Disclaimer: Amy and Daniel Palladino, along with the rest of the WB, own Gilmore Girls. I'm just borrowing the characters.
A/N: Yes, this is a Paris/Marty story, aka the "Party" 'ship (if it ever catches on, that is). Hey, where are you going, you haven't even read the story yet! This is going to sound suspiciously like begging, but within this author's note, I am going to convince you to read this story. Just, please, give it a chance. Come one, we've almost all seen "But Not As Cute As Pushkin." These two have the most chemistry on the show. Please, just give it a chance, and I promise you won't be disappointed… okay, well, you might, because this is one of the most UC 'ships out there, but yeah. Please?
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Paris never liked weddings. She'd only been to a few – her cousin's, her aunt's third, her older sister's – but they'd all been the same, mundane thing: sitting for an hour, watching bridesmaid's in horrible dresses so as to make the bride look better walking down the aisle, listening to people cry out of happiness, and watching as the bride and groom stupefy each other with fake words. It was a tradition that would only end in divorce.
But she could handle them. She didn't imagine getting invited to a whole bunch of them, so she was actually honored to get invited to her best friend's wedding. And to be in it? Even better. Rory had even managed to pick out dresses that looked decent on her wedding party.
It was the wedding rehearsal that killed her. Who needed to rehearse a wedding? Didn't Hollywood teach us how they went? Someone gets cold feet; their best man or maid of honor talks them out of it; someone's drunk uncle makes a ruckus; someone objects; the bride cries; they dance like idiots and make sappy speeches; people go home feeling bad or good, depending on their current dating status.
And maybe that's why she was so bitter: she had no one. She wasn't jealous of Rory, by far. Her sundry of pathetically insipid boyfriends were only the opening act for this particular breed of moron that Rory had the pleasure of introducing as her fiancé. She was a special girl. Truly.
Paris looked at her watch in boredom. An hour and a half until this mundane experience was scheduled to end, but knowing Finn, it would last up to two or three more hours. The boy still loved to party, despite the years since graduating from Yale. His two moronic groomsmen were none other than Colin and Logan. And to the surprise of everyone whom had ever met Finn, his third groomsman was Marty. Rory's Marty. The same Marty who was formerly in love with Rory.
Finn and Marty had an even more interesting relationship than Finn and Rory. In short, it started with a fist-fight and ended with shots of vodka and Frangelico. That night began their tentative friendship, of which Colin and Logan absolutely loathed. It was probably that night that Marty gave up on Rory and pursued another love interest, who shot him down.
Paris looked at her watch once again. One hour and twenty-seven minutes. This was hell, she was in hell, and it was the ballroom in the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City.
"Either you're really bored, or your shoe phone is out of commission," Marty commented.
Paris looked up, not even fazed by his sudden appearance in the seat next to hers. "Brilliant deduction."
"So you're saying you're not bored?"
"Doesn't your boyfriend miss you?" Paris shot back.
"Actually, I'm just as bored as you are," he admitted. "I was hoping exchanging barbs with you would liven up the rehearsal."
"I hope it was good for you."
"I've barely talked to you since Rory and Finn got engaged, and this is all you have to say to me?"
"No, what I want to say is that you've been too influenced by Rory's cocky fiancé."
"He's not too bad once you get to know him."
"Says the man that once made a voodoo doll of Logan."
"That's because Logan is an asshole. If you remember correctly, Finn was the one that convinced Rory to go back to Yale."
"Is that why you came over here, to give me the full autobiography of the saga of Rory and Finn?"
"No, I came over here because you looked as bored as I felt. But if you want to sit her sullenly by yourself, I can go." He started to stand up, but Paris pulled him back down.
"You can sit down, John Mayer."
"Is this your way of telling me that you'd be willing to have a civilized conversation with me instead of us baiting each other until one of us strangles the other one?"
"Don't you mean until I strangle you?" Paris shot back.
"Sure. Until you strangle me. But until that time comes, I suggest we save each other from hanging ourselves on these impossibly high rafters."
"Okay, Marty, against my better judgment, I will attempt to have a polite exchange with you that won't involve death in any way."
"That's wonderful, Paris. So, we'll start with the simple: How have you been?"
"That's all you have? Wouldn't you rather know my favorite song, or my favorite food?"
"No, because I don't think you listen to music, and your favorite food is Lucky Charms cereal, though you claim it's sushi."
Paris sighed begrudgingly. "I've been good, I guess. Work is going good." She was working at New York Medical Center, and had been for the past year and half. She was rising as the best oncologist in the United States, even after only a few years as a doctor.
"So I've heard. Word is that you're going to be on the cover of Time soon."
Paris blushed. She actually blushed. It was faint, but you could definitely see her cheeks darken slightly. "They interviewed me, but I don't think it's going to happen."
"I'm sure it is," Marty assured her.
"And what makes you so sure?" she challenged.
He just smiled at her. "I'm lead photographer for Time."
She couldn't help her jaw dropping a little bit. Not only was she going to be on the cover of Time magazine, she was also talking to the man that was probably going to be taking her picture. "You're joking."
"Nope, I got hired a little over a year ago."
"Not about that, I don't care about that, but I'm going to be on the cover of Time magazine!"
"Thanks, Paris," he replied sarcastically.
"No, no, I mean, that's great. I'm sure Time pays well."
He shrugged. "Not really, but it pays the bills, and I get to meet some really cool people. I'm not the top rising oncologist in the country, but I still get job offers from everyone from National Geographic to The New Yorker."
She nodded. "At least you get to travel around the world."
"Like traveling around the world and taking pictures is all that glamorous. I'm like the tourist from hell."
Paris laughed out loud, she actually did. "But do you have to deal with the crap from sick people?"
"If you aren't going to be sympathetic, then I don't think a doctor is the right profession for you," he pointed out.
"The people who are truly sick are the ones I empathize with; the hypochondriacs are the ones I want to give real injuries to," she clarified.
Marty suddenly smiled. "We're having a discussion with actual, non-hostile words."
"So we are."
"Are you freaked?"
"Scared out of my wits."
"Same here. Another thing we have in common."
"Another thing?" she asked doubtfully. "There was a first thing."
"There's always a first thing; it's what brought me over here – we're both bored out of our minds."
"So we're both bored out of our minds and scared out of our wits at our civility. What a great combination," she replied sarcastically.
Marty held up his champagne class. "Here's to us, the worst combination here."
Paris clinked her glass against his. "We've been over jobs and emotions. Is there anything else you'd like to cover?"
"Yes, actually." He scooted his chair closer to hers. "The groomsmen and I have a bet going on about how long the marriage will last. Want in?"
"What are the stakes?" she questioned curiously, unconsciously grabbing her purse.
"Colin, the cynic he is, has six months before Rory kills him. Logan has three years. I have seven years," he informed her. "Lorelai and Lane are considering getting in, but Lane doesn't have the money and Lorelai doesn't want to bet against the happiness of her only child."
"But you're willing to bet on the happiness of one of your best friends?"
"Like you said, they've been a bad influence on me."
"I think I preferred you the other way."
"No, you didn't."
Paris considered this. "You're right, I didn't."
"Back to the betting; it's two hundred dollars to get in the pot and then you can bet however much you want on your date."
Paris took out her wallet. Inside was over five hundred dollars in cash. She counted it, and then said, "I'll put four hundred on four years and six months."
"Great." Marty took out a small notebook and made a note. "I'm the only one trustworthy enough to do this," he explained as she looked on. He clicked his pen and put it back in his pocket when he was done. "I'll contact you in four and a half years."
Paris remained silent as he said this. Four and a half years was an awfully long time to wait for someone like him to contact her. "What if I don't want you to contact me in four and a half years?"
He looked at her oddly. "Then I guess I'll have to scratch out your bet." He took out his pen and paper. "Didn't know you hated me that much," he muttered.
She resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes. "I didn't mean that, you idiot. I meant that I want you to contact me before four and a half years."
He raised his eyes to meet hers. "You don't say."
"Actually, I do," she replied bluntly.
A cute smile spread across his features. "I never thought I'd say this, ever, but Paris Gellar, can I have your phone number?"
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Paris opened her eyes, only to quickly shut them again when the sunlight hit her. She squinted so tightly that she began to get a headache. "I hate your apartment," she murmured to the person next to her.
"Too bad, mine was closer," the person replied, giving her a kiss. "Good morning, Paris."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "You call that a good morning kiss? And to think that I actually thought you were good last night."
"You can't take it back now," he informed her. "You thought I was good last night. I rocked your world."
She laughed. "You wish, Marty. You can't even give a proper kiss, so what kind of lover do you think you are?"
"Do I get do-overs?" he asked.
"If you want."
He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers in a way that wasn't at all clumsy or awkward. It was suave and debonair, and she could almost describe it as breath-taking, if she wanted to get romantic-comedy mushy, which she never would.
"That's more like it," she said when he finally pulled back to let her get her breath.
Marty leaned back against his pillow and laughed. "So I guess you can take back what you said about my skills."
"What do you want? An ego stroke? Fine, you were good."
"Just good?"
"Okay, you were great," she admitted. "I'll make a plaque for you if that will make you feel better."
"There's the Paris Gellar I remember."
"What did we just have?"
"Sex."
"I know that, idiot, I meant how would you classify it? One night stand?"
"I hoped it would be the predecessor to many dates, but if you want it to be a one night stand . . ."
"Well, I want it to be the first of many dates, too."
"Good."
"Then we agree?"
"I guess so."
"Great. What time is it?"
Marty looked at the clock lazily, but his eyes widened once he saw the clock. "Shit. It's almost eleven-thirty."
"Oh, crap!" Paris cried, jumping out of bed. "Where's my dress?"
Marty, who was busy taking his tux out of the closet, paused to bend over and retrieve it from the floor and throw it at her. She was dressed in record speed and was rushing out the door when she turned around and went back to Marty.
"I'll see you at the wedding."
"And I'll see you. And after the wedding. In fact, tomorrow I want to take you out to dinner."
"That'd be nice."
"I hoped so."
She started for the door again, but this time rushed back for a different reason. She grabbed the back of his head and pulled it toward her, giving him a scorching kiss. "Bye."
"Bye," he replied, still a little dazed.
"And thank you."
"For what?"
"Saving me from my boredom."