Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 9—Wanting Something More

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She was terrified of being in love.

The idea of being beloved, of people adoring her and taking care of her, was engrained in her as much as her love of reading was. All the people her mother had surrounded her with acted as pillars of unconditional love, support and protection, no matter their lots in life. She had free roam of her small town from the age she could toddle away from her mother's sight, and she had been as safe as if she were tucked in her own bed with armed guards watching her while she slept.

But no one could protect her from seeing what being in love had done to her mother. Nothing could shield her from the pain and guilt that bubbled up in her chest when she'd tiptoe to her mother's room and hear her arguing with Christopher on the phone or crying alone in bed.

These were the things she knew of being in love.

In the past, instead of expressing such fears of her own fated amore falling to pieces and leaving only ruins of greatness behind, she had fled. He himself had borne witness to others falling under her spell—hypnotized by flashes of blue and waves of spun chestnut, consumed to the point of having no other choice but to confess their feelings to this creature that held their hearts.

She wasn't mindful of how devastating her blows were. Her hesitation was hurtful, her reluctance to reciprocate like a vise around the heart. It was only in the aftermath that she could assess what had happened in a moment of panic—what she'd lost and how she could spin it as protection. Things she was missing out on, things she was giving up; they paled in comparison with the alternative. What she gained to lose by letting herself be as mindless and enchanted as the boy that wanted only her happiness was staggering and enough to make her blanch and ruin all confessions of true love.

While true that the night he'd confessed his own descent into the throws of first love, mindless and enchanted as he was, she had failed to say those same three words back to him, he'd felt her body yield to his. He'd heard words, so close to what she wanted to say. Words that filled her body seeped out of her lips; his name, God's, pleas for more of him, more of her…. It was all he could do now to keep within the lines of his lane as he neared her hometown. He'd last driven this route that very night, taking her home at break-neck speed, as they toed the line of her curfew closer than they ever had. They'd spent the prior two hours in his bed, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, her lips pressed into his chest, her giggles muffled in his skin as they exchanged words and glorious silences.

On her porch, her eyes searched his, but all she managed was a goodnight. He fought back an urge to repeat the sentiment; knowing too much of a good thing could turn her and settled for a kiss.

He'd seen her, of course, as they shared classes together. The final exam schedule was rigorous, as per usual, and the few moments her eyes caught his in class, she offered him a smile that he knew she would not give out to anyone else. Blue books were opened, graphite pressed firmly, and the sound of scribbling filled the rooms they sat in for hours at a time. By the time he was finished, she had long since double checked her tests for mistakes, handed them in, and hit the library for another pre-test cram session. He settled for lunch breaks at her side in the court yard, books open and only their knees touching as they sat in study on a bench together.

The time to sit back had passed. Finals were over, summer was dawning, and the desire for more filled him. Tonight was the night of her mother's engagement party. She'd asked him before the drama that had occurred at his grandfather's house to be her escort for the evening. She'd diplomatically hinted that his best behavior be called for, in exchange for keeping him safe from the roaming hands of certain older, and at the party drunken, women that were always on the look out for fresh meat to pinch. Tit for tat.

The entire town square was pink. The main roads had been blocked off, in order for present tables and food spreads to be set up. He followed the Stars Hollow Department of Transportation and Surveillance signs, easing his car around the turns toward their house. He parked the car to find her sitting on the porch with a book, lost in the pages.

"You are not reading."

She looked up after a moment at the sound of his voice chiding her and his feet shuffling the gravel of her driveway.

"Actually, I'm not."

He frowned and pointed to the open book in her lap. "I know it's been a long week, but that thing you hold in your hands is called a book. They print words on the pages, and you intake those words by this process called reading."

"With me, it's more like osmosis," she grinned. "But I'm not really reading. I'm sitting out here with a book, pretending to be reading so I don't have to play which pair of shoes goes with the cake and the decorations the most game."

"Sounds like a stimulating game," he slid onto the swing next to her, his bare forearm brushing hers. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, one she would be sorry of in a few hours as only the stars shone overhead. It would be his arms she relied on for warmth in lieu of the sun.

"Says the guy that hasn't been forced to stare at 100 shades of pink since arriving home from a week of mind-numbing exams."

"I could go in there and tell her they all look like Pepto-Bismol to me," he grinned evilly.

A wave of amusement passed over her face before she tried to look stern. "I seem to remember you saying you were going to behave tonight."

"Maybe you'll just have to distract me from my errant ways," he slid the back of his fingers up along her leg, starting at the knee and pushing the wispy fabric up her smooth thigh.

He heard her breath catch in her throat, allowing his hand to travel up farther than he'd imagined before her hand eased onto his, halting his movements.

"Hey," he leaned in.

"Hey," she fluttered her eyes, a sign she was ready for a kiss.

"So, are you dressing up like an extra from Strawberry Shortcake to match the town's décor, too?"

"You have some kind of fetish for seeing me dressed up?" she asked rather boldly, her lips still hovering near his—not taking any action other than teasing him rather effectively. His mind shot to a preference for her to keep her Chilton skirt on during a quick interlude.

"Trust me, if I was dictating which outfit you dressed up in, you wouldn't resemble a cartoon character, nor would you be fit to attend a party for your mother."

She blushed slightly and relaxed back into the cushion. He moved abruptly, giving her a hard, quick kiss, stolen from Sunday night's marathon of passion instead of what passed for an initial greeting. When he drew back as suddenly as he dove in, he noticed the instant dilation of her pupils.

"So, Max is really leaving tomorrow?" he asked, trying to leave his gleeful tone out of the inquiry.

She raised an eyebrow. The topic of the co-honoree of that night's party had been strained since the incident after class where Tristan hadn't bothered to go out of his way to alleviate the older man's fears, and as far as he knew Rory was doing her best to avoid any awkward confrontations on the topic. If she wasn't comfortable exchanging words of affection, no way was she ready to stand up for her sexual rights with Max—who loomed between a literary mentor and a soon-to-be parental figure for her.

"Mom has been speaking to him in a Canadian accent all week and trying to get him to say 'out and about' properly," she smirked.

He had to smile. "She really doesn't mind her fiancé is fleeing the country before their wedding?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's not like he won't come back—Max is not the flight risk in this relationship," she assured him, sounding rather cryptic.

He eyed her for a moment but said nothing. Her hand sought his out, her fingers sliding between his digits. Her nails grazed his knuckles and he closed his hand around hers. She wasn't running.

"I saw the gazebo had been turned into a present collection site. Not to mention the additional overflow tables they've used to block off the streets. Should I have brought a present to this thing?"

"You already did," she looked up sheepishly.

"My sheer presence is enough?" he led.

"Hello Kitty Waffle Iron, in pink," she recited.

"What will your mother do with a waffle iron?"

"Take it to Luke's and make him fix her pink waffles," she said without batting an eye.

"You're not kidding," he sat up straighter.

"It's not like she'd make you eat them," she teased. "In fact, she's never been big on sharing," she frowned.

"I mean you actually bought a gift for me to give her?"

"I just signed your name to my card," she shrugged.

"How much was it?" he inquired, reaching back into his wallet, but she shook her head. "Rory, come on," he sighed.

"Tristan, your money is no good here. You should only give gifts if you know what to get the person, and I figured it was just easier this way. It's from me, but you're a part of the package now, so I just tacked your name on. If you aren't comfortable with that, I can take your name off the card," she offered.

"No, adding me is fine," he shook his head. "Just tell me how much it cost."

"Why?" she blinked.

"Thirty? Forty?" he guessed, not knowing or wanting to comprehend the value placed on something as ridiculous as a Hello Kitty Waffle Iron.

"Forget it. We should probably get going. Unless you want to walk over with Mom and Max?" she moved to stand up, but he gently jerked on her hand and caused her to step between his knees.

"How much?"

"If you really want to pay me back, we can work out some other system, much more valuable than cash," she leaned forward, her long hair cascading down around his shoulders and giving them a shield of privacy. He moved his hands up to her neck and threaded his fingers in at the base of her hairline.

"Such as?"

"Books. And keep 'em coming," she smiled wryly.

"I can teach you things you'll never find in books," he leaned up, ready to kiss her again.

"Not on my front porch you won't," came a voice he hadn't anticipated.

"Evening, Lorelai," he leaned as far back from Rory as he could, as she herself straightened up and arched her back over the porch railing.

"You know, there is only so much one can do, to prevent a homicide. When it's your time to go, it's your time to go," she glared at him more than she needed to.

"Mom," Rory piped up.

"I just meant there are some things you have to learn by doing, not by reading."

"Well, Rory's always been exceptionally gifted. She learned to fish from a book," she smiled proudly.

"Yes, but you did not," Rory pointed out.

"Did you mean fishing?" Lorelai posed back to him.

"Most gerunds," he shrugged.

Another narrowing of the eyes, and then she leaned against the closed door. "Max will be here soon. You guys can walk over with us."

"I thought we'd hit Luke's first, get some coffee to prepare us for the long evening of celebrating your joy," Rory didn't even blink as she begged off.

"Ooh, coffee," she checked her watch. "Max can walk over by himself, right? I mean, how dumb do you have to be to get lost in Stars Hollow? And he's all kinds of educated," she made the innuendo, which made her daughter's face twist in horror.

"Ew," came the protest, and the cry echoed in his own mind.

"Payback is a bitch," Lorelai grinned. "Remember that," she said pointedly as she gave him another glare.

"We'll grab you a cup," he promised. "I take it you'll be residing on that throne they were installing when I passed by?"

Another smirk. "I might be somewhere in that vicinity. Could you maybe mention to Luke that I'd like him to drop by?" she asked Rory in a softer tone.

Rory nodded. "Why wouldn't Luke come? Did you make another inappropriate Paul Bunyan reference?"

He wondered how a Paul Bunyan reference could be considered appropriate, but said nothing as the older woman's eyes got cloudy.

"I don't think he likes Max," she sighed.

Rory's grip on his hand tightened, he was sure in effort to remind him to behave, but he required no such prompting to bite his tongue.

"He'll come around. After all, Max is great to you and loves you, so Luke will see that and be happy for you and start liking him. Or, at the very least, stop giving him that glare and switching out the menus on him an hour and a half before he stops serving breakfast."

Did she honestly believe her own words? If so, he stood a chance at this game, despite the grand level of naivety that made him blanch. It'd been clear that the diner owner carried and Olympic-sized torch for the bride-to-be and was set to hate any and every one of the men who threatened to alter their passive-aggressive mating ritual.

He cleared his throat. "We should go now, or risk being fashionably later than the bride and groom to the party," he piped in.

"Be gone. I have finishing touches to add."

Rory halted. "I hope that doesn't mean anything feathery or coated in glitter."

He smirked as Lorelai flashed a coy grin and shooed them away. He jutted his hand down and out to guide her, earning a yelp of protest from behind them, and he eased his hand up from her ass to a respectable position on the small of her back. Rory moved her hand behind her back and slid it into his again, to save him from further actions that might lead to his homicide. He pulled her in tighter against his side and ducked his head in a nod toward her mother, who was still on the porch watching them walk away.

"Maybe I should get her my own present," he kissed her temple.

"There is a matching grilled cheese maker," she tried to smother a giggle.

"Noted," he ignored her amusement, just enjoying the moments of solitude that she'd so skillfully avoided the entire week prior.

XXXX

In his world there were two types of parties—both of which revolved around the staggering consumption of alcohol. And while it was clear a few had imbibed in what smelled to be punch-flavored vodka, the majority of the people had come to celebrate the impending union and nothing more.

In truth, he couldn't tell anyone the 'occasion'—if there had been one—for most of the parties he had attended. Not that each and every one that his parents had forced him to make an appearance at in efforts to present the happy family image everyone would be all-too-thrilled to gossip about falling to pieces didn't have a cause lurking as an alibi.

Inevitably, money would be waved, someone's girlfriend would run into their wife, tears would be shed and skeletons unearthed before taxis were called to cart all the drunken participants and spectators home again.

That was, he believed, the beauty of his generation. The object of their evening, in most cases, was to feel good; or at least different—be it pleasure or just another kind of pain. And the concept of hooking up made it that much easier and acceptable to crash wherever one landed come the end, no matter what time of the day or night that was.

Sitting on this bench with her head rested against his shoulder in the center of this pink-iced town, it seemed to that those nights of debauchery had been from a lifetime he'd lived before.

"Are you really bored?"

Her voice broke through his thoughts. He pulled back a little to show his face, and his honesty, to her.

"I'm good. Watching the insanity is a nice change of pace."

She nodded. "It's quite a pastime around here. It's never boring—there's usually a surprise in the mix with the old standbys, too."

"Such as?"

"Last year at the Founder's Day Festival, Gypsy got mad at Bootsy, because he insinuated she'd ripped him off when she replaced his transmission, and ran home to retrieve the misdelievered collection of love letters his girlfriend had written to him from prison and read them over Kirk's bullhorn."

"Wow, now that is entertainment."

"That is small town life," she agreed, her smile still audible in her voice. "Are you sure you're not bored?"

"Do I look bored? I just saw someone chase someone else down the street armed with a giant cookie."

She made a face. "This just isn't your kind of thing. I know you're just here for me."

He considered her words. "So?"

She sighed and rested her head lazily on his shoulder. "So, we could do something else. We've made our appearance, and it's gonna take Lorelai a week to open all those presents."

He knew she meant they could take off—see a movie, enjoy the perks of an emptied house, take a drive in the middle of nowhere to ensure even more privacy—but he had doubts as to her actual desire to leave. "You wanna dance?"

She leaned up now to look at him in surprise. "What?"

He shrugged. "The music's good. Why not?"

"Lane's doing the music," she batted it off, clearly not expecting anything other than the perfect blend of songs. "But I don't really dance."

"That's okay. The guy leads anyhow."

Her eyes lit up as something dawned on her. "You know how to dance?"

"I am a man of many talents," he smirked.

"And here I thought you were just a pretty face," she shook her head in mock surprise.

"With a body to match," he winked and stood up, offering his hand in the process. "Come on."

She shook her head, seeming to look around as she did so. "How about we get something to eat?"

"Are you afraid?" he chided.

"Afraid of what?" she narrowed her eyes.

"Dancing?"

"I'm not afraid of dancing," she rolled her eyes to prove her words.

"Me?"

She looked at him sharply. "I'm not, nor have I ever been, afraid of you."

"Prove it," he said, still waiting with his hand outstretched to her. He wondered if she knew all the things that lay just under the surface of his challenge. She took his hand at any rate, and he wrapped his fingers around her palm firmly, leading her out to the area where many others that were caught up in the romantic atmosphere of the engagement party were twirling and swaying to the music.

He took her hands and placed them on his body in the proper places—starting out a little closer to each other than he'd been trained. Her hand didn't lie lightly on his shoulder, rather her fingertips dug around the bones. He kept his hand open and smooth against her back and brought their joined hands in over his heart.

"Ready?" he breathed into her ear.

She nodded, looking up into his eyes. Her movements were stilted at first, stiff and reactive. He pulled her in closer and dipped his head down just far enough to lean against her temple and he felt her relax, if only the slightest bit.

"This isn't so bad, is it?" he asked as his body automatically moved in succession to the beats that filled the air around them. She would stumble her way into the steps with him or after him, but he compensated and corrected to make their motions appear fluid.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted into his ear.

"You can't be in control all the time."

She moved in closer to him.

"Does that scare you?"

"A little."

"If you feel like you're losing your step, just lean in closer to me," he advised, and nearly a beat later she took his advice. "See? I've got you."

Her head was now on his shoulder, and he used the crown of her head to rest his head as well. As they moved in their own orbit, he noticed an empty throne and his English Lit teacher holding a very pink, very furry pillow as if trying to figure out what role it would play in his life. All he could think was that the man must be in love, and secure in his manhood, to have put himself in such a position.

"Sorry," she mumbled, the sound muffled more by the way her mouth was pressed into his shirt.

"What for?"

"Your toes must be numb to the pain by now," she blushed a little. "I suck at this."

"You just need more practice with a good teacher. Luckily, you have one."

She arched an eyebrow. "I'm trying to picture you as a teacher. I'm not seeing me learning so much."

"Your body just has to learn to respond to mine. There are many ways to do that."

"I thought your summer was being spent interning," she reminded him.

"I don't plan on being the first one there and the last to leave. My presence is mandatory and my attendance and interest will reflect that."

"Every opportunity should be taken as a way to get your foot in the door."

"The only door I want my foot in is yours," he assured her.

"Even if it's not what you want to do," she tried.

"Rory, I've heard the pitch from Gramps, and the 'no say in this' speech from Dad," he cut her off.

"I just meant," she began.

"I know what you meant."

"I don't want you to be miserable all summer."

"You're gonna let me keep you company in my spare time?"

She didn't hesitate. "As much as you want."

"I plan on having a lot of spare time," he warned.

"Then I hope you enjoy taking over the grunt work that my mother has become so dependent on Max to do."

"Grunt work?"

"Changing water bottles, making snacks that require something more sophisticated than the microwave—once you have crunchy tater tots, you can't go back to mushy."

"There are people you can hire, you realize that, right?"

She just shook her head. "Not in Lorelai's world. And for some reason, she gets a kick out of seeing men do these things for her."

"She probably just likes to check out their asses while they're bent over at work. Are you comfortable with me becoming a sexual fantasy for your mother?" he tested her.

"Keep this up, and you will no longer be one of mine," she narrowed her eyes.

His lips curled up in pleasure. "You fantasize about me?"

"I never said that," she shifted in his grasp, he hoped to alleviate the desire for friction.

"What are you saying?"

"Just that, I don't like the idea of anyone checking you out while you're bent over, but the idea of my mother doing it is especially Oedipal, and I don't want to have to gouge my own eyes out," she babbled.

"And?" he led.

"And it isn't a total mistruth to say that, occasionally, every once in a while, I might think of you when you're not around," she swallowed and then dared to meet his eyes.

"What do you think, when I'm not around?"

"That it… might be nice… if you were around," she managed.

"Rory," he could feel her on this cusp, on the edge of nearly letting it all go and saying things she wasn't ready to say no matter how much she felt them, and pressed his lips into hers. As he pulled back, the noise of the crazy guy yelling about cookie lines in the bullhorn and Elvis Costello cranking up on the speakers mixed in with the giggling of little girls that were running around the gazebo in little flower girl dresses—their reality coming to claim them. She rested her head back on his shoulder as they fell into the beat of the next song.

"This isn't so hard," she said after a minute.

"You want to take a food break?"

"Maybe after the next song," she smiled more confidently at him. "It's actually kind of nice."

He spun her around and in, hoping she wasn't taking notice of the fact that her mother was still not next to her fiancé, but rather leaning over the counter in the diner, empty save for her and the man that was trying to save himself some heartache. She didn't need any more of an excuse to point to what she was feeling and match it up to the lows you can only hit after flying so high.

He just hoped he was the one that could make her feel safe.