Disclaimer: Still don't own them.

Author's Note: Kudos to anyone who actually remembers this fic. I know it has been a really (definitely an emphasis on "really") long time since I updated, but here you go. Honestly, I have no idea when I'll get to the next part. Life keeps me constantly on the go these days, but we'll see.

Without thinking, without breathing, she shoved open the door of the car and stumbled out into the lake that the road had quickly become. The wind whistled and shook around her, blowing the door back as it smacked into her arm. Pain erupted in her wrist, and she fought back helpless tears. Whether they were tears from the pain of from fear, she didn't stop to question. In a matter of seconds, she was drenched, the gale forces tearing at her clothes and hair. Every step was equal to a struggle through quicksand. She couldn't see, couldn't feel.

Numbness.

She gripped the door handle of the BMW, not allowing herself to breathe a small sigh of relief. The shiny finish was unblemished, no indication that there had been any collision. She paused, suddenly afraid to see what was hidden behind the tinted windows, terrified of what she might find. Wanting nothing more than to open the door and for him to smile at her. To be irritating, to tease, to smirk. She didn't care, as long as he was capable of doing those things.

Warm blood rushed over her fingers. His life. Must stop… Have to save…

She blinked and saw only streams of rain, clear in the blackness. Realizing precious seconds could have been wasted, she squeezed the silver handle, thanking God when the door easily popped open. The bitter scent of alcohol, mingling with new leather, washed over her, stinging her eyes. She knelt down, angling herself so she could see inside the car.

He was indeed there, head lolling loosely against the back of the seat, eyes closed. His normally sun-kissed face was washed pale… too pale. Her soaked hair fell forward over her shoulder as she bent next to him, the water droplets glistening like pearls as they tumbled onto his porcelain skin.

"Tristan, please…"

She felt the sour bile rise in her throat, worry gripping her, as she reached out with a trembling hand, gingerly brushing her knuckles across his cheek. He was warm. She placed two fingers in the hollow of his throat, just below the jaw line. His pulse was steady. To her, the pounding rhythm of it was a comfort.

His light blue, button-down shirt and khakis were free of any blood, save some liquid substance that looked a bit like vomit. He had obviously drunken himself into a stupor and passed out. She had to give him credit for having enough sense to pull off the road. She clutched her cell phone, her nails bearing into her palm, surely leaving marks. With a frantic jerk of her head, she shook the heavy, sopping layers of hair from her eyes and flipped the phone open. Water poured over the tiny device, and she swiped at the screen, swallowing a curse as the empty charge bar winked at her. Absolutely worthless.

She scrambled over to the passenger side of the car and threw the door open, her left shoe sinking ankle deep into a puddle of mire. The mud emitted a squelching burp as she freed her foot, splattering grainy dots along the curve of her calf muscle. Losing her balance, she fell, grasping for the inside door handle. Her fingers slid around it, and she flung herself inside the car, blocking them from the elements. Hands skimming the roof, she searched for the overhead light among all the other tiny buttons and gadgets. Finally finding it, she flicked it on, blinking against the glaring harshness. Once the dazzling black and red spots had cleared, she glanced over at Tristan once more. He was still unconscious, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Hoping to discover his cell phone, she tugged the glove compartment open. Nothing except a couple CD's and a crumpled piece of notebook paper. Unfolding it revealed seven digits scrawled in swirling, purple ink. A phone number. Figures. Rolling her eyes, she tossed the paper back into the depths of the compartment and thumped it closed with her fist.

Hastily, she checked the side pockets of his pants, her knee banging against the gear shift. Empty. That left his back pocket.

Well, this could prove to be an awkward situation.

She gently pushed against his broad shoulder so he was lying slightly on his side, right hip turned upward. He was quite heavy, tall and muscular. Apprehensively, her fingers slowly slid into the tight pocket, landing on an object that felt vaguely like a cell phone. Biting her lip, she knew she was blushing for the thin material of his khakis did nothing to conceal the firmness of his physique. For the first time, she was actually thankful he was completely inebriated. He surely would have taken great pleasure in her discomfort.

This cell phone was as effective as its predecessor. No signal. It fell like a dead weight, landing with a clunk as it was caught by a cup holder. If her judgments were correct, they were closer to Stars Hollow than Hartford, and the torrential downpour showed no signs of easing in the immediate future. Suddenly aware that the waterlogged material of her skirt was clinging to her legs, she winced. The pristine leather seat was just as drenched as she was. She shifted her feet, peering down at the floor mat. A streak of mud, undeniably from her torrid battle with the Black Lagoon, minus the creature, was smeared across the gray carpet. It was already hardening into orangey-red shards.

"Sorry," she muttered, to no one in particular.

Shivering, she contemplated starting the car so the heat would warm the interior, but if the low gas gauge was any indication, there wasn't much left. She found Tristan's jacket in the backseat and draped it over her arms. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she sat with her back against the window, enveloped in the light spicy scent of his cologne.

She felt completely alone, yet surrounded by familiarity. Unnerving and comforting. Not quite sure what to do, she found herself focusing on the steady up and down movement of his breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Was he dreaming? Of who? Her?

Or Victoria…

It had been days of avoidance, of questions unanswered. She had almost forgotten what it was like to be in such close proximity to him.

Liar.

Remembering him was all she was capable of. Pretending to ignore his presence but knowing that he was always there. Somewhere.

Unbeknownst to her, while their habitual world of playful banter and irritating teasing had ceased to exist over the endless week, his intense observations of her had carried on. Wanting to forget but needing to remember. Wanting to fight it and give in all at the same time. The fight had won. He would not weaken, for she had turned her back on him. No explanation given.

He wanted her, needed her.

And now he would do without her.

Stubbornness can be a bitch.

And their game had become a lonely one. The players had resigned.

As the rain continued to fall silently outside, she watched him, inexplicably unable to tear her eyes away from the young man who suddenly resembled a vulnerable little boy in so many ways. Her lips were chapped, rubbing roughly against each other as she moved them slightly, trying to form the words rushing through her head. Her mind was exhausted, clogged with a lack of sleep. Tired of keeping up the seemingly never-ending charade of not caring.

She focused on his closed eyelids, long, thick lashes, imagining the brilliant, heart-stopping blue.

"Tristan…" Her voice croaked on the last syllable. She swallowed, desperately trying to moisten her dry throat. "I'm sorry." She sank deeper within his jacket, as if hiding would make her confessions easier to take. For her. "I'm sorry… not for getting mud in your car… Well, for that, too. But I'm sorry. Sorry for not talking to you when I needed to." Her voice grew quieter with every admission. "I'm sorry for not asking you about… her. I should have. I know that. I was just angry. I still am. But I couldn't let you see that it bothered me… couldn't let you know…" She squeezed her hand into a fist. "That it hurt me. And even after everything…"

Merely a whisper caressing the air.

"I still miss you."

It appeared that Rory Gilmore was only on the injured list.

-&-

"Hey, my house shrunk."

"This is my house." She rolled her eyes, annoyed with the need to explain the minutest detail to him as if he were a five year old. Albeit a five year old who had discovered mommy and daddy's liquor cabinet.

"Your house."

"Last time I checked, yes."

"And you…" He pointed at her with an exaggerated jerk. "Brought me here because…" His finger was now directed inward towards his chest, as if he felt the need to remind her who was who in this ridiculous situation.

"Because I didn't want your death tormenting my conscience for the rest of my life. I'm obviously insane."

He pouted, crossing his arms pitifully in front of his chest. "Take me home. My home."

She didn't respond.

"Then I'll drive." He made a lurching attempt to grab the car keys from her, but she skillfully dodged him. His hand hit nothing but air, and he crashed to the ground, the rough, grainy concrete of the walkway rushing up to greet him. It slashed through his paints, scraping the tender skin of his knee, and he laid there, head buried in his arms. "Shit." Wishing he were dead. How pathetic and humiliating. "Hello, walkway. Meet dumbass."

She stooped down, taking his hand in hers and tugging fruitlessly. "Come…" A heaving grunt. "On." The skies had opened once again, pouring currents of water and washing away the tiny stream of blood that seeped between the ripped strings of his khakis. Even the weather mocked him.

He stood slowly, grimacing at the burning sting in his knee, and was suddenly aware of her slender fingers curled around his. Eyes shifting to hers, he averted them just as quickly for he couldn't stand to see her sympathy. Couldn't bear to even see her. She wasn't holding his hand tightly, not even close, but he shook it loose anyway.

She was frustrated, aggravated, and completely ready to kill him. When the rain had finally let up, she had managed to get Tristan out of the BMW and into her car, with the least amount of help from him. This precarious maneuver had consisted of her pulling, Tristan dragging, a lot of water, and helpless protests about abandoning his "baby." She had assured him the "baby" wouldn't drown, but she was precariously close to committing murder by drowning him if he didn't cooperate.

After arriving in Stars Hollow in triple the normal amount of time, she had wearily stopped the car in front of the Gilmore home, yet another fine sheet of glittering mist greeting them. Now, they continued their previous struggle, his arm looped around her neck and hers gripped his waist like a vise, fingers grasping at the soaked cotton of his shirt.

"Le' go. I can…" He swayed frightfully close to the drainage ditch. "Do it myself."

A yellow glow cut through the night, beaming through a space in the frilly curtains draped across Babette's kitchen window. The material moved back slightly from a sudden movement, and Rory knew that the tiny woman had seen everything. "Tristan, shut up," she hissed, her voice caught between a whisper and scream.

"Make me," he taunted, not even attempting to soften his tones.

She did let go of him then, shoving him in the direction of the porch railing, as she walked up the steps. She felt him move up behind her, and she shifted uneasily, fully aware that his penetrating gaze was locked on her. It seemed like the distance between them had lessened dramatically. She watched his mouth open then snap closed, as if he had wanted to speak but thought better of it. Frowning, she pushed the wet tendrils of hair out of her eyes, squinting against the mist. The fuzzy glow made him appear as if he were surrounded by a ring of light, ambiguous in every way. "What?"

He turned away from her, his body rigid. This was too complicated. Too many things to say and no words to say them. His voice was dry, still slurred. "Nothin'. Nothin' at all."

She whispered a vague "fine," and he watched her turn, shoving her key into the lock. When he didn't move to follow her, she shot a look over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"

He raised his face to the sky as the water peppered down. A night spent catching pneumonia or a night spent with Rory? No contest. There had never been one. He was coherent enough to recognize that.

As she shifted position to allow him access to her home, his forearm brushed hers, a caress of emotion unspent. Startled, her luminous sapphire eyes met his, their lashes beaded with crystal droplets. And he knew then that he had been wrong before. This…

This was everything.

-&-

"Here." She handed him a fluffy, pristinely white towel. "You can dry off." He looked from her, to the towel, to the vomit stains on his pants, and back again.

"I needa shower."

"Oh, right." She wrung the towel into a twisted rope. "Well…" She stared at the floor, noticing the droplets of blood which decorated the cream carpet around his right foot. "Your knee."

"Stay." She ran to the bathroom, retrieving the first-aid kit always kept on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. When she returned, she pointed from Tristan to the couch. "Sit." He did so, at first slouching against the back, then raising himself up again, leaving a dark wet spot where his head had been. His leg jiggled to an imaginary tune only he could hear in his head.

"Don't move." She curled her fingers around the edge of his pant leg, gingerly pushing it up his sculpted calf. The fine hairs there brushed her knuckles, and she sucked in her breath. His leg danced up and down again, and she cupped one hand behind his knee to steady it as her other hand finished rolling the pants over the smooth crest of his kneecap.

After soaking a piece of gauze with rubbing alcohol, she held it over his torn flesh. She glanced up at him, seeing that his eyes were closed. "This might sting a little."

The minute the alcohol came in contact with the wound, he emitted a mournful howl.

"Or a lot."

"Stop." He batted her hand away.

She continued dabbing at the cut. "I have to clean it. Otherwise, it could get infected."

"Le' it fall off," he protested, eerily like a young child trying desperately to escape a visit to the doctor.

She clucked her tongue twice. "Then what would the girls think?"

"'Snot my leg they're interested in." Somehow, he managed a wimpy leer.

"I'm going to have to use a little more alcohol."

"You just wanna torture me."

"If I wanted to torture you, I'd let you sit here and develop gangrene." He eyed the freshly saturated gauze despairingly. "Think about something else."

He was silent as she finished cleaning his knee and bandaged it with more gauze. "Done."

As she stood, he leaned forward to inspect her handiwork. Seemingly satisfied, his eyes met hers, hazy with the residue of alcohol in his system… and something else. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She rocked back and forth on her heels, an action he had come to identify as a nervous habit.

"Dontcha wanna know what I was thinkin' about?

"I'll pass."

"You know that fuzzy sweater you wore last week?"

"Maybe it would be better if you don't talk."

"I was thinkin' about you in it." A deliberate, pregnant pause. "And out of it."

"Don't think, either."

-&-

"Damn." He struggled with his shirt, the holes suddenly too small for the buttons to easily slip through. His fingers felt swollen, fumbling, and Rory was staring at him as if he had sprouted two heads. "Stop looking at me," he growled, turning his back to her.

She bit her lip, a giggle bubbling in her throat. "Do you want me to help?"

"No!"

"Such a big boy."

A mumble, distinctly foul in intent.

"Do you think you'll be ready in a couple hours?"

A shearing rip, cloth tearing.

"Tristan, turn around."

He did so, shirt clenched in his fists, cheeks tinged pink with annoyance. Wordlessly, she stepped in front of him, taking the top button between her fingers. Freeing it from its confines, she focused on the next one, methodically working her way down his shirt. She could feel his stare curving over every inch of her face, but she didn't dare acknowledge it. Instead, she ducked her head, presenting him with a curtain of brunette tresses.

A moment later, she had finished with the last button but neither moved. Water dripped from the faucet in the sink, a leak that had yet to be fixed. Pings of liquid hitting metal and a gurgling drain were the only sounds in the uncomfortable stillness of the bathroom.

Her eyes were fixated near the center of his torso, as if she were looking through him, but still absorbing the way his abdominal muscles responded to each intake of air, the thin wife-beater concealing little. He cleared his throat, so close she could feel the vibrations, and her gaze ricocheted upward, locking with his. A squeak of a gasp escaped, her body weaving slightly, knees weak, disobeying her.

She had to stop this. Now.

Gingerly, she brought her fingertips to his chest, the sensory pads colliding with the ribbed material of the wife-beater. Hesitating a millisecond that felt like hours, she let her palms fall forward, resting the entirety of her hands against him. Slowly, she smoothed her hands up and over his broad, bare shoulders, drawing the now unbuttoned shirt away from them. He automatically lifted his arms, taut biceps stretched with the movement, allowing her to completely remove the soiled material.

She gathered the shirt in both hands, scrunching it into a wrinkled ball, trying to avoid their image in the mirror. Resistance was futile, however, and she saw his reflection there. Long torso, khakis slung low on his slim hips, with only a leather belt to hold them up. Saw his hand alternately clench and unclench, as he raised it, even with her shoulder. Saw two of his fingers gingerly envelope a strand of her hair, now unhurriedly drying in messy clumps, clinging to her neck. He played with it for a moment, combing a knot out with those ever curious fingers. She winced at her own reflection, not feeling very attractive. Not knowing why that even mattered anymore.

Blue met unyielding blue, and her knees threatened to give away altogether. His intensity was smoldering, but when he blinked, it was anger she saw. Angry, tired disappointment. He had never looked at her in this manner, and it made her ache. Ache with the knowledge that she had done this to him. She could only blame herself.

"You're soaked." As if just noticing her for the first time that night.

Not expecting him to speak, she jumped backward, nearly tripping over the towel hamper.

"Change. You're gonna get sick." Short and to the point. Clipped, brisk, distant. He shrugged off the wife-beater, removed the belt from his pants.

Hastily, she averted her gaze. "Leave your boxers on. Just give me your clothes, and I'll throw them in the washing machine."

"Maybe I don' wear boxers."

"I saw them in your room, but leave whatever it is on."

"It's nothin'."

"What?" Of their own accord, her eyes skipped over his Calvin Klein boxer-clad frame, his smug expression causing her blood to boil.

"Made ya look."

She pushed against his shoulder, shoving him up and over the base of the tub, drawing the rose opaque shower curtain around him. She heard him turn on the water, the faucet squeaking roughly. "There's a spare toothbrush in the cabinet." She bent over, gathering his discarded clothes.

"Uh, oh."

"What now?"

"Can't take a shower in my boxers."

She heaved a sigh. "Why not? You're already in there."

"I'll chafe."

"Fine." She thrust her hand through the tiny opening between the curtain and the wall of the tub, fully expecting him to remove the boxers and give them to her. Instead, he exited from the other end, the boxers already halfway down one hip. "Tristan, wait…" She closed her eyes, as a wet clump of cotton landed on her head. "Oh, God."

She removed the bizarre headdress, one hand covering her eyes.

"You can look now."

Not trusting him, she peered through the crack between her middle and forefingers. She could hear him humming, back in the shower.

"I can't believe you didn't sneak a peek." He sounded dumbfounded, almost wounded.

She remained silent, wringing out the boxers over the sink.

"You still there?"

"Yes."

"I'm not usin' this flowery, herbal stuff to wash my hair."

"Well, you're in a household of flowery girls."

He stuck his head around the shower curtain, hair sticking up in wet spikes. "Dontcha have anything a little more manly? Ya know… for when the urge calls and company comes to visit."

She turned to him with a completely innocent expression. "Glue."

His eyes widened, bloodshot horror. "Oh, right. I love flowers."

She wanted nothing more than to leave the bathroom, or preferably the country, but not before sneaking her hand into the gap of the shower curtain and grasping the faucet. She gave it a jerk all the way to the right, turning the icy cold water on full force. Almost slipping on the damp tile, she ran from room, slamming the door behind her.

The solid wood did nothing to cushion his blood-curdling scream.

She opened the door a crack, speaking through the opening. "Bet you wish you had those boxers now."

"You. Are…"

She cut off his threat with a swift twist of the knob, closing the door. "So very good."

Now it was her turn to smirk.

-&-

After having changed into a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, she tossed her own clothes and Tristan's into the washing machine. He still hadn't emerged from the bathroom, so she busied herself by opening a can of chicken soup and heating it on the stove.

She heard the knob turn, and the door opened a crack, a shaft of light beaming over the floor. "Rory…"

"Everything okay?"

"If you even think about laughing…"

"What?"

He was wearing a robe, hers. The one with the coffee mugs and doughnuts. Dancing.

She thrust open one of the cabinets, hiding her shaking shoulders behind the door, stomach aching with the effort needed to withhold her amusement.

"I couldn't find anything else…" He tugged at the hem, but it barely reached his knees.

Giggles flooded through her like a tidal wave. "Camera." She gasped for breath, feigning searching through drawers.

"You die." He glared at her, arms crossed over his chest, obviously trying to project a force of extreme authority but failing miserably. Maybe if the doughnuts weren't grinning and wearing red bows.

"Soup?" She chirped, setting a bowl on the table, along with some crackers and a glass of ginger ale. He pulled out a chair and slumped down in it, still glowering.

"Do you think you can keep it down?"

"Don't know."

"Try." She nudged a spoon towards him, resisting the urge to tuck a napkin in under his chin. This thought initiated another round of laughter.

"Stop it."

"Sorry." She slid into the chair across from him, fiddling with the leftover crumbs dotting the placemat. Silverware clanked as he ate his soup, crackers crunching.

"Tristan…"

What?" He didn't look at her, seemingly consumed by capturing a wayward noodle with his spoon.

"Why did you do this to yourself?"

He shrugged.

"Because it just seems like so much fun." She retorted sarcastically.

"Oh, yeah. Tons. I plan to market the idea officially at Disney World."

"Well, at least you can form a complete, coherent sentence now."

"Ice water directly on your privates has that effect."

"Sorry," she repeated.

"Whatever."

"This isn't the first time, is it?"

"The ice water? Hell, yeah."

"No, I mean, the drinking."

He crumbled a cracker up in what was left of the broth. "I've had beers at parties before, if that's what you're asking. But I'd control it. This was the first time I've been completely drunk off my ass."

"Why?"

"You're just full of questions, aren't you?"

She ducked her head, hooking her feet around the legs of the chair. "You don't have to answer."

He smashed the soggy crackers with his spoon, avoiding the question momentarily. He heard her nearly inaudible sigh, her fingers tapping against the linoleum surface of the table. "I just wanted to forget."

"Oh." She didn't have to ask what he wanted to forget. She knew. "Did it work?"

His eyes locked with hers for merely an instant. "No." He lifted the glass of ginger ale to his lips, taking a sip and effectively shielding his expression.

Without even glancing at her, he stood and carried his dishes over to the sink. She stared after him, wanting to say something, to explain. "Tristan, we need to --."

She was interrupted by the rudely ringing phone, and she lurched for it. "Hello? Hi, Mom. No, everything's fine."

Tristan was rinsing the dishes, not trying to be at all quiet.

"What? I'm just loading the dishwasher." She pressed a finger to her lips, but he ignored her. "No, we've always had one." Intently aware that he had finished up at the sink and was now watching her curiously, she presented him with her back. After several more exchanges with her mother, she clicked the phone off, and turned around to face a deserted kitchen. "Tristan?"

"Nice room, by the way."

She careened around the corner of her bedroom, finding him collapsed on her bed, the sheet already pulled up over his waist. "No, no, no! You absolutely cannot sleep in here."

He propped up on one elbow, tugging on Colonel Clucker's beak. "Too late." He pointed to the discarded robe, carelessly slung over the back of her desk chair.

She ran her hands through her hair, feeling her face flush a florescent tomato red. "You're naked."

"Very." He shifted slightly, and the sheet drifted down, revealing the contours of a bare hip.

"This is my bed."

"No kidding."

She threw the comforter over him, but he immediately flipped it off. "You can't be in my bed."

"What? Afraid I'll christen it with you?"

"You wouldn't." She gave up on the struggle, turning the overhead light off with an irritated swipe of her hand.

"You're right." He plumped the pillow underneath his head, shoving his fist deep into its recesses.

"Well, we finally agree on something."

He didn't respond until she was almost out the door, closing it behind her. "By the way… earlier in the bathroom?"

"I told you I was sorry about the water." Her head was throbbing from exhaustion, and she didn't have the strength for this game.

"No, not that. When you took my shirt off."

"Oh." She had hoped he'd forgotten.

"Before you moved away… I wasn't going to kiss you."

And this time, she knew he meant it.

To be continued…