Author's Note: Hiya, everybody! Thank you all for the lovely reviews.
We're almost ready to kick the "romance" part of this story into, well,
extremely slow gear. Wish me luck.
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Part Eight:
Tristan tried for a charming grin, and managed (to his credit) a kind of sickly, lopsided chin-wobble. "Hello, Ms. Gilmore."
"Please," Lorelai waved her hand. "Ms. Gilmore is my mother. My name is Lorelai."
"Well, um, okay. Hello, Lor-"
"But *you* may call me, 'My Lady'."
Tristan knew fear. Lorelai seemed to scent this, and her shark-smile returned, bigger and scarier than ever.
It was time to intervene. Rory gave her mother a stern look. "Mother. Play nice."
Lorelai's smile dimmed. "Awww… Rorrrr-y."
"Go to the kitchen." Rory pointed. "And don't come back until you're ready to be civil."
Lorelai looked sulky. "You never let me make them cry." Muttering to herself, she stomped off to the kitchen.
Tristan let out the breath he'd been holding. "So… that was your mom."
"In the flesh."
"She's…" Tristan groped for a suitable adjective, and immediately discarded "hot" and "terrifying". "She's um, different."
"Aw, did she scare you?" Rory gave him a mock-sympathetic smile.
"No way," Tristan tried to look manly and nonchalant. In the kitchen, Lorelai slammed a cupboard and he flinched. Violently.
Rory snickered. "Sure. Well, c'mon, Big Man. I'll protect you from my mother. After all, she's probably not much more than two inches shorter than you and, oh, forty pounds lighter."
Tristan scrambled for a snarky response, and eventually was forced to fall back on honesty. "Thank you," he said, sincerely. He wondered whether or not she'd let him hold her hand. It wouldn't be pure lust- it would help shield him from her mother, too. But it would probably piss her off, so he was gonna have to just make it past her mother without-
To Tristan's not-inconsiderable surprise and delight, Rory abruptly ended this internal debate by snagging his sleeve and dragging him past her mother and into her bedroom.
It was immaculate, smelling faintly of lemon wood polish- and yes, thank God, her underwear drawer *was* shut. The War and Peace chart was propped up on her bookshelf. It was a work of art. Multi-colored bubbles of paper provided the vital stats for each character, and thin lines connected the bubbles to one another. Rory's tiny, careful print followed along the lines, explaining the relationship between the two connected characters.
Tristan took a half-step forward. It was amazing. He couldn't remember ever putting in that much effort into a school project, and he was an above- average student. Rory's teachers wouldn't even see this, he marveled. It was just to deepen her own understanding of the book.
Rory fidgeted, watching Tristan. Her blue eyes flickered toward the chart. It looked… obsessive. There was no denying it. She was nuts; a sad, obsessive dork with no life outside of schoolwork. Tristan was going to turn around, roll his eyes at her, and hightail it back to Chilton, where her new nickname would be "Crazy Rory, She who is Most Likely to Follow in the Unabomber's Footsteps." Stiffening with irritation, she lifted her chin. Well, that was fine. See if she cared. She had just been trying to *help* him, the big jerk-
"This is incredible." Without preamble, Tristan launched into the numerous questions that were preventing him from following the story. "So why is Prince Anatol such an ass? And what's up with Napoleon? And why does that Nikolai, er, Ana-something dude care?"
Laughing a little, Rory began to explain.
****
One hour and six pages of notes later, Tristan felt like he was ready to tackle the gazillion pages of Tolstoy he had left. "Wow," he said, frowning down at a complicated diagram he'd drawn of one group of characters. "Y'know, the book doesn't suck nearly so much when you have some clue what's going on."
"Glad to be of service," Rory said, grinning at him. Over the past hour, she had lost all traces of her usual self-consciousness.
Tristan hesitated. Should he risk it? He decided to take the plunge. Humiliation-city, here he came. "Er, can I take you out for ice-cream? To thank you? You've- you've really helped me out, and I'd like to, um-"
"Sure," Rory said, surprising them both. "Ice cream sounds great." Tristan blinked at her, utterly taken aback, and her shyness returned in a flood.
"It certainly does," came Lorelai's sweetest voice from the doorway. The two teenagers' heads swiveled toward her in unison. "Can I come too?" She smiled ever-so-prettily at Rory. "I'm ready to behave now."
TBC
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Part Eight:
Tristan tried for a charming grin, and managed (to his credit) a kind of sickly, lopsided chin-wobble. "Hello, Ms. Gilmore."
"Please," Lorelai waved her hand. "Ms. Gilmore is my mother. My name is Lorelai."
"Well, um, okay. Hello, Lor-"
"But *you* may call me, 'My Lady'."
Tristan knew fear. Lorelai seemed to scent this, and her shark-smile returned, bigger and scarier than ever.
It was time to intervene. Rory gave her mother a stern look. "Mother. Play nice."
Lorelai's smile dimmed. "Awww… Rorrrr-y."
"Go to the kitchen." Rory pointed. "And don't come back until you're ready to be civil."
Lorelai looked sulky. "You never let me make them cry." Muttering to herself, she stomped off to the kitchen.
Tristan let out the breath he'd been holding. "So… that was your mom."
"In the flesh."
"She's…" Tristan groped for a suitable adjective, and immediately discarded "hot" and "terrifying". "She's um, different."
"Aw, did she scare you?" Rory gave him a mock-sympathetic smile.
"No way," Tristan tried to look manly and nonchalant. In the kitchen, Lorelai slammed a cupboard and he flinched. Violently.
Rory snickered. "Sure. Well, c'mon, Big Man. I'll protect you from my mother. After all, she's probably not much more than two inches shorter than you and, oh, forty pounds lighter."
Tristan scrambled for a snarky response, and eventually was forced to fall back on honesty. "Thank you," he said, sincerely. He wondered whether or not she'd let him hold her hand. It wouldn't be pure lust- it would help shield him from her mother, too. But it would probably piss her off, so he was gonna have to just make it past her mother without-
To Tristan's not-inconsiderable surprise and delight, Rory abruptly ended this internal debate by snagging his sleeve and dragging him past her mother and into her bedroom.
It was immaculate, smelling faintly of lemon wood polish- and yes, thank God, her underwear drawer *was* shut. The War and Peace chart was propped up on her bookshelf. It was a work of art. Multi-colored bubbles of paper provided the vital stats for each character, and thin lines connected the bubbles to one another. Rory's tiny, careful print followed along the lines, explaining the relationship between the two connected characters.
Tristan took a half-step forward. It was amazing. He couldn't remember ever putting in that much effort into a school project, and he was an above- average student. Rory's teachers wouldn't even see this, he marveled. It was just to deepen her own understanding of the book.
Rory fidgeted, watching Tristan. Her blue eyes flickered toward the chart. It looked… obsessive. There was no denying it. She was nuts; a sad, obsessive dork with no life outside of schoolwork. Tristan was going to turn around, roll his eyes at her, and hightail it back to Chilton, where her new nickname would be "Crazy Rory, She who is Most Likely to Follow in the Unabomber's Footsteps." Stiffening with irritation, she lifted her chin. Well, that was fine. See if she cared. She had just been trying to *help* him, the big jerk-
"This is incredible." Without preamble, Tristan launched into the numerous questions that were preventing him from following the story. "So why is Prince Anatol such an ass? And what's up with Napoleon? And why does that Nikolai, er, Ana-something dude care?"
Laughing a little, Rory began to explain.
****
One hour and six pages of notes later, Tristan felt like he was ready to tackle the gazillion pages of Tolstoy he had left. "Wow," he said, frowning down at a complicated diagram he'd drawn of one group of characters. "Y'know, the book doesn't suck nearly so much when you have some clue what's going on."
"Glad to be of service," Rory said, grinning at him. Over the past hour, she had lost all traces of her usual self-consciousness.
Tristan hesitated. Should he risk it? He decided to take the plunge. Humiliation-city, here he came. "Er, can I take you out for ice-cream? To thank you? You've- you've really helped me out, and I'd like to, um-"
"Sure," Rory said, surprising them both. "Ice cream sounds great." Tristan blinked at her, utterly taken aback, and her shyness returned in a flood.
"It certainly does," came Lorelai's sweetest voice from the doorway. The two teenagers' heads swiveled toward her in unison. "Can I come too?" She smiled ever-so-prettily at Rory. "I'm ready to behave now."
TBC