Disclaimer: Don't own them.
Author's Note: Well, CabbagesnKings was right in her assumption that Chapter Three was supposed to be the end of this story. Those three chapters were all I had planned, but then a sudden burst of inspiration hit me. Now, a piece that was supposed to be short and sweet has developed into a fic that will ultimately end up being the longest I have ever written. That's not saying much, considering my longest fic is merely five chapters, but whatever.
To all who reviewed, your thoughts are always extremely appreciated, and I'm so grateful that you take the time to share them with me. If I had the ability to clone Chad, you'd all get a copy. ;) I hope you'll stick with me for the duration, as this fic has definitely taken a turn away from the fluffy side. Hugs to you all!
*****
We all begin with good intent
Love was raw and young
We believed that we could change ourselves
The past could be undone
But we carry on our backs the burden
Time always reveals
The lonely light of morning
the wound that would not heal
it's the bitter taste of losing everything
that I have held so dear.
- Sarah McLachlan, "Fallen"
*****
The late, Sunday evening sun winked in her window as it was slowly distinguished behind the bare arms of the trees, giving way to the faint orange of dusk. Night was beginning to arrive early now, swallowing up the light of day and surrendering to the frosty stillness that was winter twilight. The shadows grew longer, bathing her room in alternating patterns of gold and the blackest grey, transforming everything familiar into a world of anonymity. And that was how she, herself, had at first felt in Chilton's hallowed halls.
She had been the new girl. The one everyone gossiped about but never wanted to meet. The eyes of the girls had flitted over her, assessing the possible competition before declaring her as harmless and casting her aside with disdainful sniffs and triumphant glares. The guys hadn't noticed her at all. Except one.
The one who had kissed her.
Absently, her fingers drifted to her lips, touching the flesh he had felt. Her mouth, still tender and aching, as if waiting to be reclaimed. It was no longer just hers.
He had kissed her. Countless times. Sweet and passionate. Gentle and smoldering.
Her stomach flipped at the mere thought of him. Rory Gilmore was giddy. She had never been giddy.
She had expected her first kiss to be a sloppy mess of lips and awkward tongues, not the smooth, precise seduction she had experienced only two days ago. A seduction. How peculiar, really, that she was using the particular word which implied a more deeper connection, one that involved touching, removing, and becoming. And…
Even though she was alone, she could feel herself flush an unflattering shade of tomato red. She shouldn't be thinking about those sorts of things.
But he had that affect on her.
She perched on her bed, with hands tucked in the narrow space between her crossed legs. The cordless phone rested in front of her, and she eyed it warily. Heaving a weary sigh, she reached for the dark blue Chilton directory and hurriedly flipped through its pages to the "D" section. Finger trailing over the standard, block typeset, she scanned the page.
Davis…
Donovan…
DuGrey, Tristan… 655-1212
She jerked her hand away, as if it had been burned by simply touching his name. Her sweaty finger had left a moist indentation on the paper, somewhat smudging the ink, but his phone number was still readable. No excuses.
She grabbed the phone and stared at it, her thumb hovering over the six as the dial tone buzzed furiously at her. The numbers emitted a greenish-yellow glow, turning her pale skin almost translucent. Ghost-like.
She pressed the six. The resulting beep seemed a hundred times louder than it really was.
The two fives. If the device had a tongue it surely would have blown a raspberry at her.
"Coward," she muttered, uptight. It was only Tristan.
It was never only Tristan.
"If you would like to make a call…." Tinny and distant. The operator.
She clicked the off button. "Nope, I don't want to make a call."
Mesmerizing azure eyes, a tender caress, feverish kisses.
She threw the phone down, and it bounced once on the bed, skidding to a stop precariously close to the edge. "I'm not calling him."
Feelings and the confusing sensation of missing him. The need to hear his voice was overwhelming. "I. Won't." Even as she uttered that pitiful declaration, she crawled over and retrieved the phone, dialing the string of digits.
It rang once. She could picture the harsh echo in the massive home, servants scampering to answer.
Twice.
No one was home. Right. Nodding, she inched the receiver away from her ear. The ringing grew quieter.
"DuGrey residence."
Her eyes widened as she brought the phone back closer to her.
"Hello?" The voice was haughty with a strong accent, distinctly British. It brought to mind images of a wiry mustache, a hooked nose, and eyes glaring over the top of bifocals.
"Um, hello?" She choked, squeaking out the last word.
"Can I help you?"
Yes, this person would be right at home in an English castle, surrounded by impenetrable fog, as they opened their door to wayward travelers. Complete with an evil gleam in their eye and a smarmy grin. "May I speak to Tristan, please?"
"Miss Victoria?"
Victoria?
"He isn't here, miss, but I will relay your previous message to him when he returns."
"Um, no. This is Rory. Gilmore."
"Oh. Well, Miss Gilmore, I will tell him you called."
"Thank -" The line went dead. "- you."
The phone felt as if it weighed fifty pounds, and she let it fall from her limp hand.
Victoria…
The name swirled around in her head as she fought with her natural curiosity. She didn't recognize it as being someone from Chilton, but then again, she wasn't exactly part of Tristan's circle of friends. She could pass this girl in the hall everyday and still not know what position she held in his life.
If at all. This Victoria was probably just a friend. Nothing more. She wasn't the jealous type, and this was not something to worry over.
But it was not until later that she remembered the stiffly formal way the speaker had addressed her.
*****
How she adored the musky smell of books, their yellowing pages possessing incredible mystery and knowledge. It was one of the many allures of a library, and Chilton's was no exception. She often liked to arrive at the school early, usually an hour before the final bell, to examine the towering stacks in peace. Not many of the students would dare be seen on campus, outside of class, for fear of being referred to as geeky, but she didn't care. To many, the deathly silence would be almost tomb-like, but to her it was comforting. A sanctuary.
Clutching her Styrofoam cup of coffee, she gingerly sipped the steaming liquid through the hole in the lid, careful not to burn the tip of her tongue. She had done so, many times before, usually when she was absorbed in an interesting chapter of her latest novel. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and she didn't want to repeat it. She weaved through shelves upon massive shelves, her free hand skimming over spines, rising and falling as the ridges decreased and then increased. Finding a particular subject fascinating, she placed her cup on the edge of the shelf and slid two books from their confines. She tucked one under her arm and began to scrutinize the other, bracing the back of it protectively with one hand.
"What could you possibly find so interesting?"
She whirled around, nearly knocking the coffee over on the carpet in her haste. Tristan was standing behind her, clad in the Chilton uniform, and only he had the poise to wear it like Armani. His arms were crossed casually over his broad chest as he regarded her intently, eyes once again deliberately appraising her figure, before finally meeting hers. "Besides me, of course," he added as his mouth curled into a cross between a perilous grin and a teasing smirk.
"Meet your competition." She held up the book, flashing the title.
"Italian Art, huh?" He started to reach for the text, but she held it just out of his reach. "Any nudes?" His voice had lowered, shifting to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Oh, nothing you'd care about." She shrugged indifferently, for she had recently discovered the tremendous fun in goading him.
"How so?" He was frowning now.
She pretended to be completely enamored by a painting. "Well… they're actually quite detailed, really."
"Let me see."
"Oh… but, they're not women." She blinked innocently, fighting back a fit of the giggles at his annoyed huff.
"Give me that." His expression was indignant as he took the book from her, and she collapsed into laughter.
The painting she had found so enthralling was a watercolor of the Tuscan landscape. "Very clever, Rory." He glared at her as he shoved the book back into the stacks.
"You're… so… gullible," she managed as her body shuddered with amusement. "I didn't know you swing both ways," she kidded.
He shot her a look. "I don't think I could have done certain things to you if I was anything other than straight." He smiled in victory when she flushed. One to one.
He took a step closer to her, eyes darkening with suppressed need, and she shifted nervously. He always had a way of turning the conversation around so that he was completely in control, forcing her to succumb to her nerves. She tugged at the hem of her plaid skirt, searching for a witty retort but coming up empty. Well, now would be as good a time as any to approach the subject which had kept her awake most of the previous night. "Tristan, I need to ask you…"
One hand cupped her cheek, while the other curved around her back. "It's been over twenty-four hours." He brushed her silky hair away from her neck as he nipped at her delicate skin, which was now extremely sensitive to his touch. She arched into him, her hips bumping against his.
"I know, but…"
He trailed a path up to her lips, suspended above them, each breath mingling with hers. "Talk later." And his mouth crushed hers. She was addictive, and kissing her was like a drug. He couldn't get enough, and the withdrawal symptoms nearly killed him.
She resisted, but only for an instant, as words unspoken caught in her throat. They dangled there before being swallowed, long forgotten. His tongue battled with hers as he explored the deep essence of her. They were both losing the fight.
He was kissing her as if it was for the last time, and she responded, her hands creeping around his waist as they curled up under his blazer, spanning his back. The book under her arm tumbled to the floor, narrowly missing his knee which was firmly ensconced between her legs.
An excruciating pause for a breathless gasp.
"Tristan." His name reverberated against his mouth.
His hand fisted in her jacket, pulling her ever closer to him. "Rory," he whispered back, gently mocking.
And he kissed her again, his tongue sliding over her bottom lip, tracing the curves. She was pressed against the shelf, the hard metal creasing into her lower back. "Not here…"
He sampled the dimple in her chin. "My car?"
"Too cramped."
"The locker room?"
"Too smelly."
"Then here will have to do." His lips brushed her cheek, nose, and finally lingered between her creased brows.
Victoria, Victoria. Ask him about Victoria. Her tiny inner voice sung the mantra, like a CD track on repeat. "Listen, I…"
He silenced her easily and efficiently.
Neither of them noticed the library door as it swung over the black and white tiled floor, closing with a soft click.
*****
Lunch period was half over as Rory finished up in the bathroom, gathering her things. She had just slid back the lock and opened the stall door a crack when she heard it.
"Oh, my god, you are not going to believe what I saw in the library this morning." The girl had a high, flirty voice, even when not in the presence of a male. Familiar.
"Books?" Her friend quipped.
"Liz, shut up." She paused, as if wanting to prolong the suspense.
"Then stop stalling, Summer."
Summer. One of Tristan's ex-girlfriends. Not that that was surprising. Chilton was practically crawling with them.
"Tristan…" A throaty chuckle. "And Rory Gilmore."
The subject of their conversation gasped, almost inaudibly, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breathing was shallow and rapid as she tried to control it, praying they wouldn't discover her.
"So?"
"So, they were all over each other. Right in the middle of the library."
"Wow, she isn't exactly his type." Rory could almost see 'Liz' wrinkle her nose.
Summer snorted her agreement. "Oh, you should have seen her face, though! I'm betting another week and she gives it up to him."
Rory glared fire through the chipped blue paint of the stall door.
"Tristan will be pleased." Liz giggled cattily.
"Sure, he loves the chase, but once he wins, it's over for him. It's a game."
"Poor, little Rory Gilmore." Her voice didn't display even an ounce of pity.
"Consider it a lesson learned."
"That leaves him free for you again, huh?"
"Been there, done that," Summer replied coolly.
"You should still invite him to your Christmas party. A casual hook-up never hurt anyone."
"Yeah, but something tells me he'll be otherwise indisposed."
"Certainly not with Gilmore."
"Please, Liz, she isn't even that pretty. No, the word is that Vicky has asked him to spend holiday break with her… at her parents' place in the Hamptons."
"I knew she wanted him back!"
"And we all know he's far from over her."
Their footsteps faded as the bathroom door closed swiftly behind them.
Rory slumped against the side wall of the stall, the metal toilet paper holder roughly cutting into her hip. Compared to the absolute humiliation she was experiencing, the pain was almost welcome.
Vicky… Victoria.
She was so stupid. The rational part of her mind begged her to question Summer's claims and brush them off as petty jealousy. But she knew Tristan. Had known all along about his reputation as a player. She didn't want to believe he had been using her, until someone better came along… this Victoria. Someone with whom she could probably never compare.
He cared about her. She knew he did. He couldn't touch or kiss her with such passion if he didn't…
But he had plenty of practice, and she was obviously just a convenient pawn.
And she had still fallen. Hard.
Anger flooded through her like a tidal wave, drowning and smothering her. She had been foolish. She knew better! Flinging open the door of the stall, she walked over to the sink, gripping its sturdy edges for fear of a sudden collapse. The face blinking back at her in the mirror couldn't possibly be her own. Blotchy skin and glassy eyes.
It hurt so much.
It shouldn't have - they weren't even dating. They weren't a couple. They just were…
Nothing.
She felt the prickling in her eyes, the vicious tingling in her nose…
She would not cry. Not over him. Even as salty tears beaded on the tips of her lashes. Unbidden. She was such a girl.
Turning on the tap, she cupped her hands under the streaming liquid as it spurted from a partially clogged faucet. She splashed her face with icy cold and tore off a brown, industrial paper towel, rubbing her cheeks dry. She wished to go home, pull on her flannel pajamas, forget everything.
While always remembering one face.
*****
She shoved her history text into an empty space in her locker, and the books reacted to the brutality by cascading like dominos, nearly crushing her fingers. Wincing, she straightened the cumbersome volumes, stacking them neatly. Three more classes to go, one of which she shared with him. Bending over, she tucked her thick Psychology notebook into her bag, unconsciously recalling their experiment of that day…
No. No, no, no. She wouldn't think of him.
"Hey."
Too late.
"Rory?" The way he said her name, as if it weren't at all simple. As if she meant something to him. Never again.
She didn't respond.
He bent his head, as if to place a feather-light kiss on her cheek, but with an expert tilt, her hair fell forward in a protective curtain. Successfully blocking his touch.
"Are you okay?" She jerked her head, agitated, and he caught a glimpse of damp skin. "Have you been crying?"
"Leave me alone," she gritted out, warningly.
He didn't seem to take the hint. Or he didn't want to. "That's not how you felt this morning." He grinned, wanting to make her laugh.
She slowly raised her eyes to his, and what he saw there stunned him. Broken, absent of that alluring sparkle. "I can't do this. I won't do this." She spoke mechanically, like she had rehearsed this speech over and over until it was ingrained in her mind.
"It's a little late for that, isn't it?"
"It's over, Tristan."
"What?" He was incredulous and still smiling faintly. He had no idea.
"And I'm beginning to doubt if there was ever anything there." She turned back to her bag, fiddling with the zipper.
He jerked it from her grasp, forcing her attention to him. "What the hell is wrong?" He tried to lower his voice, aware that people were beginning to stare as they walked by, but his emotions and confusion were overflowing.
"You."
"Oh, now that's original."
Just ask him. Ask him, and it'll all be over. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "I suddenly realized I can't stand you."
He scoffed derisively. "It's a known fact that I've always annoyed the shit out of you."
"Then stay away from me."
"Right."
"Don't talk to me, don't touch me, and certainly don't… kiss me." Her breath hitched on the last two words, and she kicked herself inwardly.
"Even now, standing there, you want me to." Husky, with irritation this time.
"The only thing I want is to take it all back." A heated pause, mingling with hoarse confusion. "Everything."
"Liar," he hissed simply.
"Well, that's yet another thing I learned from my teacher." She threw out the last word bitterly, smacking him in the face with it. Her hand would have inflicted less pain. She whirled on her heel, desperately fighting to keep her spine straight, confident.
"Damn it, Rory…"
His plea wasn't lost on her, but she willed herself to keep walking towards her next class, her back forever to him. The final bell rang, and she quickened her already blistering pace. Now, she was also late. As she skidded to a halt at the door of her room, she risked a solitary glance over her shoulder, wondering if he would still be standing there. Did he even care that much?
The hall was deserted.
*****
For the remainder of the day, and the week, he made no attempt to approach her, nor she to him, of course. As a result, it should have been relatively easy to ignore him, to pretend he didn't exist.
If it weren't for his eyes always on her, searing into her very core. In their classes, during lunch, even from across the sea of heads, and in the courtyard. She didn't have to see him to know he was watching her. Always. She could feel it.
She didn't dare meet his gaze. Unbeknownst to her, if she had, she might have discovered the answers to the taunting questions which haunted her dreams every night.
But she never looked.
*****
A thunderstorm in late fall. An odd and terrible way to end an even worse week.
The wipers whistled furiously across the windshield, the scream of rubber against glass barely heard above the tumultuous pounding of rain as it tumbled out of the thrashing, angry sky. The water poured over the roof of her car, streaming in waves down the windows, creating a shield of peppering drops as they raced each other across the glass. She shifted uneasily in her seat, her trembling fingers automatically tightening the belt, eager for its safety and comfort. Bleary-eyed, she stared apprehensively out the front windshield as she carefully maneuvered the vehicle around the misty curves of the deserted road. Beams of gold flashed pitifully against black and yellow asphalt, unable to shatter the haze of rain that shimmered like a dangerous mirage.
Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic. Wanting to kick herself for her poor decision-making, she knew she should have accepted Emily's offer to spend the night in Hartford. When originally approached with the idea, she had protested, her mind occupied by the hours of studying and homework she would have to complete before Monday morning. Lorelai had a conference at the inn over the weekend, so she would be spending the night there, leaving Rory to her own defenses. She had welcomed the opportunity to spend a quiet evening at home, buried in her textbooks, but now she wondered if she would even arrive there in one piece.
The rain continued to hammer relentlessly against the car, and she swiped at the window with her hand as lightening struck viscously through the black night, briefly illuminating the vacant surroundings. She was driving at a snail's pace, her fingers gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline as she struggled to keep the vehicle on the road to the dismay of the howling, vengeful wind. The tires spun weakly against the rivers of water, clinging to any form of friction that remained.
Lightening flashed again, a ribbon of jagged white, and the earth shuddered under the resounding crack of thunder. She slowed down even more so, her head shifting to the right as she peered out the passenger side window. In the inky darkness, it was practically impossible to distinguish the rather large shadow from the rest of the landscape as it rested at a standstill on the side of the road. Black on black, solid edges blending into the fluidity of the rain. Lightening erupted like a strobe, providing a brief glimpse of the black BMW which appeared lost in the crushing storm…
And all too familiar.
She sought frantically for a sign… any sign that this wasn't the same car. It couldn't be… Not his. But she was only met by a barrage of images, which told her that her original assumption was no mistake.
She had pulled even with the sports car now, idling the ignition and switching on the emergency flashers. The darkness was suffocating, blocking out every sign of possible life. "No… no…"
Another flash of blinding, searing light. A young man slumped across the driver's seat, unmoving, lifeless.
"Oh, God."
To be continued…
