Disclaimer: I don't own a damn thing. Yes, I'm bitter. It all belongs to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB. The conversation between Lorelai and Rory is from the episode The Fundamental Things Apply.

Rating: PG-13 for now. May go higher. Probably will, actually.

Spoilers: Everything up until episode three of season 4, The Hobbit, The Sofa and Digger Stiles.

Author's Note: To Gracie for wanting me to update. And to Chad Michael Murray (Sophia is a lucky girl!) for his performance in Freaky Friday because it inspired this chapter. Despite the horrendous singing.

Chapter Four: The Night From Hell

"Oh, so the guy's a dud?" Lorelai asked the night of Rory's date with Trevor.

"Trevor's fine," Rory complained. "I'm moronic. I bring the conversation to a crashing halt every time I speak." Lorelai sighed and asked where he was and Rory flinched as she answered, "In the bathroom, probably pondering my brilliant anecdote about urine mints."

"About what?"

"You know, when people go to the bathroom and they don't wash their hands and they come out and they take a mint," she explained, hoping that someone would back her up.

"Oh my God, I've been eating those mints for years," her mother exclaimed and then turned to Luke and said, "Hey did you know about urine mints?"

"And I've already forgotten everything that he said to me - the name of his brother and sister and best friend." Not to mention I forgot that I had a sister, Rory thought to herself sullenly. "And we're sitting on the same side of the table. We keep bumping menus, and my neck already hurts from trying to turn and look at him when he talks. Can I tell him to sit on the other side?"

Lorelai sighed and went into 'sympathetic mom' mode. "Honey, you just...you have to relax, 'cause it's just a date, and sometimes dates don't go well. I mean, I'm sorry I can't be of more help, but if he comes back and you're on the phone, it might make things more awkward."

"Bite the bullet, huh?"

"Yeah. Sorry, but yeah."

Rory sighed and turned off the phone, hoping that one day she'd be able to look back at this night and laugh. Because right now? She wanted the Earth to swallow her whole.

- & -

There were a few lessons that life had taught Tristan that came a little too soon for his liking. The fact that frat parties were just an excuse for the youth of America to kill brain cells at an alarming rate and therefore, not as much fun as he would have thought, was one of them. The old Tristan DuGrey, the one who was known for throwing wild parties in his parent's mansion in Hartford would be disappointed right about now. After all, what was better than an endless supply of alcohol, music blaring so loud that you couldn't hear your own thoughts and drunken college girls dancing on top of tables?

Somewhere along the way, that had just lost its appeal. And he was still a fucking freshman. What would the Chilton crowd say if they could see you now? A voice jeered in his head. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Staring forlornly into his plastic cup, he tried to pinpoint the exact moment this need to not self-destruct settled into his brain. He had been effectively clobbering his conscience for seventeen years but ever since the first night he had landed in Pennington Military Academy in Wellford, North Carolina, it seemed to be fighting back with gusto. This was probably a good thing since he was now in Yale, so it wasn't like he wasn't grateful. But it was unnerving to be so focused on where he was going with his life.

Somewhere, OldTristan was cursing him imaginatively.

He pushed up the sleeve of his sweater to look at his watch. 10:30. Shit. He still had one hundred pages to read for his history class and he had to write the conclusion of his English paper. He put the plastic cup down on a table beside him and started to make his way through the party-goers, figuring out a timetable in his head.

OldTristan wept.

He was almost to the door when he heard a familiar and unmistakable voice. He turned and his jaw dropped at the sight of Paris Gellar, haphazardly trying to climb onto a tabletop. A crowd had formed while two other girls, already topless, ground against each other to the sexy beat, catcalls and whistles cheering them on. Tristan shook his head and tried not to focus on the buxom babes. Pansy, the voice returned bitterly. Ignoring it, Tristan grabbed Paris's waist and pulled her back.

"Gellar, what are you doing?" he yelled over the noise.

She tried to struggle free. "Dancing."

"Oh wow," he exclaimed as he caught a whiff of her breath. "How many beers have you had?"

"I don't remember. I lost count after the third one," she replied and held up four fingers. "Not that s'its any of your damn business."

"Let's go," he ordered, tightening his grip on her upper arm when she opened her mouth to protest. "Now Paris." She argued with him as he manhandled her to the door, surprised at the few choice words she called him, much to the amusement of the few people that took notice. Once they were outside, he loosened his grip on her but kept an arm around her waist. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"I thought I told you to stay away from me," she slurred as they stumbled down the steps together. He caught her before she landed head first into the pavement and then kept her still until they both steadied.

"Yeah, well, when have I ever listened to you?" he replied, grinning slightly.

"Never ever," she replied, bringing her arms around his neck. "You just never listened. We…we could have been great together if you had listened. Listened!" One arm flew in a circle as she emphasized her point. "But nooooo! That's just not how DuGrey's handle things, is it?"

"Not usually, no." He pried her other arm away from him and tired to lead her in the direction of Durfee. "C'mon Par, one foot in front of the other. It's really simple. Concentrate."

Paris looked down at her wobbly legs and lifted one in the air and giggled. "Left! Left! Left, right, left! Is that what you learned in military school, Tristan?"

"No," he answered chuckling. "Walking kinda came naturally to me."

"Huh, me too," she replied sort of dreamily. Then she flung her arms outward, almost hitting him on the nose and whirled around, tripping over her own heels but somehow managing to stay upright. She giggled again, which was odd to hear. It had been a long time since he'd heard that particular sound coming from her lips. "I feel great!"

"You say that now," he responded, grabbing her right wrist. "Tomorrow is a different story. Christ, Paris, why were you even at the party? It's not exactly your scene."

"Shush," she replied haughtily as he started to walk again, pulling her with him. "You don't know me anymore. I am so the party girl."

"I would never have guessed." He held her hand still, mostly because he was afraid she'd turn around and go straight back to the frat party. "So, do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I'm free!" she replied, with a long sigh and then started to sing, "Free as the wind blows! Free as the grass grows!"

"Free from what?"

"From my parents," she replied, almost sadly. "From Hartford and from OldParis. Do you know OldParis? She's a drag, a loser with her book in a nose and dreams of fucking Harvard. I hate her."

Despite the slur of her words, Tristan understood perfectly. He looked down at her now, and said sincerely, "I don't."

She smiled big and wide and touched his cheek as she plastered herself against him. "But you're not Jamie. Jamie liked her too. He doesn't really like me."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said kindly, although he was hesitant to talk about Paris's boyfriend. That, in his infinite experience with females, was always murky ground. Worse when they were wasted.

She let out an unladylike snort. "That's why he broke up with me."

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, hoping that not saying anything else would keep him out of trouble.

Paris's expression became morose as she said, rather philosophically, "I guess it was inevitable. He was kinda square," she stopped to giggle a little and then added, conspiratorially, "And a little boring in the sack, if you know what I mean."

As she cackled gleefully, Tristan smirked. "I can imagine."

Encouraged, she continued, in a much louder voice. "He wouldn't go down on-"

Tristan clamped a hand over her mouth and shook his head, suppressing his laughter. "Paris, as much as it would tickle me to hear about your sexual misadventures, I don't think our already rocky relationship would survive this conversation tomorrow morning."

"Always the gentleman," Paris beamed at him as he held open the door to Durfee.

"Hardly," he objected with a wolfish grin, OldTristan wasn't dead yet. "We'll continue this when you're in possession of all your mental faculties." Paris stared at the door of her dorm room and then back at him, blinking. "Gellar, do you have your keys?"

"No, I was going to get some coffee when that girl dragged me off to the party."

"You don't know her name?"

"Can't remember it now. She was named after a season. Autumn?" She shrugged and then lifted her hand, and pounded on the wooden door.

- & -

Oh yes, Rory thought bitterly as she rose from the sofa in her dorm room as some lunatic pounded on the door. The night can get worse. After her disastrous date with Trevor, she came back to her room in hopes of studying but she felt too pathetic. She was having her own pity party entitled "I Suck" when she was interrupted. Trudging to the door, she was surprised to see Paris and Tristan standing there, both looking a little disheveled.

"Gilmore!" her roommate exclaimed, looping an arm around Rory's shoulders and giving her a noisy kiss on the cheek while she stared at Tristan, bewildered. "So lovely to see you. How was the date?"

Ignoring her, the brunette turned to Tristan. "You got her drunk?"

He pocketed his hands. "No, she pretty much did that on her own."

"Why is it that whenever you're around something bad always happens?" Rory asked hypothetically, before turning around to steady Paris, who was about to fall. "Jesus, how much did you let her drink?"

"What part of she got drunk on her own don't you understand, Gilmore?" Tristan shot back, temper flaring in his eyes as he stepped into the dorm. "Do you need me to spell it out for you?"

"Children," Paris said patiently as she whirled around. "Don't fight. I'm okay. Really. Never better."

Rory rolled her eyes and caught Paris's arm. "Come on, we'll put you in bed. Tristan," she said icily over her shoulder, "you know your way out."

She winced as the door slammed shut behind him but smothered the nagging voice in her head. Paris gave her a stern look. "Idiot."

"Excuse me but I'm not the one who's drunk and disorderly."

"He was being perfectly nice," Paris responded as Rory maneuvered them into the room. "You were being a bitch."

Rory's formed a little 'O'. "What?"

"Oh don't deny it," she replied, disgusted. "I hate it when you do that."

"When I do what?" Rory asked, completely taken aback. Paris lowered herself onto her bed. "What are you talking about?"

"You pretend you're this really nice girl who doesn't do anything wrong," she answered, flailing her arms around, dramatically, her face flushed red. "This unassuming, righteous…golden girl who has every fucking thing that she wants!"

Hurt and at a loss for what to say, Rory stared at her friend and mumbled stupidly, "I don't get what I want. Listen, does this have to do with Jamie because he called here like…"

"Oh God," she muttered, holding her head with her hands. Rory wasn't sure if she had a headache or was just exasperated. DrunkParis had more mood swings than NeuroticParis and that was saying a lot. "Buy a clue, Gilmore. You got into Harvard but didn't go only because you were too chicken shit to cut the umbilical cord."

"You're drunk," Rory replied stiffly as she crossed the room to her bed.

"You're avoiding."

"What the hell is your problem, Paris?" she shot back finally.

"Right now," Paris answered, eyes narrowed as she stood up, teetering a little, "you."

"Ever since we've been at Yale, you've been set on being this stupid, laid-back…freshman. You're partying and that stupid crafts corner and your life coach...God!" Rory yelled, knowing the rest of their suitemates could hear them. She was too hurt to care.

"Yeah well, not everyone likes the real me so sue me if I actually want to have friends," Paris shot back, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater. "Not everyone can bat their eye-lashes and have all the boys in town begging, Princess."

"Right," Rory said sarcastically, "But getting drunk at a party with Tristan DuGrey is a sure-fire way to make sure he gets into your pants."

"Maybe if he wasn't so hung up on you," Paris stopped to tug her sweater over her head and then curled her lip into a sneer, "You know you should actually take him up on that. Maybe popping your the cherry will help dislodge the fucking stick shoved up your ass."

Glowering, she picked up her textbook and walked to the door, signaling that she was done with the conversation. "You know Paris, maybe the fact that no one likes you is because you're mean, spiteful and really crappy to the few friends you have."

With a bang, Rory shut the door behind her and closed her eyes, willing back tears.