Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls or the characters. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

Rating: R

Pairing: Rory/Tristan, I suppose.

Part: 1/1

Dedication: To the critic in my head. You know who you are.

Fragments

It hits her, suddenly, that she's getting married.

She turns away from the festivities in her living room and takes a long sip of vodka-laced punch from the red plastic cup in her hand. The sight of her family and friends gathered in Stars Hollow for her wedding shower makes her nauseous instead of happy and she figures that the only way to get through it is to be pissed drunk.

She doesn't care if it's not fair to her fiancé.

It wasn't really fair to have accepted his ring, in the first place. He had asked her, in the middle of a romantic dinner and thousands of red rose petals, down on one knee looking like he was going to burst from happiness, as he slipped the ring on. She couldn't remember if he had even waited for her answer.

She did remember that the tears in her eyes weren't from happiness.

"Jacob asked me to marry him," she announced to her lover as they lay together, sweaty and satisfied from their exertions. She hadn't slept with Jacob yet, he wanted to wait.

"Yeah?" he asked his voice devoid of all emotion as he lifted her hand to stare at her empty ring finger. He squeezed her hand a little, pressing her ring finger lightly with his thumb; she could feel his warm breath on her forehead. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," she responded softly, after a pause, not daring to look up to meet his gaze. "The wedding's in June."

He kissed the top of her head. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she replies tothe person in front of her now; a friend of the groom – Jules Whitticomb, she recalls - as she takes her leave.

"You are so lucky," Jules enthuses as she leans forward to kiss the air on either side of Rory's face. "Let me tell you, if I didn't think of Jake as my oldest and dearest friend, I would have snatched him up myself. They don't make them any better than Jake."

No, they probably didn't.

But Jake's eyes are too brown and too friendly, his russet hair is too neat and gelled and she doesn't feel like touching it. His smile is not charming or fiendish but instead it's rather big, too many teeth and gums…and fake. When he looks at her, she doesn't feel like he can see right through her but instead they make her long for those intense blue eyes that pierce through her very soul, strip her down, naked and vulnerable.

No, she's not being fair to Jake. But then again, fairness was never a part of the equation. They weren't together because of an interest or attraction to one another; they were together because of family, hers and his, and coincidence and convenience.

The notion makes her indescribably sad so she takes another long, greedy sip of alcohol to ease the bitter ache in her heart. Anyone else in her place would be happy. In two days she was marrying the most perfect man in the world.

Rory knows a thing or two about perfection: it's not all it's cracked up to be.

- & -

They always hate that he drinks after he fucks.

It doesn't matter who they are, their names and their identities don't matter that much to him, but they all scowl when he slides off the bed after he comes and fills himself a drink of whatever alcohol is available. Some of them are quiet about their disapproval, lying there and glaring at his back while checking out his ass at the same time. The rest harrumph or voice their opinion, calling him an asshole before gathering up what's left of their dignity and leaving the room.

Whatever they do, he simply doesn't care.

Perhaps it's not fair to them; the countless women, just breasts and heat and skin. But they don't complain when he's pushing them onto the bed, scraping his teeth over their skin and moaning incoherently as they come.

He doesn't do the chasing, they throw themselves at him, always have.

So he needs the one drink after sex, to wash away the harsh taste in his mouth, the metallic tang of regret and bitter loathing. Loathing for whom, he doesn't know.

The women? Maybe. Himself? Sometimes. Her? Always.

He closes his eyes and tries not to see her face, the scent of some other woman all over his skin. But he almost always does. Long brown hair and blue eyes stare back at him, her voice whispers like a prayer, calling his name over and over as she comes back from the edge he has driven her to…as if he's her salvation, her hero, her world.

But it's all in his treacherous mind. Because she's not his. Never his.

There's always another man who keeps her from him, a man that he loathes but doesn't even know. The man who has a part of Rory that he can never touch, never claim. The man that touches her in the light, watches her openly and honestly, never afraid that she won't be there when he a wakes up. A man who doesn't have to wait in endless limbo, counting the days between their meetings or wonder if she'll even show up. The son of a bitch who has taken what belongs to him.

"The wedding's in June," she told him, one afternoon after their passion was spent.

He waited a second, kissed her forehead and closed his eyes. "Congratulations."

She shifted slightly, the sheet falling away from her breasts as she raised her head to meet his gaze. "You'll be in Hartford in June."

"Maybe," he answered, not looking at her but at his finger, gently tracing the curve of her breast. "Or France. Ireland. The Caribbean. I don't know. Nothing's final."

"Okay," she said softly and he didn't need to look at her to know there was disappointment in her eyes. "Will you send me a postcard?"

"Yeah baby," he replied as his hand closed over her taut nipple and he trailed his lips across her jaw line. "I will."

"Baby," the redhead - Cyndi, was it? - purrs from the bed as he turns around and catches a glimpse of her thigh from under the silk linen. Her lips purse into an exaggerated pout that is neither sexy nor cute and she giggles, high-pitched. "I'm all alone here."

He grins at her, saunters over to the bed and crawls on top of her. "Let me make it up to you."

She's kissing him now, vacant, empty kisses that don't stir his soul even as his body reacts to her, supple curves and sweaty limbs. He closes his eyes as he enters her because the rapture on her face doesn't mesmerize him and he's thinking that her hair is too red and her eyes are the wrong color, and the perfume of her skin is too pungent. She's too tanned, too fake. She feels wrong even as he fills hers.

It's not fair to her that he's thinking of another as he climaxes. Or that he has to bite his lip to keep from calling out the wrong name.

But if Tristan has learnt one thing, it's that his fucking life is a whole lot of things and fair isn't one of them.

- & -

Leaving behind the sounds of her girlfriends, giggling and catcalling over the stripper they've hired, Rory steps out onto the porch of her childhood home and takes a deep breath. The air smells of summer…barbeques, sun block and cotton candy.

And memories of him rush back, clear and painful.

The smell of brandy reminds her of him. Or the color of the sky, deep blue, just after the sun has disappeared into the horizon. The first magical snowfall that her mother always boasts about, in her mind, is now associated with his soft, tanned skin, glowing red in the cold as he stepped out onto the lawn with her, laughing as she twirled, catching snowflakes on her tongue.

She thinks of cinnamon and chocolate and feels an indescribable longing for him that curls in her belly and runs through her blood and makes her heart ache until she is numb.

When her fiancé touches her, even in the most innocent way, Rory dreams of his soft, skilled hands, moving over every inch of her skin. Mapping lines, tracing shapes, branding her with his touch - marking her as his forever.

Rory sighs and feels the tiredness in her bones, the deep-seated loneliness that haunts her waking hours. But in her dreams, she escapes the realities of her life and is with him again, laughing, arguing, making love…in her dreams, she's not Rory Gilmore, she's someone else who is complete and happy and not scared of what her life has become. She's not this ghost of a person, waif-like and indecisive, engaged to a man who can't love her the way she needs.

In her dreams…she is always his.

But he's not hers. Never hers.

Too free, too wild to tame. Too many others, she thinks bitterly. Women, luscious and beautiful, giving their bodies to him with one kiss from those smirking lips will always keep him away from her and in their lusty embrace.

Sometimes, when an ex-Chiltonite mentions him to her at some society function, she drives herself crazy wondering if he's fucked the beauty in front of her, if they still keep in touch, the way he does with her. Do you still see her, Tristan? A voice screams at him in her head as the vacuous woman blathers on. Do you still fuck her like you do me?

Then at night, in her bed, she weeps for him.

She whispers things she's too afraid to say to his face even while she curses him. Through her tears, she longs for him to gather her in his arms and kiss her until she is breathless with desire and ready for him, hard and inside of her.

The cycle, love and hate, never ends.

- & -

The house is quiet now, he sees streamers and empty plastic cups strewn across the lawn and porch steps and figures there was a party. He has been watching her ever since she stepped onto the porch, just waiting to see if she knows he's there. But she looks lost in thought and steps out from the shadows and comes up behind her, startling her.

She turns, eyes wide, and the corners of her mouth turns upwards. "Tristan."

The way she breathes his name, makes him smile slightly and he tries to keep his voice light as he answers, "Rory."

"You're here," she states, the relief and joy obvious in her voice. The way she leans closer to him so he can smell the vanilla in her hair, kicks his pulse up a notch. Every time, he thinks inwardly, without fail. "I thought you were…somewhere that isn't here."

He smirks and buries his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. "Well, it looks like that isn't the case."

She nods and searches his face, eyebrows furrowing and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. An eternity passes as she studies him and he looks back, waiting for an absolution. "Why are you here?"

"For your wedding, of course," he answers immediately, raising an eyebrow. "You did send me an invitation after all."

An invitation that he stared at for hours, trying to decipher what she meant, what cues she could possibly be sending him along with the calligraphy on the ivory-colored card. Even now, standing on her porch, he doesn't know what she meant. He suspects she doesn't know either.

Her head tilts to the side and she concedes, "Yes, I did."

She doesn't say anything more and turns away from him so that he's left staring at the back of her head. He checks the urge to grab her arm, swing her around and yell at her.

Mind games. The fucking mind games he plays when it comes to her.

But he knows better than to provoke her, if he does, the night can only end two ways: a yelling match at the top of their lungs that one of her neighbors will hear or sex on the porch that one of her neighbors will see.

The latter never solves anything.

The direction of his thoughts makes him chuckle before he can stop and she turns around again, a brow raised curiously. "Nothing," he murmurs and steps closer. "It's just nothing."

"It always is." A sad smile touches her lips and this time he doesn't check the urge to grab her and pull her to him. She doesn't protest although she gasps in surprise when his arms come around her waist and crushes her to him. Her eyes lock with his as she settles against him and he wonders how he will survive without holding her like this ever again. "Tristan," she whispers, her eyes pooling with tears. "I've missed you."

He doesn't think now and crushes his lips to hers, knowing that tomorrow, she'll be someone else's wife and he'll never touch her again.

He needs tonight like he needs air.

- & -

"Inside Tristan," Rory's voice tears from her throat in a moan as Tristan kisses her, touches her through the material of her dress. "My parents are in Hartford."

They stumble into the house blindly, arms around each other and lips fused together. His hands are everywhere, pushing away the fabric of her dress. Her own hands are tangled in his hair as she follows him to her bedroom. She doesn't think, even though there's a voice in her head that's telling her something. But she doesn't hear, the sound of her blooding rushing in her ears drowning everything else out.

Because all that matters right now is that he's here and he's kissing her.

No one understands, she thinks and he breaks away from the kiss and stares at her, lust and emotions swirling in his eyes. They don't know how much I need him. They stand there, at the entrance of her bedroom, holding each other. Words are jumbled in her mind and she's trying to make sense of them.

Too many words, too much to say.

I don't love Jake, she wants to tell him, make him understand. You know I don't.

But instead her lips move, her voice a coming out ragged. "Kiss me, please, Tristan. I want you so much."

He doesn't hesitate and he's kissing her again, pushing her dress down her hips so they pool at her feet. They're inside and he kicks the door closed with his leg as she struggles with his jeans. They work together to rid him of his clothes and then hers, before they fall back onto the bed, flesh against flesh, mouths fused, fire running through her veins, consuming her.

He whispers dirty things in her ear, as he slides two fingers inside her, wet and ready. She bucks against his seeking fingers and moans against his shoulder. Tension coils tightly within her, sweat slicks their skin and he bites her earlobe. "Come for me, Rory."

She closes her eyes and cries out his name, riding out the tidal waves of pleasure that shake her body.

Even as she's gathering her wits, he lifts her legs on either side of him and positions himself at her entrance. Eyes wide, she keeps her gaze locked with his, shocked by the look in his eyes: lust, possession, anger, loathing…and something she's too scared to name.

Before she can say anything, he thrusts into her long and hard, sending her system haywire. The fire is back, her eyes close and she moans out again as he moves inside her, in a dance she knows as sure as her own name.

He leans forward, changes the angle of his thrusts, burying his face in her hair.

"Rory," he whispers fiercely in her ear. "You're mine."

Tears sting the back of her eyes and she nods wordlessly and a second orgasm rips through her.

When she wakes up the next morning, he's gone, leaving the lingering scent of his cologne on her pillow. She grips it to her, comes to terms with the fact that he's gone.

And tries to tell herself she'll see him again.

- & -

"Anyone who finds just cause that these two should not be married: speak now or forever hold you peace."

The words reverberate in his head as he stands at the back of the church, watching Rory standing at the altar, marrying a man that didn't share her bed last night.

He can almost see what it would be like if he voices his objection. He can see the shock in everyone's eyes. The surprise in her mother's. He can almost hear the excited murmurs of the guests, wondering who this person was who objected to their princess marrying her prince.

But most of all, he can see the relief and gratitude in hers as she turned to look at him with those big, beautiful blue eyes. The eyes a man could drown in.

And he has fucking had enough of it.

So instead of stopping her from marrying her prince, instead of saving her from the hell of suburban bliss, he turns around and leaves her behind.

Life didn't end happily ever after. And he'll be damned if she doesn't learn the hard way.

The End