Title: On Wings of Feather and Glue – I have an obsession with mythology, particularly Greek. Figure it out.

Rating: PG - It's so gonna end up a PG-13 or even an R, but for now, we'll leave things sweet and (mostly) innocent.

Pairing: R/T - I'll say it for now, but I have no idea where this is headed.

Author's Note: This is the first try I've had at romance, but it was an idea I wanted to explore. As mentioned, direction is vague. Might be a little bit Boys & Girls-esque is all I'm saying. Assume spoilers up to season 4, episode 1. I'm a week behind... Thanks to Ria for being my favourite beta ever, but you're really far too flattering. Not that I'm complaining...

Disclaimer: I own a lot of shoes, and electronic gadgets, and books, but no rights to GG. Yet.

I. Dionysian Rites

"Hey, baby, want to..." The drunken slur faded as Rory Gilmore moved past the outstretched arm that accompanied it. She sighed, upping her mental count to six. Six times she'd been propositioned, and they'd only been at the party half an hour. Either her new eyeliner was a natural aphrodisiac or the male to female ratio was off around here. Biting her lip, Rory glanced around hopefully, only to sigh again. Maybe it'd be worth a cut if she pitched the new eyeliner marketing scheme to Clinique.

Distracted, she nearly ran into the blonde head that had abruptly stopped in front of her. "Paris!" she exclaimed. "What have I told you about sudden stops?"

Her roommate spun around, cocking her head, and Rory braced herself for the sarcastic retort that was being primed. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I forget to bring my brake lights? Now where could I have left them? I knew my outfit was lacking something, but I just couldn't place it. After all, nothing matches the completion afforded by stylish reflectors strapped to my belt. Maybe I could shout in advance that I was stopping so you wouldn't have to actually look in front of you as you—"

"Paris," Jamie's voice cut in, warningly. Paris rolled her eyes, causing Rory to grin in amusement. It earned her a brief glare from her friend, belied by a quick wink.

"Anyway, Rory, Jamie and I were going to mingle. Will you be okay on your own for a while?" A look of concern battled with hope on the shorter girl's face, and Rory laughed.

"Go on, kids, be young!" she admonished. "I'll be fine," she added, emphasizing the last word, only to mutter under her breath, "Even if you didn't let me bring a book."

"You're too anti-social as it is, Rory. It's unnatural."

"Says the girl who used to count the seconds before she could escape social obligations to study!" Rory replied, evoking a slight blush from Paris. "It's just a precaution, anyway. I like to be prepared," she huffed defensively.

"Rory. It's a party. A frat party. At a college a hundred miles from yours. At this rate, Ms. Foreign-correspondent-to-be, you'll be on assignment in Israel and have your nose in a book when Sharon and Arafat shake hands!"

"At this rate, your boyfriend is going to wander into some dark corner and be accosted by a girl whose lack of clothing is compensated for by makeup while you stand here playing Save Rory."

Paris glanced around in a panic. "Jamie? Jamie!" And as quick as that, Rory was alone, the commanding sound of her friend's voice moving away through the crowd.

She took advantage of her newfound independence to survey her surroundings. Large house, early 20th century design. She appeared to be in some sort of living room, couches flanking a fire place, a gits table off to the side. All, of course, crawling with intoxicated college students. The door to her right let into the kitchen, a room Rory was rarely comfortable in. To her left was the room they'd come from, which left the open hall in front of her and the other side of the house as the only option. With a shrug, and an induced feeling of adventure, she advanced.

A face lurched up in front of hers, swaying from side to side. "Listen," the girl said, trying to swipe her blonde hair out of her eyes with the same hand that held a cup, while the other had latched on to Rory's shoulder in an attempt to achieve balance. "Listen," she repeated. "If you see the boy with brown hair, brown hair, not black, tell him—I think it was brown. Maybe blonde," she continued, each word blending into the next, pausing only to take another swig from her drink. "Listen, whatever his hair looks like, tell him it meant nothing. I have a boyfriend, and we're happy, so it meant nothing. And, and tell him where I live, okay?" She squeezed Rory's arm and gave her what would have been a meaningful look had her eyes not been bloodshot and unfocussed.

"Sure," Rory answered, trying to detach the girl's hand from her shoulder.

"Good," the girl muttered. "Good." She attempted to walk away, stumbling instead into a couple making out on the arm of the couch. "Listen..."

"Okay, then," Rory spoke to herself. "This room's been exhausted." Quickly striding across the foyer, she made her way into similar room, only to nearly trip as a familiar face caught her eye.

She stared at him, an expression of mild disgust on her face. It was just too cliché, that the first time she should see him in almost two years, he would be engaging in typical frat-boy activities, a funnel attached to his mouth. He was surrounded by more of his ilk: spike-haired, t-shirt-and-jeans boys, chanting the magic four-letter word that turned an otherwise semi-degenerate house-party into the quintessential, must-see college experience. She bit her lip, thinking, and concluded that her last thought definitely wasn't sarcastic enough to imply the expression 'pathetic', as she'd intended. Shaking her head, Rory sighed and started to turn away.

"Not impressed?" a wry voice questioned.

Rory stopped, noticing the pretty redhead who had joined the onlookers at her side. With a shrug, she responded, "Not really. Now, if they were doing lines blindfolded, that would be entertainment."

"Oh, coke is on Fridays. Saturdays are strictly alcohol-poisoning-themed events," the girl deadpanned. "Wait around, you never know what these hooligans will pull next." Rory chuckled, but gaze was still pinned on the man of the hour. Her new companion remarked, "You seem rather interested, regardless."

"He hasn't grown up at all," she muttered in response, mostly to herself.

"You know him?"

Rory looked back at the girl. "Uh, yeah," she answered. Registering the girl's previous comment, she continued. "But not like that. I mean, I knew him. A long time ago. Well, sort of a long time. Two years. Yeah. About. Yeah, we went to high school together. But he's kind of a jerk," she stopped abruptly, her face darkening.

"Oh?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, Rory decided it was time to end this line of conversation. The girl was pretty, beautiful, actually, a slender figure encased in designer threads. Just his type, if a little sharper than usual, but she felt the need to warn her. "He's one of those typical rich boys. More time, money and charm on his hands than he knows how to use, and instead of being productive, he exploits it for everything he can get. He doesn't care about anyone but himself, and about anything but acquiring the next notch in his bedpost. In fact, he's likely moved on to his wardrobe by now." The last was tacked on, an afterthought.

After a brief silence, the redhead spoke. "Really? And here I thought I had him figured out." Another pause, and the girl picked up speed, her casual tone hardening. "He struck me more as the insecure, neglected type, the boy who's always trying to make up for it, seeking attention where he can get it. You know, constantly trying to assure himself that his reputation, the only thing that has ever afforded him any worth, is protected and maintained. Caught up in playing a part and showing people what they want to see because he's terrified that if he doesn't, he'll be discarded and stripped of his protective image, left huddling in a corner, attempting to hide the frightened, lonely kid that no one ever had time for." After another pause, and a careless shrug, she finished, "But that's just me."

Shaken, Rory could only stare at the girl, realizing that she looked older and more confident than his typical admirer. "Oh." A few seconds passed before she recovered enough to inquire, "You-you know him?"

"Yeah, I know him." The girl's face split into a large, fake smile as she answered. "I mean, obviously not as well as you do. After all, seeing him always in the same, stifling environment, surrounded by fickle worshippers and competitors who leap at any weakness and wedge needles of hate into any crevice, you're definitely in a better place to judge him." She dropped the smile, revealing a sad, tired expression. Taking a drag on the cigarette Rory hadn't seen in her hand, the girl nodded. "Yeah, I know him. He's my kid brother."

Rory realized her mouth was agape, and, closing it, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. A little gnome working somewhere on the fried circuit-board that was her mind flicked a switch, and she went into auto-pilot. "Hi, I'm Rory," she said, sticking her hand out.

His sister looked amused, and, shifting her cigarette to her left hand, shook hands. "Isolde. Call me Izzy, my parents hate it," she said, a familiar smirk crossing her features. At Rory's curious look, Isolde sighed. "Yeah, my mom had a thing for Arthurian legend. It's rather embarrassing, really, when they introduce us together," she rolled her eyes.

Encouraged, Rory tried to atone. "I'm sorry about, um, about Tristan. About what I said, I mean," she added hastily. "Not about him. I really don't know him well enough. I'm just—I'm sorry I assumed. It's that he..." She eyed Isolde carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to what she was about to impart. "He gave me a really hard time at school. He seemed to go out of his way to do so, despite occasions when we might have been friends." Shaking her head again, she concluded, "But you're right, I shouldn't judge him. It's not my place and it wasn't fair."

Isolde was surprised by her retraction. A few vaguely remembered puzzle pieces fell into place. "Enough analysis of my drunken brother's mind frame. I'm DD tonight, but want to grab a soda or something, Rory Gilmore?" A brilliant smile punctuated her invitation.

Equally stunned by her apology's reception, Rory acceded. "I'd love to," she said gratefully. Following the bright red hair as it wound through the press of off-balance bodies, she tried to stifle the buzz in her mind that Isolde's last comment had sparked. "Hey," she called, grabbing the redhead's arm. "How did you know my last name?"

Isolde's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I'm sure I heard it around at some point and my spectacular subconscious is on the ball tonight. Must be the fumes," she winked.

Wrinkling her nose, Rory finally noticed an unpleasant smell. "What is that, anyway?"

"You're kidding," Isolde laughed, surprised. Observing the confused blue eyes, she stated, "You're not. Wow. You must have kept a low profile at those Chilton parties, Rory. Half the kids in here are baked enough to give Mr. Christie a run for his money."

Realization dawned and formed Rory's mouth into a wordless O. Grinning at the younger girl's blush, Isolde elbowed her. "Let's get you that non-alcoholic drink, kid."

Slightly dazed, and feeling an intense longing for her room in Stars Hollow, Rory nodded. It had become an unexpectedly interesting night. She couldn't help wondering what else she'd been oblivious to all those years. On impulse, she added, "Take out the 'non' and I'm in."