Title: Thieves in the Night – Completely ripped off from the title of one of my favourite tracks, Thieves in the Night by Black Star.

Rating: R - Because it will end up there anyway and I don't want to have to censor myself. Probably about a PG-13 right now, but I don't know the American rating system, so…

Author's Note: Well this is my first ever attempt. It's rather dark, and I'm not sure if it's cliché because I usually stay away from the darker fics. I was tired of Perfect Rory who will end up with a Perfect Life and the inspiration (actually the initial image) randomly came when I was in Europe this summer. For now a one-parter, but if people want more, I'll try and oblige. Please review and feel free to flame. Thanks for checking it out! Oh, and no pairings.

Disclaimer: Dude, if you knew how much my tuition was this year you'd hardly be asking this.

I. Not Strong

It was late.

But that, of course, hardly deterred the crowds roaming Paris, sauntering down the Champs Elysées to see and be seen. Cafés were generously dotted with those who preferred the former, while twinkling lights advertised famous boutiques that stayed open to all hours. The buzz in the air was reminiscent of a clubbing district on a Friday night, not a classy avenue on a Wednesday at one in the morning. A frigid breeze cased the city, oblivious to the revelers, conscious only of heavy clouds that promised snow.

Rory Gilmore's eyes were angled towards the bright noise, even if nothing in the scene actually registered. She leaned on a balcony, one of the higher ones in the area, her hands clutching the wrought iron to either side of her narrow hips, a slim cigarette poking out between two fingers. At a glance, she was a beautiful woman: tall and impossibly slender, with a curtain of dark hair framing a finely structured face and stunning blue eyes a contrast to pale, flawless skin. A second look, however, would yield a different story to the discerning observer.

She was too thin. Her collarbones stretched her flesh into deep hollows, and her hipbones jutted against her filmy dress. When she shifted, the pale fabric folded so that you could see her ribs pressing shadows into the material. She was also too tense, her knuckles white from their grip, and her jaw contorted as she ground her teeth. Finally, and most telling, were her eyes. They were meant to be piercing, intelligent, perceptive, softened by a grin or by sorrow; overall, they were beautiful and were meant to convey emotion.

Rory Gilmore's eyes at twenty-six were blank. They hadn't the distracted look of one whose mind was elsewhere, nor even the glazed look of one who was unaware. Quite simply, there was no indication of thought or any activity at all behind the initial distraction of their colour. They held no emotion, evoking disquiet instead.

She jerked suddenly, almost imperceptibly, as her cigarette burnt down to her fingers, the embers stinging. Instead of adjusting for its shortness, she let it drop, watching impassively as the orange light grew smaller, until the wind swept it away, out of sight.

"Lor, baby, it's cold outside. Won't you come back in?" A smooth voice danced up to her though its owner remained shadowed in the balcony's doorway.

Her head turned slightly to acknowledge the request, but when she spoke, her voice was dismissive. "Not yet."

The dark form was motionless a few minutes more, then turned back and disappeared into the dim lights and smoky haze.

The cold didn't bother Rory. Like a clichéd character out of the hundreds—thousands, really—of books she'd read, she embraced the cold, and for the same reasons they did: to dull her senses, to freeze her flesh to the point where it felt as little as she did inside. The idea fascinated her, as much as ideas could these days, that there was a point beneath her skin, some depth, where physical feeling left off and only inner feeling remained. Inner feeling, like the sensations you choose to acknowledge within you because you care. She had long deadened those, and now longed to stifle the nerves that caused feeling above them. So that maybe, one day, she would feel nothing at all, and live blissfully unaware that pain — or pleasure, that deceptive foil to pain that only served to heighten it — existed.

That was the plan, for now. It was an experiment, really; at least, that's what she told herself when the old Rory started to reemerge. She thought of her almost as a separate being, Old Rory, a younger sister whose naïveté had to be curbed by New Rory's worldliness, and who needed protection from the world itself.


Eyes, everywhere eyes. She's always had a weakness for them, for the stories they tell, believing them still to be a window to one's soul. In fact, she dislikes sunglasses for that very reason, because they act as shutters, and to her those people are like a book in a glass case, minus the value factor one assumes to be associated with books in glass cases, of course, though retaining the frustration factor. What she means, of course, is that they're more or less useless to her. Her thoughts are interrupted by a particular pair of eyes. Their levity of is at odds with the sight before her, anyway, a common defense mechanism that isn't up to the current assault.

The girl is about ten. Like all the others, her clothes are well worn and her hair hasn't seen soap for weeks, nor her skin for that matter. This girl is pretty though, with a sparkle in her eyes and a sweet smile on her lips, standing out, a glowing spot in a sea of destitution. She approaches the child, intrigued and slightly relieved, preparing the Portuguese phrases she memorized on the flight down. Finally, she thinks, a young street girl who seems approachable, willing even.

Suddenly, the girl's face contorts into a grimace that, as a shoulder is bared and the other hand beckons her closer, she realizes is meant to be seductive. That would, in fact, be seductive if the girl didn't look as though playing with dolls and learning cursive writing should be her main concern.

Horrified, she recoils. Hands are grasping at her handbag, her pockets, her clothes as she stumbles away, trying to escape an image indelibly imprinted behind her eyelids. Sounds crash around her abruptly: a child crying, two boys fighting viciously over a coin someone has carelessly tossed, and here and there, little girls smacking their lips in an appalling aping of women twice their age who ply their bodies the world over.

Fighting the urge to retch, she fails to hold back her tears. Weeping, she runs.

Rory's eye twitched. A flash of pain, like a shooting star on a starless night, dashed across her eyes before she closed them. They reopened instantly, and, spinning on her heel, she stalked through the doors, abandoning her experimental remedy for a known cure.

Because, most of the time, she smothered Old Rory in a fine dusting of white powder.