I guess you thought I was joking when I said I didn't have time to write when school starts huh? Well, I wasn't and I'm really sorry about the long wait. I think I want to address something that came up in the reviews about the references. I realize that this is a future fic and any references I put in will sound dated. But at the same time, I think it's almost unnatural for them to not make any type of cultural references especially with the tone of the show. Also, my friends and I still talked about our ancient crushes on Rick Springfield and John Stamos's Uncle Jesse (and his mullet) in Fullhouse. So I guess it's not that impossible for them to have a few dated references.
Spoiler: I officially follow the show up till A Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving. That's because Jess was an absolute ass after that point. But that is not to say I won't incorporate tiny facts from the show (i.e. Rory and Paris went to Yale) gleamed after that point.
Disclaimer: GG don't belong to me. I mean if they do and take my Tristan obsession into account, do you think Chad would've left the show in the first place? Geeze.
Dedication: To Reeka, of course, for being the supreme beta (and not the Supremes beta, because I can't picture Diana Ross doing this) and ... well, seeing that I haven't updated for 4 months, the fact that you're sticking around to read it makes me brimming with tears, of joy. Oh yeah, this one is for you! Yes, you.
11 - So ... What Do You Have in Mind?
The first sensory input that Tristan experienced when he woke up was warmth. Warmth, as in heat radiated from the warm body sleeping next to him. Even more specifically, comforting warmth on the left side of his body and ... a contrasting coolness on the other side. He reluctantly craned his neck around and was greeted with the sight of Rory's head and her nestling against him within his arms. He was pretty tired to move his neck any further, but that hand that was currently sitting on time of his chest no doubt belonged to her as well. The entire mass of pale blue sheets was bunched up around her waist. Which easily explained why half of his body was freezing to death.
He tried jogging his memory. But it seemed to have imitated the reception of a very old television set. Black and white, full of static, constant stuttering, and a few of the key events were conveniently replaced by periodic gaps. He needed to give his inner TV a few good whacks before it all came back to him.
There was drinking. A lot of drinking. And at some point, presumably after the drinking, his grandfather insisted that he and his brother should stay here overnight. A decision no doubt influenced by the copious amount of drinking ... or was it vice versa. Anyways, after being convinced that she should stay overnight as well, she had abandoned her previous objective of being the sober driver to haul the boys' collective asses home. Rory then agreed to imbibe a bit of cognac as well. But he doubt the prim and proper Rory got as drunk as either of them.
Strangely, he didn't feel as embarrassed as he should for getting drunk before his grandfather. Perhaps this was a good indicator of their easygoing relationship.
He remembered the four of them talking. But the details and the topic were a bit hazy. He might've told Rory some more of Christian's embarrassing stories, he even might've told her some of his own embarrassing stories. He wasn't sure. Because honestly, of all the people there last night, he was the least likely one to keep track of their topics. But he did remember that the three of them remained in the library long after gramp retired to bed, telling them that he no longer had the youth or stamina to stay up late.
He assumed that Rory eventually had had enough and dragged the twins to their respective guest bedrooms. He knew it because Chris consumed way more alcohol than he did and there's no way he could have made it to his room on his own. And somewhere between the library and the bed, he managed to change out of his clothes and throw on a T-shirt. Once more, the details were a bit hazy. Perhaps Rory helped him on that as well.
Which brings him to the present. He once more looked at the top of her head. He could feel her chest rising rhythmically, synchronizing with her slow and steady breathing. A wet patch on his shoulder indicated that she might be drooling on him. She had changed out of her clothes as well and was wearing a black tank top and pajama pants. She probably found them tucked away in one of the numerous drawers. Placed there in anticipation of impromptu sleepovers.
This is an entirely foreign feeling for him. It would be presumptuous, and wrong, to assume that he never woken next to a girl before. He did, numerous times, especially when he forgot to sneak out in the middle of the night. But to wake up next to somebody after a night of ... plain REM sleep, now that's new.
On top of that, Tristan had never waked up next to Rory before, another first for him. Despite his preceding reputation, they had yet to sleep together. Their relationship so far had been consisted of many lighthearted sparring, numerous passionate kisses, and some double entendres.
Don't be mistaken though, there was definitely an intimate spark between them. But it wasn't as if they ever approached the topic of sex. The closest was that one time when she absentmindedly joked about his promiscuous history. But she caught herself and they quickly pretended she had never mentioned that.
Not that he didn't want to sleep with her. He was, after all, a man, and the frequency of him bestowing his thoughts on the topic of sex was very close to the national average. But he just didn't want to rush her. This was, after all, Rory Gilmore and he did spend an inordinate amount of time calling her Mary. Albeit 10 years ago. Even after all these years, he still had trouble envisioning her as anything beyond that.
Speaking of the devil, he was sure that she was awake by now. It was a rather big non-verbal clue as her hand slipped underneath his shirt and was leisurely tracing his flat abs. Her feather light touches would be downright seductive if it were anybody else. But coming from Rory, she managed to convey a hint of innocence to it as well. Nonetheless, this still didn't prevent his blood from rushing towards one region of his body.
Suddenly that other half didn't feel so cold anymore.
"Are you awake?" He asked. He'd like to believe that the hoarseness of his voice originated from a night of hard drinking and not a response to her gesture.
"Um hmm." Her head remained where it was on his shoulder. She didn't look up.
"So. What happened last night?"
"You and Christian got piss drunk." She looked up and stifled a giggle. There was a certain lazy and satisfied quality to her gaze that amused him. Rory was sporting the quintessential bedroom eyes.
"Yeah, I think I'm going to feel the effects pretty soon." He used his free hand to massage his forehead. "What else?"
"The two launched into an argument on who is the best ghostbuster."
It seems that they had picked up where they left off. "I can't believe we were still arguing about that."
"You seemed to have developed an intense fixation on Dan Aykroyd."
"Because I loved his performance in The Blues Brothers. You know that he, not John Belushi, wrote the script." She crooked one of her eyebrows to indicate that she already knew that. "We both used to like Aykroyd better. But then Chris saw Lost in Translation and went ape shit for Bill Murray. Which is stupid because while I admit that Bill Murray was very good in Lost in Translation, that movie happened nearly 20 years after Ghostbusters, and you couldn't assume the Bill Murray of 2003 is comparable to the Bill Murray of 1984."
"Wow, those exact same words are once more repeated less than 6 hours later. You're funny when you're drunk." He thought by "funny," she meant "weird." But she still managed to tease a smile out of her boyfriend.
"What are you plans for today?"
Rory had intended to rush home last night to see Jess off after the dinner. She hadn't heard from him since his phone call the day before. She knew he was justifiably peeved and was thinking of driving him to the airport to catch his 3:00 am flight. But one thing led to another and before she knew it, it was too late to rush home. His plane was probably somewhere above Mexico by now. She knew the guilt was going to hit her soon, but she refused to acknowledge it at this moment.
"I'm supposed to celebrate with Paris. She successfully defended her thesis."
"Offer her my congratulations when you see her."
"Sure. What about you?"
"Go home and nurse my freaking hangover."
"You look and sound alright."
"Well, I'm okay right now, but I can feel it coming up. I've been known to have delayed hangovers."
But even if he were having a monster headache right now, Tristan would be too distracted to notice it. Sometime during their conversation, Rory's hand had slipped south and was playing with the little tuff of hair between his bellybutton and the waistband of his boxers.
This time, the hoarseness of his voice could definitely be attributed to her. "Rory."
"Hmmm."
"Don't start something that you can't finish." Not that he had the right to say that as he was currently engrossed with the little black strap of her tank top, gently pulling and tugging it. Her freckled shoulder felt invitingly smooth under his caress.
"What make you think that I don't want to finish?" Those bedroom eyes that she gave him accompanied with this verbal clue nearly made him jump her. Right there. But then he remembered where they were.
"As much as I love you, we're in gramp's house and anyone can burst in."
"We can lock the door." She suggested playfully. Her hand never left that spot and now he needed to work twice as hard in order to pay attention to her words. Especially when her hand skimmed dangerously close to the waistband. Was it him or did her voice go throaty all of a sudden.
"What about your plans with Paris?"
"This is the part where you say, 'don't worry, it's going to be fast.'" She jokingly winked.
"That the thing. I don't intend to be fast ..." Before he could finish his sentence, he heard frantic knocking on the door. Despite that fact that the two were not engaged in anything more than heavy petting and they were still fully clothed, they still immediately sprang apart like two guilty teenager caught snogging in the high school utility closet. He quickly gave his mind a cold shower and a few minutes to compose himself. When Tristan opened the door, he was greeted by an eerily cheerful Christian.
"Thank god you're not naked!" He exclaimed in relief as if he was expecting otherwise. He then saw Rory's head peeking over Tristan's shoulder. "Morning Rory!" Rory said hi and mumbled something along the lines of "bloody perky" before excusing herself to go brush her teeth.
"See what I don't understand is that we're twins, as in genetically identical at every level. How is it possible that we consume the same amount of wine and you don't get hangovers." Even though the details were hazy to him, he was pretty sure that his brother was just as drunk as him last night. Tristan leaned against the doorframe exasperatedly.
"I partied so much that I developed an immunity to it."
"I partied too!" He protested.
"You used to. Keyword: 'used to,' as in ten years ago. Anyway, I'm not here to debate which of us is more experienced in debauchery. Which, by the way if such debate ever come up, since I do not work in a museum, I would automatically win the debate by default."
"Do you even have a point?" That delayed hangover didn't seemed to be so delayed now that Christian's incessant prattling was accelerating his headache. He lightly banged his head against the doorframe.
"I'm coming to that. The point is," he paused for dramatic effect. "I need a ride home."
"Didn't you drive here?"
"My car broke down and I have an appointment at noon."
"See, I told you the engine of your car is shot. But noooo, you're not going to believe me and you went ahead and bought the car."
"It's a vintage MGA roadster! How can I pass that up!" While Tristan might've out grown the unofficial Dugrey mantra of fast girl, fast car, and fast life, Christian had yet to reach that point. Maybe he was no longer into the fast girls and the fast life, but there will always be a fast car. A hot fast car.
"By looking underneath the hood." He said as if he was trying to explain a very simple concept to a small child.
"Stop giving me a lecture. Grandpa gave me one already. Anyways, can you give me a ride home?"
"Sure, why not."
"Thanks, I'll see you at the breakfast table." He saw Rory coming out of the bathroom before he turned around to leave. She had changed into her original clothes and looked a lot more refreshed than 5 minutes ago. "You better come down before Marguerite goes overboard at decorating your pancakes. There's already a blueberry smiley face, god forbid what else she's going to put on it." Then he left in a hurry, practically flew down the stairs.
"Your brother is umm ... what's the term that I'm looking for ..."
"Really really weird."
She had to agree with him on that. "And hyper." Rory thought she should point out the obvious as well while they were at it.
Though neither of them said it out loud, they silently acknowledged that something was going to happen had Christian not interrupted them. And they both wanted to continue that. Soon. But preferably when there was a 15 mile distance between them and Christian or any other types of interruptions.
But for now, she couldn't wait to taste the pancakes. If last night's lamb chops were of any indication ... oh boy!
It was Sunday morning when he found himself sitting in a surprisingly empty café. Tristan and Rory usually came here on Saturdays as part of their weekend routine. But since they were still at his grandfather's place this time yesterday, their routine was postponed to today. As usual, he was the first to be there. He was famished so he went ahead and gleefully dug into his waffles despite her absence. Rory finally poked her head into the café when he was half way through.
For the lack of a better description, Rory looked like ... shit.
"What happened?" He asked in an affectionately concerned manner and held her hand on the table. The waitress, seeing the familiar sight of her regular customer, silently placed the coffee and a plate of French toast in front of her.
"I was running low on sleep from Friday night already. And Paris's version of 'celebration' is a lot of daiquiris and us renting all the movies that has the word 'Exorcist' in it. Let me tell you, alcohol, The Exorcist and a leaky faucet does not make a good night of sleep." She flailed her arms around to accentuate her frustration. If there wasn't a plate of French toasts before her, she would probably plop her face onto the table as well.
As she was going on about the combined evils of faulty plumbing and the despicable setting of the second Exorcist movie, she let out a ginormous sneeze. "Oh yeah, and I think I might be coming down with a cold too." She whined.
"Here, have some of my orange juice."
She looked at him like he told her that King Kong was perched on top of the Empire States Building. "Ummm, no thinks. Coffee tastes weird after I drink orange juice." She offered a perfectly logical explanation.
"Well, if you're really coming down with a cold, you should load up on vitamin C. And guess what, orange juice is chock full of it. Maybe you should drink that instead of coffee."
"Coffee is my vitamin C." Her affirmative tone indicated that this isn't even up for discussion. She was awfully stubborn when it came to her stance on caffeine. "Anyways, I'll just load up on cold medication and act miserable for the rest of the week."
"You know what. Instead of going to the movies like the rest of the Memorial Day crowd, why don't you go home and have a nice nap. You'll probably feel a lot better if you can finally catch up on some sleep."
"I know this sound awfully childish, but that leaky faucet is bothering me." As if Rory could anticipate his response. "Yes, even in broad daylight"
"Okay. How about you go to my place. I have a perfectly comfortable bed that you can sleep in. We'll load you up on echinacea and chicken soup and I can get your faucet fixed so you can actually sleep tonight."
"That offer sounds very attractive in my head. I think I might take you up on that."
"Good. Now have some of my orange juice." He ignored her protests as he swapped her coffee for his orange juice, added way too much sugar for her preference, and proceed to drink it. "Look, if you're going to take a nap, there's no point in drinking in coffee." He didn't even have to look up to see her impressive pout in combination with bambi eyes. "And be careful, your face might freeze like that."
"You sounded like Emily." She momentarily took up her mother's tone before she agreed with his logic and dug into her French toasts.
When Rory woke up later that day, it took her a moment to realize that she was not in her own bed. A situation that was entirely too familiar for her own good. Hopefully this wouldn't turn into a routine. As she became more awake, she recognized that it was late in the afternoon and there was only a setting sun to illuminate her surroundings. She couldn't believe she managed to sleep away a good chunk of the afternoon. Tristan was right though, she did feel a lot better now.
She took little notice of Tristan's living space when she first set foot in his apartment. Rory thought she remembered seeing a minimally decorated living room and a lot of white furniture accented with chrome. Perhaps there were a few potted plants, possibly fake. But she was too grumpy to take a closer look. While she wasn't an avid reader of Architecture's Digest, she could tell he was aiming more towards modern minimalism than say, Provencal France.
It was her first time here. Frankly, it was rather strange that she had never been to his place. He had been to her place plenty of time for movie nights or when he picked her up before dates. But they usually avoided that when Jess was in town. Instead, they would go to restaurants, movies, museums, the park, ... or some other equally neutral public territory. Just not his place.
Rory rolled around in the comfortably luxurious white sheets. If her guess was correct, it was probably of pretty high thread count. That man sure knew how to pick them. There was a small bookcase and an overstuffed armchair tucked at the opposite corner of the room. Beside it were shelves of CDs and a wall-mounted stereo. Not surprisingly, silver is the ongoing accent colour of this room as well.
The noises in the next room suddenly stopped and she saw Tristan poked his head into the bedroom. "Hey, you're awake." He approached her. She shifted over a bit so he could sit beside her.
"Yeah. I guess I'm just exhausted rather than coming down with a cold. I hate having a cold." She wrinkled her nose in detest as she said the last part. "I guess I'm just exhausted from all these festivities."
"You do look much better than this morning. I almost thought that you were the one having a delayed hangover."
Lying on her side and swathed in his bedspreads, she looked positively radiant and well rested. The sheets were only up till her underarms and he could make out her warm, soft body underneath it. He resisted the temptation to gently trace his fingers along her gentle curves. Suddenly, the scene from yesterday morning danced vividly before his eyes.
"I don't know, it sure felt like one." She didn't make an effort to sit up. His bed was simply too comfortable and she snuggled against the pillow. She slipped her hand into his and he gently held it. "What's that? It smells nice."
"I made you chicken soup. It's been stewing for a while now."
"You can cook?" She asked incredulously.
Yep." He shrugged. "I also can make my bed properly. You learn to be self sufficient when you go to military school." Tristan didn't mind it so much now. In hindsight, he was probably a better person because of that. But back then, he wasn't so accepting of the idea. He really thought that military school was the most humiliating and ridiculous punishment possible. Which was probably the point of it.
"So you can cook and you own more Yves St. Laurent suit than most straight men would admit to. Careful there mister, I might start to think of you as a metrosexual." She teased, knowing full well that he hated that label. Mainly because people kept telling him that.
"Oh please." He rolled his eyes. "I think my brother is the real metrosexual of the family. I work in a museum. A bit somber for that, don't you think? Only dorks work in a museum."
"Nah, don't worry. I don't think you're a real metrosexual anyways. If I'm going to tack a title on you, you could be ..." she lightly drummed her fingers on her chin. "How about a Renaissance man?"
"Renaissance man huh. I have to admit I like the sound of that better." He swept her hair to the side of her face. His other hand was still holding hers and his thumb was tracing little circles on her palm. "But alas, I don't deserve that title."
"Why not?"
"A real Renaissance man would've fixed your faucet."
"Wait. You didn't?" Rory panicked. She wasn't kidding when she said that she couldn't sleep with the dripping faucet revoking the horror moments in The Exorcist.
"Nope. I didn't. I got a plumber." Once he tucked her into bed and made sure that she was soundly asleep, he took her keys and went to her place. Knowing that he was no Home Depot material, he smartly called ahead for a plumber. "And please don't make any butt crack jokes, I've heard enough from the plumber himself." He sighed as if he wanted to erase that 30 minutes from his life forever.
"So you fixed my faucet, cured my cold, made me chicken soup and put my life back on track. How can I thank you."
"Well I can't take credit for the cold-curing if you didn't even have a cold to begin with."
"But for the rest of it ..." She pulled his neck down and kissed him. It started out as a sweet kiss, but then the emotions escalated. It became a dizzying kiss that sent chills down his spine. Her tongue savagely attacked his, conveying some sort of carnal lust to him. It was a kiss that said to him perhaps he should cancel all of his plans tomorrow, because he would be spent when she was finally done with him
She always thought that with him being the more experienced between the two of them, he would be the one to bring up the subject of sex. But he never did. Deep inside, she thought it was rather ridiculous that he thought of her as this pristine little creature that never heard of sex. She knew he wanted to sleep with her and the only thing stopping him was a stupid nickname from 10 years ago and the image that came along with it.
It was about time to end this stalemate and take matters into her own hands.
"I think I know what you're doing. Are you sure?" His face was so close that when he talked, his lips brushed against hers. Despite his question, she knew he wanted it. She had a rather big non-verbal clue pressed firmly against her.
"Why not? I wanted to." She smiled coyly. "You have to stop thinking of me as a Mary. I'm not 16, I'm 27. I'm old enough to be exposed to a lot of things. You don't need to shield my delicate sensibilities as if I've never done this before. Heck, maybe I even picked up a few moves on my way." She winked when she added that last part.
After digesting the meaning behind her comment, he flashed her a wolfish grin, "Well in that case ..."