TITLE: Ceiling of Routine

RATING: Totally G, so far.

SPOILERS: Up to and including "The Party's Over"

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. All characters are property of ASP and the WB.

NOTES: Logan and Rory have brought me back. I'm a sucker for flirty banter. And hot blond boys. Story title ganked from a lyric by a crazy little Canadian band.

One: Charm is Relative

Rory had known guys like Logan. Plenty of them. There was not a single class at Chilton that had not been densely populated with over privileged, technically good looking and allegedly charming guys like him. They'd sat in front of, behind and all around her. They'd bestowed the ever so charming nickname of 'Mary' upon her. She'd met a couple at Yale, and a couple more at her grandparent's party.

As a rule, she'd avoided the type. Never had she felt drawn to one, outside of a John Hughes movie. More often than not she'd been slightly repulsed by them. She hated that an abundance of money and artfully tousled hair was supposed to make her overlook a lack of character. Money did not make you happy. Artfully tousled hair did not make you deep.

Logan Huntzberger, however, was beginning to seem like he just might be an exception.

"Hey there, Ace. Almost didn't recognize you without the tiara." Logan slid into the empty seat next to her, apparently not caring that the social contract dictated he be invited. He ignored Paris's glare (a feat in itself) at being interrupted. Nor did he seem to know that it was rude to swipe someone's orange slices without at least asking.

He had a way of sneaking up on her. She'd found that the best way to deal with the sneak attacks was to ignore them, and pretend she had seen them coming. It as a rare person who enjoyed being an irritant but Logan relished in it. She swallowed her cornflakes before replying, "Logan. Hey. This is Paris, my roommate. Paris, this is…"

"Logan Huntzberger. I know."

Logan was momentarily puzzled. "Have we met before?"

"No. My mother has a mental ranking of all eligible bachelors in Connecticut and the surrounding area. It's a complicated system based on looks, net worth, the potential to be a closet homosexual, etc. You're currently number six."

"He's number six?" Rory was surprised. "Has you're mother met him?

"Only number six?" Logan echoed. Rory was greatly amused by the fact that Logan seemed more than a little miffed not to have cracked the top five.

"Buck up, little camper. If you'd like a list of flaws, I'd be happy to compile one. Additionally I work in the newsroom you nap in." At this, Rory did giggle. A little. This caused Paris to turn her attention towards Rory. "But first, a tiara? Whatever was the occasion, Ace?"

Rory made a face. "Don't you start. I don't like nicknames."

Paris rolled her eyes. "I remember, Mary. Or should I call you Lorelai Leigh Gilmore the Third?"

"Hey! Nowhere on my birth certificate am I numbered."

"Which was not at all my point, by the way. But I have a lecture across campus. I should go before the keeners take all the good seats. Don't think you're off the hook yet, Princess."

Rory rolled her eyes. Paris was not one to let anyone off of a hook, ever. "Good-bye."

"Bye. Later, Huntzberger."

Logan waited until Paris was out of earshot before speaking again, "I like her."

Rory ignored the pang of something that was certainly not jealousy as she turned to look at him. "Somehow, I don't think you're her type."

Logan smirked. "Oh, I know I'm not her type. Not now. But give me a couple of decades. We Huntzbergers age very well."

"You're like cheese in more ways than one, then, aren't you?"

His reply, "I was kidding. A guy doesn't just date every girl he likes. I have many female friends. Are you always this hostile?" was said as he reached for another slice of her orange.

She slapped his hand away. "Nope. You just bring out the worst in me. Anyway, how did you know about Paris'" she lowered her voice and leaned into him slightly, "type?"

He mimicked her and leaned in as well, whispering conspiratorially, "Simple deduction, Ace. Number one: Professor Asher Fleming had a well known, and earned, reputation for liking them young. Number two: the second time we met you were carrying flyers with his picture on them. Number three: you insisted, quite vehemently, when asked, that you and he ware not an item. And number four: you introduced Paris as you're roommate."

Rory put some distance between them, slightly unnerved by the whisper of his breath across her skin.

"Very astute, Sherlock. Now does your little visit have a point other than taking advantage of my giving nature when it comes to fruits and vegetables? Because trust me, if those were French fries, you'd have gotten more that a slap on the hand."

"Good to know. Protective of fast food. I'll add it to my notes."

Somehow, she didn't put it past him to actually have notes, "Logan…"

He easily caught the slightly sharper edge her tone had taken on and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Relax, Ace. I simply came by to ask how you are. I'd have called, perhaps offered you a foolproof hangover cure, but I haven't got your number. I could have gotten it, but I didn't think you'd have appreciated the intrusion."

"I'm fine. Despite the rumors that are circulation my town regarding the limo full of men that dropped me off on Friday night."

"I would like to here those rumors."

"Why? I'm sure none of them detail anything you haven't actually done."

"Rory. After all we've been through together, do you really still have such a low opinion of me?"

"My opinion of you is slightly, only very slightly, a pinch, you could say, higher than it was when we first met."

"Ah. Well at least I'm on an upswing."

"Up pinch. For now."

"You underestimate my charm."

"You overestimate my susceptibility to this thing you call charm," she mocked him with air quotes.

Logan laughed at this and Rory herself could not keep from smiling slightly. He glanced at his watch and stood up. He made a gesture akin to a hat tip. "Ace. Always a pleasure. I'll be seeing you." And strolled away.

One of these days, she was going to have the last word.

When Rory returned to her suite at the end of the day she was exhausted. This was due in no small part to the massive textbook she needed for her Brit Lit class, which the professor insisted they bring, but that they had yet to crack open during the course of a class. She was tired and edgy and had spilled coffee all over the skirt she had just bought. When she spotted Paris, seemingly waiting for her, she just knew that someone, somewhere was laughing at her. She dropped her bag and flopped into a chair facing Paris, hoping that by being proactive her misery would end sooner, rather than later.

"So. Harry Winston's or Cartier? How many carats?"

"What?" As usual, Paris began a conversation in such a way that defied logic.

"You're tiara?"

"I didn't ask. I didn't want to know."

"You actually wore a tiara?"

Rory flipped her hair away from her face. "Not willingly. It was my grandmother's idea."

Paris rolled her eyes. "Clearly. No offense, but I've been in you're house. No one who lives in that house has a hidden stash of tiaras."

Now it was Rory's turn to roll her eyes. "Could you quit saying tiara?"

"Not until you tell me what the occasion was. State dinner? Coronation? Miss Teen USA pageant?"

"You know that Yale alumni party? The one my grandparents cancelled Friday night dinner for?"

"Yeah, and?"

"Well, it wasn't so much a 'Yale Alumni party,' as advertised. It was more a find Rory a boyfriend with a trust fund party."

"That sounds hellacious. For you, at least. I wish I'd been there."

Rory laughed. "Sometimes I wonder if you actually like me or if you just pretend to and will one day smother me in my sleep."

"I wouldn't smother you in you're sleep. I'd pay someone to slip an untraceable, slow acting poison into your coffee first thing in the morning when you'd never notice. Give me some credit."

Rory hit her squarely in the face with a throw pillow.

"Hey. I was joking. Lighten up."

"Don't threaten my coffee. It's the only thing that gets me out of bed at 7 AM."

"So Huntzberger was at the party?"

"Yeah. And on a first name basis with my grandfather."

"That's hardly surprising."

At this, Rory raised an eyebrow. "Well, it was to me."

Paris sighed. Sometimes she felt like Obi Wan teaching Rory Skywalker the ins and outs of being a Jedi socialite. "One of these days I'm going to make you a chart."

"We all know you like charts."

Paris continued as though Rory had not even spoken. There are a lot of rich people in Hartford, yes. Not so many, however, that they don't all have at least a cursory knowledge of one another."

"Name, rank and serial number, gotcha."

"Now, as with every group of society, there are subgroups."

"Which are…?"

"New money, old money, and really old money."

"A chart would be good right about now."

"I'm keeping it simple, stupid. You are really old money. The Huntzbergers are really old money. You're a Yale legacy. So is Logan. You're grandmother sits on the same charity boards as his mother. You're grandfather has shared many a cigar with his father. Had you're mother not hightailed it out of Hartford with you, you probably would have sat next to each other at the kiddie table at one dinner party or another. You're nannies would have been friends.

"Weird."

"It's an incestuous little group."

He was at his desk in the newsroom, back to the door, ridiculous hat in place, so she took the opportunity to sneak up on him. "Hey there, Huntzberger. Got a question for you."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Ace." If she'd startled him, he gave no indication but politely put aside the jumble he'd been working on.

"What was you're nanny's name?"

"Which one?"

"You had more than one?"

"Contrary to what One Hundred and One Dalmatians tells us, most nannies don't last a lifetime. Why the sudden interest in my parent's hired help?"

"Apparently, in an alternate universe, my nanny would have been friends with your nanny. Did you know who my grandparents were before last Friday?"

Logan considered the question. "The first couple of times I met you? No. I can usually tell a debutante from a financial aid applicant, and I figured you for the latter."

"I applied. Didn't qualify. I was a debutante, though."

"Really? You're just full of surprises. Anyway, when I first heard your last name, I wondered a little. But then, Gilmore isn't exactly uncommon, so I dismissed it."

"So you were as surprised to see me as I was to see you?"

"Not exactly. I dismissed it but then I remembered the whole teenage pregnancy-illegitimate grandchild thing."

Rory winced a little, "I hate that people care so much about that."

Logan shrugged. "People talk. So I asked around a little."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Have you ever consulted a therapist about these stalker-like personality traits?"

"I seem to remember you learning my routine and threatening to 'track' my every move."

"I was after a story."

"Which you never would have gotten if you hadn't been Lorelai Leigh Gilmore the Third of the Hartford Gilmore's."

"Elitist snob."

"We may be, but we throw a damn good party. Much like your grandmother."

"So did you know that you were going to be a window display in my shopping mall of future husbands?"

"Yep. And had it been any other girl I would have gotten out of it."

She laughed incredulously. "Is this what you like to call charm?"

"C'mon, do you think I leave champagne and gorilla masks for all the girls?"

And while Rory was trying to formulate a sufficiently scathing reply. He stood up, winked, and strolled out of the room. Apparently, today would not be the day she got the last word.