Disclaimer: The characters of Tristan DuGrey and Rory Gilmore do not belong to me. They are the property of the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino and affiliates.

Author's Note: Okay, I know I have Chronicling Babylon to work on but that's taking a while to piece together. Meanwhile, here's a little one shot that isn't on the happy side of life.

This morning (is a new day)

It was morning. Early morning. Or late night. It all depended on your perspective. Although technically it was morning. It was two a.m. and it was winter. So it was cold. Freezing. The tiny hairs across his arms were sticking up and he had goosebumps. And when he exhaled, whiffs like cigarette smoke lingered in the air near his thinly drawn lips. He was frowning or pondering the mysteries of the world. Or maybe that was placing too much significance on his thoughts

A cardboard cup filled with coffee burned his fingers and his palms as he clutched it. He lifted the cup to his mouth and swallowed, too quickly. The coffee burnt his throat and flowed down to his stomach and settled there. The coffee was burning his intestines too. And his mouth was filled with the aftertaste of too strong bitterness.

He was barefoot in a park. If you could call it a park. It was really just a large strip of grass with a few trees, in the center of some built-up residential area. He was sitting on a bench, inconspicuous and ordinary; the type of bench you might find at any park. The soggy brush of the grass could be felt against the soles of his feet. He was without shoes because he couldn't find them. Just like he couldn't find his jacket. And he'd had no time to look for them because he'd had to leave.

She had been still sleeping when he had crept out like a thief. Her brown hair had been splayed across the pillow. And just before he slipped through the bedroom door he thought he had heard her murmur his name. And he had frozen, thinking she had awaken. Thinking she was entreating him back. Maybe hoping she was. Maybe not. But he had only imagined it. She had not whispered, "Tristan." She hadn't said a single thing. She never did. And so he had fled.

Not once had he stayed. Ever. But he kept on coming back. Every night he came back. Wanting more. Expecting more. Taking more. Taking whatever she gave him and never giving back in return except for those few moments between the sheets when he thrust into her and gave her pleasure. And pain. The pain was in her dilated eyes as she screamed his name because she knew what would happen after. She would grow sleepy, her eyelids would droop, her head would rest on his shoulder and she would wrap her arms around him and fall asleep. And when her breathing was shallow, steady and even he would extract himself out of her grasp and leave. She never asked him to stay, not with words and not with gestures or a look, and he never did.

He had wanted Rory Gilmore for a very long time. And now he had her. It was victory. A notch. It left him hollow and empty and tired of his life. Often he wondered why she let him do what he did. Often he wondered why he did. Why he continued doing so. He should have walked away but he always returned. Tristan DuGrey who never returned. So that had to mean something, didn't it?

However this wasn't love. They both knew that. Because love wasn't like this. Love couldn't be like this. This was not love because love was something beautiful and wonderful; an unobtainable ideal. This was fucked, whatever 'this' was. This was sweaty skin against sweaty skin, nails digging and scratching backs, teeth biting and hair pulling. It was incubus draining life out of Rory Gilmore as she begged him to continue. It was an addiction, a necessity, a drug. It was lust, not desire. And it was definitely not love.

Tonight or rather this morning Tristan promised himself that this would be the last time. Because it had to stop before it got messy. Messier. Time to minimize the collateral damage. As he drank his coffee he tried to imagine what he would say. He would meet her in the afternoon and tell her he was sorry, because he was. Truly, sincerely sorry. And maybe she would forgive him. And maybe he would forgive her. That could work. But if he looked into her blue eyes that mirrored his, he might forget to apologize and he might kiss her instead. Press his lips against hers. Slip his tongue into her mouth. Push her against a wall and damn his resolve and good intentions. So he would call her instead. Only there was danger in the slight lilt of her voice – enticing, tempting and seductive – and he would be back in between her open legs. So he might try email, because this was the information technology age. But words could be misinterpreted or she might seek clarification or she might not read it until too late and somehow in all these scenarios Tristan could see himself still in her bed, her naked body wrapped around his.

No, the only thing to do was to not show up around midnight at her window. Because that she would understand. Because he had never missed a night. And she had always been there, waiting for him. It was unspoken that the night one of them wasn't there was the night it would all end. But she was always there to welcome him and he always there; three quick raps against the glass of her window as he asked for admittance.

He repressed the knowledge that for months he had been promising himself that this was the last time. That it had become ritualistic to sit on this bench, staring out at the encompassing darkness, nursing a cup of coffee and vowing never again. Because he held the hope that one day he would keep his promise. He clung desperately onto the belief that one morning he would be speaking the truth.

Maybe one day he wouldn't come and crawl into her bed. He would be in his own room reading a book or doing some late night studying. At one point, he would casually glance up to watch the clock tick past the hour until she realized that he wasn't just late. And he would be strong and resolute and maybe at peace, knowing that he had finally done right. Or…maybe…maybe one day he would stay. He would fall asleep and wake up to the warmth of her body nestled against his. His arm would feel pleasantly numb from the weight of her and her hair would be annoyingly in his face and he would know what her morning breath tasted like. Maybe one day, he hoped…

It was morning and it was so fucking cold. Cold enough for snow but there was only the absolute stillness of chilly air. His coffee was now lukewarm but still too bitter. He wished for artificial sweetener. It was too fucking cold and he was freezing. So he got up from the bench, threw away the cup of coffee and drove home, turning his car heater on full blast. He told himself that today was a new day and repeated it several times to convince himself. To believe. Today was different. This morning had been the last.

And Tristan conveniently forgot that in Rory Gilmore's bedroom were his shoes and jacket.

The End