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 soon)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Eight

AN: You guys continue to be ridiculously wonderful to me in the review department. I love you all for being so supportive. And Katherine, for the novella she left for the last chapter, well, I don't expect to be so blessed again ever like that in my life, but it sure did make me smile. I'm just glad you guys enjoy.

She wasn't sure what she expected, really.

Some sort of emblazoned letter to appear on the front of her uniform. A 'T', perhaps, instead of an 'A'. The ground to swallow her whole instead of allowing her to pass through the ever imposing front gates of the institution. Him to suddenly be polite to her in the halls.

When she realized that none of these things were likely to happen at her locker before first period on Monday morning, and she could feel the anger bubbling up as well as the desire to chastise both him and herself for believing for a moment that anything would ever be different. It was a toss-up whom she was more livid with. And it was all emanating from the unusually cruel way he was berating her in front of their peers, given the knowledge he'd been set with.

"What's the matter, couldn't you get your boyfriend to take you to the party? Or was he just too ashamed to bring the cart and buggy into the big city?" He held onto the ability to make the word boyfriend sound lethal despite its imaginary status.

"What the hell is your problem?" her unabashed and utter confusion truly sold her harassment. Her desire for him to just disappear and leave her be was priceless in its effectiveness.

"You're the one that said you wanted to go. I just don't get this guy at all. I shouldn't be surprised he wouldn't let you come to the party, I mean, this guy is dumb enough to leave his girlfriend to have to take the bus home from school." She would have smiled at his inability to spit out the word girlfriend with the same distaste, if she weren't trying to figure out what had caused his apparent head injury.

"I fail to see how any of this is your business, or relevant to your life at all. You have no idea what you're talking about," she snatched her books out of her locker without looking and shoved them into her backpack.

What she wasn't prepared for was the gaze he gave her before he walked away. It was one she hoped no one else had noticed, unlike the screaming match they'd just had. Everyone had turned to pay heed to the scathing tones and hurtful words. This look in his eyes was the only proof that their deal, this arrangement of sorts—unspoken as it was—still held.

It was the only thing holding her up right now.

She made her way to class, her only hopes that he would skip out on Medieval History, where his seat was located directly behind hers. Her problem with him now more than ever became about sheer proximity and the volatility that came with it. In all their other shared classes, she was graced with distance, but not in History. Granted with close enough contact, he normally proceeded to kick her chair, lightly, constantly, irritatingly, until she turned to glare at him. This reward she doled out earned her about a minute and a half of reprieve before the game started all over again. Silent torture.

Her day until the point of her walking into that class had gone smoothly enough since his confrontation, yet somehow the lack of bumps were more unsettling. Louise had come up to her after first period, with Madeline and Paris in tow: the three amigas, as it were. Louise and Madeline had fawned over her, implying that she'd had perhaps better offers to be alone in the back of her boyfriend's pick-up truck last Saturday night under the stars, the only romantic notion to living in the sticks. Paris had even hung back to give her a smile and tell her she didn't do such a bad job at moderating the mock debate they'd had in Econ earlier in the day. She'd done nothing, save not be seen with Tristan, to deserve such high praise from these girls. And that's what they'd heaped on her. Their very own form of praise.

She'd never been more confused by the time she hit History, as she'd had plenty of time to think about all these separate occurrences and how they'd come together. She hadn't made it a point to tell anyone in this place that her boyfriend had broken up with her, save for Tristan. There was no one else she deemed a friend, an ally. No one who needed to know. She didn't want their pity, but in all reality, she was avoiding giving them more fodder to add to the mounting good, innocent, schoolgirl image they insisted on labeling her with.

She didn't even know why that bothered her so much.

As soon as she slid into her seat, the teacher called for them to pass their assignments up to the front of the class, and she put just her hand back over her shoulder to receive the stack Tristan would deposit in there. She was pissed off for his earlier act, look or no, and for the attention it'd drawn to her. When she began to make a neat, straight pile out of the papers, shaking them down against her desktop, a small note fell from the middle of the stack. She saw her name written over the fold and dropped it into her lap before handing the rest of the papers, hers now included, up the row.

She darted her eyes around to make sure no one was watching her pass notes in class. She felt his foot rest on the back of her desk, but it was a single motion, not his usual tapping. He knew he had her attention, and the thought occurred to her that it was his only way of touching her right now.

She unfolded it and gave a soft gasp at the words he'd sent along to her.

"I had to do it."

Taking her pen without thought, she wrote her response directly underneath.

"I need to talk to you."

She folded the paper into a smaller square, fitting it in the palm of her hand and glanced up again at the teacher, who was busy writing a timeline across the chalkboard. She made to scratch her back with the paper palmed in her hand, letting it come to rest now on his desktop.

And she waited. The teacher had turned around, asking questions and calling on those who looked the most distracted or least prepared. For this she was ready. What she wasn't ready for was his pencil hitting the floor and the slight brushing of his hand against her skirt on his way back up to retrieve it from beside her saddle shoe.

Leaving behind the note and the sensation of warmth and scratchy wool against her leg.

The teacher once again turned to erase his prior artwork and begin anew, satisfied with his calling out of the ignorant and bored, and she quickly unfolded the note again in her lap, using her desktop to obscure it from sight of any eyes but her own.

"Just go about your normal routine, and you'll get your wish."

She had to will herself not to turn around in her seat to fix him with a questioning and frustrated glare. She knew he could see the tips of her ears burning crimson because of her decision to pull her hair up into a ponytail this morning. She crumbled the note in her palm as the teacher turned his attention back out to his class full of otherwise occupied students, doing her best to do just what the note said.

But she was learning quickly how difficult it was to put Tristan DuGrey out of her mind.

It was bad enough that every time she closed her eyes now she could practically transport herself back into the library in Louise's house, with his chest firm against her and his lips pressing lightly into her hairline. His hands rubbing lightly over her back. His hand as he rested it over hers all the way to Stars Hollow.

Keeping her eyes open wasn't helping her much either.

At the bell signaling their escape, she stood up and turned to face him, seeing only his back as he walked away as if she didn't matter at all.

'Just go about your normal routine,' she thought to herself as she slowly gathered her belongings to give it another shot.

--&--

She recrossed her legs yet another time, trying to get comfortable on the hard plastic of the bus bench. She'd tried reading, but staring at the same three words left her feeling drained, as her mind was reeling too fast to comprehend their meaning enough to move on. With every moment that passed, Tristan's window on being able to slide into her normal routine was closing a bit more. She knew her mother was going to be home early tonight, and he couldn't just drop by tonight. Not with her mother and the possibility of their instructor hanging around.

Just yet another thing she had to tell him. Another restriction. Another reason she was more on edge as time slipped away from them.

As anxious as she was to see the familiar stream-lined frame of his car come into her view, she remained anchored to her seat when it finally did. She would normally not jump up and run like a groupie to his car.

She wasn't his groupie. Or his girlfriend. She was . . . not sure what was going to happen next. That was the only constant in her life right now. Unpredictability.

"You getting in?"

Relief flooded her body at the knowledge that within seconds she would slide into place next to him, destination unknown. She didn't care. She hated for him to take her home—the ride was too familiar and would pass too quickly.

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because my car smells nicer than the bus. Less risk of catching some communicable disease, as well."

"I don't think I'd make that claim if I were you," she shot back, and she swore he smiled at her dig, proud of her effort.

"At least you'd have a better time contracting it in here," he shot back.

"You're disgusting."

"Do I need to remind you that your little outburst last Friday night left us behind schedule, with more work to catch up on?"

"And my getting in your car will magically catch us up on said work?"

"No, but we can figure out another night we can meet. I mean, I know how hard it is for you to fit me into your very busy schedule."

She closed her book and rested one hand on top of the cover, feeling the cloth of the hardback cover. She knew she didn't have to protest much longer, but she had to admit, the feeling that he evoked in her when their debates got heated . . . she was beginning to understand the appeal of picking a fight so that you could make up later. Like she held some sort of mystical power to arouse.

"Fine," she gave a half-hearted groan, and shoved her book into her bag. It'd been a useless effort on her part anyhow, she reminded herself. After all, she'd been waiting all day to see what would happen upon their next meeting.

"Now, that's better," he smirked as she secured herself into the seatbelt. "Home?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping to go somewhere else first," she looked down as her hands absently wrung at each other, then up again to gauge his reaction.

"Like where?"

"Are your parents still gone?"

She hadn't thought it was possible, to shock him. But as his mouth gaped open, she could almost see all the words that he wanted to say escape him.

"I just, it's been a weird day. And I don't want to be interrupted."

"Yeah, sure. Fine," he nodded, and then fell into silence as he obliged her request. She followed his lead, just watching as he shifted the car in and out of gears, guiding them through the city streets with ease.

--&--

He emerged out of his bathroom, his tie undone and his jacket off. She looked up from her place on his couch, instantly dropping the hem of her shirt she'd untucked from her skirt.

"I, uh, forgot to grab clothes," he pointed to his dresser.

She simply nodded and smiled, trying not to stare openly at his disheveled state. She hated being in her uniform with him able to change back into regular street clothes. She felt like she was playing dress up when she wore the uniform in front of other people, outside of school. And if there was one costume she'd not normally dress up in, it was a Catholic school girl outfit. It brought to mind too many kinky inferences for her taste. She decided to do what she could to get more comfortable, and quickly shed her own tie and jacket as she waited on him to get dressed.

"Much better," he threw his uniform into a hamper in the corner of the room, and sat on his bed, facing her. "So, you wanted to talk?"

"Well, yeah," she said as if he should already know what she was about to say.

He hung his head for a moment and let out a long sigh. "You can't be upset."

"Well, I can be anything I want. It's called a woman's prerogative."

He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and began again. "I just mean that I didn't expect you to be screaming at me in the hall about my boyfriend, which by the way, I don't have," she reminded.

"I know that. But no one else does, and I'm not technically supposed to know either."

"I know, but," she protested, silenced at the raise of his hand. She sat up straighter, as if she'd need proper circulation and posture in order to hear him better.

"But nothing. If we're going to keep this, well, like it is," he narrowed his eyes knowingly, "we can't just change facts. It's a fact that we argue. It's a fact that I don't know anything personal about your life other than what I've seen at school related functions. It's a fact that you wouldn't be caught dead at a party with me."

She let out a long sigh. These were facts; at least that's what a poll of the student body of Chilton Preparatory would show.

"I guess it was just weird, watching you pretend to fight with me," she wiggled in her seat on the couch, trying to dispel the nervous energy that was shooting up her legs and into her abdomen.

"Why? It's not a new phenomenon," he raised both hands, upturned at elbow height.

"Well, I know we argue quite regularly, I just meant that, you know, after Saturday, and trying to not let on, that now, when you say those things, you were just trying to cover," she rambled, pulling at the cuff of her shirtsleeve.

He stood up and moved to sit next to her on the couch in his jeans and plain T-shirt. He looked so comfortable, so classically male. She watched him, waiting for his response, unable to speak as he moved closer. More and more this was her reaction to his proximity. Baited breath, waiting for something that felt inevitable. He sat near, with the side of his leg pressing into hers, and took the hand that was tugging so furiously at her shirtsleeve, resting it in her lap, patting the back of it reassuringly. Telling her not to be nervous.

"I was always pretending," he now slid his open hand underneath the hand he'd repositioned, pressing his palm up into hers.

"Tristan," she breathed in as she spoke, feeling like he'd knocked the wind out of her lungs. He pulled his hand away from hers slowly, the pads of his fingers dragging over her sensitive palm.

"Don't you know why I kept at you all that time? To see that spark flare up in your eyes, your mouth slightly pout in an offended, yet ready stance. Color rushes to your cheeks, and I swear your eyes just," he continued, staring at each part as he spoke of it.

"Don't," she whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Talk about me like that," she withdrew her hand, and clasped it against her own in her lap once more.

"Don't compliment you?" he asked, confused beyond belief. She was sure flattery was a tact that normally worked for him. She didn't want to fall for what worked with the others. She wanted to be something altogether different. Like a foreign country or an unearthed culture he would have to map out anew.

"I don't want to hear things like that, false things, things you say but don't mean just to get me to do things… You don't need to, and I just can't… ."

"They aren't false. You're beautiful, everything about you," he shook his head, reaching out with a single finger to trace her lips, with an aching slowness and the barest of pressures.

It wasn't a kiss; it was better. A preamble to the real thing, the pinnacle point—the answer to the question of what it was they were really doing here. Surely they weren't meeting in secret, climbing trees, and fake fighting so that they could be friends. Friends would be perfectly acceptable in both of their worlds. It fit just fine. Maybe not the best of friends; they were still straggling between two very distinct line in the sand for that, but there was no shame in falling into a mutual acceptance of the other, if nothing more, just pure admiration of the other's techniques.

By then end, she was fully prepared for his lips to descend upon hers, as she parted them under the slight pressure of his forefinger. She couldn't open her eyes, too afraid to run if she knew he was approaching. She waited a moment, perhaps one too long, for him to make his move.

"Rory," he whispered, causing her to open her eyes at last. He'd retracted his hands, keeping them at bay on his knees.

"Yeah?" she managed, not sure how well her disappointment was showing through. She attempted to keep her lips in line, not even a shadow of a pout apparent. She'd been so sure. . . .

"We should make a decision. I have to be somewhere soon," he began.

"Oh, right. About the project," she nodded tersely.

"Not that I wouldn't want you to stay, but really, I have to," he now rambled, and she smiled, wondering if she was rubbing off on him. After all, he seemed to transfer the desire to have their lips joined over to her. She just needed to collect her wits.

"No, I need to get home anyway. Uh, I'll figure it out and drop a note in your locker," she nodded, standing up and collecting her shed clothing. Her book bag was still in his car, and she suddenly wished she had the weight of it on her back to make her feel anchored.

"Okay," he hesitated before standing next to her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good, really. I just, I thought that maybe," she bit her lip, seemingly unable not to drag it into the conversation.

"That I was going to kiss you?" he gave a faint smirk, she was sure he was holding back to keep the possibility of the act in the future.

She nodded, crossing her arms self-consciously over her chest, letting her jacket fall folded over her arm, her tie dangling from her fingertips. She looked back at him to see him smile and stand, stepping just shy of her.

"All in good time," he promised, and she couldn't help but share his smile. She gave a half nod, her head falling really, more than moving on her own volition, bowing so that he wouldn't see the relief and the anticipation that had a hold on her. She let him usher her back to his car, and take her home, all the while thinking about expectations.

He was out to blow all her expectations out of the water.