Disclaimer: C chappie #1
A/N: If you guys haven't read the revised versions of chapters 1-4, you might just get lost. So I advise you read those before you start this one.
Torn V:
"You didn't!" she laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and wiping a tear of mirth from her eyes.
"Yeah, and it wasn't the cheap wash-out stuff; his hair stayed bubble gum pink for a whole month! I got so many detentions that month that I actually became known as 'The Walking Detention.' Very lame, I know, but in that time it was very prestigious. I was popular for a whole month!"
Whistling softly, Mocha halted his pursuit of the anxious feline and stood still.
Tristan let go of her as she leaned forward and began to wind the leash around a small tree, just as the beautiful, golden retriever sitting beside him. Once she'd gotten him securely tied, she placed a kiss on his forehead, which he happily received, and she informed Tristan of their destination.
"This is Adrien's restaurant, 'Le Dernier Jour.' It's very good, he's a terrific cook!" she gushed, her eyes twinkling at the mere thought of him.
"So, how long have you known him?" Tristan asked as they entered the airy space deemed the dining area.
He had to admit, whoever came up with this motif was very creative. The walls were done in a pure red, no hint of underlying color anywhere. The floors contrasted the walls with warm, beautiful hardwood floors. The décor was the perfect mix of vintage and neoclassical. From square tables to round tables, from straight backed chairs to lazy cushioned ones, from large impressive paintings to modern art, the place was the perfect balance of fung shui. There were small, wooden bookcases along the walls that held anything from sappy magazines to heavy-bound classics that accentuated the laid back atmosphere of the quaint place. Even the bamboo plants and the tiny bonsai trees provided a sense of comfort unparallel to anyplace he'd ever been.
Looking to the back corner, Adrien stood in front of another cook, his cordon bleu chef attire, stark white as he argued with the obvious rookie. He looked perfectly at home in this place. And suddenly, he understood the place's name. If it were his last day, he too would want to spend it in this place, even if the food was horrible.
As he looked at Adrien, he sighed. He could tell what Rory saw in him. He was accomplished, smart and beautiful. Even a manly guy like him could see Adrien's model-like physique. He was tall and lanky, one of those hamlet types, with a self assured air surrounding him. His eyes were the color of a sour apple glistening in the morning sun and his hair was as dark as the moonless sky. The way that he carried himself suggested there was more to him than what could be seen through the naked eye. And Tristan had seen that this morning. Adrien wasn't this lanky, nerdy guy. Tristan saw the way his muscles rippled underneath the thin layer of skin on his upper arms, and he saw the way Rory looked at him when she asked him to marry her.
He knew that Adrien was the type of guy he longed to be but could never become. He was the type of guy who could become friends first. He was the type of guy who could sit up talking hours with a woman and not need to jump her. He was the type that women wanted to spend their lives with, not the night. He was the type that women wanted to make love to, not have sex. He was the type that women could trust . . . the total opposite of Tristan.
"Are you sitting down?" she asked, concern filling her voice as she noticed his jaws flex in anger.
"Yeah," he sighed letting go of the anger when their eyes met.
"So what was that?"
"What?"
"That moment of anger, do you know someone here you'd rather not? We could leave if you want?"
"No," he smiled discarding her suggestion with a wave, "So you never answered my question, how long have you known Adrien?"
"Uh-" she began but was interrupted by the waitress.
"Lorelei, bonjour. I've missed you. You haven't been by in awhile."
"I've been busy with work, but Adrien has been feeding me good." Rory smiled to the young woman.
"What would you like?" she smiled.
"Belle, could you bring us the menus and get me a bowl of water and Alpo for Mocha outside?"
"Oui, but would you mind giving a bowl to Missy too, Eric's engrossed in a book."
"Sure," she smiled.
"You know the waitress on a first name basis. That's weird, no one should know that. I bet you even know her boyfriend?"
"So, there's nothing wrong with that."
"You being a Gilmore, that would be true. But if you were anyone else, there would definitely be calls to the psych ward."
"Are you suggesting that I'm crazy?"
"No, of course not," Tristan waved, "I am informing you."
"Die!" she grinned, narrowing her eyes in her patented withering stare.
"So, how long have you known him?"
"Adrien?" she asked, already forgetting his previous question.
"Yeah."
"Uh, we met when Lane and I were looking for an apartment. I was trying to get us out of the temporary home that the New York Times had set us up in. It was this horrible place with boring people next door, and I was ready to kill myself. So one day Lane and I come in here for a cup of coffee and some lunch, and he overhears us talking about an apartment, and he tells us about the vacancy next door to him. So we moved in, and he instantly became our food guy. He's really great."
"You guys seem really close."
"He's the first real friend that we made in Paris. He's been really great about it, I really liked him."
"So . . . how long have you two been dating?"
"What?" she gasped, spitting out the coffee she'd just ingested.
"You guys nev-?"
"Me and Adrien?" she laughed, suddenly, "We never went out! He and I are just friends . . . Only Friends!"
"I'm sor-"
"He's got a girlfriend- a very beautiful girlfriend- she's a model!"
"I'm Sorry I shouldn't have . . ." he began, the wild expression still marring her features.
"Where in the hell did that come from?"
"Nowhere, I just . . . Man, did you see the Promos for that new Peter Pan movie? I don't remember Never-Never Land being that scary!" he said looking everywhere, except at her.
After a moment of contemplation, Rory stared at the table, wondering what the hell just happened. She was used to people thinking that she and Adrien were an item; they did act really affectionate near one another. Hell, when he began dating Sophie, she had to convince Sophie herself, to believe Adrien when he told her they weren't dating. So why when Tristan ask did she feel so confrontational?
". . . Tristan . . ." she whispered not looking at him, "I'm sorry for yelling at you! I shouldn't have. I mean . . ." she closed her eyes, trying to find the words to convey what she was feeling. She could see them, but she couldn't grab on to them. Without them in her grasp, she couldn't speak.
"Mare, you don't have to explain. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," he explained, leaning over the small table. Gently placing a finger on her chin, he guided her face up to meet his eyes.
"No . . ." she groaned shaking her head, "I don't do that. I don't . . . I don't just blow up at people, especially over something as trivial as my relationship with Adrien. God-"
"Hey, I don't do that either, I'm sorry," he whispered, gazing deeply into those huge pools of sapphire.
Suddenly,
"Lorelei, here are your menus, and can you take this outside?"
"Sure," Rory smiled to the waitress, then she turned to Tristan. "Uh, just order, I already know what I want, I'll be back."
"Yeah," he answered before opening the menu.
Slipping out of the front doors, she carried two bowls of dog food out to the two animals basking in the sun. When Mocha's eyes rested on her approaching figure, he jumped up, seeing the bowls in her hands. Missy did the exact same thing, with little barks escaping her muzzle.
When she returned to the room, instead of heading straight towards her table, she made a beeline towards an occupied table. Sitting there was a man in his mid forties with a heavy bound book to his nose. He looked rumpled, yet tidy. His hair was slicked away from his face and covered with a baseball cap, but there was a five o'clock shadow on his face. He was wearing an expensive suit with a white, button up shirt, but there was no tie and it was unbuttoned at the neck. He was wearing a Rolex watch and scuffed Chuck Taylor's (high-tops) on his feet.
"Eric," she whispered in his ear, peering over his shoulder at the book.
"Hey!" he grinned as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I missed you, you didn't come in yesterday."
"Yeah, well, I met up with someone. Would you like to meet him?"
"You mean he isn't invisible?" he grinned, little crinkles forming on the sides of his bright brown eyes.
"Ya' know I could just go and take back the food I gave to Missy, seeing as you've neglected her," she said standing up straight and leaving.
"Ok, who is he?"
Taking his hand in hers, she pulled him to a standing position and led him to Tristan.
"Tristan?" she asked softly.
"Hmm," he replied looking up from the magazine in his hands.
"I'd like you to meet Eric Benoire-"
"He's the American!" Eric exclaimed, looking back at Rory.
"Yeah, just so you know, he's really interested in the American legal system. He teaches it at the local University."
Standing up, Tristan leaned forward to shake his hand. Before Tristan could grasp Eric's hand, Eric grabbed Tristan by his shoulders and embraced him, kissing both his cheeks.
"That was . . . uh," Tristan tried, scrubbing the back of his neck with the base of his palm.
"Yeah, Eric can be a little intense," she agreed throwing a ball to Mocha and watching him dash away to retrieve the now wet sphere of rubber.
"He was ok though. I liked talking to him, he had good ideas," Tristan smiled, thinking of the heated discussion they'd plunged into just as they were being served their salad The end result: Tristan accidentally knocked the platter out of Belle's hand.
"I agree, when I first met him, he and I would get so loud that Adrien would kick me out. In fact, just last week he kicked me out; he says I disturb the peace. Liar!"
"Mary," he sighed, lying down on the plush grass, "You DO disturb the peace. You practically ripped his head off for saying that American's were greedy bastards who only care about themselves! I've never heard so many four-lettered words stream out of lips before. It was like watching 'South Park' or 'Jerry Springer'!"
"Well, that was a baseless stereotype-"
"And you rebutted by saying that the French were dick-less assholes who ran with their tails between their legs at the first sign of trouble. Do you see any stereotyping in that?"
"I- yeah, ok, that was bad. Sometimes, it's like he forgets what I am and just tries to piss me off! I love that guy with all my heart, but sometimes I wish he'd just sugar-coat his opinions."
"Life isn't sugar-coated-"
"Yeah it is! That's why Mikey liked it!"
A deep chuckle resonated throughout his frame as he tucked his arms beneath his head and lay out in the sun.
"You're mental."
"Get in line, it isn't like the thirty-millionth time I heard that." she smiled rolling her eyes and lying beside him.
Mocha returned, and seeing them reclined before him, he too laid himself down at their feet, waiting for them to get up and resume the animated game of fetch.
After a few moments silence, Rory turned her face to his, surprised to find his eyes on her.
"Uh, Tristan, can I start this interview? I need to have it done by tomorrow."
"Sure, go ahead," he smirked, turning on his side and propping his head up on his right arm.
"Is it ok if I record this?" she asked pulling a tape-recorder from her bag.
"Just as long as it doesn't incriminate me."
"That's your problem, not mine."
"Anyways, so begin."
"For the record, state your name."
"Tristan J. DuGrey."
"What does the J. stand for? Is it like the enigmatic J. in Homer J. Simpson that really stands for what it is, Jay, or is there a real name attached?"
"There's a real name attached. It stands for Janlen, my grandfather's name."
"The one you're staying with?"
"Yeah, he's my mom's dad."
"You guys are really close?"
"Yeah, in some ways, he's my best friend. I've never been able to talk to anyone, the way that we talk. Even though he's my elder and all, we can talk about anything from politics, money and beliefs," at this moment, one of his brows arched perfectly, "to love, sex and betrayal. He's a special guy that sometimes I wish I'd gotten to know better when I could've."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her sapphire eyes gazing into his, genuinely concerned, unlike most journalists. But maybe that was just their intimate (not sexual) relations to one another.
"He was always there when I was little, always there to help me out. But it took me until I was seventeen to realize what he was. My parents where the typical Hartford Socialites, and had hardly any time for one another, much less me. And I was alone a lot, learning to be a total punk, rather than someone that I could tolerate. And he helped to open my eyes. He's the one that encouraged me to go to Oxford, he encouraged me to be what I wanted. He taught me that life was too short to agonize over the fact that you've disappointed your parents and are going to be cut off financially. He opened my eyes to the world."
For many long moments, the only thing that could be heard was the reeling of the tape recorder, then suddenly, as if finding her voice, she asked,
"Off the record, Tristan, how did you get this job?"
"My grandfather has connections," he replied, seemingly unfazed by her involuntarily, stinging comment.
"Back on record, what do you suppose you bring to this country that no other attorney has before you?" she resumed.
"Well, besides my handsome physique, my killer good looks and my irresistible charm," he answered, a smirk on his face. "But seriously, the rights of Americans in other countries . . ."
TBC . . .
P. A/N: Sorry this took so long to update, but Summer sux and I have been trying to catch up on old things while trying to start new projects. And in the end I realized, Summer sux, I'm broke, and I have no good ideas as of lately. So bonne nuit ou bonjour. R&R pweeZZZZZ!