Author's note: Heh. Remember me? *blows dust and cobwebs off her story* Er- thank you all (rather belatedly) for your comments. I'll finish this story soon. Promise.
Part Four: Coffee Kills
Twenty minutes later and she still wasn't looking so good, Tristan thought worriedly as he looked over at the dark haired girl slumped in his passenger seat. She looked... well, ghastly. Her eyes were shut, her face was chalky, and her hands were shaking. Hell. He didn't know anything about migraines, but she looked utterly pathetic. His firm resolve to keep his mouth sealed shut around her was slipping further away with each glance in her direction. "Uh- Rory?"
Her eyes, when she opened them, were glassy. "Hmm?"
"Your migraine. Do you need something special for that? `Cause I have some aspirin in the car."
A thin twist of embarrassed red appeared in her pale cheeks. "Uh, no, thank you.... See- it's not exactly a traditional migraine. Precisely."
Huh? "So why do you look like the undead? And you said you had medicine for it at home."
The twisty blush spread to the tips of her ears, but any color in her face was good color, as far as Tristan was concerned. Her hands still shook, though. "Er- well, I do. Sort of. At Luke's, anyway. You see, I'm... I'm... I'mincaffeinewithdrawl."
"You. Are. What?" He would not kill her for scaring him needlessly, Tristan told himself. Probably. "You look like- well, like you're looking right now, all because you're short on coffee?"
Rory breathed out with a little huff and closed her eyes again, reaching up with trembling hand to massage her temples. "Can we not do the mocking thing right now? My head feels like there's a brass band having an orgy in my frontal lobe. I really do appreciate the ride home, but if you're gonna make fun of me-"
With difficulty, Tristan loosened his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. "I just didn't realize that going eight hours without coffee was enough to make you physically ill," he hissed.
"That's because your mother probably didn't introduce you to coffee at roughly the same time you met mother's milk. Look, I have a slight problem with caffeine, okay? And it wasn't eight hours, it was over twenty. I haven't had any coffee since last night, and I didn't sleep very well, thanks to you being a jerk, and caffeine addiction is a real problem, you can look it up, and I just really, really, really-" her voice broke, and Tristan realized that she wasn't kidding- "need some coffee. Now. Or I think I'm gonna throw up."
"Okay." Tristan wisely shut up, focusing on driving as fast as possible rather than on the fact that she'd just scared ten years of his life. A few minutes and a handful of murmured directions later, Tristan's sleek little car nipped into a parking space in front of Luke's Hardware, a strange looking storefront that Rory seemed to feel would help her stop looking like a zombie with tuberculosis. "Just- stay there," he ordered, slapping her hands away from her seat belt. "I'll go in. You stay put."
The dark-haired, surly man behind the counter handed over two to-go cups of coffee without comment and Tristan hurried back out to Rory. Sliding back into the car, he put his cup into the holder and carefully extended the other toward her. She pulled herself up a little higher in the chair, shaking hands lifting to take the coffee from him. Tristan eyed her for a moment. He was gonna regret this, he just knew it, but it had to be done. "Put your hands down, Rory. I'll help you."
Too ill to argue, Rory simply closed her eyes and took a sip of the cup that he held to her lips. Tristan looked at her- her dark hair and delicate features, the trusting look on her face as she leaned toward him.... It was torture.
****
Ten minutes later, he dropped off a blushing, quiet (but infinitely healthier-looking) Rory on her doorstep, dismissing her muttered thank-you-for-your-help with a wave of his hand. As soon as he was sure that she had gotten safely inside and that her mother was on her way home, he practically ran for his car. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere else, and he needed to be there now.
But no amount of running would help, Tristan thought grimly as he careened out of Rory's picture-perfect little town, running the single stoplight. He knew he was screwed. Again. Forty minutes alone with Rory Gilmore- even a sick, pathetic Rory Gilmore- and his crush-from-hell had returned full force.
Damn it.
TBC
Part Four: Coffee Kills
Twenty minutes later and she still wasn't looking so good, Tristan thought worriedly as he looked over at the dark haired girl slumped in his passenger seat. She looked... well, ghastly. Her eyes were shut, her face was chalky, and her hands were shaking. Hell. He didn't know anything about migraines, but she looked utterly pathetic. His firm resolve to keep his mouth sealed shut around her was slipping further away with each glance in her direction. "Uh- Rory?"
Her eyes, when she opened them, were glassy. "Hmm?"
"Your migraine. Do you need something special for that? `Cause I have some aspirin in the car."
A thin twist of embarrassed red appeared in her pale cheeks. "Uh, no, thank you.... See- it's not exactly a traditional migraine. Precisely."
Huh? "So why do you look like the undead? And you said you had medicine for it at home."
The twisty blush spread to the tips of her ears, but any color in her face was good color, as far as Tristan was concerned. Her hands still shook, though. "Er- well, I do. Sort of. At Luke's, anyway. You see, I'm... I'm... I'mincaffeinewithdrawl."
"You. Are. What?" He would not kill her for scaring him needlessly, Tristan told himself. Probably. "You look like- well, like you're looking right now, all because you're short on coffee?"
Rory breathed out with a little huff and closed her eyes again, reaching up with trembling hand to massage her temples. "Can we not do the mocking thing right now? My head feels like there's a brass band having an orgy in my frontal lobe. I really do appreciate the ride home, but if you're gonna make fun of me-"
With difficulty, Tristan loosened his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. "I just didn't realize that going eight hours without coffee was enough to make you physically ill," he hissed.
"That's because your mother probably didn't introduce you to coffee at roughly the same time you met mother's milk. Look, I have a slight problem with caffeine, okay? And it wasn't eight hours, it was over twenty. I haven't had any coffee since last night, and I didn't sleep very well, thanks to you being a jerk, and caffeine addiction is a real problem, you can look it up, and I just really, really, really-" her voice broke, and Tristan realized that she wasn't kidding- "need some coffee. Now. Or I think I'm gonna throw up."
"Okay." Tristan wisely shut up, focusing on driving as fast as possible rather than on the fact that she'd just scared ten years of his life. A few minutes and a handful of murmured directions later, Tristan's sleek little car nipped into a parking space in front of Luke's Hardware, a strange looking storefront that Rory seemed to feel would help her stop looking like a zombie with tuberculosis. "Just- stay there," he ordered, slapping her hands away from her seat belt. "I'll go in. You stay put."
The dark-haired, surly man behind the counter handed over two to-go cups of coffee without comment and Tristan hurried back out to Rory. Sliding back into the car, he put his cup into the holder and carefully extended the other toward her. She pulled herself up a little higher in the chair, shaking hands lifting to take the coffee from him. Tristan eyed her for a moment. He was gonna regret this, he just knew it, but it had to be done. "Put your hands down, Rory. I'll help you."
Too ill to argue, Rory simply closed her eyes and took a sip of the cup that he held to her lips. Tristan looked at her- her dark hair and delicate features, the trusting look on her face as she leaned toward him.... It was torture.
****
Ten minutes later, he dropped off a blushing, quiet (but infinitely healthier-looking) Rory on her doorstep, dismissing her muttered thank-you-for-your-help with a wave of his hand. As soon as he was sure that she had gotten safely inside and that her mother was on her way home, he practically ran for his car. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere else, and he needed to be there now.
But no amount of running would help, Tristan thought grimly as he careened out of Rory's picture-perfect little town, running the single stoplight. He knew he was screwed. Again. Forty minutes alone with Rory Gilmore- even a sick, pathetic Rory Gilmore- and his crush-from-hell had returned full force.
Damn it.
TBC