AUTHOR: Pooh
RATING: PG
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan/Rory
SUMMARY: Tristan and Rory continue their newfound relationship. Sequel to Second Impressions.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: See Prologue.
DISCLAIMER: It's been years since I watched a GG ep, but all the characters except Simon belong to Amy S-P, the WB, etc.

“She thinks it’s a hoot.”

“A hoot?” He arched his brow, skeptically, and his lips curved downwards in a semblance of serious consideration at this new information.

Simon leaned over Tristan’s shoulder, dropping a borrowed pen on top of an open chemistry textbook. The pen rolled gracefully towards the edge of the book and fell in the crack between text and the spiral notebook that held all of Tristan’s meticulous handwritten notes and calculations. “Say ‘hi’ for me,” he instructed, voice modulated in tone to denote indifference, even while he was carefully eavesdropping from his side of the room.

Tristan rolled his eyes, shooting his nosy roommate an aggrieved look. “You’re worse than a 12 year old girl,” he muttered. Then dutifully passed on the information. “Simon says ‘hi.’”

A response was garbled by a burst of static interference, and an intermittent beeping noise. Then finally, a loud aggravated sigh not caused by either dying phone batteries or miles of fiber optic cables. “I hate this phone,” came the now-familiar complaint.

Tristan smiled, picturing her exasperatedly swiping a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she grumbled over the phone. She could be so predictable sometimes. “You could always hang up,” he retorted, teasingly. That was also a very familiar advice, never spoken with any serious intent. He could already hear the snort of disagreement.

“And let you think you have that kind of power over me? Forcing me to acknowledge that you drive me up the wall and concede defeat? You wish.” Another absentminded swipe of her hair, and a snort. He just knew.

His smile widened. “Uh… Rory?” he started, as if he hated to be the one to point it out to her, even though he loved it. “Doesn’t the fact that you are always calling me, refusing to hang up, indicative of my power? More so than if you just hung up and never called me again?”

There was a stunned pause, too precise to be anything other than calculated, but before Tristan could fill in the gap by himself, she willingly allowed him the win in that particular verbal tennis match by refusing to address his question directly. “Wait. I called you?” she asked, incredulous.

With a willpower that he hadn’t realized he had, Tristan managed not to laugh out loud. “An honest mistake. Many women find themselves inexplicably drawn to making contact with me without knowing why.”

“You better stay in England. I don’t think they make a plane large enough to fit your entire ego.”

“So keep calling me,” he prompted. “Your mom thinks it’s a hoot, after all.” He repeated the words casually.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, guess what, buddy. I’m hanging up right now,” she threatened, attempting to sound menacing.

“Let me guess. Your mom just got back from work, and she’s starving and wants to get dinner,” he surmised, absently tapping the pen Simon had returned against the edge of his chemistry book.

Even from across the Atlantic Ocean, he could discern the smile in her voice, easily distinguishing it from the huff of annoyance she managed to affect. “You think you’re so smart,” she grumbled.

“That’s because I am,” he remarked, without missing a beat.

He was expecting a retort, another one of her barbs that would keep them on the phone longer even after they had practically said their farewells. Only silence came after his reply, and he heard the soft shushing of a distant conversation. Most likely Rory informing her mother who she was talking to over the phone. Followed closely by a shriek. Most definitely Lorelai after being told it was him on the phone.

He waited patiently, refusing to meet Simon’s eye. Finally, Rory came back on the line. “I have to go. Dinner reservations at Luke’s. Can’t be late,” she revealed, shortly, but there was music in her voice. “By the way,” she added, voice lowered conspiratorially. “She no longer thinks it’s a hoot. She says if you call here again…”

“You called…” he interjected, again going through this part of their phone conversations by memory.

She interrupted him. Another familiar play in their banter handbook. “Bye,” she chirped.

“Bye,” he rushed out, hurriedly, wanting to get the last word in before she hung up on him. It would drive her nuts, knowing that she would have to wait at least another 24 hours before she could get in another word edgewise, and he knew and relished it.

Simon, who had been hovering behind Tristan for the last few seconds of the conversation, plopped unceremoniously down on the bed beside Tristan’s desk. Tristan stared at the phone in his hand for a beat, always astounded whenever Rory called. He still hadn’t gotten over the idea of having regular phone conversations with her that didn’t end in yelling or a volley of hateful remarks and implied threats. He still hadn’t gotten over Rory calling him, although each time he had called her had been an adventure in extreme sports. Perhaps Lorelai had managed to rig the phone to ring differently for him; she always, without fail, picked up whenever he called. And if he had believed that he needed to stay on his toes for the verbal match with only the younger, the elder Lorelai enthusiastically convinced him otherwise.

With the five-hour difference between Hartford and London, both Simon and Tristan were already settled in their rooms, finishing up their respective studies and homework. His jacket hanging carefully over the back of his chair, Tristan leaned back and rubbed his eyes with his hands. His tie had long been thrown to the wayside, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to mid-forearm. Even with his recently shorn hair, the ends managed to curl and stick up in dishevelment after a day’s worth of classes and extracurricular activities. He was exhausted, and still had two chapters in his chemistry book to drudge through. It was hardly a mood conducive for the post-Rory phone call dissection with Simon, which had become routine against his will.

The more casual of the two, Simon had stripped down to his shirttails as soon as they had returned from dinner, his starched white dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned over his equally pristine white undershirt, and his sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbows. Lazily stretching out across the bed, he glanced up expectantly at Tristan. “So?” He raised a brow, inquisitively.

“Her mom screamed,” Tristan revealed, simply, his face blank and expressionless. Even as the corner edge of his lip twitched.

“Again?” Simon rolled his eyes, chuckling to himself.

“I’m starting to wonder if it’s so funny anymore,” Tristan murmured to himself, thoughtfully pondering his own question. A few more months and he would be back in the States, preparing for college. The idea of having any type of relationship with Rory against Lorelai’s wishes was almost enough to deter a man as determined as Tristan himself.

Simon shifted in the bed, mindless of the fact that it was actually Tristan’s bed, and stared up at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his shock of light blonde hair. “Oh, come on,” he teased. “It’s always been funny. The girl obviously likes you back for some deluded reason that I’ll never be able to comprehend. And from what you tell me – which is nothing, by the way.” He paused to shoot Tristan a dirty look. “I hardly doubt her mother would have anything against you if the daughter surely doesn’t.” With that, he stifled a yawn with a lazily placed hand.

Tristan threw him a sideways glance and a sheepish grin. “You’ve never met Lorelai Gilmore before.”

His roommate’s bright blue eyes immediately darted over to meet his. “Is that a challenge?” Simon’s eyes flashed, making the question itself redundant. Tristan knew exactly what it had sounded like, and he also knew that Simon was never one to back down from a challenge, even when it was given facetiously.

In hindsight, it probably should have never happened.

In hindsight, he probably would have prevented it from even beginning.

In hindsight, he would never have introduced the ever charming Simon to his father, or even allowed them into the same room at the same time.

“You’re what?”

The lack of joy, which he had foolishly expected and hoped for, was severely lacking from the question. After three and a half months, the stunned inflection made him wince. He knew it was too soon to expect any attachment. Knew it was too early to test the waters they had waded into with their phone conversations. Knew that what they had now, across a span of an entire ocean, could very well not exist when in the same town, or state, or even country. But still, biting down on his lips with an inward wish, he surged ahead.

“We’ve got a mini-break coming up, and my father thought it would be good to get back to Hartford and start taking care of some things for school next year. Get a head start and all that boring stuff.” And Simon, with a well-placed observation that Hartford probably looked gorgeous in the early spring, and a well-timed comment of fervently wishing to see it for himself one day, had ensured that things would proceed in the fashion they indeed eventually had.

“So you’re coming back here for a few days?” Her voice had modulated back into a contemplative serenity.

With the inexplicable vise loosening its grip from around his heart, Tristan breathed a deep sigh of grateful relief. “Well… I’m going back to Hartford,” he answered, vaguely. Simon had merely put forth the thinly veiled suggestion. And Tristan’s father, who had stopped by on a rare occasion to treat Tristan and his friends to dinner, had immediately picked up on it and offered to finance a trip.

“Two weeks…” she murmured, through what he now recognized as pursed lips. He could practically feel the electric tingle of her careful consideration and thought through the phone lines.

In hindsight, it was all his fault. As soon as Simon heard the proffered gift, which he had indirectly manipulated, he had aimed a subtle flash of triumphant at Tristan. The look was an animated reminder of a challenge that Tristan had inadvertently put forth some weeks ago. And Tristan, feeling ill, could do nothing but comply with his father’s wishes. “But only for four days,” he added, quickly.

“It still seems rather sudden,” she remarked, sounding neither overjoyed nor entirely disappointed at the prospect of Tristan being stateside.

He smiled lightly, recognizing the change in her voice -- the slight hitch that informed him she had transitioned between exasperated doubts to reluctant acceptance. The hint of patient anticipation would come later. “You won’t even have to entertain us,” he reminded, voluntarily offering to forgo that pleasure.

She scoffed, her voice husky with sarcasm. “Who said I was offering?” And a smidgen of a smile crept into her voice.

With that, Tristan’s own smile grew wider. “Simon’s coming.”

“Oh, well, then I should get my party supplies ready.”

The retort brought a chuckle from Tristan. “Rory, exactly what kind of…”

“Oh, grow up,” she interrupted, feigning annoyance. A pause followed, and when she spoke again, her voice echoed with playful mischief. “Well, I’m glad you’re coming home for a few days. Domestic long distance calls are a lot cheaper than international ones,” she quipped.

“You wound me. Do you happen to recall just who is paying for all these ridiculously long phone conversations?” he teased, not wanting to bring too much attention to the fact that he had accepted all charges and refused to allow Rory to even consider doing otherwise.

She didn’t answer, and he frowned in the span of the silence, afraid that he had said the wrong thing. After a brief period that threatened to turn into a rare moment of awkward and uncomfortable silence, she finally spoke. Her voice, significantly softer than normal, was filled with an emotion he was still unable to decipher, covered by a more pronounced hesitation.

“You’re going to visit… right?”

All thoughts flew out of Tristan’s head. Any retorts he might have had ready fell silently from his lips, unspoken. To be back in Hartford and not even visit Rory… he couldn’t even understand how she could consider the possibility. Still, he needed to hear the words from her. Their burgeoning friendship, relationship, whatever it was over the phone, had taught him patience and the need to allow Rory her own time and pace. For a man who had always taken the first steps himself, it took more than control and adoration to reign in his impulsive urges. It took a newfound selflessness to allow her to take her own first steps.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, unaware that the pitch of his voice had dropped to barely audible levels.

And Rory, sharing an understanding that he would be mortified to hear just how desperate and vulnerable he had allowed himself to sound, even over the phone, offered a teasing burst of chiding giggle to assure him that she didn’t think less of him. “Of course, idiot.” She allowed the obligatory amount of time for him to process her words. Then added, as expected, the teasing rejoinder. “I’ve been dying to meet Simon.”

Laughter came easily to Tristan. It always had when Rory was involved. “So you are using me!” he joked.

“Of course,” she acknowledged, unhesitatingly. Then, with a long pause that let him know instinctively that she would be ending the call, she returned with a quick: “I’m glad you’re coming back for a few days.”

“Me, too,” he agreed, wholeheartedly.

She chuckled, and hastily added: “Don’t forget to bring presents.”

And he ended with a genuine: “I wouldn’t dare not to.”