Title: Additional Reporting By…
Chapter 1: The Lion Sleeps Tonight
Summary: A chance meeting on an airplane puts two old acquantainces in an awkward situation. But they are determined to make the best of it. Plus, he charms her.
Pairing: Ramble On (Rory/Dave)
A/N: Inspired by "She's So Halogen" by Tinuviel Henneth. Well, the pairing. And the pairing name. The idea just comes from my tiny head. Extra special thanks to Mandy, for reading and telling me it's fabulous, because I can always use that.
She rushes through the airport, pulling her small travel suitcase along behind her. She is late, and she curses herself—it is her fault, no matter how late the interview ran. She arrives at the gate with a minute to spare, and thrusts her boarding pass at the stewardess's face.
"Thank you," the woman says with a fake smile, ripping off whatever she needs to rip off and sending Rory on her way.
"Thank you," Rory responds breathlessly, and then vaults down the jet way. When she enters the plane, she realizes with dismay that the plane is full, and she is the last one to get on. She edges down the aisle, trying to find her seat—a window seat, like she always gets. When she arrives at seats 24A and C, there is, of course, someone in the aisle seat. She stows her luggage in the overhead compartment, and then slams it, hoping it will shock the guy in the aisle seat. It doesn't, and she has to get his attention another way.
"Excuse me," she says softly. He has headphones on, however, and is lightly tapping out a rhythm on his knee. She leans down and says, "Excuse me!" in a slightly louder voice, and shocks him when he opens his eyes and sees her.
"Oh, God," he screams, practically jumping out of his seat. "Oh, do you need to get in?"
She nods, and allows him to go past her, so that she may squeeze past his seat and settle into hers. He sits back down, and before putting his headphones back on, says, "You scared me half to death." When she looks at him, he raises his eyebrows and nods. "Just wanted to let you know."
"Thanks." Rory nods, and then goes about stowing her laptop and purse under the seat in front of her. She pulls a book out and sets it on her lap, before fastening her seat belt and arranging her hair so that it falls over her shoulder. She then pulls out a stick of gum and inserts it into her book, right next to her bookmark. She makes sure her seat is in the upright and locked position, and then does the same to her tray table. She stops moving for a second, and makes a face like she is going to sneeze. Instead, she yawns and sniffles, and then dives back down towards her purse to pull out a tissue, with which she daintily wipes her nose.
The guy watches her do all of this with an incredulous expression on his face. As she opens her book and sticks the gum in her mouth, he finally decides to speak.
"Do you always do that?" he asks, startling her this time.
She jumps, slightly, and then turns to him. "No, I don't. I don't always need to sneeze."
"Oh." He nods. "Okay." He faces forward again, and presses a button on his armrest to restart his music. Unfortunately, he has a habit of singing aloud. He starts a few seconds into the song, with the chant, "Oh-whim-a-whey, oh-whim-a-whey, oh-whim-a-whey, oh-whim-a-whey," and then starts in with the falsetto verses. "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight. In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps. Wheeee-eee-ee-e-dum bum baway. Wheee-eee-ee-e-dumbumbaway."
Rory, mortified, finally pokes him and startles him from his reverie.
"What?" he asks, slowly pulling his headphones off.
"Could you not sing 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' at the top of your lungs? 'Cause that'd be great."
"Fine," he says, not a little petulantly. He yanks the headset jack out of the hole in the arm and shoves them in the pocket of the seat in front of him, and then leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and a scowl on his face.
"Are you four?" she asks, appalled.
"No, I'm twenty-four," he says, which actually makes her smile a little. It's been so long since she met someone her age that she can't resist saying, "Really? Me too."
"That's nice," he says, still staring straight ahead.
She sighs, sorry that she's made him so mad in such a short amount of time. But that whole singing thing was really annoying; she had no other choice.
She leans back in her chair, too, and starts reading, chomping away on her gum like there's no tomorrow.
Dave sneaks a look at her out of the corner of his eye, once he's sure that she's engrossed in her book. She looks so familiar, and he just can't put his finger on it. She doesn't look like a rocker—she is too smart for that—and those are the only people he's been around for the past four years.
He is a professional rock star, without a name for himself, and he has worked long and hard to get that way. He left his own unnamed band when he was eighteen, to go to California for college. He couldn't be without music for too long, so he put out flyers advertising himself as an all-around guitarist for any and all gigs available. Pretty soon, he was in three or four bands as a temp fourth or fifth or sometimes even third member. He was still going to school, but only lasted for eighteen months before he realized he could count the number of times he'd gone to any of his classes on two fingers. So, he unceremoniously dropped out and took a quick trek back East to look for his own unnamed band, who were on a Christian tour for three months, his ex-girlfriend's mother told him. Amazed by the turn of events, he returned to California and became known in the rock underground as the go-to guy for replacements. So he travels around the world, touring with bands when necessary, and appearing in gigs if ever he happens to be in town. He can make a living by receiving a fifth, fourth, or even a third of the pay—so far, every band has been fair. He has never once made it into the studio, because studio days can always be postponed, while some gigs cannot. He has made it onto TV once or twice, most notably with Green Day—Billie Joe is a performer and not so much a musician when it comes to crowds, and Dave always takes his place in the music, while standing in the background, away from the cameras.
But he did get to visit Saturday Night Live, one of his biggest dreams as a kid. Well, that, and playing CBGB. He has yet to make it to CBGB, but he hopes when he settles down and has his own band they can send in a demo tape and he can make it to CBGB.
The plane levels out, and the lead flight attendant chirpily informs everyone that they can pull out their portable electronic devices, including laptops and portable CD players. Dave watches as the familiar girl next to him pulls out her laptop and begins typing away. After almost two minutes of incessant typing, she suddenly stops, and just drums her fingers on the keyboard, obviously blocked. He smiles, and leans closer to her and asks, "Is this like Forces of Nature? Are you writing your vows? Should I be worried about pigeons flying into the wings?"
She suppresses a smile, and looks up from the intro to her interview and says, "You know, I don't know you that well, but I think there may be something wrong with you."
He laughs, and watches as she laughs too. She's got a great smile, and her deep blue eyes twinkle when she laughs. He decides to take the plunge, and hopes that they've never met as he extends his hand and says, "I'm Dave Rygalski."
She stops laughing, and looks at him more seriously. "You are not," she says softly, hardly believing it herself. It definitely is; she sees that now.
He lets out a slight chuckle, worried that he's done something to make this girl stare at him like this. But he doesn't remember anything—he's having a hard enough time trying to remember her.
"Rory Gilmore," she says after a minute, and takes his hand in hers.
"You are not," he repeats at her, starting to grin. "Wow. I can't believe I didn't recognize you. I mean, you looked familiar, but—"
"God, this is so weird," Rory says, shaking her head. "What are you doing on a plane from LA to New York?"
"Well, I live in LA, but I'm going to New York to play back-up for one of Everclear's television performances."
"Really?" she asks, interested.
He mentally shakes his head—this is a girl from his past, one who knew him when, and she's pretty, smart, and genuinely interested in him. He hasn't actually had a girlfriend—or date—since Lane.
"Yeah, I'm actually the go-to guy for back-up. I mean, I've never seen the inside of a studio, but I'm always in live performances, for the really good bands who want to have the same album sound while still being live."
"Wow. That's so cool." She laughs, realizing that she has somewhat slipped into her interviewer mode. "I mean it, that really is cool. I don't do anything like that."
"What do you do?" he asks, with a smile. For some reason, his smile makes her melt, just a little, and she can see why Lane fell so head-over-heels for this guy.
"Um, you know how in magazines and newspapers at the end of a huge article it'll sometimes say 'Additional reporting by' and then list some names?"
"That's you?" he asks.
"Yep, glamorous job that it is. I'm currently freelance and only get jobs through my agent, who sorta sucks. I live in New York, and she can't find anything for me to do there. But what can you do?" Rory shrugs.
"God, is New York an awesome place to live in? I always just visit, and I can't imagine living there."
"It really is awesome," Rory grins. "Whenever I'm home, I try to take advantage of it. I am a member of a few museums, I'm always at CBGB, and I've even second-acted a couple of hit Broadway shows."
Dave shakes his head. "You've second-acted shows?" he asks, incredulously. "That doesn't sound like the Rory Gilmore I know."
She smiles. "It's all my mother's fault. The first time she visited me, I was complaining about money, but she really wanted to see Wicked. Instead of treating me, which was what Luke offered to do, she made us second-act it." She shakes her head. "It was really cool, and amazingly easy to follow." She smiles. "Of course, I read the book, and Mom and Luke were really confused, but I liked it. So, I did it again. Twice. But different plays."
"And?" he asks. "Anything good?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing right now." They lapse into silence, not entirely comfortable.
"So," he says after a minute, "your mom and Luke are together?"
"Five years. They just got married."
"Wow." Dave is quiet for a minute, and then snorts. "Took them long enough."
"That's what everyone says."
They fall into an uncomfortable silence again, and this time it is so long that Rory turns back to her computer and starts typing up notes again. Dave sits uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he could find a not-creepy way to tell this girl he wants to see her again. He feels uncomfortable, he is sure, because the last time he spent any time with this girl, he was very in love with his girlfriend at the time—who is, of course, Rory's life-time best friend. He is almost entirely sure that if he spends enough time with this girl, with whom he feels some connection, he can forget entirely about his first girlfriend.
Rory pauses in her typing, feeling Dave's eyes on her. She surreptitiously glances over, and notices that he's staring at the seat in front of him, unconsciously tapping his fingers on his knee.
She lets out a quiet "Huh," which forces him to look up and catch her eyes. He forces a smile, and then goes back to staring at the seat in front of him.
She bites her lip, and wonders if she was wishfully thinking she felt Dave's eyes. This thought shocks her, and she sits back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. She is not entirely sure, but she thinks that she likes her best friend's ex-boyfriend. The guy who was perfect for Lane. She tries to rectify the situation by telling herself that she just likes the fact that she has someone to talk to, someone who knew her when.
Dave suddenly turns to look at her, and quickly says, "Look. I'm performing at Saturday Night Live tomorrow night. They gave me a ticket, but I don't really know anyone in New York, so…will you come?"
Her eyes light up, and he is delighted to see it. After a minute, though, she restrains herself and simply says, "Okay."
He nods. "Okay." He returns to staring at the seat in front of him, before grabbing his headphones and plugging them into the armrest again. "I promise to not sing out loud," he says to her, before leaning back and closing his eyes.
She watches, and suppresses a smile as he resumes slightly dancing in his seat. She's been charmed, there's no doubt about that.