Disclaimer: WB saluted. I saluted back. In a purely no infringements intended manner. Got that?
A/N: Thank you muchly for the reviews and the emails, though it was eons ago.. And sorry for the delay, it was this or fail my final chemistry exam. And now, I've paved my way to a sweet C!!! hmm..
Also, I just wanted to explain the whole printery deal; we have this room at my school, which contains vast quantities of paper and one mother of a photocopier. It's not really a hive of activity. But that's what I mean with "Printery." Just thought I set that up for you.
This is kind of Tristan POV-ish in most parts, which just happened so I hope it reads ok. I think I come off quite well as a sexually obsessed boy… damn… Is that wrong?
Thank you tres much Nat for your beta help… I hope I wasn't too demanding. ;)
Chapter 2: The Unrequited Love Network
He breathes in the sight of her soft silhouette; high on her tiptoes; body pressed against the large photocopier. She is leaning over the control panel, blowing errant wispy hairs away from her eyes and swearing mildly under her breathe.
Now, Tristan is never one to let opportunity slip through his fingers. He sidles up to her, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"Reproducing?" he quips cheekily, his eyes cast downwards at the copier. "I can help with that."
He peers at her side-on, eager to see the corners of her mouth turn up into a slow languid smile and for them to ease into the witty repartee, the meaningful glances and unnecessary touching. Because, he reasons, that kind of attention comes under the 'friends' banner right? That isn't overstepping the boundary? He can control himself when she looks at him in that certain way or actively seeks him out for comfort? He can deal with the fact that she'll never need anything more from him than friendship, can't he? … because, he thinks bitterly, he'd inevitably screw it up anyway, or screw her up or they'd… screw eachother… He unabashedly lets the images fly around inside his head; claiming her in his backseat, tasting her, feeling her slick and hot beneath him before he gulps them back down.
His comment doesn't strike the desired chord with her. Visibly on edge, she throws him her best withering stare, complete with slitted eyes and furrowed brows and doesn't dignify him with a response. He chuckles warmly because he can, revelling in this strange way they relate, the sweetness and the sarcasm… and just the way her hair falls around her face, the beautyspot behind her ear, the way her index finger is jabbing erratically at the buttons on the control panel. The machine beeps twice in response to this treatment and the sound of whirring ventilation fans suddenly stopped dead.
She expels a large growl of frustration and turn to face him –scowling, positively livid, oh what he wouldn't do to help her blow off some of that steam…
"Tristan, allow me to introduce to you the photocopier equivalent of Paris Gellar." She announces through gritted teeth.
"Pleased to meet you..." He extends his hand and feigns a handshake in the air.
Dork. The makings of a smile twitch promisingly at her lips. To mask this, she quickly turns her attentions back to the disagreeable photocopier.
"I haven't forgotten I promised to help you with history." she adds, staring distracted at the machine in front of her.
"But today Paris seemed to be channelling Carrie White and cast me in some Chris Hargensome type role because I dumped the proverbial pig blood on her at the prom by asking how her weekend was… and unless I want to be fodder for her supernatural rage I can't leave until these are finished…" she gestured wildly at the mounting pile of student newspapers.
He chuckles at her rambling, "I know that I've been hanging out with you too long when I can follow your pop culture references….How 'bout I wait for you?" He places his hand lightly on her shoulder in concern and to some extent guilt from the part he played in Rory and Paris' falling out.
She looks slowly up at him and then her gaze leveled at his hand before her eyes glaze over in panic. She fumbles to pick up the large stack of papers on the ground and in her haste, the sharp edge of paper nicks a thin sliver of skin. She yelps softly and wrings the offending finger in the air.
He watches her with thinly veiled concern.
"Suck on it." he instructs simply, softly almost and he reaches over to relieve her of the papers.
She complies, this is Tristan she can deal with and she smiles slyly over her stinging finger, "That's your answer to everything," she admonishes teasingly before popping the offending finger into her mouth, her eyes twinkling.
It is then that he sees himself cupping her face fervently in his hands, running them down her hot cheeks, her shoulder blades, down her back, underneath her thighs, effortlessly lifting her warm body onto the photocopier, bringing her legs tight around him, the material of her Chilton skirt gathering around her middle… feeling her shiver with the mélange of the cold plastic top of the machine pushing hard against her back and the fusion of their lips, the twist of limbs, and the delicious pressure of their torsos…. he sees himself assaulting her neck with burning open mouth kisses, making her writhe, wiggle beneath him, hearing frantic puffs of air emitting his name…. "Tristan"… over and over… "Tristan…"
"Tristan!? Are you in there? ET phone home later, I need you to work your magic on the photocopier."
"What?" he asks hazily and shakes himself out of his reverie. God, he is one horny son of a bitch.
"The photocopier. You need to fix it." Her tone is curt but curious.
Still trying to shake his daydream, he stares at her and she misreads his look and takes it as a sign of incredulity.
"Hey!" she says waggling her index finger at him, her low tone implying she is poking fun at him. "I'm an old-fashioned girl. I was raised on the belief that it's the men who fix the photocopiers and the women who have the babies."
"And here was I thinking, you were raised on the belief that John Hughes is God and that a staple diet consists solely of cuisine from the pop-up food group."
She laughs lightly. "It's like you know me…" she muses.
The mood is somehow different suddenly, as if someone has dimmed the lights and the sudden change brings her laughter to an abrupt halt. He's looking at her, steadfast and earnest.
"I do know you. At least I like to think I do." He answers.
"You know me.." she says running the words together nervously… and the silence that follows is excruciating. She wracks her brain, trying to find anything to dispel the tension.
"Did you say cuisine?" She laughs uneasily, "No more Iron Chef for you mister."
He shakes his head and smiles sadly, resigned to her reaction. Stooping low to pull out the bottom tray of the machine, the material of his grey school slacks strain against his perfect tight arse and the sleeves of his shirt, rolled up to his elbows, show her a tanned expanse of well toned arms, leading to big strong hands with neat fingernails. He grunts softly at the task and she unconsciously smiles at the sound, deep and sexy. He pulls out a crinkled piece of paper and a few buttons are pressed before the printer whirs into action again.
"Thanks" she gushes genuinely. He stands up slowly, gracefully and for the second time that day they are surprised at their closeness. A heat runs between them; the air literally crackling with it. It seems to burn up the surrounding oxygen and it becomes increasing hard to… deep even breaths, she repeats; her mantra.
"I aim to please," he says close to her ear, his voice velvety soft. She becomes acutely aware of the affect he is having on her; her spine and lips tingling with anticipation.
"You've got really good aim then" she smile up at him but stops short when she met the depths of a blue; soulful and shining with something she doesn't want to see… but his touch is so agonizingly gentle that she lets him… Ever so slightly, he leans in. He seeks out her small hand, ever so lightly sweeping his thumb over the palm, ever so soft as he grasps her arm and turns her into him and the blue, so blue, like she is underwater… and the world seems to slow, frame by frame….
All at once, he turns away, abruptly breaking the moment. She coughs uncomfortably, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment etched on her features. His eyes franticly scan the room; the bright florescent light blinks above- he blinks with it and fails miserably at seeming unaffected. She winces. Disaster has once again been averted.
Yet instead of feeling the warm rush of relief, her panic is replaced with something else. What is that, she wonders at the unfamiliar tug in her chest; guilt, hurt and strangest of all, rejection?
Tristan had always been so entirely readable and in the beginning, almost sadistically dependable. It was nice in a way, to have that in a place like Chilton. It was even better, she remembers, when 'that' had erupted into friendship.
And now….
"Outside Mrs O'Rielly's office right?" he asks all-to-cheerfully and gestures to the pile of newspapers on the floor and the sound is loud, foreign. They look down at their shoes; they both hear it. He is grasping for something, the ease that existed between them 3 minutes ago.
"Yeah. I'll meet you at the car." The colour of her voice seems overly bright and she wrings her hands at the awkward feeling running between them.
The discomfit melts away, like the countless times before and by the time the sports car slides into the driveway they're bickering intermittently over control of the radio dial and which Spice Girl George Bush would be. (Baby Spice)
They fly up the staircase and he swings open his bedroom door ceremoniously. She stands bemused at the threshold, partly at his antics and partly at the sight before her; the unmade bed, cluttered desk and the clothes strewn all over the place – one shirt hangs haphazardly on a bedside lamp.
"Fire the maid," she deadpans.
"Feng Shui Mary. Fung Shui." He counters confidently, a teasing lilt to his voice..
"Mr Fung Shui is officially turning over in his grave." She retorts.
"Mr Fung Shui?" he teases back good-naturedly.
She throws her arms up in the air in exasperation and her book bag on the floor. Something, a maternal something, or perhaps her penchant for cleanliness, sees her striding purposely over to the bed, and attempting to straighten the bedclothes. He looks on amused, and touched at the same time, before he flops down onto the bed, halting her attempt to bring some semblance of order to the room.
"Hey, you made my bed and now you have to lie in it…" he smirks up at her, lazily and laced with suggestion before he pats the space next to him.
She snorts derisively but plonked down in spite of herself, adjusting her legs around her to sit Indian style next to him. He shoots her a tentative look from his position; a typical Tristan sprawl with his hands tucked behind his head.
"Are we going to go to Sean Lafferty's party on Saturday night?" he asks flippantly, inspecting his fingernails. Or pretending to inspect his fingernails, whatever.
"We?" She smiles down at him, that quietly smug smile, a poker smile, where she knows she has the upper hand but can't bluff to save herself.
His heart beats a little bit faster and he shakes his head softly. She loosely plucks at the buttons on his shirt, and he is almost certain she is flirting with him something scandalous.
"You know, we in the general sense of the word- Are you going, am I going, should we carpool, it just seemed the more economical style of phrasing."
She raises one perfect eyebrow and he feels 13 all over again.
"Actually, Summer has already offered to drive me…" she says loftily.
He stares at her baffled, his eyebrows raised in interest.
"What?" she retorts somewhat maddened off his look, "I told you I wanted to make friends here! So, I'm branching out; expanding my horizons."
Her voice drops and she dips her head mere itches above his ear. "I mean, I can't hang around with you all the time. I'll start to descend into jock-boy speak," Her voice takes on a deep comical quality. "– hey man, kick ass, killer dude… I may even begin to start slapping guys on the butt after successful bouts of physical exertion…" she trials off and seeing the double meaning in her words, looks at him expectantly, almost wearily.
"By all means." he says smoothly, smirking something crazy and turning his back to aim his arse up at her.
"You're such a dickhead." she says laughing and slaps him playfully on the ass.
"Jeez, enough with constant allusions to my private anatomy Rory. I feel so violated" he says with mock-offence. Her touch is almost unbearable. He narrowly controls the urge to flip her over onto the bed and kiss her till she can't see straight.
Instead, he waits for her move. Predictably, she rolls her eyes and they sit in an unusual silence.
"Why Summer?" he asks after a moment of hesitation. "She's about as friendly as those girls in the Heathers, except there was three of them and there's only one of her so the bitchiness is more concentrated." He laughs tightly in a rare moment of awkward rambling and something beneath the surface of his curiosity suggests that the humour is lost on him.
"The Heathers?" she questions laughingly and looks at him oddly.
"Hey! I have a sister! And Winona Ryder's hot!" he defends innocently.
Wholly unconvinced she continues, "If you're so turned on by kleptos, do you mind if I copy you're notes from biology? I tuned out."
He tuts with mock-disapproval and then eternity seems to pass as he searches through his bag for his notebook.
"Anyway. Summer's sort of fun," Rory offers lamely.
"You want to talk fun?" He sits up slightly and gives her his patented leer. "I am the master of fun… among other things…" God, desperate much? He mentally berates himself.
She laughs and as she leans over the bed to dig around in her bag for her history textbook, her skirt hitches slightly, exposing a small expanse of creamy thigh. He quickly looks away but she's on instant replay in his mind, burned in his memory, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.
Don't own: The movies Carrie and The Heathers, John Hughes, Winona and… a clue… because I should be doing homework…
Next Chapter: there looks to be action, because I can't stand unresolved sexual tension. And is there not enough sexual tension between those two to fill the entire continent of Australia and outlying islands!!?? ;) Although, this chapter wasn't exactly Sex-Lite, with Tristan and his daydreams of illicit smoochies on the photocopier, the car.. and the bed…( you naughty boy!!) do tell me if you think I should change the rating?
Review! I need it almost as much as Gilmore Girl's needs the return of Tristan to hall its arse out of lame-adultery-plotline-ville.