Disclaimer: The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either.
Author's Note: ::walks in and finds everyone dead:: Aw, damn…
I feel horrible for not writing. I haven't been feeling inspired lately to write Trory. I guess the excess of Draco/Hermione fics I've been reading are to blame for that. *grins*I wasn't at all planning to update, but for a few days now my inbox is being flooded with reviews giving me reasons why I should update, which is very odd. And, I guess if people want me to update so much, I shouldn't disappoint them now, should I? Basically I wrote this in shock of the fact people wanted to see me finish something I began on a whim.
Dedications: To Ashley, the luckiest gal. EVER. *envious* Elise because she's too cool and she made me a BirthdayCrown. Jamie because well, she's Jamie! Mai-Anh because she has become my personal stalker and urges me to update with her lovely demands. Roxy, Lessa, and Janine because they're incredible. And my lovely, conniving reviewers, who make me feel rather guilty. Damn, you guys are good!
Priya
* * *
::Memory Seeps from My Veins::
Rory.
Rory, he said.
Rory, he said evenly, as though she hadn't just found out that the man, who she had been crazy to meet, was the man she spent her sophomore year at Chilton skillfully avoiding.
She looked ahead, thinking of how to respond to him, but there was no need to speak—the look on his face was enough. "Rory Gilmore," he repeated, as if he needed to echo her name as many times as possible to believe that she stood before him. Something drove her to take a step forward—she needed to touch him.
Was he real?
Her hand quivered as it began to rise up to his face. His skin was burnished brown by the sun, and it seemed that the salty sea breezes had eroded away any wrinkles, leaving him smooth. She wanted to stroke the curves of his face only to realize that her hand passed right through him. She wanted to believe that he was an illusion.
He cleared his throat, and her panic seized eyes widened as she stared at her hand, which seemed to be paralyzed, hovering in mid-air.
Close enough to touch, but far away to burn.
Finally noticing the state of her hand, she snatched it back quickly before she could make a bigger idiot out of herself and cradled it. She frantically scanned her hand thoroughly to see if any damage had been done by their "almost contact." Rory had no idea what she was doing—wanting to touch him? I just wanted to see if he was real, she consoled herself, glanced up, and was finally caught by his bewildered stare.
His eyes were the ocean—turbulent and placid at the same time—and sad to say, she found herself drowning in them. His questioning, soul stirring gaze pierced hers with an undeniable eternity. Mesmerized and forever unwavering.
She was struggling—fighting an internal battle with herself. Part of her wanted to jump back and ask just what hell was going on, but the other wanted to get lost in his stormy eyes. Rory needed to draw back before she did something regretful, but the foreign allure to his eyes played riddles with her. Gritting her teeth, she swung her head downwards, finally lowering her own eyes.
Then it happened again—the dizziness overwhelmed her, the salty breezes of the ocean mixed with tangy refuse crushed her to the point of nausea, and she swiftly retreated to her former position, leaning hard against the door frame for support. The impact of this cataclysm hit Rory full force, and she was drowning. But this time, not in his eyes; she was drowning in a moment of pure terror. She never expected all of this to happen so quickly, especially this one chance encounter with him. He was the last person she needed to see—she wanted Michael—not him!
Before she could stop, Rory had begun a comparison of what she wanted and what stood before her. Tristan's hair was a halo of blonde tufts; she wanted rich, dark curls. Tristan's eyes were startling and stormy cobalt; she wanted knowing and soothing brown. Tristan's skin was sun-kissed tan; she wanted flawless alabaster. Tristan's hands were calloused and strong; she wanted smooth and refined. Tristan smelled like the salty, cool ocean; she wanted sultry cologne and spice. Tristan was reality; she wanted fantasy. This was Tristan; she wanted Michael.
Before Rory could prevent it, she let out an estranged moan of disdain.
Even though she constantly reminded herself not to get her hopes up, she had failed. Being a woman brought up in the world of fantasy and love, she fantasized about her Prince, conjuring up his features, his touch, his smell, his voice. She wanted everything to be the exact opposite. She didn't want Tristan DuGrey.
Oh, God, she groaned inwardly, this isn't happening.
She cleared her throat awkwardly and focused her attention on the delicate wrist-watch. They had been like this for almost 3 minutes. Pushing back a small division of her hair, she looked up again. She needed to say something. His name would be a good start. She opened her mouth but nothing came out; she tried again: "Tristan." That was odd. Rory took a deep breathe stilling leaning against the door frame, "Why aren't you M—" she stopped herself immediately, seeing his body stiffen. During her befuddled brevity, all common sense had left her, and it was slowly making its way back through the haze. Her consciousness kicked in; she couldn't talk about Michael or Tristan. Rory couldn't reveal to him that she had come in search of Michael, not him. She opted for another question, "What I mean to say is…how — how you are doing?"
After gawking at her for approximately thirty more seconds—she timed it—with the weirdest expression, he ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up more, and spoke in stutters. "I'm…I'm…good… I'm really, really surprised to see you here…" He cleared his throat, waiting for her to chime in.
All of her reporter senses left her as the color drained from her face, making her eyes unusually brighter against the stark contrast. It was then she seriously considered how she had come to snag a job at The Boston Times. Rory couldn't do this any longer—couldn't put up with the pleasantries, the charade. It was quite obvious that the heavy blanket of tension needed to clear up quickly before it suffocated them both. She rattled her mind for a solution, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out in a small voice: "I—I've got to go." She began to back up, almost tripping down the ramp.
Then she did what she did best. She did it when Dean first kissed her, when he kissed her, and when Seth wanted her.
She ran.
Out of place, out of sight, out of mind. And didn't look back either.
* * *
She frantically raced away from the marina, as if her life depended on it. In some ways, it did. Rory Gilmore had just been slapped by reality: her Michael was none other than Tristan DuGrey.
Plus, she had almost touched him. But what mattered was that I didn't, she comforted herself quickly. Though she still eyed her hand peculiarly, wondering why it was tingling like mad.
What was worst, she had agreed to meet Tristan DuGrey tonight. On a date. No, no, that couldn't be right—it was just a meeting for good friends. Now they were friends? Not after the little Road Runner stunt she just pulled. Her mind was flying off into ten different directions—not one of them focused on the present. She blindly crossed the street, taking no notice to the fact she was running through a green light. She came to a screeching halt, when a car slammed on its break and horn, preventing Rory from becoming road kill. It was then she took notice of her surroundings: stranded in the middle of a street with ongoing traffic and a very pissed of granny. After apologizing profusely to the older woman, she made a mad dash to her car—this time aware of traffic lights.
A thought occurred to her, and she dug around in her purse for her cell phone. She hit Lorelai's number on speed dial, and waited. One. Two. Three. Voicemail. Maybe she's not home, she thought before realizing that she was calling Lorelai's cell, which was permanently attached to Lorelai's side, or rather, her purse, which was attached to Lorelai's side. Oy vey, Rory groaned out loud, she probably having sex with Luke. She left a message, anyhow, telling Lorelai to call her back as soon as humanly possible.
Sighing miserably, she pondered whom to call next. Lane or Paris. She went with the latter because Paris actually knew Tristan. Hoping she would pick up, her fingers numbly punched at the numbers. She needed to talk to someone sane at that moment, and needed to be consoled. While the phone rang, she had calmed down a bit, but at the sound of Paris' voice, Rory lost all control and yelped: "Tristan DuGrey!"
"No," Paris corrected, through gritted teeth. How many times, she thought, will these bimbos continue to acknowledge me incorrectly? "This is Paris Gellar."
"No, Paris!" Rory cried out desperately, her voice breaking. "It's Tristan. Tristan DuGrey."
"Rory?" Paris asked incredulously like she had never heard her voice before. "What are you doing?"
"Having a spaz attack," she moaned.
"Someone needs a major mud bath, salt glow, chill pill combo," Paris remarked, hearing the anxiety in Rory's voice.
"Someone needs to stop being snarky and help me! Oh, God," she groaned out loud as a revelation hit her. "I'm like those people!"
"You're going to give me something more to work with here."
"Those people who are so stupid that they get jack-o-lanterns carved after their face. Old women put them in their yards and snotty kids kick the stupid jack-o-lanterns because…GAH! Oh God," she repeated, "I'm going to be a Rory jack-o-lantern!"
"Of a squash?"
"Pumpkin."
Paris was having trouble keeping a straight face at Rory's absurdity and her voice cracked when she spoke: "May I inquire the reason of such drastic measures?"
She groaned loudly. "I just committed a horrible act of stupidity, and I think it would only be fair if my face was carved in along with those other stupid people who were, well, stupid enough to get their faces on pumpkins."
"You should be in the Elvis category," Paris joked playfully, but then her tone became solicitous. "What happened, Rory?" The other line was silent but Paris could hear ragged breathing. "First you need to breathe. Deep breathes," she gently instructed, breathing herself to provide some encouragement. When she heard that Rory's breathing returned to her normal state, she continued: "That's good. Now you can talk."
Rory took one last deep breathe. "Okay, well, you know Michael?" Paris nodded dutifully on the other side. "Well, here's the newsflash: you don't! He's not who we thought he was. Well, we never really knew who he was in the first place, but he's not…" She let out an agitated squeal. "Oh, this is so frustrating! Michael is…Michael is…"she trailed off again, gulping.
Okay, so the cool, calm, and collected approach wasn't working for Paris either. "The next three seconds would be good, Gilmore!"
"Tristan DuGrey," she blurted out meekly.
There was a pregnant pause followed by a quiet gasp, and then an explosion. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a camel!" Paris went on that path for a minute, stringing out all any biblical references. At this time, Rory chose not to point out to Paris that she was Jewish.
"Rory, you should be in the Ozzy Osbourne category!" The line was silent again. How could we have been so stupid? The absurdity of it all made Paris start chuckling, and that soon grew to hysterical laughter. It was infectious because Rory herself began to giggle. Paris tilted her head back with her shoulders shaking, her stomach clutched tightly. It was amazing that she didn't fall out of her chair, and started rolling around laughing. She did, however, kick her leg up, caught up in her fit of giggles, and banged her knee against the desk. This was all the pain she needed, and quickly smothered her laughter. "We're so daft."
Rory's breathing had become shallow again due to their previous outburst. "That doesn't even begin to describe."
"I can't believe I didn't think of that sooner. The last name was staring us right in the face!" she exclaimed. "We didn't even bother to comprehend!"
"I guess I was just so swept up by the euphoria that came along with finding him that I didn't realize it. It's like not noticing Kirk stripping in the Town Square to some techno music." Rory shook her head feverishly. "I deserve to be slapped."
"After that lovely visual, indeed."
All of their flippant, chaffing remarks came to a halt when the lingering question was aroused in Rory again. Christine. All this time, she was so caught up with the shock of Michael being Tristan that it totally slipped her mind. But now, as she was thinking about it, the more nervous she grew. Tristan already had someone, and here she came into his life wanting him to become hers. However, that was before she knew his identity—before she knew he was Michael. Besides, it's not like the still wanted him…did she? Oh, this was all just too confusing!
"I wonder," Paris' voice shook Rory out of her reverie, "why Tristan would take up the name of Michael then? Maybe it had something to do with Christine. Like their pet names for each other?"
Rory wrinkled her nose in thought. "I doubt it. When I went to his shop, the sales guy there knew him as Michael. And, there was a newspaper article pinned up about him in the store that used Michael."
"Maybe" Paris smiled slowly, "he just changed his name thinking it would create a desired effect on something he wished to possess. He pulled a Pam Anderson…minus the intentions of drawing attention to his boobs. Not that guys have boobs…well, transvestites and Dennis Rodman," she paused, thoroughly disturbed by what she just said, but nonetheless, chose to continue. "Maybe that's why she decided to hook up with him. Or maybe he's in some kind of a witness protection program."
Rory laughed aloud. "Yes, Paris, going through people's safes gets you into witness protection programs."
"Hey," she defended, "we don't know what happened in that military school of his."
"Wait, wait, wait." And Paris did just that. "Wasn't his military school in North Carolina?"
"Yes!" Paris nearly shouted. "And now, he's settled in North Carolina. Meaning he hasn't been to Hartford since to settle down, excluding holiday breaks, or else I'd know about it," Paris trailed off. "Actually, I haven't heard anything about him in the grape-vine now that I think about it. This is rather odd considering the DuGreys always used to gloat about Tristan's accomplishment. For instance, in fourth grade, we went to a pickle farm on a field trip, and had to participate in a contest to see who could find the biggest pickle. Tristan won, and of course, his parents beat that news around like a drum. Even a measly pickle win. I would've won, if I hadn't given in to my stomach's desire and decided to eat my pickle first. You couldn't even see where I had taken a bite…it was small, really. Damn, blind teachers," Paris finished of rather bitterly and mumbled some more about he had cheated.
"Paris Gellar: Confessions of a Woman in Desperate Need of Prozac. It'll knock J.K. Rowling of her spot on the best seller's charts."
Paris shook her head, and spoke still collecting her thoughts: "The point is, Gilmore, that the DuGreys practically worshipped Tristan back then to the point of pickle contests. And now, I haven't heard his name in years, meaning he must have done something horrible to get them to stop raving about him."
"He did," the brunette stated. "He got caught by the police and went to military school."
"It has to be more than that, Rory. I remember hearing from Arabella, Tristan's mom, about how he was the top student there and if he kept up his good behavior, he would be out soon."
"Wow," Rory mused, "this mean Tristan did something so horrible that his parents practically disowned him?"
"It seems like it," she admitted. "So what happened when you met him?"
Rory began rehashing the story much to her chagrin. Filling Paris in with all the gory details, because she knew if she didn't, Paris would pester her until she spilled. "So you flirted with him?" Paris asked, shocked. "You flirted with Tristan?"
"Well…I didn't know it was him at the time. I thought he was Michael."
"And then you made a date with him—"
"It's not a date," Rory protested.
Paris continued, not even hearing her, "Then you realized he was Tristan. About time. Bloody hell, if I saw the boy, would've done more than remember."
"Since when did you start saying 'bloody hell' to express your agitation?"
Paris glanced at the book in front of her, and traced its spine. "Since I started reading English smut."
Rory's jaw fell. "Excuse me…Smut?"
Paris quickly reverted back to her freakishly perceptive demeanor—her mind reeling for the precise definition of the term. She quoted: "Obscene language or matter in writing."
Rory shook her head, and switched the phone to her other hand. "I know what smut is, Paris. You could've just said sex."
"If you want to put plain and blatantly," she said dryly, and began thumbing through the book on her desk. "However, I do find it rather amusing that you issued the topic of sex when we're discussing Tristan DuGrey."
"I did not issue anything. You did," Rory retorted annoyed.
"Tell me, darling," Paris adapted a crisp, English accent, having fun teasing Rory, "does Tristan DuGrey ooze of sex?"
Rory's jaw dropped again at her forwardness. "I can't believe you asked me that!"
"How about this," she began, "does Tristan DuGrey have—"
Rory cut her off, her mouth hanging even wider, if that was possible. "Gellar, shut up!" She could just see the victorious grin plastered on her face. "Can we change the topic please?"
"Oh, yes," the blonde conceded, still grinning, "Back to my thoroughly engrossing analysis of making Rory Gilmore squirm. You almost touched him." She was having too much fun.
"I almost touched him. That's the key word," she put extra emphasis on the 'almost'. "Besides, it's not like I licked him!"
This time Paris' jaw dropped, and she pointed a finger at the phone. "Ah ha! You're thinking about licking him!" she accused deviously.
Rory groaned, banging her head on the steering wheel. "Oh. My. God." Maybe if she said some dirty English words, Paris would shut up. The last thing that she had read remotely close to anything British were the Georgia Nicholson diaries, which Lorelai persuaded her to read. Though, she couldn't recall its title. Her mind rolled back, searching. Then it registered: Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, and she pulled out particularly favorite line which Lorelai had quoted for over a month: "Running in my nuddy-nuddy pants!" she called out impulsively.
Paris tilted her head, hesitating—a confused look upon her oval face. She opened her mouth to ask what the hell Rory was talking about, when it occurred to her that this was a distraction. A grin blossomed on her soft face, her cinnamon eyes dancing. "Nice try, Gilmore, but your random outbursts of inane phrases will not deter me." Rory grimaced; she could almost see the mischievous glint in Paris' eyes. "Then," Paris picked up immediately, "you freaked out because you almost touched him, when you were actually thinking about licking him," she heard a car horn honk and presumed it was Rory's head making contact with the steering wheel. She really should stop doing that, thought Paris, I hear it's bad for the brain. "Then you told him you needed to leave, ran like the wind, and almost got run over by a granny? Wow, you'd give Ferris Bueller a run for his money."
"Oh stop it," Rory huffed, "This is awful; I didn't want it to turn out like this."
"Don't tell me you had already conjured up the perfect Michael." Paris' voice softened. "Rory, you knew that you were setting yourself up to get hurt by doing that."
Rory didn't respond; she kept a steady gaze on the tree ahead of her. Apparently, finding the brown bark more interesting than Paris' words.
"I know you don't want to respond to me right now, but if you made a date, Rory, then go. It's the least you could do for the poor boy. He's probably more shell shocked than you are," Paris put it simply. "And if you're still not comfortable with him because of our high school years then it's an even better thing to do. I'm sure he's been through a lot and isn't the rich, spoilt brat anymore." Paris heard Rory sigh on the other line. "Just consider it, Ror. Besides, I want to know why his parents don't boast about Pickle Boy anymore." Then she added in hastily, "I have a meeting with Nate, so I'll catch you later."
A wicked grin spread over Rory's face, and she opened her mouth to make a lewd comment.
But Paris beat her to it: "Shut up, Gilmore. We're just going to discuss books."
"Involving smut?"
Her response was the dial tone.
* * *
Rory sat motionless in her hotel room, planning out her course of actions. Earlier she had spoken with Lorelai and Lane both, and they both advised her to meet Tristan. Once again Lane had repeated the carpe diem motto with so much gusto that she knocked down a picture frame in the process. Chuckling to herself, Rory decided that she was fed up with rationalizing. What could she possibly have to lose? She would meet Tristan, apologize for running away, catch up on old times, and come back home. Nothing more, nothing less. After all, she hadn't flown all the way to Wilmington just chicken out. The more she thought about doing it, the more sensible and appealing it became. She was actually looking forward to it.
Suddenly reality wasn't looking too bad to her after all.
To Be Continued…
* * *
Chapter 7 is done! I made a promise to myself that I could open my birthday presents only when I updated. So since I've accomplished my goal…*pounces on The HotAss (Tristan) wrapped in a pretty pink box* Happy 15th to me, ladies and gentlemen! *wicked grin*