that led to thoughts of other ways that she could pick up the scent, so she turned to the medicine cabinet. No surprising prescriptions. Towels, sunscreen, spare toiletries. No condoms. Probably in the bedside locker. Right. More convenient that way. Tristan was still sitting stiffly when she emerged, clothes in hand. He threw her a smile as he took his turn.

The music had stopped, so she restarted it, turning it up a little, putting it on repeat. Thought about opening the window, but you wouldn’t be able to hear anything this far from the road anyway, so she just sprawled out on her back on the bed. Rory liked noise to lull her to sleep. Sometimes she listened to Spanish comprehension tapes on her headphones, but then she started stressing about not understanding them, so she didn’t do it often.

This was different. Low and sexy and smooth and very Tristan. She was drowning herself in Tristan tonight, even swimming in his clothes, but that was all right, because they were clean. He had worn them, sure, but they were washed, so it didn’t mean anything. It was okay that she couldn’t stop running her fingers over the material. And it was okay that the music was so -- Tristan, because they weren’t having sex. It was okay to think about it. She wasn’t even thinking about sex, really. There was nothing that blatant about the song. It was just—a touch. Just imagining touching. Not making it all about sex.

Tristan came out with a t-shirt added to the pyjama bottoms. His clothes fit. The t-shirt a little too well, even though he was probably wearing it for modesty’s sake. She watched him walk towards her, insides seizing up.

"Shove over. You’re on my side of the bed."

And that made everything better, even though it shouldn’t have, at all. Climbing in beside her, he kicked the sheets down to their thighs. He flicked the overhead light off, leaving a single lamp casting a buttery yellow glow over most of the room, and settled down, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The glow wasn’t quite bright enough to reach some of the corners, closer to a nightlight than a lamp, really. Rory wasn’t stupid enough to vocalize that thought.

Tristan didn’t say anything, just kept staring at nothing, blinking slowly. He had eyelashes she’d kill for, though not him. Maybe Taylor. She shifted towards him, turning onto her side, and still he ignored her. "Hey." His shirt was from a concert they had gone to together. "Hey."

"Mmm?"

Finally the slow turn of his head to face her, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say. She traced the band’s logo on his chest. "We had fun at this."

"Yeah. Lane and Henry’s first kiss, remember?"

She laughed a little. "How could I forget? I didn’t hear about anything else for weeks."

"Did you tell her about ours?"

"No." Let her hands slip up to his face, feeling the shape of it with her palms, trailing over his cheekbones. "I told my mom."

"What did she say?"

"She wanted to kill you." Stroking his forehead, wanting to touch the skin, dipping into his hair.

"She changed her mind. She likes me."

"Of course she does." Curving around his ears, watching his head press into the pillow as she hit the softness behind the lobes.

"I was talking to her today, and she told me."

"Mmm." Gentle touches on his neck following the collar of his shirt. Harder on his Adam’s apple, and he swallowed, throat working against her fingers. So soft under his chin, and his head went back further, baring the skin to her.

"She thinks we should—she thinks we’d be good—" Petting the line of his jaw, his smooth cheeks. He had shaved, she could smell it, and she nudged his jaw with her nose. "She thinks you should stop seeing—" Pulling gently at his bottom lip, and it was so full, and so soft, and she wanted— "Are you listening to me, Rory?"

"Mmm."

Tristan turned his face away from her, back to the ceiling, and moved as if to slide away further onto his side of the bed, and that was just wrong, so she let herself fall forward, lying half over him, pinning him down with her body. Nuzzled his face gently, not really wanting to make that decision yet, but his lips were right there, slightly parted, just waiting for her, and it had been so long.

Closed her mouth over his, capturing his lips between hers again and again, and then missing, becoming an open-mouthed, tongueless—too much. Not enough. Pulling his lower lip between her own, scraping her teeth over it. Moving into his mouth, lazy, shallow, careful kisses that lasted forever. No demands, no worries, just this. Just feeling the silk slide inside her body, so gentle and easy. The dampness and stickiness return, welcome this time. Shivering at the sudden change in temperature.

Tristan relaxed against the bed, sliding his hands into her hair, letting his fingers drift through it, and over the smooth crown of her head, then holding her to him. Hands sliding under his shirt, pressing on his stomach. His skin was so warm, which was silly really, but it was true, and he rose as she dragged the shirt over his head. All golden and smooth, and way too hard to be so soft. She couldn’t stop touching, just petting his chest, not even kissing him anymore. Couldn’t stop thinking about what that would feel like under her mouth, and that scared her, so she moved closer to him, rubbing their cheeks together, kissing him again.

His hands were flat on her back, and she didn’t know when they had moved beneath the cotton. Fingers moving slightly, always so tentative, not enough to be a stroke, but a caress. Thought about taking her own shirt off, but she had already removed her bra, and Tristan knew that, now. Maybe had already. Had to have known. Did it anyway.

Skin to skin, chest to chest. God, so sensitive, such little movements to make her feel so good. Couldn’t even kiss him anymore, couldn’t think enough to do anything. Tightness, her body pulling in on itself, and she wanted— So much. Too much.

Climbed over Tristan, watching his face as he watched her. She wasn’t ready to be studied, so she leant down, catching his mouth again and obscuring his view. Endless time, her heart pulsing in her chest, the music a buzzing in her ears. Legs on either side of his hips, settling down.

Pulling back.

Because—God. It had been all kisses, and touches, and slow, and easy. And it still was, Tristan hadn’t done anything, but that—that was real. That was—God.

Rory reached for the t-shirt, stopping with it halfway to her head, her hand clenching around the fabric. Tristan was swinging himself off the bed, frozen.

"Tristan." He stopped, his back to her, feet on the floor. "It’s—it’s okay. I mean, you didn’t do anything. I just—I didn’t know—I wasn’t expecting—God, I’m so stupid, I should have been. You didn’t do anything, I did; it’s not your fault. Come back."

Looking at her over his shoulder he stiffly moved his legs back onto the mattress, remaining sitting up, suspended in motion. It looked uncomfortable. Rory scooted over to him, pressing his shoulders down, forcing him to lie back down. "It’s okay. I mean—" It was her turn to freeze, a new thought lodged in her mind. "It—is okay, isn’t it? With you, I mean. That I’m not, that we’re not—"

Tristan stared at her uncomprehendingly for a second. Shock registered on his face when her meaning sunk in. "Shit, yeah. I’m fine with it, Rory. Don’t worry." It had gotten his arms back around her at least, warm and comforting. She took advantage of his sudden accommodation, curling her body around his, slinging a possessive arm across his torso. "I’m sorry."

She sighed, tucking her head under his chin, shoving at him until she got comfortable. "It really wasn’t your fault Tristan. You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want. It was just unexpected, that’s all."

His hand was moving soothingly over her back, and all the tension in her body was evaporating. "That was all unexpected."

She smiled a little into his clavicle before a yawn forced its way through her. "Yeah. It’s pretty late, huh?"

"Yeah. And it’s the party tomorrow. Lots of stuff to do."

"Mm. At least it’ll be over."

The noise Tristan made in reply was ambiguous, but his hand didn’t still its movement. They fell asleep that way, tangled up together in the middle of the huge bed.

*

Rory braced herself on the wall, cautiously pushing the tack into place. If she pushed any harder, she'd cut her thumb, or slide right off the counter. Tristan finished making the coffee and turned to help, moving beneath her and grabbing her waist. She relaxed in his grasp, letting him support her weight, leaning closer to the wall. Her stomach grazed his head, his hair tickling her navel.

The tack finally pushed through the plaster, and Rory fell forward; she scrambled backwards in a desperate attempt to regain her balance. Tristan tightened his hold on her, hauling her off the counter and setting her down beside him.

"Thanks," Rory muttered, still skittish, and embarrassed now. "Looks good, huh?"

They chose a couch in the middle of the diner, and gazed about them approvingly.

"I still think more sparkly stuff would have been better," Tristan mused.

Rory rolled her eyes. "You're as bad as my mother. I can't believe I have to be the voice of reason for you now too!" She began to laugh, but the serious look on his face made her break off. He didn't say anything, just studied her face intently. Suddenly she felt hyper, as if she needed to go running or kick a ball about, even though she hated sports. Or throw up. Her foot jittered against the floor. "What?"

He shook his head, and smiled a little wistfully. "Nothing. Do you want something to eat?"

"I don't think Luke would approve of us messing about with his stuff."

"The coffee machine being the exception to that rule? Yeah. We could go somewhere else. Hartford."

Rory knew she shouldn't, knew that spending time with Tristan, alone, was asking for trouble. "That would be nice."

*

It wasn't that Rory regretted what had happened the night before, or was second-guessing herself, it was just that events had progressed a little faster than she had expected.

She had gone to Tristan's last night because she knew that there was-something-between them, and she wanted to find out what it was. Just to know, maybe to explore. And explore they had.

She didn't regret it, but there was still Jess, and it was still scary, and in the searing light of day things looked a lot more complicated. Which was why this conversation was extremely uncomfortable.

"Jess is still my boyfriend, Tristan. I know there's this thing, but, he still is."

"That's going to change though, right?"

Yes. Maybe. Hopefully. She wanted it to. "Mm-hmm. But I have to go with him to the party. I just have to."

He still looked unconvinced, so she leaned across the table, grabbing his hand. "I want you, Tristan. You know I do. But I need to do this. In a couple of days this will all be over." Something would be over. What had happened last night wouldn't happen again whilst she was dating Jess.

Tristan smiled, looking cautiously hopeful, and she squeezed his hand. "Don't worry." Rory seemed to be saying that a lot lately. Tristan was the only person who had said it to her. He was the only person she hadn't betrayed.

*

Lane was pacing nervously, checking and rechecking that the blinds obscured the outside view of the diner, glancing at her watch every second second, kicking inflatable furniture into people standing half-way across the room.

"Where are they? They were supposed to be bringing him here now! Do you see them yet Lorelai?"

Lorelai had pulled the blinds away from the window in her corner, and was peering down the street, watching for the approach of Henry's car. "Not yet, hon."

Rory wanted to know where Jess was. No, wait-- "They?"

Lane blinked at her twice, and it occurred to Rory that maybe her question had been a little abrupt. "I thought Tristan was coming with Henry."

"He is. With his date. You know, for the double date that was the pretext of getting him here with Tristan?" Lane was looking at Rory strangely, her head cocked to the side.

"Right." Rory offered Lane a smile that did nothing to shorten the length of her friend's stare, and shoved her way across the room to throw herself into the chair next to her mother. Flicked the blinds back over their heads, yanking open the window, breathing deeply.

The air was charged with electricity, like the world had been rubbed the wrong way with a balloon, weighing everything down. Shocking everything into reality. It was still refreshing to pretend-escape from her stifling surroundings. It was the type of weather that would have murder rates soaring anywhere else, but Rory was the only one here that seemed to feel that compulsion. Everyone crowding her, looking at her.

Her mother saw more, but was kinder, still staring out on the street. "Easy on the plastering there. I can see a future in which I have a vested interest in this place. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Where's Jess?"

"Hartford. Just called him, and he'd forgotten. It's been awhile though, huh? He'll be a little late."

"Great." Tristan. Date. Date, Tristan. Tristan's date. Tristan had a date. Tristan was on a date with somebody who wasn't her. His reluctance to see her attend with Jess suddenly made a lot more sense.

"He's coming, though."

"Even better." Not only did she have to watch Tristan with some other girl hanging all over him, she had to deal with Jess.

Lorelai looked at Rory out of the corner of her eye. "If you're starting to feel something for Tristan, break it off with Jess. Don't lead him on, Rory. Specially not with the whole living with the vested man."

"I know. You think I don't know this?"

"Well then act like it."

"I am acting like it. I'm not acting anything. What is wrong with you?"

"You okay there? Seriously?"

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"That was convincing. You need some venlafaxine or something?"

"What?"

"Never mind, they're coming! Everybody, into position!"

It truly was surprising how many people that counter could conceal. The overflow huddled on the ground behind tables.

"This really doesn't work without the darkness," Rory muttered.

Lane looked at her in concern. "You need some Midol, Rory? I have some with me."

"No, God, why does everybody think there's something the matter with me? What is wrong with you people?"

"You haven't been taking stuff to help you study, have you? Because you really should save that for term time. They're coming, squat harder!"

Voices drifted in as the door swung open. Half the population of Star's Hollow sprang from concealment.

"Surprise!"

Henry staggered back in shock. "Oh my God! I had no clue!"

Lane's face screwed up in chagrin. "You knew!"

"No I didn't!"

"You did too! You so did. How did you know?"

Lane and Henry laughed and kissed. The assembled Stars-Hollowites cooed happily. Rory glared daggers at Tristan and the curvaceous redhead clinging to his arm.

*

Rory waved the last of the party guests off, smiling glumly in response to their cheery goodbyes. Just the organisers and the guest of honour were left. And Crystal, of course.

Crystal and Henry sat on the largest couch, a low plastic, cushioned thing in the centre of the detritus, watching as clean-up got underway in earnest. Henry took full advantage of his exemption from labour, mocking his minions as they slaved in his service. Crystal examined her manicure.

Jess had shown up halfway through, full of apologies. All had been accepted. Luke had disappeared, but Jess was helping with the clean up to make amends for his earlier lapse of memory.

As it began to near completion, the helpers began to make noises about leaving. Jess headed upstairs with a kiss to Rory's cheek and a promise to call her tomorrow. Lane disappeared reluctantly in obedience to a summons from her mother. Lorelai followed Jess upstairs, after making Rory swear to lock up properly.

Rory threw the decorations haphazardly into a plastic bag, ignoring the murmured conversation going on behind her. When she looked up, stuffing the last spangle into the bag, Tristan was the only person left. She raised an eyebrow.

"Henry's giving Crystal a ride home. All we have left to do is let down the furniture and take the trash out." He batted an inflatable pink chair at her.

Rory ignored it, flopping down onto the long couch, watching sulkily as Tristan worked. Returning from a trip to the trashcans outside, he swiped his hands over his face, looking down at her with a grin. "Hey, it's starting to rain!" She didn't reply, and he scowled, returning to work.

Eventually, he surrendered with a sigh. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing."

"You've been acting like a bear with a sore head all night. Even Henry asked about it."

Rory glanced up, conscience-stricken. "He did? What did you say?"

Tristan smiled humourlessly. "Boy problems."

Rory deflated like Tristan's chair. "Was it the truth?"

"You're asking me? You're the one calling the shots here."

"Right. That's why you brought the Homecoming Queen."

"You have no right to be angry with me Rory. You're the one with the boyfriend."

"Don't remind me."

"You'd prefer it if I pretended I was unaware of his existence?"

"Keep your voice down."

He dropped the half-inflated chair as he moved closer, eyes narrowed, voice lowered. "You want me to pretend that he's not here, and act like I did last night, do whatever you want me to do? Because if that's what you think is going to happen here, you're mistaken."

Rory had seen Tristan angry before, but never this much, never directed at her. It unnerved her, gave her pause, but her own anger was rising, overwhelming that, because-- "This has nothing to do with Jess, this is about you bringing some other girl--"

"I can't have a date, but you can have a boyfriend?"

"No! I'm not going to have a boyfriend, Tristan. But you can't have a date!"

"Really? That's not the impression I got earlier."

"Well obviously you can, since you d--"

"Somehow I received the impression that you weren't planning on dumping Jess at all. That you were waiting to see how you could extricate yourself from the situation with the least inconvenience to yourself, and you didn't give a fuck who you hurt along the way. About either of us."

"That's not--"

"That you were waiting to see which of us you could make disappear, and you didn't give a fuck which of us you were left with."

It was scary how reasonable he sounded. Calm and collected, but she knew, knew that his control was hanging by a thread, and didn't want to find out what would happen if it snapped. "That's not true, Tristan."

"Isn't it?" He was right up against her now, his eyes harder than she had ever imagined they could be, and half her mind was screaming at her to back away. The other half was urging her to move closer and make him shut up.

"No. Well, the first part a little bit. It's not that easy Tristan; it's just not. But I care. I want you."

"And Jess."

"No. Not Jess. I don't want him, I just want you." It was true, but so was everything else that he had said. Rory had hoped he would relax, but he tensed more. His hand fisted in the front of her shirt, dragging her to her feet, to his lips. Teeth on her lips, opening her mouth, tongue hard and hungry.

She pulled away from him, evading his hands, letting the last of the blinds down. Crossed the room to close the door that led to the apartment. "Turn off the lights."

Tristan stared at her, and she thought he would refuse, but then she was blinking in the darkness. He was a slightly solider blackness moving towards her.

"Rory?"

"Tristan." Reaching out blindly, she brushed the cloth of his shirt on her second attempt. Wrapped herself around him, and he was kissing her again. Still couldn't see a thing, and that just made it better. His mouth was hot, and wet, and so good, her body reacting instantly, stumbling closer to his. As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she closed them to keep out the light.

Rory felt Tristan pushing her backwards and let him guide her around the room, trusting that she wouldn't trip over anything. She did, and fell, but he fell on top of her, and their mouths kept moving against each other. The couch was solid, cushioned but not soft, not comfortable at all really. She let Tristan press her down, sliding about until her head was supported, moaning when his mouth left hers.

Moving over her flesh, almost familiar. Wrong, and she knew it, but-- breath on her skin, Tristan mouthing at her collarbone, tugging her top down just a little. Not enough and she didn't resist when his hands slid up her back, pulling it over her head.

Gentle hands on her stomach, his face rubbing over her breasts, trying not to dive right in more than tease, but that was what it felt like. She was just waiting, and couldn't see a thing, and Tristan could do anything and she wouldn't stop him, wouldn't even know. Didn't know anything. And he was just rubbing and rubbing and--

Wet. Rubbing through the lace, rough against her skin. Hurt, almost, but she was leaning up, struggling to get her elbow beneath her in a mindless attempt to get closer. Couldn't do it but he was reaching for her other breast, pressing, tracing quick patterns and circles, and she didn't care.

A hand behind her back, digging into her before he found her bra. Fumbling with the catch and he had to use both hands before he could get it open.

Cloth peeling off, Rory's heart blocking her throat. The air was so cold it hurt and she had a crazy moment of wishing they were at home or in the car or outside, where it was warm.

But then his fingers wouldn't be cool, playing on her skin, weighing her, and she had never felt anything like this before. Pure, personal pleasure of touch, knowing that Tristan was touching her. Tracing beneath her breast, tickling, and she'd be laughing if she wasn't shivering. Kissing her, lips sucking at her flesh, and she was glad he couldn't see her.

A warm breath on a nipple; hot tongue flicking out to lap at it. Fingers tightening carefully on the other, pulling gently, scared of being too rough. Not sure what she wanted. She thought about reaching up and showing him, but then she was in his mouth and he was sucking, hard. Moving down past her nipple, his teeth biting into her skin through necessity, and she was pushing forward, wanting him to swallow her down whole. Or at least not stop, just give her more, not knowing what that was. It was hard and tight and good and why couldn't he do this with his hand too? That would be even better.

And then he was, and she realised that maybe she had asked for that out loud, but it felt too good to care. He pulled away and the cushion was a growing pressure against her back as she relaxed against it. Belated knowledge that she had arched into the air. Soft kisses between her breasts, hands mapping her skin lightly, impatiently, finding spots that made her breath catch almost by accident.

Rory listened to the rain tapping on the window, lazily enjoying his touches. They were asking permission that she was going to give, but they felt too good to stop.

She hesitated before tugging the tails of his shirt from his pants, not wanting to distract him. Knowing it was selfish, not caring. Still wanting to touch him.

Broad expanse of back warming her fingers, and maybe they should have left the lights on. But--this was too personal, too much like willing surrender and she didn't want him to see her yet. That would be too much to deal with in one night.

The material bunched, scraping the inside of her elbows. Pushed at him until he moved back.

"What?" Half irritated, half afraid.

"Here, just--" Feeling her way about in the dark, the tiny buttons slipping from her fingers. Tristan rolled onto his side, teetering on the edge of falling to the floor. It took forever, even with both of them, but Rory wasn't feeling nearly confident enough to try that ripping move.

Bumps and ridges, new terrain to explore. A body she had seen out of the corner of her eye, afraid to look at it, like the sun. Still couldn't see, and she wanted to, now. Still wanted more than she was willing to give.

Strange, having someone living under her hands. She felt disassociated. Like when she was a child and couldn't quite believe that that was another person, not her, that other beings existed. His fingers counting her ribs, digging into her side, someone else touching her body, and God, she had to get out of this unreality. Had to know that this was happening, that she was doing this, letting Tristan do it, but she didn't want to know, wanted to stay. Wanted this to happen.

Couldn't make herself move, but then Tristan's hands were skimming over her hips, playing with her skirt, and she arched up so he could reach the zipper. Slide of satin against her legs like everything she had read about, the only thing that was. Last hope went with the skirt and she kicked off her own wedges.

Rory listened to Tristan struggling with his pants, the clank of metal. Sound that made her tense before she realised it was the roll of thunder, still distant. And she was going to have sex, with Tristan, below Jess' bedroom.

Warm, naked boy covering her. She was still tense. Tristan hesitated before settling down, mouth returning, demanding response. And it was her decision. She could leave, stop this, she could. But she had to, because Tristan wouldn't. Had to ask.

She chose, pushing up, nails curling down his back. Immediate response, increase of weight. Harder kisses. He'd been waiting and he knew now. Would know everything.

Slow glide down her body. Wasn't fair that he was so at ease that he could move like that. Sucking kisses into her stomach, clench and release. She was squirming under him and it was still dream-like, because she had never felt this way before. Jess had never made her feel this good. She hadn't let him try.

Wet trail across, under her skin. Sudden sharp, hard bite on her hipbone. Shocks rippling through her body, liquid heat pooling. She was arching up, God, against Tristan's face. His hands supporting her, holding her to him, and she wanted him to do more just so she wouldn't have to listen to her own gasping breaths. Slow ease back down and he pushed her thighs apart.

Strong hands holding her open to him, pressure of his fingers just enough to overcome her sudden urge to snap her legs closed. Everything she had ever heard whispered behind women's backs, nothing she had ever really expected to do. But that was ridiculous, that was archaic and sexist and her mother had--shit, her mother was upstairs. Doing this, probably, and hysterical laughter was harder to repress than you'd think.

"Rory. Rory."

"Shh. They'll hear you."

"No one will hear us." Slight loosening of his grasp. "Nobody's going to come back down are they?"

"No. No. We should go, we can go to my house, pick up where we left--"

"No."

Quick kiss to the inside of her thigh, and there was hot breath on her-- what? She was a good girl--vagina? And Rory was fairly sure that her mother hadn't meant this when she had talked about tingles.

Just breath, but he was right there. Her hips twisted, trying to get closer, but he just tightened his hold, stilling her easily. Not fair, making her wait-- doing it on purpose. And she wanted to get up and leave, or make him--

Quick, careful swipe of his tongue and he was kissing her thigh again. Pushing forward a little, nose bumping, teasing. A sigh in the silence that travelled through her body and his lips were back. A kiss, almost. She moved her legs, trying to, huh, make him respond, or force him to move, do something besides just touch her like that.

Another second or two, and a quick dip inside. Flicking out, and retreating, dragging through her, and she was sliding up and down, pushing awkwardly down on him. A whine high in her throat that sounded like protest, and she tried to stop it, because she didn't want him to think that.

Tristan grabbed her hips and pushed in closer, deeper, and she couldn't do anything but tighten and want. Faster, and more, and her body echoed every thrust of his tongue, pulsing in time. Rory wanted more, now, without knowing what it was.

And then he was gone, moving up just a little, sucking and biting and his fingers were inside her, driving into her, and she was flying. Body clenching so hard that she lifted off the couch, and then nothing but water, nothing but Tristan's hands on her thighs, and burning heat. Couldn't feel anything but that swell, couldn't hear anything but the roaring in her ears, couldn't see a thing.

Her body was still throbbing when she returned, the couch under her back, Tristan over her, and God, her heart was beating its way out of her body through her clitoris.

Thunder rolled again, nearer now; she had thought it was her imagination. It was raining harder, loud against the windowpanes.

Tristan was moving her about, her body still slack and unresponsive. Kissing her again, nice, and she didn't have to do anything. And then he was pushing against her, inside again, but-- She shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't. Rory felt the panic begin to rise in her chest, frantically tried to think, but Tristan pushed again, and he was inside, completely, and she curled up around him, clutching.

It didn't hurt, like it was supposed to, and she felt glad in a vague, nebulous way. Tristan was inside her, inside her body. She had never even done this, never been brave enough. It felt strange, stretching her, flesh parting as he moved forward.

Jess was asleep right overhead.

Tristan was moving, slowly, and Rory tried to force herself to relax. His face was buried in the side of her neck, lips moving, murmuring words she couldn't hear. He was sliding in and out and she caught her hips moving in response. A moan when she stilled, a guiding hand, and it started to feel better, more natural.

Maybe he wasn't asleep. Maybe the storm would wake him. Maybe he was listening, could hear--the couch squeaked a little on the floor, and she had to stop thinking, because she was having sex, with someone who wasn't her boyfriend, she was doing it, and it was too late for second thoughts.

Tristan had found his rhythm, rocking into her, and she bit her lip, swallowing down a gasp. But he was still working up, his strokes getting longer and harder and better, and she pulled his mouth to hers for safety.

Not like all she had heard. Couldn't feel it through every inch of her being, but--

Better, because she could feel every move he made, could feel every shift he made inside her body. Could feel him push into her, her body rise to meet him, tightening, the spread of warmth.

The rain had moved inside her head, echoing wildly, and she thought maybe she should try and pay a little more attention to the real world. Then Tristan reached between them, and she was bucking, biting off soft cries.

His fingers sliding about, fumbling a little, but it was all right, because they kept hitting that spot, over and over, tugging, nails biting into it, and she couldn't stop trembling.

This wasn't right, there should be slamming headboards, or--some other soundtrack, not just inside her head, not just their ragged breaths. The rain, the thunder not enough, not rhythmic enough, throwing everything off. Throwing her off, her movements uncoordinated, spasmodic, tuned to a thousand different thoughts whirling about her mind, but Tristan, thank God, was perfect.

He shifted her hips, just a slight change in the angle, pushed down harder with every thrust, hit her clitoris on every stroke. Scrabbling at his arms, nails digging in, leaving marks that she was sure would last for days and was she making that sound? Tristan tensed above her, a cry building within him, moving up through his body. His face hit her shoulder hard; teeth dug in to muffle. His body jerked, little spasms, against hers, inside hers, and he was coming inside her body.

And Rory was whining, shoving up against him, trying to get him to move. Brief glances against his body made her choke, so close, and eventually he reached down again. Two, three rough rubs, and sound hung in the air between them as she pulsed with release, shaking into a thousand pieces and fighting for breath and clamping her teeth together until her jaw hurt and God, it was like dying.

It took a while to realise that she was still alive. She could still feel the throbbing throughout her whole body, little hearts thumping everywhere, now, and a new skin that didn't belong to her. One that she could feel, that she wore like a cloak, protection, concealment. Until Tristan touched her, small, light strokes, and it went.

They curled up together, listening as the storm passed overhead, the clamour of nature drowning out thought. Carefully redressed, they watched from the window for a while, before dragging themselves back to the couch. Tristan lit leftover candles, and they watched as the wax burned to nothing. Tangled together, ignoring the chafe of clothes, folds digging into flesh. They didn't speak, but Tristan was willing, and warm.

Rory slept before the last flame faded.

End.

Gilmore Girls