Pairing: Established relationships for L/L and P/J; R/T…eventually
Rating: R
Spoilers: May reference anything from seasons 1 & 2
Summary: Seven years after graduating Chilton, Rory and Paris are business partners. What happens when they strike up a joint venture with Tristan DuGrey?
Disclaimer: The characters depicted her were created by Amy Sherman-Palladino, and are the property of Hofflund-Pollone and Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. They are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from their use.
A/N: Sorry about the delay, folks. I've been busy trying to catch up with the GG elite fanfic archive that I oversee. Needless to say, the story went on the backburner.
As with the chapters set in New York, the Chicago locations depicted here are real. There really is an El stop on Addison Street, and you do head west from it to reach Wrigley Field. I've been to the ballpark several times, although never in the winter, or in the dark, so that part is speculation and an educated guess on my part. Also, unlike Tristan and his grandfather, I was lucky enough to get a foul ball while attending a Cubs game this fall.
This chapter's title quote is from Field of Dreams. If you've never seen it, rent it. Or, better yet, read the book on which it is based: Shoeless Joe, by W.P. Kinsella.
Unholy Alliance
By Grace
Part Twenty-One: This field, this game, is a part of our past... It reminds us of all that once was good and that could be again.
Sunlight filtered into the bedroom, and Tristan squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. He was far too comfortable to be awakened now. When the warm mass beside him shifted, however, his eyes flew open in shock. The events of the previous night came rushing back to him, and suddenly, the fact that he was snuggled up in bed beside his friend's girlfriend didn't seem like such a great thing.
On the other hand, he was snuggled up in bed with Rory, and in no universe did that equate to an entirely bad thing. He sighed softly and extricated his arm from around her waist. Despite the fact that there was no place on earth he would rather be, Tristan didn't think he could handle seeing the inevitable look of panic in Rory's eyes when she awoke and found him there.
He needed to get out of there, and fast. He crept carefully out of the bed and padded across the room towards the door. His hand was on the doorknob when a thought occurred to him. Returning to the bedside, Tristan hurriedly scribbled a note to Rory on the pad of paper sitting on the night table, then tore off the sheet and slipped it beneath the crook of her elbow. His mission accomplished, he left the room without a glance backwards.
* * *
Sunlight filtered into the bedroom, and Rory snuggled deeper under the covers. She was warm, she was comfortable, and she was…alone. There was something missing, but she couldn't put a finger on what it was. She pushed herself up on her elbows, and caught sight of the rumpled sheets and dented pillow beside her, noted the scent of aftershave in the air.
Tristan. She had slept with Tristan. Well, not slept with him, but…
Rory flopped face-first into her pillow and screamed. How could one man be so frustrating when he wasn't even around? Shifting slightly, she heard something crumple beneath her arm. Grabbing hold of the piece of paper, she pulled it closer, and quickly read the note:
Rory—
Hope you slept well. I needed to make a pilgrimage (no pun intended)—I'll be back in a few hours. Happy Thanksgiving.
-Tristan
She furrowed her brow in confusion. Pilgrimage? They were in Chicago, not Mecca. On top of that, it was Thanksgiving Day. What could possibly be open? Before she had a chance to contemplate it further, her super-sensitive sense of smell picked up the delectable aroma of freshly-brewed coffee.
Tossing off the covers, she quickly shoved on her slippers and threw on her bathrobe. The coffee gods were beckoning, and she had to heed their call.
* * *
Tristan stepped off the train onto the El platform, pulling his coat more tightly around himself. The wind was bitingly cold, and most of the city's denizens had the common sense to stay indoors. He, on the other hand, had not been blessed with such a precious commodity. With a determined stride, he set off down the steps to street level.
Making his way out to the sidewalk, Tristan headed west down Addison Street. His destination loomed ahead of him, a massive gray structure that filled an entire city block. On a warm summer afternoon, this neighborhood would be teeming with people, the shouts of scalpers selling tickets mingling with the rumble of trains overhead.
Quickening his pace, he battled the wind until he was standing beneath the bright red marquee that proclaimed Wrigley Field to be the home of the Chicago Cubs. Glancing around quickly, he caught sight of a familiar figure huddled beside the building.
"Jim!" he called out. The man turned at the sound, and then hurried towards Tristan.
Meeting halfway, they shared a firm handshake and exchanged pleasantries.
"You, my friend, pick the most unusual times to call in your favors."
Tristan grinned at his former college roommate. "Sorry, buddy. The need just strikes me at odd times."
"Obviously. I mean, Thanksgiving isn't exactly baseball season. You know the field is covered in snow and all the ivy is brown, right?"
"That's part of the appeal. Anybody can go to the ballpark in the summer."
"And most sane people do," Jim commented dryly.
"You of all people have never mistaken me for sane."
"True, true. Look, I'd love to stay and catch up, but my in-laws will be getting to our place soon, and I need to be there."
"Perfectly understandable. Same routine as always?"
"Yep. Just make sure the door shuts completely when you leave."
"Will do."
The two old friends exchanged farewells, and then Jim unlocked a door and ushered Tristan inside. When the door swung shut behind him, Tristan found himself alone in the darkness. He remained still for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust, and then he started making his way towards one of the large, dim blocks of light that faintly illuminated the corridor.
Climbing the concrete steps quickly, Tristan soon found himself outside once again, standing on the walkway just above the box seats. He was surrounded by a sea of green plastic, the thousands of seats daunting in their emptiness. He took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air, wincing slightly as it stung his nose and throat. He moved forward slowly, a layer of snow crunching beneath his feet. He stopped when he reached the brick wall encompassing the field, and paused a moment to brush the snow off an aisle seat before sitting down.
The cold dampness from the snow began to seep through his coat, but Tristan ignored it. Settling in, he closed his eyes and remembered all the times he had been here. If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear the cheer of the crowd, the crack of the bat, and the barking voices hawking hot dogs, beer, and peanuts.
He would always associate this place with his grandfather, and the numerous afternoons they had spent there together. They would each get a scorecard and pencil, and meticulously kept track of every hit, out, and error. They would eat peanuts and hot dogs—always Chicago-style—and they never came without their mitts, just in case a foul ball came their way. That, unfortunately, never happened.
Tristan opened his eyes, and tipped back his head to gaze at the slate-gray sky. It was evident that more snow was on the way, and his hopes of ever making it to California were rapidly dwindling.
On impulse, he stood up and vaulted over the low wall onto the field. He strolled along the baseline, ducking into the dugout before proceeding to home plate. None of the bases were actually out, but he knew he was in the right general vicinity. Adopting a batting stance, he took a few cuts at the air. Abandoning his "bat," Tristan strolled out to the pitcher's mound. Scooping some snow off the ground, he patted it into a ball, drew back, and hurled it towards home. He repeated the actions until his arm was sore and there was no snow remaining around the mound.
The frustration and anger had been building with every snowball, and now he had reached a state of full-blown fury. It wasn't often that he was allowed to express his anger. His upbringing, his education, his career—all of them demanded that he remain calm, rational, never allowing emotions to rule the day.
Tristan didn't know how much longer he could maintain the charade. Emotions had been ruling the day ever since he re-met Rory, although he had done his best not to let it show. Nonetheless, he was in love with her, and waking up beside her this morning had been sweet torture. He wanted to wake up beside her every morning of every day for the rest of his life. With an aggrieved sigh, he flopped down on the ground and pulled out his cell phone.
A few minutes later, he heard a perky female voice chirp, "Hello?"
"Hey Lane, it's Tristan."
"Tristan! Happy Thanksgiving! How are you? Where are you?"
He couldn't help laughing at her rapid-fire questions. "Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Believe it or not, I'm at Wrigley Field."
Her confusion came through the phone loud and clear. "I thought you were going to California for the holidays? And isn't baseball season over?"
He quickly summed up the events of the last twenty-four hours, including the late-night kitchen raid and unexpected sleeping arrangements. When he was finished, Lane asked timidly, "So, do anything, you know, happen?"
"Of course not. Even so, RJ is going to freak if he finds out."
"I take it you're not planning on telling him?"
"No, do you think I should?"
"I don't know. Like you said, nothing happened. But still…I guess if anyone should tell him, it's Rory."
"I suppose. Hey, how's your Thanksgiving going?"
"Okay. I'm on my way to Stars Hollow right now. The traffic sucks, but that's to be expected."
"Will it just be you and your parents for dinner?"
"God, I hope so. I really don't want to spend the day fending off prospective suitors."
"Want me to call back later with a 'medical emergency,' just in case?"
Lane laughed. "That would be great, Tristan. Hey, my cell phone signal always goes out around here, so I'm going to let you go. Wish Rory a happy Thanksgiving for me."
"I will. Bye Lane."
"Bye Tristan.
* * *
Rory glanced anxiously at the clock on the mantle. It was approaching noon, and Tristan still hadn't returned. The Macy's parade was over, and all the men of the family were crowded around the television watching football.
Abandoning her seat by the fireplace, Rory meandering into the kitchen, where she found Ryan's mother and aunts bustling around. Approaching carefully, Rory asked, "Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs. Salinger?"
"Oh, no, dear, you're our guest! We've got everything under control." Opening the refrigerator, the older woman began looking for something, without success. "That's odd," she murmured. "I could have sworn there was a full jar of caviar in here…"
Rory bit her lip to keep from giggling, knowing exactly what had happened to the caviar.
Closing the fridge door, Mrs. Salinger yelled, "Kathleen, come here!"
Within seconds, Ryan's younger sister, a bubbly redhead with a spark of mischief in her eyes, appeared. "Yeah, mom?"
"I need you to run to the store for me and pick up some beluga caviar. Just take some cash out of my wallet before you go."
"Sure thing." Eyeing Rory, who looked completely out of place, she asked, "Want to keep me company?"
Rory jumped at the opportunity. "Definitely. I'll go get my coat."
A few minutes later, the two girls were in Mr. and Mrs. Salinger's Lincoln Navigator, waiting for the heater to kick in.
"So, Rory, tell me about Tristan."
Rory glanced at the younger girl in surprise. "He's your brother's business partner. Don't you already know him pretty well?"
"We've only met once, actually, and then just for a couple minutes. Come on, spill—RJ says you've known him forever."
"I wouldn't necessarily say that. I mean, we went to school together for a little while, but that was a long time ago… Why do you want to know?"
Kathleen rolled her eyes as she pulled the SUV out of the driveway. "Isn't it obvious? He's gorgeous, successful, and single."
This gave Rory pause. "Oh. I guess I just don't think about him that way. Um, well, his family is really wealthy and influential in Hartford society, but I get the impression Tristan isn't all that close to them. I thought he was a cocky jerk when we were in high school, but he's changed a lot since then. You already know he's successful, which I assume is because he's really smart, and creative, and ambitious. He's polite, and caring, and sweet—you should see him with my half-sisters—and generous."
"Are you sure you're dating my brother and not him?" Kathleen asked, laughter in her voice.
Rory flushed. "Of course! I mean, Tristan and I are just friends…"
"I was just teasing, Rory."
"Oh. Right."
"Anyway, he sounds perfect."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"Do you think I have a chance with him? I mean, I know he's a few years older than I am, but that's okay, right?"
Rory didn't respond right away. "Um, I really don't know. I mean, I don't know what his type is or anything…"
"But he's not dating anyone right now, is he?"
"No…"
Kathleen flashed her a wicked grin. "Then I'll just have to see what I can do to change that."
Rory settled back against the plush leather upholstery, suddenly feeling slightly sick to her stomach.
* * *
By the time Rory and Kathleen got back to the house, Tristan had returned. Leaving Kathleen to deliver the caviar to the kitchen, Rory made a beeline to his side.
"Hey," she said softly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Sure." He got up from his chair and followed her into the hallway.
Her tone was anxious as she asked him, "Are you okay? Where were you?"
"I went downtown, to Wrigley Field."
Rory's eyes widened in disbelief. "You had me worried sick for hours on end because you had some freakish urge to go to a baseball field?"
"I left a note," he said meekly.
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?"
Tristan smiled slyly. "You were really worried about me?"
"For some inexplicable reason, yes. I thought you were hurt or…or dead. Now I might kill you myself."
"Touching, really. Where did you go gallivanting off to just now?"
"Mrs. Salinger sent me and Kathleen to the grocery store for caviar," she answered pointedly.
He shot her a sheepish grin. "Oops."
"Oh, and by the way, Kathleen thinks you're quite the delectable specimen of man, so you might want to watch your back." She spun on her heel and started to walk away, but Tristan hooked his arm around her waist and jerked her backwards against him.
"What are you doing?" she yelped.
"Requesting an explanation. What's this about Kathleen?"
She pulled out of his grasp and faced him once more. "During our little field trip, Kathleen confided in me that she finds you very attractive, and she wanted to know if I thought she had a shot with you."
"What did you tell her?" he asked, his voice quiet and serious.
She met his gaze, blue eyes to blue. "I told her I didn't know, because I'm not sure what your type is."
Once again, she turned to walk away from him. His soft words gave her pause: "You know what my type is, Rory," but then she continued walking.
To be continued…