AUTHOR: The Corrupter (I'm fickle and I can't decide if I like it with the "e" or the "o" *rolleyes*)
RATING: PG (b/c DP is an A, but not of the HA variety)
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Rory, Tristan, and yucky (imo, but opinion held by all Fectas) Dean
SUMMARY: See Part 1
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Swear on HA, this is seriously going to be my last fic (especially after the "End Of The Freaking World As We Know It" news) unless HA personally begs me to continue. But because of this, this fic might also turn out to be the longest yet. I mean, even WAY longer than the Dissertation. This part features Tortured Tristan. Sorry. I realized I've become so freaking melodramatic lately. But not to worry. The "death" of Tristan is not going to make me lower myself to "his" level and make him into a DPing ass in this fic. If I ever get around to finishing this, there will be a happy... (sorry, just had a personal moment there... lots of crying and vomiting involved... I'm sure you wanted to know. der)... ending. Oh, just in case you were wondering (I'm sure you weren't), each part starts with a Rory POV. It's just something I've made up to help "explain" the actions in the fic.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Although b/c the people who do probably didn't try hard enough to keep him, HA is now officially MINE, MINE, and MINE. He needs a spanking. Sigh. If only.

Sometimes it's hard for me to decide exactly who is the "mother" in this family. Lorelai, or myself. We've always been best friends. And except for certain times when she feels the need to pull out the "Mom" card -- like the time we went to New York to see the Bangles in concert -- I feel like it's up to me to keep her on track. I guess that's why my maternal instincts kick in without my realizing it, becoming almost second nature at times. Like when I see her hurting (ie. the time she broke up with Max), all I can think of is to take care of her. To comfort her and let her know that things will be all right. But the empathy isn't just reserved for her. For some odd reason, it also translates over to include people who I really shouldn't be concerned with. People who have done nothing but make me miserable. People I should, logically, hate. And yet... I do care.

Where was he?

The thought came unexpectedly and unsolicited into her mind. He was gone. Or rather, he hadn’t been in school for the past two days. She had overheard his closest friends discussing a sick grandfather. Word had it that the elder DuGrey had been ill for quite some time and that contingent on his death, Tristan, in addition to what his family already had, stood to inherit a great deal of money. But no one knew for sure. The cliques at Chilton were more interested in speculating about his impending inheritance than his grandfather’s health. And she had no one she could comfortably ask for more information. Because even though he had actively avoided her the past week or so, and she herself had not taken any actions to remedy their off-again friendship, it was in her nature to be concerned.

She was certain it wasn’t a more elaborate plan to avoid her, as he had done so for the past one-and-a-half weeks. Even so, his absence was a glaring blight in her day. Even when he was purposely avoiding her -- avoiding eye contact, desperately trying to regain some dignity in her eyes and in his own mind -- she could always count on his annoying presence. There was a comfort in knowing where he was. In knowing that he was there. He could be obnoxious and irritating and a pest, but when he left her alone, there was something about hearing his laughter in the hall, the mutual bragging he shared with his friends, his cocky attitude and even the sensation of his eyes on the back of her head that filled the void in her life that now seemed to be present due to his absence. But what could she do? He never shared anything with her, and except for those brief moments during the first week of school – which had been brought to an abrupt halt by Dean’s sudden appearance – they had not exchanged more than a handful of words. For all intents and purposes, they had essentially stopped talking ever since she turned down his concert tickets and chose Dean. Not once, but twice.

Dean. There was no love lost between the two boys. She and Tristan could try to gloss over her words as much as they wanted – as hard as they tried to that first week, pretending they hadn’t existed or somehow had dissipated. But it didn’t change the fact that ever since she had impulsively uttered the words “I love you” to Dean, she had felt an inexplicable tension from Tristan. Even more so the second time around. The “love” part – like the “hate” part that came before -- had come out of her lips, as if impassioned and right. Only she hadn’t meant it. She wasn’t impulsive. It went beyond her character. And yet, she couldn’t be sure if she really did feel those things or if she had just been caught up in the moment. What bothered her even more was that if the words had been a byproduct of a heated moment, then why couldn’t Tristan see that. Then again, she couldn’t quite blame him for misunderstanding – a misunderstanding she had yet to correct. He hardly knew her and she barely even knew him. But it begged the question. Why was it that Dean, who supposedly did know her better, had also been blind to it?

She didn’t hate him. Not really. She had only thought Tristan getting over her hate would be easier than Dean getting over her inability to say she loved him. And her hating Tristan had seemed essential to Dean loving her back. Tristan had always seemed stronger than Dean, both mentally and physically better equipped to deal with the adversity that came with knowing her. She didn’t want to coddle Dean. He didn’t need it, but she needed him in her life. She had gotten so used to fighting off Tristan’s advances, and Tristan, likewise, had always seemed to expect her stinging retorts, that she hadn’t given it a second thought when she had uttered those hateful words. She had fully expected her words to roll off Tristan’s back, making him cockier and brasher than ever. But it had done the opposite. Instead of teasing her again, as she had expected, he seemed to escape into himself, taking every measure possible to avoid contact with her, as if finally getting her “hint.”

Months ago, she would have thought it almost impossible for him to feel pain, or for her to be the cause of his pain. But over the past two weeks, when an absence of mind or miscalculated step made them run into each other, he always seemed to pull back, as if stung. Her presence seemed to be a painful reminder of something for him, and brought an inexplicable expression of hurt to his once carefree and gorgeous face. She still could not resign herself to the idea that she could be the cause of it. For her to have any power over him was next to impossible in her mind, and overly conceited, even though the idea of having any sort of influence over a guy as popular and self-confident as Tristan gave her butterflies in her stomach. But who was she kidding? She was a mere fly in Tristan’s existence. His inconsistent behavior – the many whimsies and abrupt changes in disposition towards her -- seemed to be evidence of this.

“Thanks for spending the afternoon with me,” Rory said.

Lane walked beside her as they casually strolled down the street, stopping every once in awhile to window-shop. “Not a problem. What are best friends for?” she asked, grinning brightly. Ever since school had started for her, they had found it unusually difficult to find time to spend together. Dean had somehow managed to monopolize all her free time, and Lane had put every effort into spending as much time with Henry.

Rory smiled, teasingly. “Really? We’re still best friends? Because I thought you might have forgotten. You know… seeing how you’re so busy all the time.”

Lane played innocent. “Oh, you mean Henry.”

“The one and only,” Rory teased. She had never seen Lane so happy before, and she realized that she liked seeing her best friend this way. The way she had once felt towards Dean at the beginning of their relationship. And she idly wondered if she still looked that way to others. Completely and utterly swept away.

Lane shrugged, but the smile on her face deepened as soon as she thought about her boyfriend. “The fact that Hartford is half an hour away has some disadvantages. We can’t spend every single waking moment together. Besides, I haven’t seen you in awhile. So how are you?” She grabbed Rory’s hand and they walked down the street, swinging their clasped hands as they used to do when they were little kids.

“I’m okay… but I’m a little disturbed to hear that I’m no longer number one on your priority list,” Rory admitted, wryly, even as her pale blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

Lane rolled her eyes. “You’ll always be number one. Besides, Dean’s always hogging you. If you want to blame anyone for keeping us from spending quality time together, I think you should have a serious talk with your boyfriend.”

“As opposed to your boyfriend?” Rory joked.

Lane smirked. “My boyfriend,” she emphasized the word, reveling in the way it sounded rolling off her tongue, “is perfect and blameless.”

Rory chuckled. “Then you should hear some of the stories going around school about him.”

Lane jumped up eagerly. Their hands still conjoined, she practically yanked Rory towards her in her unabashed curiosity. “Really?” Her eyes were too bright and enthusiastic.

Rory laughed, stabilizing herself on her feet again. “I’m kidding. He’s perfect, and you know it.”

Lane gave her head a nonchalant jiggle. “Well… yes. But let’s stop talking about how wonderful he is. What’s going on with you?”

Rory shrugged half-heartedly. “Nothing much. I’m still getting the sucky newspaper assignments, but at least Paris is talking to me.”

“I’m thinking that’s a good thing, right?” Lane lifted a brow, questioningly.

Rory nodded firmly. “Oh, most definitely. You know… first comes the speaking to each other. Next comes the painting our nails together. And finally, she’ll be the maid of honor at my wedding.”

Lane ignored the comment, only giving Rory an amused snicker. “And her sidekicks: Thing 1 and Thing 2?” Lane slipped in, trying to sound innocent.

“Madeline and Louise,” Rory corrected, smiling, “mostly do whatever Paris does.”

“So they’re not the problem, huh?” But Lane already knew the answer.

Rory frowned and continued walking as Lane kept pace beside her. “What makes you think there’s a problem?”

Lane titled her head to one side, and played ignorant. “Oh. Maybe because the first week of school you were really stressed out and snapping at everyone. Then a couple of days later, you were all happy and giggly…”

“Giggly?” Rory raised a dubious brow at her.

Lane shook her head, surging on. “The point is… you’re not anymore. Recently, you always seem so distant.”

“I’m right here, Lane,” Rory reminded, assuredly.

“Physically. But it always seems like you’re thinking about something. And I know it’s not schoolwork. You’ve never had a problem with homework or tests before. And I know it’s not Dean because you see him every single day. And if it were him, I know I’d be the first one you’d complain about him to,” Lane pointed out, suddenly serious.

She sighed, unsure how much she should share, but Lane was her best friend and knew all her secrets. Well, most of them, anyway. “Okay…” she started slowly. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Why would I laugh?” Lane asked, incredulously. But the question had elicited a tiny smile on the corner of Lane’s lips. She waited for Rory to impart some trivial matter to her, one which she could tease her about, make her laugh, and then make her forget whatever nonexistent worries were harboring in her mind.

Rory groaned, reluctantly. “Because you’ll think it means something when it really doesn’t.”

“Hmm. It sounds like English. And yet, surprisingly, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Are you speaking in one of those really foreign languages that they’re forcing you to take at Chilton? Because you’re confusing me,” Lane pondered out loud. She threw a teasing look at Rory, although her puzzlement was evident.

Rory took another deep breath. Her disclaimer had done nothing to ease her doubts as to whether she should share whatever was bothering her the past few days. Especially when she knew that Lane would, without hesitation, jump to conclusions. After all, she was merely a concerned classmate. It wasn’t as if she actually cared. “Tristan’s been ignoring me the past two weeks.”

Lane’s eyes brightened for no acceptable reason. “Ooh, obnoxious Tristan who’s always flirting…”

“Leering,” Rory interjected, upset that Lane could mistake all the complaints she had shared in regards to Tristan’s behavior towards her as anything close to welcomed, innocent flirtation.

Lane ignored the correction. “Whatever.” She stopped and placed a gentle hand on Rory’s arm, effectively stopping her in the middle of the sidewalk. “Shouldn’t this make you happy that he’s leaving you alone? I thought you hated him.”

Rory balked, chewing on her lower lip. “Not really,” she admitted, slowly, and seemingly unhappy to be doing so.

“Hmm.” Lane looked away. “I knew that,” she murmured, thoughtfully.

Rory shrugged, putting on a carefree smile. “I mean, we tried to be friends again this year, but all of a sudden, he’s ignoring me again.” She had left out small details. Like how Dean had caught the two of them engrossed in playful conversation and had blown everything to extraordinary proportions. Or how she had uttered those words of hate towards him once again. For once, she didn’t feel comfortable sharing any of that information with Lane. Especially since she hadn’t revealed the other tiny details regarding how she and Dean had restarted their relationship while effectively ending the one she had initially started with Tristan. Still hadn’t even shared the news of the kiss shared between two lonely and inconsolable people at a party so many months ago.

Lane pondered this for a brief moment. “Maybe Henry can ask…”

Rory cut her off. “No,” she said firmly.

The surprise was evident on Lane’s face. “Why not?” she asked, confused. “I’m sure Henry knows him.”

Rory shook her head adamantly. “It doesn’t even matter. He hasn’t been in school the past two days.”

“Henry can ask about that, too,” Lane offered.

Rory gave her a thankful smile. “Thanks, but it’s really okay. If he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, that’s fine by me. He was too infuriating anyway,” Rory assured, although not comforted by her own reasons.

Lane only directed a suspicious look at her friend. “Okay, if you say so. I mean, you don’t even care, right?” she agreed, sensing Rory’s need to let the matter drop even though she was unconvinced by Rory’s apathy. She nodded towards Luke’s. “Coffee?”

This time, the smile on Rory’s face was genuine. “Like you have to ask,” she teased.

Her eyes had been buried in another one of her books as she navigated her way through the hallway before class. An inadvertent nudge by another passing student brought her eyes up. And her heart did a strange jump. He was back.

He stood in front of his open locker, staring into its recesses. While passing kids jostled each other around him, he seemed almost lost. And helpless. A side she was sure had always been there, but she had never seen before, or acknowledged. Sighing to himself, and lost in thought, he reached in and pulled out a thick blue notebook.

She surprised herself by knowing it was his English notebook. And for some reason, that knowledge scared her. She didn’t know what to do. She could ignore him as he had done for the past few weeks, or she could confront him. Something he had seemed reluctant to do ever since Dean showed up at Chilton that first time. And more so after the second time. Taking a deep breath, she moved towards him, clutching her book closer to her chest. “Hey.”

He glanced at her quickly, surprise evident. “Hey.” Then he just as hurriedly averted his eyes, once again staring into his locker.

She took a peek into his locker, trying to see what was interesting in there that could keep his attention. “Where are the naked Siamese twins?” she asked, offhandedly, trying to find the picture she teased him for supposedly owning.

“They’re busy,” he answered, voice monotone.

The smile left her face. He had thrown her for a loop. She had fully expected him to make a lecherous remark about it, and she would counter with a snide one of her own. And then they would fall back into their familiar banter – something that had always been surprisingly effortless for them. Only he didn’t seem willing to play anymore. “So you were absent the past two days,” she started, not sure why she felt so uncomfortable. It was a strange discomfort. Not the usual nervous energy he inspired in her. This time, it was as if she knew every word that came out of her mouth -- every second she stood there prolonging their visit -- had the power to pain him. She had become some sort of cruel and unusual punishment to him.

“I’m surprised you noticed,” he said, quietly.

She was taken aback. “What?” Confused. He had never been purposely mean before.

He sighed, glancing down at the notebook in his hand, as if having forgotten it was there. “Nothing,” he assured, but it came out resigned. As if too exhausted to enter into the banter that was a hallmark of their unique relationship.

“How’s your grandfather?” she chirped, trying to hid behind a façade of cheeriness while he continued to look dejected.

“He’s fine,” he mumbled, unenthusiastically. He had yet to meet her eye.

Rory shifted on her feet, trying to ignore the unwelcome vibes emanating from him. It was Tristan. He loved it when she was around. She tried to convince herself that the haughty and cold demeanor was due to his mind being preoccupied with other matters. “That’s good,” she grinned, brightly. “How are you doing?”

He finally turned his head towards her, and the grin faded. Under half-closed lids, his look was confused and almost suspicious. “What are you doing?” He was confused. How could she say she hated him, then ask how he was doing?

The implications of the question hurt her. “I’m asking how you and your grandfather are doing.”

“Why?” he asked, just as suspicious. There had to be a hidden agenda. Perhaps she wanted to hurt him more. He didn’t know. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. She had already made it clear that she hated him. Not once, but twice.

“That’s what friends do.”

His expression didn’t change. Without hesitation, he asked, “Are we? Friends?” He seemed doubtful.

She bit her lip, trying not to cry. The detached forcefulness of the question had stunned her and she felt her heart fall to her feet in a loud thud. “Of… of course,” she managed to get out, stammering.

He didn’t react. Instead, he turned his eyes back to his locker. Still monotone, “We’re going to be late for class.” That seemed to signify the end of the conversation. He shut his locker door and walked past her, leaving her mouth hanging open.

Rory was confused. And she was getting a headache. She didn’t think she had the strength or inclination to deal with either Paris or Tristan’s mood swings. Paris had slowly come around. Again. They still weren’t friends, but things had calmed down from the blowout they had over Tristan’s insistence that they go to the PJ Harvey concert together. And working on the paper together had aided their attempts to reestablish inklings of mutual respect towards one another. It also helped that Tristan had kept his distance from Rory. But she couldn’t think about Paris yet. Tristan, even after her futile attempt to bridge the gap that morning, still managed to avoid her. She didn’t know why she expected him to eventually show up, leaning against her locker, comfortably invading her personal space, offering a cocky smirk and another offer to date her. She would turn him down and they would insult each other. Then the process would repeat. Only now, the cycle had come to a dead stop. And she didn’t think she liked having him upset at her. His actions were beginning to exasperate her. His behavior that morning, his questioning of her friendship, seemed to indicate that he, at least, didn’t consider her his friend. After he had worked so hard to get to her, she couldn’t believe he would choose to throw all his hard work away like that. He refused to be anywhere within a yard of her for any length of time. And he though he had begun to surround himself with friends, knowing she wouldn’t try to confront him again in public, he couldn’t muster up enough enthusiasm for anything his friends joked about.

Deterred but not discouraged, Rory decided to leave the fight for another day. Dean had his last period free every Thursday. And he had begun taking the initiative to show up at Chilton to pick her up on those days. She welcomed the respite his presence gave to her mind. They were more in like than ever, though their newfound relationship had not been anywhere near the magic it had been the first time around. She couldn’t pinpoint the reasons, but she was sure it might have had something to do with Tristan. His rejection of her friendship had weighed heavily on her mind, and consequently, was leaking into her relationship with Dean.

He was waiting for her out front, standing in front of his green pickup truck. He smiled as soon as she came out through the courtyard. She smiled gratefully. It was the first genuine smile she had received all day. Even Tristan, who couldn’t help but brighten at her presence, even when he was incredibly frustrated with her, had failed to register even a twinkle in his eyes that day whenever she was near. She dropped her bag at her feet and held her arms out. Dean quickly engulfed her into his arms, placing a barrage of kisses all over her. She buried her face in his neck, sighing contentedly, missing his darting eyes as they scanned the school grounds. He was searching for Tristan, and not seeing him, relaxed.

“Boy, am I glad you’re here,” she said, letting go reluctantly, and picking up her bag.

“Rough day, huh?”

“You wouldn’t believe it…” She stopped, realizing she was about to start in on how Tristan’s seemingly anger with her made her feel pained. It wouldn’t have been a smart move, considering none of Tristan’s actions should have mattered to her if she really did hate him. Especially since that was what Dean believed she felt towards the other boy. “But let’s not talk about it.”

Dean had no problems with that. Though he was dying to hear how Tristan had made her miserable again. Anything to hear that the boy was quickly losing any influence and control over Rory, and anything to justify him hating him more. “Let’s go. I know this great little quaint place we can go to take your mind off your worries.” He grinned devilishly.

Rory played along, titling her head in a feigned curiosity. A warm smile lingered on her lips. “Really? Have I ever been there before?”

“Not sure. It’s supposed to be this really fancy place that serves gourmet coffee,” Dean added, grinning at her from over the hood of the truck.

Rory laughed. “You know… any coffee will do. It doesn’t have to be gourmet. As long as it’s drinkable.”

Dean gave a half-shrug. “Trust me. You’ll love this place. I found it in this little town called Stars Hollow.”

“Ooh,” Rory cooed, playfully. “Sounds like a really nice place.”

“I just know you’ll love it. I have a sixth sense where these things are concerned,” he remarked, proudly.

Rory chuckled. “Well, stop wasting time, mister. Get in the truck and take me there,” she ordered, pulling open the passenger door.

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean saluted her before getting into the truck.

Rory climbed into the truck. As she reached out to pull the door closed, she noticed Tristan, standing half-hidden behind a bush, by the courtyard arch. The same place he had stood when she declared her hate for him that first time. The same place she had found her books, placed neatly and carefully, almost lovingly, in a stack on the ground. She froze in mid-action, wondering why he was standing there. And why that expression of wistfulness was so clearly played out across his chiseled features. And as she tried to interpret it, her breath caught in her throat. He caught her eye, set his face, squared his shoulders, and made an abrupt turn on his heels. Her face fell the same time her heart dropped to her knees.

“Rory?” Dean asked, concerned, seeing her stare out into nothingness.

Her head whipped towards him, as she tried to keep her breathing under control. “Let’s go,” she chirped with a brightness and vitality she did not feel. She pulled the door closed behind her, and directed an expectant look at him.

“You okay?” he asked, not sure why he suddenly felt anxious. There was something akin to a cold vibe emanating off her now, but he had no way to explain it, and it contradicted the cheerful smile she directed at him.

She nodded eagerly. “Yes. I’m dying to visit this Stars Hollow, especially if their coffee is as delicious as you say it is.” She didn’t feel like joking at the moment, her thoughts turning to things and people that were not in the truck with her, but she managed to smile absently for Dean’s benefit. As Dean started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, Rory turned her eyes out her window. Without knowing or understanding the reasons behind the action, those blue eyes absently scanned the diminishing campus for a familiar uniformed figure until the students roaming around the campus became indistinguishable.

His school year was starting out much in the same way it had the year before. A sick grandfather. A few days exempt from school. Only this time, there was no unexpected new girl to catch his attention. No girl who could draw his attention as much as she had. As much as she still did. No new girl for him to unexpectedly and inexplicably fall for. Because in his mind and heart, there was only her. She ruled his mind and heart and soul. She was his sustenance. And yet, he couldn’t get anywhere near her.

He spotted his car in the parking lot, amidst an array of Jags, BMWs, and other ridiculously overpriced cars for teenagers to own. As he weaved his way through the lot, he ignored the kids who clamored to gain his attention, his eyes locked on the safe confines his car would provide. Tristan got into his Porsche and pulled the door closed behind him, effectively shutting out all the noise from the other kids. His shoulders immediately sagged. Sighing deeply, he rubbed his face. He was frustrated. He was tired. And now he had a sick grandfather and Rory weighing on his mind. He had told himself he would move on, not let her bother him. To take her hate and deal with it. But her actions had confused him. He was used to playing with girls, and he was used to being played. But never in this manner. He wanted her, wanted her to want him, would treasure whatever attention she would shower him with, but he wasn’t sure how many times he could live through the disappointment. How many times he would be able to survive her friendship only to have her take it away and then offer it again, all because Dean had declared him taboo and Rory was too oblivious to know what she did to him. What powers she held over him. He had the constitution for it, but not the stomach. If she wanted Dean, then fine. He’d deal with it, and when the time came, he might even throw his hat back in and make another play for her. But he sure as hell didn’t want her dangling her friendship in front of him to appease him. If she wanted him to leave her alone, he’d do that, too. It just meant more effort in avoiding her, and he almost had that down pat.

Rory lowered her head, pretending not to notice the impending train wreck that was occurring just yards from where she sat. She focused her attention on the words swimming in front of her, but Paris’s irritated voice kept breaking into her thoughts. And it didn’t help that Louise’s catty remarks were spurring Paris on. Sighing, Rory lifted her eyes up to observe the scene playing out on the other side of the newspaper office. She didn’t know why she thought catching a few study moments in the office was a good idea. Paris was almost always there doing something. But the usual peacefulness of the room had been suddenly broken by an almost humorous spat between the two friends.

Paris waved the typed pages she held in her hand in front of Louise. “I didn’t ask you for the Top 100 songs to make out to,” she informed, pointedly.

Louise, annoyed with the paper waving, gave Paris’s hand a firm swat away from her face. She frowned in response. “Do you know how long it took me to compile that list?”

Paris gave her a look. “Not long, I’m sure,” she snapped, sarcastically.

Louise returned the look. “Nice, Paris. Your confidence in my journalistic abilities is comforting and encouraging,” she remarked, dryly.

Paris broke the gaze and Louise returned to examining her cuticles. Paris paced in front of the seated Louise, staring at the pages in her hand. She hit the pages with her free hand. “You could have done a music review.” It was an annoyed order under the guise of a heated suggestion.

“I did,” Louise informed, wearily, as if they had gone through this very conversation many times before. She didn’t bother breaking her gaze from her hands. “I listed them in the order of effectiveness and preference.”

The flippant remark irked Paris and sent her on another tirade. “I don’t know which is worse. This poor excuse of a music column, or the review you handed in last week.”

Louise sat up, suddenly defensive. “I wrote an article last week,” she reminded darkly.

Paris nodded, derisively. “A 250 word article that went in depth about your entire music collection. You might as well have written a dissertation discussing who’s cuter: Justin or J.C.,” she spat.

Louise glared at her. “Mee. Ow,” she sneered.

Paris’s frustration was showing, as she stared at her friend’s lack of concern in disbelief. “Louise, I could have given the assignment to Madeline and she would have done a better job.”

Louise narrowed her eyes at Paris. “There’s no need to be insulting,” she snapped.

Paris was becoming more upset. “Do you not care at all? This is a school newspaper, not Teen or YM. We’re trying to be reputable here. I don’t need you to mess up this paper with your make out lists.”

“Just trying to inject some pop culture and humor into the stodgy paper,” Louise shrugged, nonchalantly.

“Well, stop it,” Paris snapped.

Louise put her hands down on the desk in front of her, facing Paris straight on. “I didn’t even want to write the music column,” she reminded, pointedly. The two friends stared at each other. This time, Louise tore her eyes away, giving an uncaring shrug. “Give it to Rory.”

At the mention of her name, Rory’s eyes immediately snapped back to the book in front of her, trying to act as if she hadn’t heard a word that had passed between Paris and Louise. She could now feel Paris’s eyes burning a hole through the top of her head. Rory tried not to flush under the intense scrutiny.

“Why would I do that?” Paris asked, flatly, as if the idea was ridiculous and impossible. Her eyes never left the top of Rory’s head.

Rory finally lifted her eyes back towards the pair. And noticed that while Paris was not staring at her with a hateful expression, her look was just as critical. And Louise only glanced back, detached, but obviously having fun with her discomfort.

“She has nothing better to do,” Louise remarked, not entirely harshly, but also not quite pleasantly.

“Thanks,” Rory muttered, finally unable to stay out of the argument she had reluctantly been pulled into. The last thing she wanted was to be the subject of Paris’s wrath, especially when she hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

Louise smirked. “You’re welcome. And oh, by the way… thanks for the 411 on asphalt. Very enlightening.”

Rory flushed. Unlike Tristan’s teasing admiration of her trivial article, Louise was definitely being less than friendly. “I’m glad you learned a thing or two,” she retorted, despite herself.

Paris sighed, annoyed, then turned back to Louise. “You’re doing the music column. And you’re going to write this over.” She shoved the papers at Louise.

Glowering at her, Louise snatched the papers back. “Fine. I’ll do it over, but I just want to tell you that ever since you became editor, you’ve been on some kind of power trip. And the wrinkles forming on your face are neither flattering nor pretty.”

“I’ll live with it,” Paris retorted.

Having heard enough, Rory packed up her books. There was no way she could win with Paris. No way she could even go about trying. And defeated, she breezed out of the office, making every effort not to make eye contact with either girl.

The clinking of fine china and silverware kept the dinner from falling into an awkward abyss of silence. Aware of the unusualness of this dinner, Emily glanced around at each family member, trying to come up with a topic for discussion. But everyone – even the normally outspoken Lorelai – seemed to be lost in thought.

Richard glanced up, meeting his wife’s eyes. Then clearing his throat, he glanced at his daughter and granddaughter. “Emily, this salmon is delicious,” he complimented. His wife gave him a grateful smile, which he dutifully returned.

“Are we eating the same thing?” Lorelai stared at the plate in front of her, giving her fish tiny stabs with her fork.

Emily put down her fork and gave her daughter a perplexed look. “You have something against salmon?” she asked, incredulously.

“Well, it’s a fish. It’s got little beady eyes, and scales, and smells… fishy.” Lorelai frowned at the fish on her plate.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the definition, Lorelai. But it’s salmon, and it’s expensive.”

Lorelai gave a half-squeamish shrug of her shoulders. “Even more reason why we shouldn’t eat it. Poor things spend all their lives, against the odds, to return to their place of birth. Only to spawn and die. Where’s the justice in that?” She directed an empathetic pout at her fish.

“So you identify with it,” Emily remarked, tartly.

Lorelai returned the look, giving her head a shake. “I think I know what they go through, yes,” she retorted. “Although I’m not suicidal. Yet.” There was a hint of a challenge in her voice, which Emily only rolled her eyes at.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Lorelai,” Emily rebuked, wearily.

Rory, who had been watching the exchange with fascination, smiled shyly and offered her two-cents. “And no one wants to eat you,” she added softly.

Lorelai beamed at her. “Praise the lord. Although I’d like to think I’m tender and juicy.”

Emily sighed, and glanced up towards the ceiling, as if wishing for divine inspiration or spiritual assistance to get through the rest of the dinner. Finally, she turned her attention to Rory. “Well, Rory, you’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Do you share your mother’s distaste for fish?”

Rory smiled assuringly, lifting up a forkful of salmon, even though she had only been picking at her food in an absent and half-hearted manner. “No, it’s delicious.”

Emily beamed. “Well, at least someone here appreciates fine cooking.” She shared a proud look with her husband from across the table.

“Rory’s like a dog. She’ll eat anything,” Lorelai informed, matter-of-factly. She glanced up, suddenly aware of the silence, and found three pairs of eyes gawking at her. “What?” she pouted, as if unaware just how sarcastic she was being that night.

Rory ignored her mother as Lorelai went back to murmuring soothing words to her salmon before taking bites out of it. “I just have a lot on my mind,” she assured her grandmother.

“Does it have something to do with school?” Emily asked, interest piqued.

“Not really,” she shrugged. “I just have a lot on my mind. That’s all.” She turned to her grandfather. “So, Grampa, how’s work?”

Richard frowned and went into lecture mode. “People die; money exchanges hands. People don’t die like they’re supposed to; more money exchanges hands. It’s a nasty business.” He sighed, perplexed.

“But it keeps the salmon on the table,” Lorelai quipped brightly.

“For God’s sake, Lorelai, just don’t eat it,” Emily huffed, aghast at her daughter’s table manners.

“I’m eating it…” Lorelai whined in response.

Exasperated, Emily turned her attention back to Rory. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is there something you want to talk about?”

Rory shrugged. “Well, there’s this kid at school…” She let her voice trail off, unsure whether she wanted to get into details with her grandparents. Grandparents who would most likely share her information and concern with people she did not want knowing. Or want finding out.

Emily perked up. “Something happen to one of your friends?”

Lorelai snickered loudly at the “friends” part, and all three turned their disapproving gazes on her. “Yeah. One of them found out that instead of getting the Jag for his birthday, he was only going to get a Beamer,” she tittered. She rolled her eyes in an attempt to be facetious.

“Really, Lorelai,” Emily groused, disapprobation evident in her voice.

“Actually, his grandfather is really sick. Or at least that’s what people are saying. He’s seemed so distraught lately, but he won’t tell me anything. He was out of school for a few days.”

“Oh dear,” Emily murmured. “And you know him well?”

“Well, he’s just a friend…” Rory admitted haltingly, hesitantly.

Lorelai was watching the proceedings carefully, her eyes never leaving her daughter’s face. She caught every single reaction, every single flinch, every uncomfortable admission. And she was curious as to why Rory reacted the way she did while telling her story. “Friends? What’s with the friends?” she snorted. As far as she was concerned, Rory had never viewed any of her classmates from Chilton as friends, and if she had suddenly formed friendships with any of them, this would be the first that Lorelai had heard of.

Rory threw her an annoyed look, but when faced with her mother’s questioning and unflinching gaze, she averted her eyes in embarrassment. A look her grandmother failed to catch or interpret as anything more than concern for the friend in question. “I think maybe you know his grandfather,” she squeaked, despite herself. This was definitely territory she did not want to get into, but once she started, she forged ahead. She really was concerned about Tristan, despite everything they had put each other through the past few weeks… and the past year. And this method of finding out information seemed preferable than asking Lane to send Henry out digging for news.

Richard pondered this statement. “It’s possible. What’s his name?”

Rory refused to meet her mother’s eye. “DuGrey,” she informed quietly.

Lorelai, taking a sip from her glass of water, pulled away quickly, sputtering and spewing. She coughed loudly and glared at her daughter, but Rory refused to turn in her direction.

Emily immediately handed her a napkin. “Lorelai, for heaven’s sake. Whatever is the matter with you?” she cried, annoyance masking her concern.

Lorelai waved off her mother’s fussing, taking the napkin and wiping the spilled water herself. “I’m sorry,” she began lightly. “I thought you said ‘obnoxious, overly-aggressive, irritating, annoying, evil man-child’.” There was no mistaking the upset in her voice at the enunciation of her last statement. She had been left out of the loop, and she demanded a reason or explanation to appease her. She glared at her daughter again, and again was met by Rory’s profile.

“Lorelai, who? What are you babbling about this time?” Emily squinted at her in exasperation.

Lorelai had forgotten that her mother could catch everything that came out of her mouth. “Nothing, mother… just something we call one of the boys at Rory’s… you know, like a pet name only…” she stammered, uncharacteristically. She frowned, embarrassed to meet her mother’s reproachful gaze. Averting her eyes, she reached out quickly with her hand. “Oh, pass the dinner rolls please.” From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother exhaling loudly as she passed the basket of rolls to her. Pouting, she broke the roll into little pieces and popped them in her mouth.

Richard lit up, having ignored his daughter’s antics. “Ah… yes. Janlen DuGrey. The old grouch is practically on his deathbed and refuses to die.” There was some awe in the voice, as he turned to Rory, leaning closer slightly and lowering his voice. “He’s a good man, Rory. Never met a better man. But when a man’s time comes…” He wagged a finger in Rory’s direction. “You want to go out with some dignity, you know.” He spoke in confidential tones, as if sharing a secret with his granddaughter.

“His wife was such a lovely lady. Very elegant. Very classy. Very Jackie O,” Emily praised, giving Rory a secretive and approving nod of the head.

“Very pill-boxy?” Lorelai chirped, receiving a dirty look from her mother.

“His son took over the business years ago, but Janlen still has quite a stash hidden away.”

“Richard,” Emily scolded lightly.

Richard only continued on. “He told me he was planning on leaving it all to his grandson. Apparently, he’s a good boy. Just needs some direction.” He spoke, not remembering that he had met the so-called “good boy” in question last year at Rory’s birthday party.

Rory squirmed, hearing this rendition of Tristan. And Lorelai snorted noisily again. Based on what Rory had told her, she didn’t think “good boy” was a definition anywhere close to what Tristan was. And even though she herself had never met the boy, she was certain his grandfather, when using such descriptors, must have been drugged out of his mind.

“Lorelai!” Emily exclaimed, nonplused.

Richard sighed, coming out of whatever reverie and thoughts he had been lost in concerning his good friend Janlen DuGrey. “Well,” he sighed, with some finality. “When the old coot dies, I’ll miss doing business with him.”

“Richard, no more talking death at the dinner table,” Emily reproached, giving him a reproving look. Richard held out his hand in apology.

“Of course not,” Lorelai piped up. “Death is reserved for desert and after-dinner coffee.” She wiggled a brow at Rory, who had finally turned an inquisitive eye on her. And Rory, who had refused to meet her mother’s eyes, afraid of her mother’s reaction towards her revelation, chuckled softly despite herself.

“Really, Lorelai,” Emily fumed. “Your morbid sense of humor never ceases to amaze. Now eat your fish,” she ordered breezily.

Lorelai ran towards the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Rory was already waiting patiently inside. Lorelai threw her a glance, then gave a little exasperated huff. She started the car and turned to her daughter. “So… dinner was good.”

Rory’s eyes flickered towards her in the dim moonlight. “You didn’t even eat your dinner. You were trying to revive the main entrée by splattering water on it and chanting some weird incantation.” Her voice was unusually devoid of any amusement.

“Just trying to give it a fighting chance,” Lorelai snickered, grinning amusedly at her own humor.

“It was missing a head.”

“A minor obstacle,” Lorelai assured breezily.

“And you already took a couple of bites out of it,” Rory continued, giving her mother an incredulous look.

“A mere technicality. I was hoping that a few sprinklings of Gilmore-blessed water, a couple of magic words, and voila! Dancing fish.” Lorelai grinned, humoring herself. “I mean, if Ally McBeal can have a dancing baby, I want dancing fish.”

“Mom.” Rory shook her head.

Lorelai gave her a pouty look, then steered the car onto the road. She stared straight ahead in silence, making funny faces to herself, her lips scrunching and pouting as she lost herself in thought. Rory didn’t seem to notice as her mother’s eyes kept wandering off the road and towards her. She only patiently waited for the questions to flow. Lorelai did not disappoint. “So… Tristan’s grandfather, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rory answered neutrally.

Lorelai nodded to herself, digesting the information. “So when did…”

Rory had already anticipated the question. “Not long,” she informed, cutting her off before she could finish asking.

“Uh huh.” Lorelai nodded to herself once more, trying to piece together the puzzle. “And Dean…” She deliberately left the question unasked.

Rory frowned despite herself. “I don’t need Dean’s permission to make friends,” Rory pointed out, slightly offended.

“Right,” Lorelai agreed, snapping her fingers. “Of course not. And Tristan’s only a…”

“Yes,” Rory answered, already having expected a questioning of her friendship with Tristan.

“And you’re not…” The statement was begun in innocence, but was decidedly not harmless.

“No.” She immediately responded in the negative. It didn’t even matter that she didn’t know what the exact question would be. She didn’t like the curiously doubtful tone of voice her mother used. And with its use, Lorelai could only be implying one thing. And in regards to that one thing, there really wasn’t any reasonable answer but a firm “no.”

“Hmm.”

And Rory didn’t think she liked the way her mother made that noise. As if she didn’t believe her own daughter. “What?” she demanded, suspiciously.

Lorelai threw her a look. “Real friends? Not just the status quo? Real, real friends?” There was skepticism in her voice that Rory could do without.

Rory sighed, chewing on her lower lip. “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

“And I’m guessing you want him to?” There was incredulous tint to her voice, as if Rory had somehow gotten hit over the head and forgotten who they were discussing. “Tristan. This is Tristan we’re talking about,” she reminded, in amazement. Rory threw her an unappreciative look.

“Believe me, I’ve been wondering what I’ve been running my head into lately. And I can’t remember banging my head up against any brick walls just for the fun of it. Although this could just be a sign of amnesia. Or post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Well, you are the sweetest girl in the world. It’s only your nature to be concerned whenever someone is going through a tough time. Even if it is a guy like Tristan.”

“He just seems so sad. And the fact that he doesn’t talk to me anymore…” She bit her lip, unable to finish her thought. There were plenty of reasons why he wouldn’t want to talk to her anymore. First and foremost was the “hate” factor. It didn’t even matter that it wasn’t true. He believed it was, and that was enough to put a damper on any burgeoning friendships.

“You know what’ll do the trick?” Lorelai waited a beat before continuing. “Money. According to Grampa, he’s going to inherit a buttload once his grandfather kicks the bucket, and money always seems to make rich people happy. Ask Grampa. He’d attest to it.”

“How very crass of you,” Rory remarked, wryly.

“I’m just saying,” Lorelai wiggled a brow at her. “Rich people love to talk about money. I’ve never met one that didn’t.”

Rory frowned. “But you’re talking about old rich people, right? I don’t think Tristan is like that.”

Lorelai didn’t even hesitate. “Tell me again when the two of you became friends,” she prompted, not sure whether she liked how Rory kept referring to the rich boy in a somewhat affectionate and defensive manner.

Rory slumped down in her seat, sulkily. She was not pleased.

Lorelai sighed. “Fine.” Her eyes lit up brightly, mischievously. “You know what else would get him to talk?” It was a rhetorical question that she was about to answer herself.

“I don’t think I want to know,” Rory said, irritated.

Lorelai only smirked. “You could stick your tongue down his throat. That’ll get him talking real fast.”

“Mom!” Rory exclaimed, embarrassed. She couldn’t keep the blush off her face, especially when her thoughts suddenly took a turn back to a moment that had occurred many months ago when that very thing had happened. But as she recalled, it hadn’t so much gotten them to talking as it had left them both breathless and speechless. Glancing around, helplessly, she was grateful that it was dark inside the car. “I have a boyfriend,” she reminded, unnecessarily, and in a voice that sounded considerably unconvincing.

If Lorelai had picked up on the hesitation, she did not call attention to it. She shrugged nonchalantly. The car fell back into a comfortable silence. Finally, unable to keep quiet anymore, she threw her daughter a teasing grin. “Dean doesn’t have to know,” she reminded.

“Mom!” Rory groused one more time, sighing loudly and effectively ending all conversation for the rest of the trip back to Stars Hollow.