DISCLAIMER: These characters are the property of the WB. I think. I'm Australian. Not too clear on the who's and wherefore's.  

FEEDBACK: You betcha! lokibard@yahoo.com.au

NOTES: Written for a challenge at multifandom on livejournal: Someone overhears a conversation that they're not supposed to…

Sensing Clarity

Was it a left turn or right turn? This was only her third visit to the Gellar house, and having left the maid somewhere behind in the cavernous lobby, Rory found herself at a loss. The situation wasn't helped by the painful wrench of several subjects worth of books cradled in her arms.

From somewhere ahead near the Jackson Pollock painting, there was a low murmur. One voice. A lengthy pause … then a distinctive torrent of words that could only be coming from Paris.

"…and if I'd known, I would've said something from the beginning. Nobody benefits from a contract or a romance unless they think they have a complete grasp on both sides of the equation, I get that. In fact, I think I've had words to the effect tattooed somewhere on my ass since birth. But you have to understand this was a completely unforeseeable thing, Jamie."

Rory hovered outside the half-closed door. Jamie. So Paris was talking to her boyfriend. Not the best time to go in. She crossed to a genuine Shaker rocker a few feet down the hall and perched carefully on the edge.

"No … no. I don't know how to describe it … if I did, I would."  There was a pause. "You did not just challenge me. You did not. Damn you! Fine. Fine."

Idly, Rory pulled a copy of Anna Karenina from her bag and settled in to wait. A challenge. If she knew Paris – and she did – there would be no end to the conversation until Paris shouted "HA!" and slammed the phone down.

"It's like trying to translate the original Iliad," Paris went on. "It's blurry and difficult, right? You work and you work and you work and you have no idea why, because everybody knows that Emil V. Reau's interpretation is far superior even to Chapman and Pope, let alone anything a mere student could come up with, even if the student is me … sorry … Off-topic … I said sorry … Duly noted."

Finding her place, Rory grinned. Go, Jamie. Stopping Paris mid-rant was like trying to hold back the Hoover Dam with your bare hands. The man had guts.

In her bedroom, Paris was still talking. "So, you're working, and it gets a little better, and then you sense clarity around the corner and suddenly you're there. Everything comes clear. And you really get it. That's what it was like."

There was silence, then Paris huffed. "Blurry. Then I got it. Was that unclear? … Well, I'm sorry if my analogies do nothing for you. It's the best I can do … Look, one day she was just there and the next she was … there."

Rory looked up from her book, puzzled. She? Who she? What?

The invisible Paris was on a roll again. "Yes, you've met her … No … No … Look, I don't see why you need to know. It doesn't have any relevance to this conversation … no, it doesn't … it doesn't … does not … God! You're determined to be a child about this, aren't you?"

Rory sat spellbound, Anna completely forgotten.

"Why? Because she's smart and she's unfathomably nice and for some reason she cares about me … Okay, so a case could be made for you being all of those things, too … Well, because she doesn't know."

Paris stopped speaking then, and even separated by the wall, Rory could hear Jamie's angry buzzing. He sounded incredibly upset.

Eventually, Paris broke in. "Let me break this down for you, Jamie, because though what you're saying could be illustrative of you understanding me, it sounds much more like a conniption fit. So here goes. Number one, I don't think we should see each other any more. Number two, there are multiple reasons, the biggest being that I appear to have formed a completely unprecedented and foolish attachment to somebody else. Unprecedented and foolish because - number three - said somebody is female. Having thought some deep thoughts on the matter, it seems to me that number three is really the defining element here. Don't you think so?"

Another long silence, during which Rory found herself vacillating between intrigue, embarrassment and self-loathing. This was an incredibly private conversation which she had no right to be listening to.  She knew, though, that it would take an outside force to make her move. Possibly an earthquake of some kind.

Eventually, Paris sighed. "Look, Jamie, I'm sorry. I really am. But at least I'm being truthful with you. Right? Anyway, isn't that fabled male pride all happy that I'm not leaving because of another guy? … Well, this way you can sit back and tell yourself that there's nothing you could do, which, let's be honest, there isn't. And you can rest easy in the knowledge that I'll never, ever have the courage to say anything to Rory, so not only am I alone with my utterly irrational new obsession, I always will be."

Rory stood up on suddenly shaky legs. What? What? What?

"Well, if that's how you're going to be about it, I'm not gonna waste a perfectly good explanation on you any more!" Paris shouted. "And just by the way, if I'm reading my women's magazines correctly, it doesn't happen to every guy! HA!" With gusto, she slammed the phone down.

Rory was frozen in place, even though she heard Paris rapidly approaching the door. Any second now. Busted. Three … two … one…

Paris emerged into the hallway and suddenly stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. Her eyes closed. One deep breath and a clenching of fists later, she opened them again. They immediately sought Rory to confirm her presence. When they discovered that she was, indeed, standing there, they closed again.

Her voice was low. "Oh my God. Rory, I-"

Rory smiled awkwardly. "Hi, Paris."

Silence.