Okay, first of, about a thousand and twelve pardons on the woeful lack of updates on V&G. My life has been ridiculously busy and unkind to my poor schedule, and I barely had time to get this baby out. See, today is a historic day, the day that a dear friend to all was born: In Love With Narcolepsy Boy. Lassie, as I affectionately call her, is an immensely dear friend of mine, and I feared a few weeks ago that I wouldn't have time to write her a birthday present and get it out on the right day. I have pushed aside all other engagements to write this; and yes, it is short, and yes, it is a one-shot, but it's for Lassie, and I was desperate that she should not be without present on her birthday.

This is a Narco one-shot. Now, if you all know me, I'm not a die-hard Narco, but, judging by Lassie's penname, I'm sure you could figure out that she is. And I personally do love Dean… that is, season one Dean, anyway, and not one of you can deny that season one Dean was such a cutie. And if you have a problem with it, then frankly, Lassie and I blow our noses at you. Cause this is for her. So today is her day and she gets everything she wants. A pony is on its way to her via email as we speak.

This is a missing scene from 1-09, Rory's Dance, after Dean began to read to Rory on the beanbag in Miss Patty's, but before they awoke later. It's a little flufflet… it doesn't have much really plot, or purpose… but then again, it's a flufflet. That's what just happened to pour out of me. And I tried to make it longer and more with a plot, but Dean and Rory refused. They liked it the way it was! I was like, "Guys, seriously, it's pretty damn short. And all you do is exchange lovey dovey words and make moo cow eyes at each other." But they were like, that's how we like it, short and sugary sweet, and I bet Lassie will like it too. And I was like, "Well, I hope you two are right, but if she doesn't, I'm so blaming it on you."

So again, happy birthday to Lassie! And all your reviews better include birthday wishes for this girl.

Lips Like Sugar

Rory smiled and settled further down into the beanbag, the weight of Dean's protective arm on her shoulder something strangely comforting. She pressed her nose against the material of his jacket; it smelled of Downy and was slightly rough from too many home washings. She loved that about him—somehow it was the most romantic thing she'd ever experienced, his scruffy, laundry detergent-scented jacket sliding against her nose.

He closed The Portable Dorothy Parker with a snap and said with a hint of a tease in his mouth, "You are the only person I know who would think to bring a book like this to a school dance."

She smiled and snuggled down further. "Well let's keep it that way, mister."

He laughed easily, tightening his slouching grip on her. "You know, I hate to admit it, but I did have a good time tonight."

Her smile extended to her ears. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But don't tell anyone, it might ruin my rep."

"As the dance-loathing bagboy at Doose's? Who would want to tarnish that steady reputation?" she said solemnly.

"Good, so we agree," he said, leaning his head back a little and closing his eyes.

"Tired?" she said.

"No, just a long day at Doose's. I woke up earlier to get in a good amount of hours in."

"I'm sorry," Rory said, stroking his cheek. A cocked smile appeared on his face, his eyes still closed.

"I think I'm feeling better now though," he said.

She planted a small kiss on his lips. "How 'bout now?" Rory questioned.

"Almost there…" he grinned.

She planted her hand on the curve of his cheek and kissed him, a long, deep, lingering kiss. He responded, his free hand traveling to the small of her back. He stroked the soft blue fabric there, dragging his fingernails, haggard and broken from hours of lifting boxes, along the satiny dress.

She waved her fingers through his thick hair, marveling at its manly silkiness, and rubbed her nose against his as she pulled away. She could see his smile in the wavering dark.

"Could we go to school dances and get attacked by small jealous boys every day?" was Dean's response alongside the Cheshire cat grin he sported.

"Please. Tristan is not jealous," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Dean laughed and shook his head, marveling slightly at her innocent naivety. "Don't worry, I can't blame the guy for liking you." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a confiding whisper. "It's almost impossible not to."

Rory's young grin widened, lowering her head shyly. Tipping her head back up to catch his gaze, she began to trace the outline of his face with her fingers in the dark, her eyes wide and curious. His eyes locked on her moving gaze, his deep smile growing as she explored his face: her fingertips brushing his cheeks and traveling down his nose and rimming his ears.

Dean caught her hands in his suddenly, lowering them to his lap. "Hey," he said softly, biting his lip briefly as he smiled, his white teeth flashing through the darkness. Rory looked up, questioning.

He dipped his neck and captured her lips in his again, his pace slow but his mouth deep. He shifted his arm to her hip protectively, digging his hand between her and the beanbag and pulling her to him. She responded eagerly but more tentatively, her lips moving gently against his. He moaned softly into her mouth, and she believed that was melting into a steaming puddle of Jello against him.

She pulled back suddenly, placing a finger to his lip, which he tried to kiss unsuccessfully. "Don't think I forgot that crack about the book, though," she said, giggling, her hair slowly spiraling out of her bun in tendrils. Obviously her mother didn't factor in makeout sessions on a beanbag into her hairspray equation.

Dean smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear tenderly. It was amazing how his gentle touch could still evoke shivers all throughout her. "You know how I meant it," he said quietly into her ear, his hot breath against her ear so thrilling that she would have married him right then and there if he had asked. Sure, they said that Rory Gilmore had a head on her, that she was sensible, but they had underestimated the effect of a boy's heated whisper in her ear on her good judgment.

"Dean, I…" she said suddenly, staring into his eyes. He stared back, and she cocked her head sideways, almost saucily. "You're my boyfriend," she said.

He grinned. "That's right."

Her words caught in her throat for a little bit, as if they were debating whether they should surface. "I've never had a boyfriend before."

Dean nodded. "That's fine. I kind of like being the first one, to tell you the truth," he said.

"Have you had a girlfriend before?" She voiced the question, almost nervous of the answer.

Dean regarded her before answering. "Two."

"Two?"

"In fourth grade, Missy Roberts came up to me on the playground and told me that I was, in her words, a cutie patootie."

"Wise words from Missy Roberts," said Rory. She propped her elbow against the beanbag and rested her head against her hand. "Did you ask her out after that?"

"No, she asked me to be her boyfriend."

"Wow, going modern. Very brave of Missy."

"I thought so. So I said yes, and she gave me a roly poly. She said it was our baby."

"Going in for the kill right away, huh?" winced Rory. "Ouch."

"Yeah, the woman was already talking about kids. Even at 9, I knew when to get out of there. So I squished the roly poly, and then she cried."

"Dean!" scolded Rory, slapping his shoulder. "Poor Missy Roberts! All she was trying to do was find a nice guy to take care of her roly poly with. You're a pig!"

Dean put his head back and laughed heartily. "To the day I left Chicago, Missy Robert never talked to me again. And I think she still gives roly polies to her boyfriends."

"Guess you dodged a bullet there, then," Rory said. She shifted down further in her seat and then asked, 'What about number two?"

Dean let out a long groan as he settled into the beanbag. "Number two was Rebecca Weinstein in 9th grade. We went out for about two, three months until she dumped me for someone else. Some 10th grader named Rocky. I was upset for a while." He let his eyes droop closed.

Rory watched him. "Was she pretty?"

He opened one of them and stayed silent for a few seconds. "She was okay."

"Do you still miss her?"

"Oh, God no," he said with a laugh, and Rory was consoled slightly. "Rocky broke up with her and she came back to, begging me to take her back, but by then I could tell what kind of person she really was. She wasn't the kind of girl I wanted." He opened both eyes to Rory. "She never kissed me in a grocery store, or helped throw a wake for a cat, or got hit by a deer with her car. She never danced with me. She never appreciated the roundness of certain cakes," he continued with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "She never tried to cheer up a weeping willow; she never invited me to Willy Wonka movie nights with her mother. She never said thank you when I kissed her." He put a finger under her chin, tipping it up, and smiled. "Would it be too corny right now if I ended with 'she wasn't you'?"

"I think you passed the Good Ship Corny a couple minutes ago," said Rory, still smiling despite herself.

"Yeah, well," Dean shrugged, leaning in to plant a small, sweet kiss on her lips. Rory closed her eyes, leaning her head against the beanbag. Dean did the same.

"Hey, maybe we should go soon," he said. "It's getting late."

Rory nodded in agreement. "Yeah, soon." She tucked her nose into where his neck met his shoulder. "But not yet, okay?" The moment was so perfect; she didn't think she could let go of it yet.

They settled into the beanbag more soundly, giggling at the crass sound its beads made. Dean extended his neck back, turning his face near the back of Rory's head. He inhaled the flowery scent of her hair and let his eyes flutter. "Couple more minutes," he said. Rory murmured in response, pressing her palm squarely against his chest.

Sitting here, in the dark of a dance studio, on this dreadfully uncomfortable beanbag with him—this beautiful tan boy with his warm cheek pressed against her shoulder—was the most quietly exhilarating feeling. The sheer simple perfection of the moment was a too big and crushing joy to fit into words or even actions. Instead, she just let her eyes slip closed, the steady deep breathing of the boy besides her becoming the metronome within her dream.

Okay, there we see the fluff that lies deep within me. This will never happen again. In fact, it never did happen. Are we all clear? Do we all know the story? Oh alright, Rory, you can be the doctor.

Any life-saving dogs notice the use of GIGGLE in this fic?

Twice?

(And more on V&G: the fates have been against me, but I'll try so damn hard to get the chapter out soon. But I have two huge projects due Tuesday, and two huge like 80 page final packets due on Wednesday and next Monday, and an essay, and a elephant recently crushed my mother to smithereens so there's that to deal with too, and I'm just overloaded.)

(Oh, and you don't have to worry about my mother, that didn't actually happen. But the rest did, I swear.)