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

Rating: PG-13 - I'm thinking that my propensity for cursing has upped it.

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

Author's Note: Okay, as I'm writing this, I keep getting reviews in my inbox and I sound like a fool, giggling and giddy in my room. Guys, you have no idea how much help said reviews are, thank you a million times over. Frankly, I'm overwhelmed. I have this crazy-ass lab due tomorrow and I can't start working on it because I keep typing. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, as I'm scared it might. Feel free to let me know if it does. Ria, I still love you, only more.

Disclaimer: I own as much as I did last time, plus some frozen cookie dough. Still no rights.

II. Persephone's Descent

Rory's internal alarm went off the next morning in the guise of a murderous headache. Groaning, she squinted, trying to gain her bearings, but the room spun uneasily. Giving up, she shut her eyes and attempted to ignore the wave of sudden thirst that washed over her. A minute passed before her lifelong fear of dying by dehydration was recalled. Okay, maybe not lifelong, she thought, but at that moment, the intensity of her need for fluids seemed to warrant the exaggeration.

Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she gave herself a good twenty seconds to recover before standing carefully. She tread gingerly, hoping to fool her body into thinking she wasn't moving at all as she made her way to the faucet she'd caught sight of earlier. Her head still housed an off-beat marching band, and halfway to her goal she was forced to pause and regroup as they broke out their swords. Aren't those things supposed to be decorative? After a couple deep breaths, Rory resumed her shuffling steps. She didn't even consider finding a glass, instead cupping her hands and drinking her fill. In fact, she contemplated sticking her head directly in the sink to catch the water in her mouth, effectively cutting out the middleman, but feared getting stuck.

Sated, she stumbled back to her warm cocoon, vaguely registering that something shared her bed. The lump's gentle movements indicated another life form, blonde hair peeking out from the top of the covers. Rory spared a brief moment to wonder if Paris and Jamie had fought. By the time the thought was done, she'd tumbled onto the bed, burrowed under the covers and was falling asleep.

Don't these people believe in blinds? was her next conscious thought as an errant ray of light tried to cleave her skull in two through her eyes. She slowly became aware of warm flesh beneath her cheek, and mentally reassessed her whereabouts to determine whether logic could validate her senses.

Nope.

Her eyes sprang open and were confronted by a nipple. A man's nipple, on a man's bare chest, and, what was that? Oh, her own treacherous hand, resting below the mystery man's well-defined pectoral. Suddenly abuzz, the rest of her senses rushed to report in, and Rory could feel herself pressed against the length of her bedfellow, thankfully through a layer of pyjamas. Her head rested on the bicep of an arm that wrapped around her back, its hand fitted in the groove of her waist. A masculine cologne assailed her nostrils, along with the stale scent of alcohol.

Before panicking, she noted that the chest was moving rhythmically, and decided that calm extraction was preferable to crazed severing. She gently pulled away, trying desperately to avoid any sudden movements. The hand at her waist tightened, though, pulling her flush against him, as he mumbled something that sounded like, "Not yet, baby." She glanced up at his face, scared that she'd awakened him.

"What the hell?" she shouted, half-amazed that she'd leaped out of the bed and was standing in a single, if not fluid, movement. She could feel her eyes trying to pop out of their sockets as she repeated herself. "What the hell?"

She almost missed the look of shock displayed in his own expression as he came fully awake, and was busy seeking her clothes when he mouthed her name in confusion. When she turned around, it was to find a lazy smirk gracing his features. "So, Mary, was it good for you?" Tristan drawled.

"Why, you—you..." she hissed. Giving up on a suitable epithet, she threw her shoe at him. He dodged it, laughing.

"A simple yes would suffice, my dear."

"I can't—I don't—This is not happening." Rory started pacing. "No. It's a dream, a nightmare, a horrible nightmare and if I pinch myself hard enough—ow!—I'll wake up and it will all be gone and I'll be in my dorm room, in my own bed and why are you still here?" She rounded on him, accusingly.

He shot her an innocent look. "Thought you might want seconds?"

"You're sick. I can't believe you'd do this. You set this up, didn't you? Izzy, the party, the vodka? I can't believe you!"

Tristan glared at her, his humour flown. "Still pretty high on yourself, huh, Gilmore?" He got out of the bed on his side, and she couldn't help but gape a little. His track pants hung low on his hips, and she mentally noted that military school must have required a lot of physical activity. "I was teasing you. Don't worry, nothing happened. Your innocence is in the same state it was twenty-four hours ago."

Taken aback, she couldn't let it drop. "Are you sure? How do I know you're not just saying that?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them and the naiveté they evidenced.

"Jesus, Rory," he snapped, pulling on a t-shirt. "Trust me, I'd remember." He winced at the tone of his voice, obviously suffering from his indulgences the previous night. "I have a girlfriend, for fuck's sake."

She bit back the retort that sprang to mind, but he noticed.

"Besides, wouldn't you in tears about now?" he couldn't resist taunting.

"Screw you."

"There's still time."

"Go to hell!"

"Watch out, you might actually hurt my feelings," he said sarcastically. Sauntering over to the kitchen—they had been on a pull-out bed in the living room, Rory finally realized—Tristan took out two bottles of water. He tossed one to her, which she proceeded to fumble and drop. She pinned a threatening look on him, daring him to say anything, and he merely smiled and drank.

Snatching the bottle from the ground, Rory retrieved her shoe from where it had gone flying behind the bed. "Where's the bathroom?" she asked, evenly.

His eyes ran up and down her frame, making her feel naked despite the large t-shirt that covered her to her knees. "Why bother? You didn't use it last night," he said, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

"First door on your left, Rory," Isolde said as she entered from that direction. Her damp hair was up in a ponytail and she looked refreshed, wearing jeans and a green sweater. "Don't mind Tris, he doesn't deal well with hangovers, do you now, hon?" She smiled at her brother pleasantly before reaching up to give him a smack upside the head.

"Ow, fuck, Izzy," he muttered, reaching back to soothe the offended region.

"Yup, the charm is definitely suffering this morning."

"Thanks, Izzy," Rory said, taking in the glare Tristan had set on his sister. "I'll be back in a second."

"Sure thing, kiddo. There's an extra towel in there if you want to shower. Let's grab some breakfast later, shall we?"

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind Rory, Tristan opened his mouth to blast Isolde.

"What the hell was that?" He closed his mouth. Wasn't that his line? Damn her, she always caught him off guard.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

She merely eyed him, waiting.

"Oh, Iz, shit. Don't start now. I really have no idea. It's like," he paused for a second, trying to collect his thoughts. "It's like I turn into an immature sixth-grader when she's around."

"That's some perverted 11-year-old," she said under her breath, earning another glare.

"May I?" She simply beamed at him. He'd missed her teasing, though he would never admit it. "Thank you. As I was saying," he faltered. "I barely had a chance to recover this morning. Hell, I don't see her for two years, and the first thing I hear is her swearing. I couldn't help it. I slipped right back into the antics I pulled on her in high school." He grinned. "I can't deny it was fun. She's such a prude."

Isolde rolled her eyes. "C'mon, help me make this bed." They started pulling off covers and folding them. "So, nothing happened, right?"

"Nothing happened," he repeated.

"And you're still good with Vidya, right?"

"Yes, Lady Isabella."

"That's Queen Isabella to you, kid. Princeton should really offer better first-year history courses," she grumbled. "Besides, I'm only making sure everything's copasetic." A few minutes went by in silence before she continued, casually. "And do you still have feelings for Rory?"

"Do you ever forget anything?"

"My last name, sometimes."

"Don't we all. No, I don't have feelings for her anymore," he said. "You should have heard her, though," he continued, slightly incredulous, "Accusing me of seducing her and stuff." At his sister's look, Tristan growled, "I haven't done that shit in years and you know it!"

"Yes, yes, I know. No need for seduction at military school, where the soap is slippery and the guys are easy," Isolde nodded sagely.

His jaw dropped. "Oh, you're begging for it!" he threatened, before pelting her with a pillow. She shrieked, but recovered quickly, throwing it back his way before diving across the bed with fresh ammunition. His throbbing head was not pleased with this new activity, but he could care less as he vowed to hear his sister beg for mercy.

* * *

"So, what will it be, girls?" Rory glanced up at the question, bemused. Standing at their table was the classic diner waitress, down to the short skirt, big hair, gum-chewing and hip-jutting pose. She wondered if they were trained specially to lend authenticity to the restaurant. She also wondered what Luke would look like in that get-up. Her choked laughter had both the waitress—going by Sally if the name tag was to be believed—and Isolde glancing at her askance. Smiling sweetly, Rory diverted them, inwardly storing the image until she could speak with her mother.

"Bacon and eggs, toast with extra butter, and hash browns. Oh, and a side of sausages. Do you guys have pancakes individually? Great, I'll take two. And orange juice." Isolde snapped her menu shut, looking satisfied.

It was Rory's turn to stare. "I'll, uh, I'll have the same," she stammered. The waitress nodded, snapped her gum and started to walk away. "Wait!" Rory shouted. The waitress swiveled on her heel, and Rory coughed, embarrassed at her outburst. "Could you please make mine coffee? Black? Thank you."

"Are you alright?" Isolde asked, eyeing her warily.

"Oh yes, fine, I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine?" The wariness only increased, so she decided to elaborate. "It's just that her outfit, Sally's, the waitress? Well it's so typical and Luke, back home, he owns the diner we always eat at, and I was thinking about what he would look like and—never mind," she mumbled. Isolde started laughing. "What?" Rory said, annoyed.

"I'm trying to picture you at Chilton," her companion answered, still chuckling. "For the life of me, I can't."

"It wasn't pretty, I assure you."

"Actually, I think it had to be, purely by definition. Wish I could have witnessed it."

"So you attended Hartford's most prestigious preparatory school, as well?" Rory inquired comically, recalling their conversation from the past night. In her alcohol-induced verbosity, she had more or less caught Isolde up on all the major points of her life.

Isolde nodded, fiddling with her napkin. "Yup. Generations of DuGreys, et cetera. It was alright. I just did my shit and got the hell out as soon as I could. Much like you, minus school council but including valedictorian."

"No way," Rory mused, imagining a straight-laced DuGrey. "Why didn't I see you around while I was there?"

"I graduated the year before you arrived. Instead of heading straight for Princeton, as was expected, I took off for a year, traveling. Unlike Tristan, I saved what I could during high school and blew it all in one amazing year," she said, her tone growing wistful.

Their waitress returned with a tray and commenced the elaborate process of depositing their breakfast. When the dust settled, Isolde smiled at her like they were old friends. "Thanks, Sally!" Sally, veteran that she was, didn't blink, leaving the two girls giggling over their feast.

* * *

Rory waited until they were walking home to broach the Tristan Topic. Between her quick call to check in with Paris that morning and Isolde's comments today, she gleaned part of what had transpired last night. Paris and Jamie had been ready to leave too early for "drunken Rory"—Paris's words, unnecessarily malicious by Rory's standards—so Isolde had offered to have her over. How she ended up in bed with Tristan had yet to be clarified. He had passed her as she left the bathroom, leaning in for an obnoxious sniff and nod of approval before locking himself in. The shower had still been running when she and Isolde had left.

"So, Izzy," she began. A minute passed, and she noticed Isolde's expectant look. "Right. Uh, about last night. Do you, um, did you—how did..." she trailed off. "Thanks for everything," she finished lamely. Now that's eloquence. CNN, here I come!

"No problem." They walked in silence for a few more minutes. "Tristan was plastered last night," Isolde offered. "I didn't trust the frat kids to take care of him, so I dragged him to my apartment with us. As soon as I pulled out the hide-away bed, you guys both crashed on it and passed out." She shrugged. "I didn't see any harm in it, so I left you. I'm sorry if it caused any awkwardness."

"Oh, no, no, not at all. No," Rory shook her head vehemently. She paused. "Well, maybe a bit, but it wasn't your fault. I guess I flew off the handle."

"He can have that effect," Isolde said softly. They had nearly arrived at Jamie's when she spoke again. "He liked you, you know."

For the second time in two days, Tristan nearly caused Rory to trip. Trying to cover up her stumble, she said, "Excuse me?"

"At Chilton. He actually liked you. He's going to kill me for saying this, but you're the only girl he ever told to me about." Isolde smiled wryly. "Which I think he's starting to regret."

Rory digested the information slowly, running her mind over events from years ago, events she hadn't given thought to in that long. On Jamie's stoop, she finally stopped. "I never knew that. I thought I was a game to him, a challenge," she said quietly.

"I'm sure you were, initially. Everything was, back then. But, somewhere along the line, you became more. Confide-in-sister material," she winked, trying to lighten the mood.

The front door swung open with a bang and a hurricane in Abercrombie & Fitch emerged. "Where have you been? Do you know what time it is? It's 2 pm. It's Sunday and it's 2 pm. Do you know how long it takes to get home? Did your watch break? Or have you embraced sundials along with alcohol, hoping to become the classic college hippie, throwing away any hopes at success just to stick it to the man? I hate to intrude on your cozy, cross-college bonding session, but some of us still want a career when we graduate." Paris turned to Isolde and gave her a quick nod. "Izzy."

"Paris, hi, how have you been?" Her warm response was ignored.

"You had better be ready to go in five minutes, Gilmore."

Rory nodded seriously. "You can count on me, Gellar. By the way, did you know your shirt is inside-out?"

Paris glanced down and flushed red. "Five minutes," she bit off, stalking back inside. Rory and Isolde collapsed on the stoop, laughing.

Wiping a tear from her eye, the latter remarked, "It must have been an... intense three years between you two, huh?"

Rory could only nod, still convulsing.

"Hey, don't be a stranger, okay? You have a place to stay next time you're around," Isolde said. Rory nodded again, patting the pocket with her new friend's contact info scribbled on a napkin. "Man, has Paris met her match. One of these days you'll have to tell me how you guys ended up friends."

"It was no thanks to your brother," Rory quipped, and they both fell silent. "I should get my stuff. Paris really would leave without me."

"Yeah, I don't doubt it." The girls stood, and embraced.

"Do you want his number? Email address?" Isolde asked hesitantly. "You guys should keep in touch."

Rory glanced away, down the street. A gentle arc was formed over it, tall trees with leaves dappled in greens, yellows and browns. Brownstone houses fronted on grassy lawns, and students lounged in the late autumn sun. A frustrated shriek drew her gaze to two children, supposedly playing. The boy had the girl's hair in his grip and was tugging at it while the girl stamped her foot, emitting the occasional scream. He stuck his tongue out at her, apparently the last straw because she took a swipe at him and he dashed off. She chased him around to the back of their house, out of sight.

Turning back, Rory responded with a smile, "Sure."