Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.
Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.
Rating: T (will be bumped up with future chapters.)
Story Title: Untouched
Chapter Title: Part Six
She never let herself be led astray.
Truth be damned was not her motto. In fact, the only way that she could ever lie was by omission. She didn't believe in it, it wasn't who she was. It wasn't even that she sought out truth; she sought out to be a pillar of the attribute, an example to be held up against. Already in training for her journalistic integrity.
She knew it was a fine line between total honesty and giving away too much. She had plunged over that line the night before with the one person in her life she owed nothing except her cooperation on the Lit Class presentation. She told him in a one hour window more than she'd told anyone close to her—more than Dean, more than Lane, even more than her mother. She'd kept in the reason behind her break up with her boyfriend for a couple of weeks now, letting it eat at her, feeling increasingly more relieved at the outcome. Unfortunately the relief came at the cost of immense guilt.
She'd been leading Dean on.
It hadn't been intentional. Most of the time she did enjoy his company and he was more than respectful of her. Except when it came to her time. He wanted to spend every free moment with her. He wanted to bask in her presence, shower her with attention, and be the only boy that came into her view.
He was in love with her.
His confession of such emotion wasn't the first time she realized it as a fact. She knew from the way he looked at her, the way he massaged the back of her hand with his thumb when they held hands, his look of excitement when they got her house to themselves for an hour here and two hours there.
She'd read books about great loves. Clandestined couples, tackling great odds to be together, to unify their love. Using them as text books didn't work.
She didn't even want to walk five minutes to meet him at Luke's for coffee some days, let alone move mountains and forge rivers to be with her one and only. There was no way she was in love. She had no personal frame of reference to what it felt like to be in love—it seemed like some place you have to travel to in order to see it for yourself. Spaceships might be involved for all she knew. She thought about asking him what it felt like, but feared giving up her good face, disappointing him.
She was fine with kissing him back, squeezing his hand, calling him after he left five messages on her pager, and letting him come over after he got off work.
But when it came to his bearing his soul, being brave, and putting himself out there—she froze instead of telling him that she just didn't feel the same way. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. But that night even her usual tactic of omission couldn't save Dean from her true feelings.
She wasn't the kind of girl that hurt people. She hated seeing people in pain, and the thought of being the cause of such pain as she watched wash over Dean's face that night was excruciating.
Spilling her guts to Tristan felt good. And that just scared her even more. She had thought about the fact that she'd stormed out not only on him, but their study session and all of her personal belongings later, as she sat shivering against the cold vinyl of the seats without her jacket on the last bus to Stars Hollow that evening. She was more than relieved not to have to answer any questions from her mother as to why she was shaking with tears upon her arrival home that night. Her mother was out on a date with her English teacher. At least she hadn't spilled all of that information to Tristan.
She couldn't keep this up. She wasn't comfortable with the ease at which she let him into the inner workings of her mind, her fears, and her life. There was no way she could see him outside of school anymore. And there was no way in hell she was going to Louise's party with him tonight.
And that was exactly why she had turned her cell phone off after he called an hour ago, not even bothering to see if he left a message.
She had the entire day to herself, her mother rushing out of the house only five hours after she'd finally returned, yelling about needing more coffee than she'd ever ingested in one sitting before and the fact that their beloved coffee maker still hadn't been looked at by the appliance doctor, better known to the women as Luke Danes. She continued to yell about a note that would explain more as she darted out the door. Rory heard her Jeep fire up and then she was gone, leaving Rory to transfer her pity party from her bedroom to the couch, still in her pajamas as she hauled all the left-over Chinese food in the refrigerator out and arranged it in a smorgasbord in front of the TV.
After she turned her phone off and finished off the last of the Szechwan Chicken she considered calling Luke's to get her own vat of coffee delivered. Not that Luke's regularly delivered, but for her and her mother an exception was made. Her fingers rested on the talk button of the cordless phone as a True Hollywood Story for Johnny Depp came on the screen, momentarily distracting her attention. She jumped in her seat a bit as the doorbell rang. Keeping hold of the phone she got up slowly, watching old clips of 21 Jump Street flash across the scene.
The knocking continued, getting louder with each subsequent rap. Groaning, she backed her way to the front door, still clutching the phone in one hand and the remote in the other.
"God, Mom, I don't know what your problem is, but I'm going to have Luke install one of those fingerprint touch pads in our front door so it won't matter where you mysteriously leave your keys," she half-yelled as she opened the front door.
She wasn't prepared for him to be here. Unanswered phone calls were supposed to give a certain message. Unavailable. Don't call me, I'll call you.
"Bad time?"
She blushed as she looked down at her own apparel. It was after one in the afternoon and she was clad in monkey pajamas and her hair was piled up on top of her head in the laziest hairstyle ever fashioned.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to pick you up for the party," he replied nonchalantly.
She gaped at him. "It doesn't start for like six hours."
He shrugged. "Thought you might require a bit of convincing beforehand. Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"No," she crossed her arms.
"Come on, Mary, I promise not to go into your bedroom. You know, unless invited," he smirked.
"Goodbye, Tristan. Have fun at the party," she said, kicking the door so it would slam closed in his face, but he caught it with an open palm against the translucent glass.
"We're not done here, Rory. You promised me your attendance," he reminded her.
"Well, what can I say, Tristan? I'm not feeling up for a crowd of people. I'll have to sit this one out and catch the next one to see who Muffy's boffing," she told him.
"Fine. But remember, you owe me. The next party is at Josh Hamilton's house. You know, he has this rule where you can't get through the door without doing a Jell-O shot. And his parents have had this viewing room built into their basement, he uses it for a group version of Seven Minutes in Heaven," he tested her.
She groaned, turned on her heel, and stomped off into the living room. The front door was left open, and she knew he would take it as an invitation to come in. She flopped onto the couch again, her former spot still warmed from her time of habitation, and grabbed the box of egg rolls.
"Tell me you at least brought coffee," she bit into the lukewarm shell.
"Coffee and Chinese food? What are you, pregnant?"
"Just another brunch at the Gilmore house," she informed.
He stood next to the couch, looking around her house. She grew uncomfortable, feeling the scrutiny they'd discussed the prior evening beginning, and he was nowhere near her bedroom.
"How did you find my house, anyhow?"
"I uh, went back to the diner in the center of town, and I asked someone for directions."
Her eyes shot up to meet his as he continued to stand over her, behind the couch. "Who?"
He shrugged. "She kept asking me to call her Patricia," he frowned. "Sort of a boisterous, older woman. I'm pretty sure she wanted me to make a pit stop at her house first," he chuckled.
"Safe conclusion."
"Anyhow, she said to tell you she was impressed at your choice of male companions. Then she asked me when I'll turn 18."
Rory had to giggle at this. Having Tristan standing in her living room telling her stories of Ms. Patty working on getting into his pants was beyond even her very capable imagination. She picked up the box of egg rolls and held it out to him.
A peace offering.
He took one, and bit into it. "Not bad."
"It's from Al's Pancake World."
"I'm starting to see why you're so odd," he confided, moving to sit on the arm of the couch.
"My dad threatened to take me out of here, he thinks everyone's too nutty and I'm not safe here."
"He might have a point. Are there any men roaming around as sex-hungry for teenage girls as this Patricia is for teenage boys?" he raised an eye.
She shook her head. "Nope. Besides, anyone who would dare to get near me would have to suffer the wrath of Luke."
"The diner guy?"
"The very same."
He took another bite of his egg roll and she watched as he shifted on the hard seat. She scooted over to the middle of the couch and removed the blanket that she'd used earlier to cover up with to make room for him next to her.
"So, you were going to convince me?"
He nodded, accepting each small invitation she extended to him as he sat down on the only slightly more comfortable cushion.
"You promised," he pointed the half-eaten egg roll at her.
"So you've never broken a promise before?"
"My behavior isn't being discussed here. Yours is."
"I don't see why you're pushing this issue," she sighed, muting the television. No way was she turning off Johnny Depp. Such things just were not done in the Gilmore house.
"You don't want to come with me," he said knowingly.
"It's not that I don't want to go with you—it's more that I don't want to go to one of those parties."
She watched her last statement register with him. He popped the rest of the egg roll into his mouth as he seemed to be considering something.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"If I said no, I can't imagine that would dissuade you, now would it?" she picked up the box of noodles and raked a fork over the contents, bringing nothing up to her mouth.
"Fine, if I ask you something will you answer me honestly?" he rephrased.
"Of course," she said quietly, now meeting his eyes.
"Did I do something that upset you last night?"
It had never occurred to her that he might have felt responsible for her abrupt departure. She figured he thought she was crazy, overly emotional, irresponsible, a mess. A billion other negative terms concerning her behavior sprung to her mind.
She pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned forward to rid her hands of the carton she'd eaten nothing from, and then wrapped her arms around her legs.
"Because I didn't mean to upset you, I just," he paused, and she took his loss for words as an opportunity to meet his eyes. "I was worried about you."
"Oh," she nodded slightly, still not unfurling her body.
"I mean, it had to be me, right? I asked what happened, and you ran away crying. I shouldn't have made you talk about it," he conceded.
"No, it was good, actually," she bit her lip and swiveled her hips in order to face him.
There she went again. She began to wonder if she had some strange strain of Terret's Syndrome, but with honesty. But if she was going to be honest with herself as well, she knew it was too late to go back now.
He had become her confidant.
"Good?" He didn't appear to believe her.
"Yeah, I haven't really talked about what happened with Dean. I've kept it bottled up, feeling bad about it," she couldn't keep his gaze and kept darting her eyes from her lap back up to his face.
"Why on earth would you feel bad about what happened? You were just honest with him; it would have been wrong for you to tell him you loved him, you know, when you didn't."
She nodded. She'd come to this conclusion herself. It didn't make the hurt on Dean's face easier to bear.
"He was still really upset," she brought her shoulders up closer to her ears as if she was trying to curl further into a ball. Like she might collapse into herself, creating an outer shell akin to that of a turtle. It must be nice to be able to hide like that when spooked.
"He's a big boy, he'll get over it. And so will you."
He'd settled in, his comfort seemingly growing more with her own ease. A platitude that her grandmother spouted about the hostess' duty to be composed in order to put her guests at ease as well sprung to mind. His arm was now slung across the back of the couch, his hand resting just above her right shoulder.
"Promise you won't think I'm a horrible person?"
His eyes widened. "I can't even envision it."
A soft smile spread across her face. He was being sweet to her. It was a side of him that intrigued her. She dared to say she enjoyed his soft underbelly as much as she couldn't help but be drawn to his hard exterior.
"I was never upset because he didn't want to be with me anymore. In fact, I was kind of relieved."
"So, you didn't trust him and you didn't want to be with him? Stop it, I'm starting to feel sorry for the guy," his sarcasm came pouring out.
"Sort of. I mean, I liked Dean. And it was," she paused, truly looking for the right word. There was nothing negative about how she felt for Dean, but it hadn't been right either. "Comfortable."
"Sounds exciting," he teased.
"You have no idea," she volleyed back, tossing her head to one side only to realize her hair was still sloppily pulled back up off her neck. One hand flew to release her locks from the ponytail holder and the other went to the collar of her pajama top.
"I should probably go and uh, change," she blushed.
"So, you're coming to the party with me?" he ventured hopefully.
"Tristan, even if you had convinced me to go, we wouldn't leave now, I mean, it doesn't start for hours."
"I can think of some things we could do to kill the time. You don't seem to have any other pressing plans. And besides, you've still never given me a valid reason for your absence tonight."
"I have nothing to wear," she rolled her eyes, trying to put him back on his guard. Perhaps she could vex him into storming out of her house and leaving her be with her lack of plans. "And I have to wash my hair."
"I can help you with both of those problems," he winked at her, and she wondered how difficult it was for him to suppress such lecherous actions.
"You really need to brush up on your persuasive speaking skills," she informed him.
"You really want to sit here all day in your PJs, sulking about something that isn't your fault for no good reason?"
"Hey, you're the one sitting here watching me be pathetic," she scowled.
"I never said you were pathetic," he assured her. "Besides, I like your pajamas. I'm seeing a whole other side to you," he smirked and let his hand drop down to rest on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly before rubbing his palm over the flannel material.
She jumped up at his touch and moved past him. "I'm just going to go get changed, and when I get back out we can discuss things rationally," she said quickly as she darted down the hall to disappear into her room. Her very own turtle shell.
--&--
He was standing in front of the fireplace, stooping down to look at the pictures her mother displayed there without actually touching them. She'd been uneasy since she saw him standing on her doorstep, knowing she would let him in. And as much as the tips of her ears burned in embarrassment, she remained still so as to let him continue to look at her life in retrograde. After he came to a rest at the end of the mantle, she cleared her throat, causing him to turn to look at her.
"You don't mind this, do you?" he turned the tables on her.
"Why would I?" she tried to act aloof, but merely pulled off a strained discomfort.
"You know, that's the one really nice thing about having parents that don't give a rat's ass. No parade of pictures spread out like a timeline where anyone that passes through the house can see."
She watched his effort to mask his pain, realizing how very bad at it he was. She took in his posture, his arm resting along the mantel in front of the pictures of her at various Halloweens in costumes fashioned by her very own mother, receiving awards at school, completely covered in flour while trying to bake cookies with Sookie in the Inn's kitchen, and being tickled silly by Lorelai on the front porch swing on their first day in this house. His shoulders were slouched, his head bent slightly, and his weight shifted on one leg making him lean further in toward the display of happy memories.
As if he could slide into one of the pictures and produce his very own contented childhood.
"I doubt that's true."
"Believe whatever you want. I can't expect you to understand," he tipped his head in the direction of the photos in funky frames.
"Okay, that's it. I'm buying you coffee," she grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the front door.
"Clearly you aren't schooled in the ways of dating, Miss Gilmore. Boys are supposed to pay, girls are supposed to pick at microscopic excuses for food and reapply their lipstick, using their knives as hand mirrors."
At the mention of dating, she stopped dead in the middle of her doorway. He tumbled forward into her from sheer inertia and grabbed her shoulder on one side and waist on the other to steady himself. Her own hands had landed on his chest in efforts to halt him from traveling any further into her body. She was acutely aware of the feel of his rapid heartbeat under her fingertips and her own heart being lodged in her throat, and the difficulty that was creating in her ability to breathe normally.
Not to mention the fact that he wasn't extracting himself from the situation with any speed.
"It's not a date. It's a necessity," she removed her hands slowly, letting them fall down his torso slightly as he mimicked her motions with his hands down the sides of her body.
It was a lie. And she knew he would be able to tell. She never knew what it was about her attempts that gave her away. Did her tone change? Did she forget which syllables to accent in her frenzy to pull it off? Were her eyes screaming at the recipient of said lie to take no stock in the words she spoke? She had no idea what it was; she only knew it was of no use at any rate. And omissions were of no help lately.
She'd just been so used to knowing she was supposed to resist him at all costs that even now she continued on.
"Whatever makes you feel better."
That was the thing about the lies she told herself. She did it for comfort, for reassurance in a world of unpredictability. Little white lies for her ears only. Things like "Karma exists," "Learning to cook isn't important in life," "Dad's going to stay for good this time," "Staying with Dean is the best thing to do," and "Tristan's not my type."
These things were keeping her on the path that she wanted to be on.
She just wasn't sure this was the path she wanted to tread anymore.