She's So Halogen
Chapter Three
Author-- Tinuviel Henneth
Summary-- Future-fic: One beautiful, reluctant, Pulitzer Prize-winning muse + a depressed and creatively stuck songwriter + a bevy of selfish exes, substantial egos, and senseless evasion = A good, old-fashioned romance. Unconventional 'ship alert!
Disclaimer-- I don't own any of the people you recognize. José and Katie belong to themselves, although they have been borrowed for this fic against their will. They're real people! Everybody else is fictional and was either invented by Amy Sherman-Palladino (who owns all of GG) or myself (who owns nothing). Dawson and Jack belong to Kevin Williamson, although they're just as fictional in this world as they are in the real one. Vladmir and Sparky the Toast belong to me.
Author's Note-- This chapter was fun. Parts of it are too wordy, though, and parts of it aren't wordy enough. Sacre bleu. See end note.
*S6
Rory stood on one foot, leaning over her bathroom counter with her nose six inches from the mirror. She was carefully applying mascara. She was already dressed, wearing a stunning deep plum, off-the-shoulder number with a straight hem ending just above her knees. She was wearing a necklace made of a chunk of amber set in with gold sunrays coming off of it.
She stuck the wand back in the tube and twisted the cap shut, tossing it into the makeup bag open beside the sink. She grabbed a brush and dragged it through her hair once or twice to ensure its smoothness, then left the bathroom. She flipped the light out as an afterthought.
She sat down on the couch for a moment so she could prop her feet up on the coffee table to inspect the toenail polish. It passed muster. It was a purple shade to match her dress. She was relieved, because she hadn't been paying attention and had painted them before getting in the shower instead of after.
The intercom on the wall near her door buzzed to life. "Rory?" Dave's electronically altered voice echoed through the apartment. She jumped up and slid (wearing hose on wood floor) over to the door.
She punched the Talk button. "Okay. Do you want to come up for a few minutes, or should I just come down?"
"I've got a cab waiting. Will you be down in the next two minutes?"
She thought for a moment. "I just have to grab my shoes, wrap, and purse. I'll be right down."
"Okay. Hurry, though. He's Bengali and he's kind of weird."
She grinned as she slid back up the hall to the chair (matched to her couch) where her wrap and purse were sitting. The low-heeled gold silk mules she planned on wearing were parked nearby. She patted Vladmir, who was laying on the back of the chair rather precariously, on the head and said, "Don't wait up."
On the elevator on the way down, she adjusted the wrap around herself, fidgeted with her hair, and curled her toes under. She briefly wondered if she shouldn't have worn her hair up, if she shouldn't have worn more comfortable shoes. When the doors parted, she took a deep breath and stepped out into the lobby. Dave was standing with his back to the elevator, talking to Rita at the concierge's desk. Rita spotted Rory and cleared her throat. He turned around and looked quite surprised when he saw her.
"Oh my God," he said pleasantly. "You look marvelous."
She blushed, pulling the wrap tighter around herself. "Not so bad yourself, Mr. Tie-wearer." He was dressed in a shiny, bluish-black wool Armani suit, dark gray shirt, and plum silk tie. His shoes were black and very glossy.
"When you said the dress was dark purple, I asked so I could coordinate my tie with it," he explained.
"It's a pretty good match," she said.
"This building is wonderful. The doorman was so friendly, and you have a concierge desk. I've never been in an apartment building with a concierge desk." She smiled and let him rave about her digs while they walked out to the taxi he had waiting at the curb.
"So, where are we headed?" she asked once they were inside.
"Have you ever been to The Shrapnel Fairy?" he asked.
She stared at him for a moment. "Everything I hear that name I wonder what sort of person names their five-star restaurant that. I've never actually been there, though. Have you?"
"Just once, last time we were in the City for an extended period of time. I had this scrod thing with onions and spinach. It was absolutely superb."
She watched the city lights gradually flicker to life as they passed. There were people in an ocean on the sidewalks. They didn't talk much for the car ride.
When they got there, Dave paid the fare, with an extra-large large tip for the weird Bengali driver, and then helped her out. She felt very strange indeed stepping out onto the curb like some sort of movie star. Because he was Dave Rygalski, rock-god guitarist, and this was a fairly exclusive place owned by a celebrity, there were photographers. Paparazzi, if you will, eager to a fault for some juicy tidbit. She and Dave posed for two pictures, she smiled with her teeth showing in both of them. It was starting to get very cold outside, so after that they just hurried for the door.
The doorman nodded and let them inside, closing the door firmly behind them once they were in. A tall maitre d' with salt and pepper hair stood at a pedestal. The pince-nez perched on his nose bespoke a certain quality he possessed. He motioned Dave to approach the pedestal.
"Hello," Dave said in his most winning voice, "Reservations for two under the name Rygalski. Dave Rygalski, actually."
The maitre d' scanned the list of names in front of him, found their name, and highlighted it with an orange marker. "All right," he said in a nasally New England accent. "For nonsmoking, yes?"
"Definitely," Dave said. He frequently found himself playing the role of lone nonsmoker in the music business. Lane, also a nonsmoker, and he had always felt like the odd ones out at galas and award shows because of this.
"Right this way," the maitre d' said, taking two menus out of a box attached to the wall behind him and began to walk to the left, into the dining room. The Muzak was playing an old Janis Joplin song. He pulled out Rory's chair for her, set the two menus down, and wished them a good meal.
They perused their menus for a few moments when their server came over. She was very small, scarcely bigger than the average twelve-year-old, with short blonde hair and a bright smile. She was about their age. "Hello," she said in a voice that seemed too deep for her, "my name is Amanda. Welcome to the Shrapnel Fairy. Tonight's special is roasted green peppers stuffed with Italian vegetables, Gorgonzola, and prime rib. It comes with a side of bowtie pasta in a light tomato cream sauce. Tonight's soup is a lobster bisque with cilantro." She paused and smiled. "What can I get you to drink?"
Dave looked at Rory. "Do you want wine?"
"I don't drink wine," she replied. "A coffee for me," she said to Amanda.
"Cream?"
"No thank you." Rory abhorred cream in her coffee.
"Sir?" Amanda asked, turning to Dave.
"I'll have a glass of white Zin, please, and a glass of water with lime." He smiled. Amanda left the table to get their drinks. "What sounds good to you?" he asked Rory.
She shook her head. "I don't know. It all sounds good."
"I'm leaning towards escargot and then tarragon salmon," he said. He didn't sound terribly sure. He looked up. "What do you think?"
"You, uh, really like them seafoodies, huh?" she said nervously. "I think paella. My mom and I ate a lot of paella when we were in Spain. It's the only thing we could pronounce."
"There's a story there, isn't there?" he asked. He closed his menu.
She closed hers as well. "Oh yes."
Amanda came back around with their drinks and took their orders. Rory also ordered a salad with a pesto cream dressing.
"Okay, when did you start eating vegetables that weren't previously dunked in boiling fat and then dipped into onion dip?" He took a sip of his wine. She watched the pink liquid swirl around in the glass. He looked down, too. "What?"
"When did you become all worldly-sophisticate, Mr. White Zinfandel?" she replied, smiling. She took a hearty sip of her coffee. She coughed. "Oh, my God. That is the worst coffee I've ever had."
"How unfortunate," he said. "So, how is your mom?"
Rory shrugged. "She's my mom. She and the twins are doing pretty well-- speaking of the twins, their tenth birthday is next Wednesday. I have to drive up for the day. She's coping, but I know she still hurts. I heard her crying in the bathroom last time I was there." Rory looked down at her fingernails. The shift in mood was nearly tangible. "It's so hard to imagine that he's just. . .gone. You know?"
Dave sighed. "No, actually. I've never lost a parent."
She shook her head. "My real dad lives in Boston," she said. "With his other family. That's not a big deal; I only consider him as my father in technicality. Luke's the real father figure in my life. Twenty-five years of him always being there and suddenly it was, like, 'Holy shit. He's in a box in a hole in the ground. My mother hasn't stopped crying in a week. My little brother and sister are only five years old. This isn't fair.' But it's been five years now, and it's gotten easier." She smiled sadly and looked up, locking gazes. "His sister, Liz, died last year. Apparently they were genetically predisposed to it. Liz's son Jess-- you remember him-- actually came in person to tell Mom about Liz."
"The rebel himself?" Dave asked, trying to remember if he ever actually met and spoke with Jess. It was kind of strange to look back on high school, on Stars Hollow. It was very strange, in fact. He had honestly tried to forget. The memories always stung. He still missed his times with Lane, how they were before the fame worm got under their skins and rotted their flesh and personalities from the inside out.
"The rebel himself. He went and grew up, though. Very uncharacteristic. Married some pretty girl in California. They've got a kid, I think. He writes, too, sometimes."
"Am I the only one here aware of the fact that this conversation has gotten completely depressing?" he said suddenly. He bugged his eyes out and cocked his head to one side.
Rory started to laugh. "Thank you," she said. "I really need something not revolting to drink. This coffee truly is terrible."
Dave reached across the table and gingerly picked up the delicate mug. He took a small sip, swirled it around inside his mouth, then swallowed. She looked at him expectantly when he didn't immediately react. "You're right," he said, finally pulling a disgusted face. "That was awful. Completely, truly the most awful cup of coffee I've ever had. I've had a lot of bad coffee in my life, too."
"Hotel coffee on a hangover?" she supplied, grinning. She was quite charmed by the fact he took it upon himself to take a sip of her coffee to confirm that she wasn't nuts or pathetically finicky.
"Oh, you have no idea. The Waldorf-Astoria has bad coffee, too. At least I think so. What is it with expensive places and bad coffee?" Amanda returned with his appetizer and her salad. "Any insights, Amanda?" he asked.
"On what, sir?" she asked, setting his steaming snails in front of him. Rory stared at them for a moment, looking completely revolted.
"Why places that charge five dollars a cup notoriously have wretched coffee," he replied. He gestured towards Rory's coffee, which was sitting in front of him at the moment. "Take your coffee. We've both tasted it. It's bad. Sludgy yet fresh-brewed. Quite the anomaly, really."
Too grossed-out to look at the escargot any longer, Rory looked up at the server to gauge her reaction to Dave's statement. She noticed that Amanda was staring at him strangely. "Dave, tone down the Dawson's Creek rambling. You're getting away from Dawson and moving full steam ahead into Jack territory."
He glared at her (albeit good-naturedly). "Well, you didn't speak up about it," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "I'd like a Long Island Iced Tea instead, please," she said to Amanda. "I'm thinking a lot more liquor than Coke."
Amanda smiled bewilderedly and took away the offensive cup. "I'll be right back," she said.
Dave sat back and stared at his appetizer. "Wow, our first fight on our first date, over bad coffee. Amazing."
"We've even managed to terrify our waitress barely into the first course," she agreed, staring at her gourmet-looking salad.
He looked at her face, briefly, then at her salad. "That's far too pretty to eat," he said, gesturing towards it. She picked up her salad fork and let it hover over the top of the mound of lettuces.
"You're right," she said. Then she stabbed down and shoveled the bite into her mouth. "But I'm going to, anyway. Think of it as deforestation."
"That's sick, Rory. Very, very sick."
Amanda brought Rory's drink a moment later. "Your food will be up in a few minutes," she told them. She seemed wary of them.
"If my mom was here, she'd suggest we do something that could very well be considered mean by a stranger to that poor girl," Rory said. "It's funny to try and think up what she might say."
Dave rolled his eyes. "Eat your salad," he said.
"Eat your snails," she retorted. "I promise not to say anything if you shoot one across the dining room."
He grinned. "Want one?" he asked through a mouthful.
She made a face. "I'll stick to my veggies if you don't mind."
"I never thought I'd hear you say something like that," he said.
"I'm not going to disagree with you there," she replied.
----chapter finis
Amanda is a real person, too. She worked at the same restaurant I do, but was fired. It's nice to think that she'll be thirty-years-old in NYC with a dead-end serving job. The Shrapnel Fairy is what I would name my restaurant if I owned one. I would love to, actually. I love the industry.
This will be the last chapter posted until probably July 19. I will be going out of town to a Performance Theater program at Wright State University for two weeks, starting Sunday July 6. I may or may not post on Saturday, July 5.
Thank you to Evie for being my beta, even though she didn't get a chance to read this chapter because I couldn't get my shit together in time. I wanted to get this posted before I got to busy with packing and stuff. And, in addition, thanks to Celewyn for being my mechanic. Thank you to everyone who offered their services. I've made a little list of names if I need someone to read something else over. You all rock.
Chapter dedicated to all the hierarchy of Harry Potter fics that were completely proven wrong and even silly by OotP. Those of us who write detached future fics are rejoicing. Also dedicated to anyone who has ever written a Hermione/Oliver fic.
--T. Henneth / story completed 12 June 2003 / chapter posted 2 July 2003
