"I did come."
His tone was filled with all the anger and frustration that had never left him over the last few years. There was no outlet for him letting that go. It'd nearly killed him to leave after only a glimpse of her tattered body, hooked up to machines and monitors, though the window on the hospital door. He wasn't given a choice in the matter, however. She looked at him now in disbelief—obviously they'd never told her he was there.
As soon as they finished the tests they insisted on putting him through, to make sure there was no internal damage to him, he bolted out to find Rory. He figured their families would be arriving soon—he had no idea what shape she was in or how long he'd been imprisoned in a hospital room.
All he really wanted to do was be there with her.
He finally found out she was in the ICU, and made his way to the desk. He asked for her, and got a nurse with an attitude, asking if he were family of the patient.
"No, I'm her boyfriend. Her family probably isn't here, someone should be with her."
"Tristan!" Lorelai came up behind him, in a full-panic frenzy.
"Lorelai, thank God," he said, feeling relief.
"What the hell happened?"
"Are you the mother?"
"Yes, is she okay?" Tears flowed from her eyes. She'd never been more terrified. She could tell by the look on the nurse's face that the news was not good.
"It's too early to tell. Come with me."
And with that, he was left outside as Lorelai was escorted in to the room. The nurse's words reverberated around his brain, as if bouncing off and hitting him over and over again. His breath drew raggedly, and he reached out for the wall to steady himself. He looked on through the window, at the sight of her lying there, so pale and fragile. Only moments later Emily was there, and his world grew very dark.
"What do you remember from that night?" he asked, moving to sit across from her on the couch.
"Not much. I'd lost . . . a lot of blood. I was in and out of consciousness. The nurse said I kept waking up, calling for you. She asked me why you weren't there," she bit her lip.
"Do you remember the accident?"
She nodded numbly. "A little. I remember just before better," she trailed off.
He wouldn't tell her their next destination. After much convincing, he'd gotten Lorelai to consent to his taking Rory all night—as the two Gilmore women were off to bum around Europe for the summer the following day. Tonight was just theirs. It was their whole summer.
They'd walked from her house in the warm night air, the sound of cicadas serenading them. He walked slowly, his arm lightly placed around her waist, just enjoying the feel of her in step beside him.
He would miss that the most.
When he stopped in front of the pond, she turned in and kissed him. One hand at the back of his head, her fingers sliding up through his hair; the other resting lightly on his chest.
A chaste kiss, by their standards.
Enough to make an on-looker in need of a cold shower, however.
Their kisses were never simple.
"Come on," he urged, pulling her toward the water.
"I don't have a suit," she said, realizing his intention as he slid his dress shirt off of his body.
"You don't need one."
His eyes, even in the darkness (or especially, perhaps), pierced into her. He needed what she did—the sense of never-ending time. This evening of limbo, his flesh pressed into hers, weightless in the water as if even the laws of nature didn't apply to them.
He moved slowly all evening, and she gladly followed his lead. She wrapped herself around him, her lips fusing with his. He moved against her—within her, and leaving no spot on her body untouched by his hands. They glided over her, through the water, memorizing. She bit down softly on his shoulder; close, so close now. His lips now at her ear, coaxing her with raw words.
"Rory, there's something you don't know," he began, putting his hand on her knee.
"I doubt that—God, I wish I didn't know," she shook her head bitterly. "You left because they told you."
He felt like she'd cast him out into the middle of a lake on a fishing lure. He was so close, but now back at a loss, amidst too much unknown information. Never could anyone have told him anything about her to push him away. It was obvious she didn't understand that.
"Told me what?"
A knock came at the door then, undoubtedly a sympathetic friend with more food, tissues, or hugs. She looked at him intensely—the sadness penetrating—then moved to the front door.
Her dad stood in front of her, his suit rumpled, his appearance completely disheveled. "Hey, kid."
"Dad," she managed as she fell into his waiting arms. They held each other up. In a way she felt like his equal in this, like they'd both lost their mother. He'd always been more like a friend than a father, but now he was the only parent she had left.
She hated the thoughts she had now.
"I saw Connor earlier. You okay?"
She nodded. "He left. He just came to check on me."
"He still loves you," Chris informed her, as if she wasn't aware.
She averted her gaze. "Grandma told him?"
Chris nodded. "She's good at those things."
"It's not right with him, Dad. We wanted different things."
"You need someone right now, Rory," he urged, before taking notice of the man sitting in the living room. "You've got to be kidding me!" he exclaimed, moving past Rory and advancing on Tristan.
"Hello, Chris," Tristan acknowledged him. He was unaware of how their relationship was now, but the man who hadn't bothered to come to their high school graduation—at which she was valedictorian—had little respect in Tristan's eyes. He'd been too busy, or whatever the excuse, to be there for her at most every major milestone. His fatherly instincts did seem to kick in at some interesting times.
"Get the hell out of here!" he moved closer to address Tristan. "She doesn't need you right now. Haven't you done enough, really?"
Tristan held his tongue, not wanting to ruin his chances of getting to stay and at least letting her know the truth. His temper would never be described as good—short and fierce, perhaps. He tried for her. He always had.
"Dad, stop it!"
Both men turned to look at her. It was obvious to both of them that she hadn't slept in days—she had probably only ingested coffee for the same time span. She rubbed her temples and sighed.
"Dad, please, go back to your room at the inn. I'll come see you tomorrow."
He looked at his grownup daughter and nodded. He knew she had enough of her mother in her to handle herself in any situation, but he also knew the hell she'd gone through after their graduation. He knew it was all because of him.
"Fine. Get some rest, honey," he instructed, kissing the top of her head. She walked him to the door, and he turned to face her once more.
"Why is he here?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"I'm not entirely sure."
"I'm sorry, for acting like that, I,"
"It's okay, Dad. This isn't an easy time."
"I miss her. I always have, though. It's worse for you, I know—you were her whole world," he smiled sadly, touching her cheek.
Stopping the tears wasn't an option now. She nodded and he held her against him once more before turning to go.
Tristan stood as she re-entered the living room, looking even more drained than before. She didn't need to talk anymore tonight—that fact was blatantly obvious to him. He'd waited nine years to fill in the gaps of what happened that night—he could wait one more day. To have seen her at all was enough for him right in this moment. There were more important things to consider just now.
"I'm sorry, he's just upset."
"You want me to go?" he asked knowingly.
"Can you stay?"
"You're exhausted, you need to sleep," he argued.
"I know. I just don't think I will unless—please, just stay with me until I fall asleep, then if you want, you can go, but," she rambled.
"I'll stay."
She nodded gratefully, and led the way upstairs to her mother's bedroom.
They'd spread towels out over the cot inside the potting shed, and she now lie chest to chest against him, another towel partially covering her backside. The heat off their bodies had lulled her to sleep, her head nestled in the valley of his shoulder. He stroked her hair as it dried, hating to wake her up, but knowing they had little time to waste. Maybe it was selfish of him to steal these moments, but most nights that she lay in his arms he watched her, enthralled. These most intimate of moments, as her breath rolled in and out of her like the tides, while they lie intertwined and completely vulnerable; they seemed too precious to allow sleep to claim him. He continued to hold her until at last he could wait no longer. His watched beeped, alerting him of the midnight hour, and kissed her awake.
He knew he wouldn't sleep much tonight. His only concern was that she did. He stood next to the bed as she slipped under the covers. She drew back the blankets on the other side, an invitation. He kicked off his shoes and slid in next to her. She pulled one of his arms under her shoulders and curled into him. He smiled, his body immediately readjusting and pulling her in tighter against him, as if out of habit. It was like riding a bicycle. It wasn't that they'd done this before—she needed it just as it'd been once upon a time, as if no time had passed between them. He stroked her hair soothingly, and sure enough, within moments he heard the familiar cadence of her unconscious breathing.
She was finally asleep.