DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

"Answer the phone. I know you have to be there, I already called your work, and they said you haven't been in all week."

Rory glared in the direction of the answering machine as it continued to talk to her. She pulled the covers up over her head and continued to pretend that her protected cave of an apartment wasn't being invaded by yet another well-meaning message.

"Rory, come on! I'll keep calling and calling—no wait. I've been doing that all week. If you don't come to the phone right now I'm coming over."

The threat sounded real. What she really didn't feel like was seeing anyone. She hadn't been out all week, and she was barely eating. She sounded plenty sick when she called into work every day to extend her personal time off. She threw the blankets off her in one foul swoop and padded her sock covered feet over to the phone.

"Fine," she grumbled into the phone.

"So, you're that desperate not to see your own mother?"

"I'm sick," she tried; knowing of all people she was unable to lie to, it was her mother that could decode sick from hiding.

"Sick, right. Should I call an ambulance or would you like to be one of those smells that the super has to investigate after you die?"

"I'm not dying," she sighed, switching the phone to her other ear and walked back over to her bed and flopped onto her back, now staring at the ceiling.

"Hmm, well, you haven't been into work in a week, and this is the first time you've answered your phone all week—what is wrong with you then?"

She sighed and paused a moment. While wallowing in bed all week, staring at the phone and hoping he'd call, her pain felt justified. Now, on the verge of saying it to her mother, she felt shallow and pitiful. This is the girl that she wasn't. Guys didn't send her life into a tailspin. But still, here she was saying it to her mother.

"Tristan and I fought."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me."

"That's what's going on? What did you fight about?"

"You think I'm stupid," she sighed, rolling over onto her side.

"No, honey, I don't. I know you guys were getting closer, right?"

"Daniel called. Grandma gave him my number, and he called only to have Tristan answer the phone."

"Oh, honey," came the supportive voice on the other end.

"Yeah, so I come out of the shower to find a very unreadable man--," she began but was quickly cut off.

"You slept with him?!" came her mother's shocked sounding voice jumping to conclusions from her daughter's words.

"No, I mean, yes, but not like that!" she groaned, remembering that it was her mother that she was trying to explain the situation to. Not that Lorelai would really chastise her for sleeping with Tristan—she was an adult and he wasn't exactly homely. But Lorelai knew that Rory wasn't the type to sleep with someone quickly, at least, not normally.

"Shh, okay, I believe you. So, you came out and he said?"

"He said Daniel called, then all of a sudden he just started to leave."

"Well, that's mature," she scoffed.

"Not helping," she warned.

"Well, I'm sorry, it's true—," Beep, "so all I can say is--," Beep, "you know?"

"Mom, the call waiting is going off, hang on," she instructed, forgetting she wasn't taking calls, and didn't remember until she had already switched over and answered.

"Hello?"

"Rory," his voice sounded like he'd swallowed gravel.

"Tristan," she said in surprise. All this time she'd hoped he'd be the one on the other end of the line, or on the other side of her door, but now that he was, she wasn't sure what to say. She felt the same as she did when he left on Saturday morning—speechless.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked.

"Uh, no, it's fine, just hang on a sec?"

"Sure," he agreed as she flipped back over to her mother.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Tristan," was all she had to say.

"Right. Call me later?"

"I will," she promised and switched back over. "Tristan?"

"I'm here," he let her know.

"Right. So, uh, how are you?" she said lamely, honestly having no frame of reference as to how to act. This was the weirdest situation she'd ever been in. She was having a non-fight with a non-boyfriend. The silence was making her skin crawl and she felt like she might just jump out of her skin if he didn't speak soon.

"I'm . . . I'm downstairs. Can I come up?" he blurted out, sounding as if he didn't mean to give his location away.

"Oh, uh, sure. Come on up," she said, looking around her apartment. Coffee cups in the sink, order-in food containers strewn about, lying where she'd last eaten from them. She hadn't been in the mood to pick up the apartment, let alone do much to herself. She had showered today, and she thanked whatever greater power knew he would be making his way over today. She was still in her pajamas, however, and pulled her winter robe on over the ensemble to cover it up a bit.

By the time he knocked on her door, she'd managed to gather the trash and throw it in its proper place before opening the door hesitantly. He was standing there, dressed for work. He even had his briefcase with him and his cell phone still out in his hand. He looked at her, but it was almost as if he were looking into her. She broke his gaze and opened the door further as if to invite him in. He came into her apartment and put his stuff down on the floor.

"Ror--," he began, sounding tired. He should sound tired, he hadn't had more than two hours of sleep a night since Saturday. He'd been at the office almost non-stop, immersing himself in work, telling his secretary to hold all calls and bar visitors. That didn't stop him from checking his cell phone every five minutes to see that she hadn't called. Not that he blamed her.

"What do you want, Tristan?" she asked, for once feeling a definite emotion towards this situation. It wasn't fair that he come into her life, making silent demands of her and getting frustrated that things weren't going exactly as he hoped. She'd done nothing than be with him and enjoy him. He had no right to be angry with her—and now she was angry.

He looked at her, and put a hand out to touch her, but she backed up. "No," she said, more defiantly. "I'm serious, tell me what you want from me."

He knew she was pissed—he'd expected it even. He'd created this mess; at every turn it had been his doing. He knew what he wanted—her. That was all. He let out a breath and sat down in her armchair. When he didn't say anything, he heard her make a noise that originated somewhere in her throat, that sounded like she was stifling a cry. He watched her cross her arms over her chest and shake her head.

"Tell me," she warned. He figured she'd show him the door any second now, and he had to say something. He wanted this to be organic and effortless, but he was making that impossible.

"I want to know what you want," he decided on his words and finally answered her.

"Don't talk in circles," she took a step closer to him, looking him dead in the eye. She was still angry, and he was going to make it worse, because that's his talent—to drive her crazy until she cracked. But when he took another step closer to her, her stomach gave a now familiar lurch. Something about his eyes so intent on hers made her nervous system fire.

"That's what I want. . . I want to know what you want from us," he said as calmly as he could. "I know I freaked out when Daniel called, but what am I supposed to think? Are you encouraging him to call?"

Closer now.

"No," she shook her head, and he noticed that her breath hitched as he was now in her face.

"So, he's just clueless?" he leaned down a bit, moving his eyes down from her eyes to her lips.

"He must be, all I talked about was you," her honesty causing the words to come out before she processed them.

"Is this a habit you have, talking about me on your dates? No wonder they don't go so well," he teased her, forgetting the moment was tense.

"You know, you really have no room to talk, here, you aren't exactly date of the year," she came back.

His hand went to her lips to quiet her. "I thank you for keeping tally of my not so stellar track record—what I need to know is am I wasting my time here?"

He was so close, she could feel he was holding his breath, and his eyes were filled with anticipation. Never in her wildest dreams would she have pegged him for being unsure in a romantic situation, but here he was. Unsure and waiting for her answer.

"No," she whispered, because their proximity made it seem absurd to speak at a normal tone.

"You mean that?" he asked, wanting to make sure his advances would be welcome. She'd never protested before, but now it seemed like there was this thin glass wall between them and once he broke it there would be no looking back.

She nodded, and on an upswing of her motion, he caught her lips with his. They both felt the shatter, a definite shift, and he put his hands around her terry cloth covered waist, and she put her hands on the fabric of his suit jacket. She ran her hands up his chest, moving towards his hair. He kissed her demandingly, and more than anything she wanted to give into his actions and move where this was inevitably headed as he backed them up towards the hallway.

"Tristan, wait," she said, pulling back while still very much entwined with him. She immediately regretted the loss of contact from his lips, but soon they made their way from her moving mouth to the available expanse of skin on her neck. She put her hand gently against his chest and pushed him away from her.

"What? I thought we were clear," he started moving back towards her.

"Clear? You asked if you were wasting your time with me," she pointed out.

"Exactly," he agreed, realizing that this might be a longer intermission than he'd originally thought.

"But what are we? Are we friends?"

"You just want to be friends?" he was taken aback. Not that they weren't friendly, but that was beside the point.

"No, I want," she began, but stopped to bite her lower lip.

"What?" he asked, ignoring her prior instructions and moving back to her. He was so close, he had felt her kissing him back but obviously she had something to say so he kept himself just out of reach to let her speak.

"I want to be with you," she paused, "But I want it to be real."

The kiss that he gave her could only be explained as bone melting. Just when she thought her whole body was experiencing the bliss, he was closer, his touch softer or firmer exactly where needed, leading her more towards him. She had no control—he was her support, he was her breath. He was always better without words, which he knew. His attempts to tell her would never be able to convey what he could show her. He needed her, and as the world slipped away she gave him what he needed so desperately.

AN: ah. Updates are getting a little more spread out and the bad news I have for you all is I'm going out of town—with (gasp!) no internet access for a few days! I'll be working on it, but won't be able to update until I get back.