Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

Rating: R (for language)

Characters: Rory, Tristan

Dedication: To everyone who wanted a sequel.

Author's Note: This was originally going to be a one-part. I caved. There are two more parts coming up, just so you know.

Part Two: Rain

The sound of the rain against Rory's windowpane was making her restless.

She was perched on her bed as she stared out the window, her textbook lying, forgotten, on her lap. It wasn't coming down harshly, in that grey sleet-like quality, like it had been for the past week but, in fact, the skies had cleared up and the Earth looked musky, teeming with a new beginning. And yet the soft pitter-patter against the window harped on her already frayed nerves.

She told herself if was the end-of-the-semester stress, finals and uncertain summer prospects. She reminded herself that it was because of late nights working, studying, and chatting with her roommate about whatever came to their minds. She told herself it was the lack of coffee that she had recently, painfully (and reluctantly) excluded from her diet that caused the sluggish and idyllic feeling that seemed to inhabit her body for the last few months.

Rory knew, deep down in the place she kept locked and hidden from most of the world, the part of her heart that was off-limits, that it was because she couldn't stop her thoughts from wandering to him, not even for a day.

In the privacy and comfort of her own room, she let out a frustrated growl, pulled her legs up, bent at the knees and buried her face in her hands; letting her fingers drag through her hair as twisting the short strands between them.

The tears didn't come, she was sure she had no more left to cry.

There was anger, vibrant, painful and directed inwards. There was frustration in her gut, and the haunting sense of helplessness.

She glanced out the window again, her cheek resting on one knee, wondering if he thought of her. If, since she was whisked away from the cabin, almost four months ago, leaving him behind, cold and done with her, if even for a minute, his thoughts turned to her. She wished, a little, that he wondered if she was okay, if she thought of him (every day, all the time, every-fucking-where) or if he wondered that she was happy, with them on separate paths.

Because she hoped to God he was happy, she really did. Otherwise the heavy weight in her chest, the constricting lump in her throat and the feeling of nothingness that she couldn't shake would be in vain. She wanted for him to be happy just so she could feel better about feeling so wrecked. He accused you of being selfish once upon a time, Rory thought to herself, with a disgusted snort, and you just proved him right, loser.

The room, that only a moment ago provided her a safe haven, suddenly felt claustrophobic and on impulse, she grabbed her old Yale sweater and her keys, deciding she was going to have to fall back on habit (off the bandwagon, whatever it was Paris called it) and make a much-needed coffee run.

As she stalked towards the coffee shop at the corner of her street, she wondered how she must look to passersby; pale and wet, hair tangled and old sweats squeaky, sloppy sneakers. She had given up on her appearance, mainly because it had been awhile (long before Tristan had stepped out of her life again; she knew that her falling apart at the seams didn't have everything to do with him) since she had felt even remotely like the Rory Gilmore everyone knew – the pretty one, the bookworm, the sophisticated deb and least of all the small-town princess.

The aroma of coffee picked her up a little once she was inside the cafe; she fidgeted in line as she waited for her turn and managed a small smile at her own obsessive vices. She placed the order and handed the cashier a damp note, before turning around with her Styrofoam cup, taking a minute to absorb the warmth and smell of her favorite beverage. She was so engrossed, her eyes half-closed, that she all but forgot her surroundings until she bumped into someone else, almost spilling her coffee.

"Sorry," she muttered, balancing the cup and herself before looking up. Then she almost dropped the cup, staring at the familiar face, the frown of disapproval, the dispassionate blue eyes. "Tristan. Hey."

Running into her in a coffee shop. It was, he thought philosophically, inevitable. And it was, he added furiously, as if he had willed her to run into him today.

For almost four months he had successfully pushed that night in the cabin, and most of his rela…acquaintance with Rory Gilmore to the far recess of his mind. But today when the rain had finally let up and the sky had turned so blue he couldn't help but think of her and those eyes (what was it about those fucking eyes?) it was as if his body was on autopilot and he had found himself at the coffee shop, belatedly realizing that he was in her neighborhood.

Tristan's fingers curled deep in the pockets of his jeans, he avoided her gaze and replied, evenly, tightly, "Rory."

"How've you been?" she asks softly, treading carefully, her head tilting to one side as she worried her bottom lip. Wet and pale and still too beautiful. He lifted a shoulder as a response to her question. She nodded, shifted her weight and kept her eyes trained on him. "Maybe we can take a walk or something?"

"That's not a good idea." She winced and he wondered why he didn't politely lie and tell her he had to be somewhere else.

"Okay."

The meekness in her voice made him angry; he wished she'd have the guts to be indignant or angry or make some sort of heated retort. She made him feel like a heel, like a school bully picking on the most defenseless kid in class, and he hated himself for it.

"I have to go," he said after a minute of uncomfortable silence.

"Yeah, me too," she replied, quickly and looked away. "Last final tomorrow."

"Good luck," he stated and meant it but his voice held the politeness of a mere acquaintance. She smiled, half-heartedly and murmured her thanks. "Bye."

Because he wanted to touch her, because it would have been so easy for him to reach out and cup her face in his palm, he quickly escaped into the misty air outside. But he didn't make it far before her voice stopped him.

"Tristan." In spite of himself, he turned and waited for her to continue. She hesitated right outside the door of the café before taking a step closer. Her eyes searched his, looking for some sign of understanding, of acknowledgment. She looked so pale, so tired. Concern stirred in him, guilt gnawed in his stomach. "I miss you."

He expelled a breath and it ended in a short, brittle chuckle. "I'm sure you think you do."

She made a frustrated sound and took another step forward. "Tristan, I know what I feel and I just -"

"No, you really don't. No one knows that better than me. And I don't know what you want from me, Gilmore," he cut her off sharply, effectively. "Except that you have to stop making me the villain of your little melodrama."

"That's not what I'm doing!" she protested and then lowered her voice a little as people passed by and stared. "I'm trying to make things right between us."

He smiled, unkindly. "When have things ever been right between us, Rory?"

If she thought that her tears had dried up, she had been wrong. They stung at the back of her eyes, ready to fall in the face of his stubborn pride and inability to let her past the wall erected between them. "Tristan, please. What I said that day, it was wrong and I knew it."

"Then why'd you say it?"

"Because I was…" she trailed off; the reasons for her cruel words were not going to soften him towards her. "I was stupid."

He nodded and pocketed his hands, looking at her levelly. "And I've stopped being stupid, Rory. Especially when it comes to you."

She closed her eyes, tried to gather her strength for the next words as she crossed her arms over her midriff. "I want you to stop hating me, Tristan."

This time, his laugh was disbelieving. He spread one arm out and took a step closer, towering over her. "You really don't get it, do you, Gilmore? This isn't about you, it never has been. Don't make yourself out to be the misunderstood or the wronged, okay? Stop playing the fucking damsel in distress for one goddamn minute and try to think back to who started all of this. You hated me when we were sixteen and I may have deserved it but ever since then I've been the perfect fucking friend. Jesus, I let you walk all over me and for what? It wasn't like you were giving it up, either."

"Don't make this about sex!" she interrupted him, anger flaring up at his words.

"Of course not, Mary," he jeered as he trailed a finger down the side of her face, the gesture mocking rather than intimate. "Except that it is about sex. Truthfully, Princess, that's all it ever has been about between me and you. Except you're too scared to admit it. Lost little girl."

"Why are you doing this, Tristan?" she asked, a tear, unbidden, slipping down her cheek as she tipped her face to his.

"Maybe you were right all along," he answered, his warm breath dancing over her lips. "Maybe I am just some desperate guy, waiting in line to get you on your back and I'd do anything to make it happen."

"I know that's not true," she dissented, curling her fingers into fists to keep from touching him. "I know what you feel -"

"Really? You know how I feel, do you?" he questioned softly though he had stopped touching her. "Can you tell me how it feels to have all of your good intentions reduced to something so trivial and unimportant? To be the butt of a joke, a thing to be wished away because it is so unpleasant to deal with?" He looked at her, the intensity of his dislike for her, his anger and his hurt hitting her like a sucker punch in her gut. "Bet you can't Rory Gilmore. Because no one ever has done that to you, have they?"

"Tristan…"

"Don't," he stopped her and took a step away as if she has physically pushed him away. "Don't say my name like that. Like you're going to fucking break. Buck up, Gilmore. Where the hell is your pride?"

Even as he twisted the knife deeper into her heart, she didn't care. To hell with pride, she thought for a split second. This isn't about that. "I know I hurt you but I want a chance to make it up to you, Tristan. Please. I want you in my life."

"And I really don't want to have anything to do with your life," he replied, harshly. He gave her an even, malicious look. "I don't think I want that kind of responsibility."

He was infuriating, that had never changed. While a long time ago it had repelled her, it was one of the things that she knew made up Tristan DuGrey, one of the things that drew her to him despite herself. "So that's it, then? You'll just walk away from this unscathed."

"Not completely unscathed, Gilmore. I'll give you that much," he conceded pocketing one hand and mockingly rubbing the heel of the other over his heart. "But yeah, lesson learned. We aren't some tragic story, you know. It's not the end of the world."

"I can't shut my feelings off like you can," she told him bitterly.

"Please, you've been doing it your entire life," he told her with a smirk. "You have blue blood in you, too. You're a natural."

He turned again and walked away. This time, she watched his back and didn't (couldn't, wouldn't) call him. The distance between their bodies grew and she stood there, wet, alone, defeated as she waited for him to turn and look back.

And it began to rain.