Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paris has never drank before. 

(She’s been assured by Madeline and Louise that, no, Passover wine doesn’t count.) 

So she’s confused—annoyed, even—when that punk Jess, along with her coveted mac n’ cheese, plunks onto Rory’s dining room table a half pint of vodka and a six-pack of ginger ale to use as a mixer. 

“Jess!” Rory, to her credit, sounds appropriately scandalized. Her eyes go doe-wide and she does that cute thing where her voice goes squeaky. “We can’t…drink that!” 

Jess just grins, the motherfucker. He must think he’s so cool. 

Paris decides in that moment that she’s cool, too. She downs her glass of water and stretches the empty glass across the table. “Alright, greaser, pour me one.” She jostles the glass expectantly. “Or are you all bark and no bite?” 

“Paris. You can’t be serious.” Now Rory’s admonishing her, too. 

“Come on. This isn’t some Mean Girls bullshit, you don’t gotta drink if you don’t wanna.” He pours Paris a glass. 

He seems to add a lot more mixer than he does vodka. She frowns down at it. 

“What, you don’t think I can take it?”

“Relax. That’s the standard amount.” 

“I’m going to hell,” Rory mumbles, face buried between her arms on the table. She weakly pokes her nose up, grabs the bottle of vodka, and gives it an investigative sniff. She wrinkles her nose, then takes a sip. After the first sip she takes a larger gulp. 

Jess laughs and leans closer to Rory. 

Paris is jealous of the way he moves into her space so casually, nudging her and plucking a hair off her sweater. Rory looks bashful, red face hiding behind her glass as she fights a smile. Paris is bad at social clues, but this one is crystal clear: he likes her. And he has more of a chance than Paris ever does. 

That drives her to take the first sip. She almost gags; the ginger ale barely comes through at all. If she didn’t know better she would think she was drinking straight vodka. It burns up her nose and she coughs. 

“See, I told you,” says Jess. What a smug bastard. 

Never a quitter, she tries again, this time with a full-tilt glare at Jess. 

Despite her better instincts, Paris has fun. She shovels down the entire bowl of mac n’ cheese while maintaining spirited literary debates with Jess (inebriation definitely doesn’t impact the comprehensibility of her arguments—not one bit). 

At one point she catches Rory smiling at her and drops her fork. It lands in her food and she gets sauce on her hands trying to fish it out. Jess gives her a look that isn't his usual bad boy scowl or bad boy smirk, and she can’t parse it. 

After two drinks Paris learns she is a lightweight. 

The drunker she gets the less capable she is of suppressing the urge not to stare at Rory for abnormal amounts of time. It’s an urge she always has—an urge she has trouble suppressing on her best days—but now she’s openly gazing, chin resting on her hand, at Rory’s freckles and the way her lips curve when she giggles at Jess’s jokes. It hurts a little, but in a nice way. Good thing Rory’s drunk, too. 

The fun ends when Dean busts in and unleashes a total shitstorm. He’s so tall he towers over her. It’s like he thinks he owns her, the way he fusses over how she should have invited him and how Rory shouldn’t hang out with Jess and Jess is clearly a bad influence because now they’re drinking, and if he were a less considerate boyfriend he would call Lorelai and tell her what her innocent little daughter has been doing—what is he, a preschooler? Paris rolls her eyes so hard she thinks they’re going to get stuck that way. 

“Would you give us a moment,” Dean says as he glares at Jess. His stupid hair makes him look like an angry muppet and Paris almost feels inclined to tell him as much, but Rory is near tears so it’s probably not the time. 

Paris shares a look with Jess she hopes communicates that.

“Come on, man. We can work this out.” Jess spreads his arms out in a faux-friendly gesture. 

Dean looks at Rory. “I’m gonna kill this guy. If someone doesn’t hold me back I’m seriously gonna kill this guy. Who the fuck does he think he is.” 

Rory slurs her words. “You don’t understand, I didn’t even invite him! I didn’t invite either of them!” 

Dean looks straight at Jess. “Get your scrawny ass out of here so I can talk to my girlfriend.”  

“I think I touched a nerve.” Jess backs up and walks his scrawny ass out the back door of the kitchen. Seeing no other choice, Paris follows. 

It’s dark outside. Paris shivers. 

“Woof. Sorry ‘bout that. Seems like wherever I go, trouble follows.” Jess leans against a wall and checks his nails. 

Paris can still hear the yelling from inside. She sinks to the ground. Something about Jess makes her want to strangle him a little. She supposes she has that much in common with Dean.

All things considered, they spend a good half hour lingering awkwardly outside, twiddling their thumbs while they listen to Rory and Dean argue inside. 

“Holy shit. You’re like, really drunk, dude,” says Jess as he looks down at Paris. “Maybe I should have cut you off.” 

“Hey.” Paris scowls petulantly. “You can’t cut me off. I do what I want.” 

“Yeah, well. It’s my alcohol, so.” Jess sits down next to her. 

He’s wearing a leather jacket and his hair is slicked back. He’s got the top of a box of cigarettes poking out of his pocket. He looks like a grade A douchebag but it’s all so clearly an act. Paris doesn’t know how Rory doesn’t see through it, why she looks at him like that. As if being with one guy isn’t already enough; can’t she leave well enough alone? 

Paris doesn’t even notice she’s upset until maybe twenty minutes of silence and a few scribbled annotations in On The Road later Jess says, “Christ, you good? Are you a sad drunk or something?” Then, when Paris doesn’t answer, “That’s my least favorite type of drunk. Maybe I should just brave bag boy instead.” 

“I’m fine,” she bites out. “That’s just my face.”

“Nah, I’ve seen your resting face. That looks more like this.” He does a deadpan face. 

“Really? I thought you were too busy ogling Rory’s resting Disney princess face. Like, fine, I get it, she’s pretty.”

Jess scoffs. “Oh my God, are you jealous?” 

“Of her? I’d rather jump into a pit of snakes. And even then at least they wouldn’t soliloquize for an hour about the symbolism in the weird Ginsberg grocery store poem before descending. I bet that’s your idea of foreplay.” 

“Hey, fuck you,” says Jess, but there’s no heat behind it. If anything, he looks pleased. 

Dean yells something particularly loudly, distracting them both for a moment. 

Then Jess says, “Well, if it’s me you’re jealous of it’s a waste of energy. That guy in there, he’s got her in a stranglehold. Like, how’s a boa constrictor for that snake pit of yours? It’s exhausting.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of the house. “The things I do to get that girl’s attention, man.” 

“Tell me about it,” Paris yawns. She leans her head against the wall. A moment later she realizes what she just admitted. Or, at minimum, what it could be interpreted as an admission of. 

She sits back up in a hurried jerk, eyes going wide. 

Fuck. 

“I didn’t mean—” she starts. 

Jess stands, shoving his hands in his pockets in a rare show of earnestness. “Hey, don’t worry about it, alright? Bag boy’s still losing it so we should probably do something about…that.” 

And he walks back through the door before Paris has a chance to clarify that of course she’s not going to worry about it, there’s nothing to worry about, she’s just clearing up a potential miscommunication. Except she is worrying about it and her usual nervous stomachache has turned into full-throttle nausea. When she looks through the door Dean is snapping at Jess like a rabid dog, grabbing him by the front of his coat and spitting in his face and, in her panic, Drunk Paris has the best idea. 

“Stop, alright, it’s my fault Jess was here,” she says, cutting Dean off in the middle of his tirade. Everyone turns around and looks at her and she feels rather self-conscious. Jess raises his eyebrows as if to say, this should be good. “I, um, I saw him in the diner the day I came to Stars Hollow and I thought he was cute. This is all just Rory doing me a favor and I never meant for it to cause this much trouble.” 

“Really?” says Dean. He doesn’t completely seem to buy it, but he lets go of Jess, so that’s progress. 

“Really,” Jess echoes. 

“Shut up,” says Dean. 

“Yeah.” Rory catches on quickly. “I didn’t want to say it where Jess could have overheard—” she shoots Paris an apologetic glance and damn is she a better liar than expected—“but the cat’s out of the bag, so.” 

“And the alcohol?” Dean hoists the vodka bottle. 

“Liquid courage. I get anxious about this stuff,” Paris says, really hamming it up now. 

“Wow, Paris. I had no idea you felt that way,” says Jess, and Paris knows she has some seriously ruthless mocking in her future if Jess doesn’t pass out laughing at her first. To his credit, he’s keeping it together well enough for Dean’s benefit. 

Paris makes a mental note not to drink ever again. 

***

Dean and Jess leave. Paris and Rory study half-heartedly for a bit as intended, and then Paris helps Rory clean up the takeout. She’s never really cleaned before—it’s a foreign experience and she’s not sure she actually helps, not when Rory has to explain to her that there’s a separate rack for silverware in the dishwasher. For all he’s thrust upon them, the only thing Jess has bothered to take back with him is his vodka. Rory sighs, rubs her forehead, and cracks open a ginger ale. 

“I’m so sorry about that, Paris. I didn’t realize it’d get that out of hand.” 

“Well, you can’t help that the men flock to you,” Paris grumbles. 

“They flock to me.” Rory smiles and flaps her arms in what must be a silly interpretation of a tropical bird’s mating dance. “Seriously, Paris. Thank you. You have no idea what you did.” 

Paris blushes and fidgets with the tab on her own ginger ale. Her parents don’t usually let her drink soda because they say it causes bloating. “It’s, um, don’t get used to it.” 

Rory flicks a stray crumb from the table, the last remnant of their feast. She stands. 

“I should be getting back,” Paris says, figuring she’s overstayed her welcome, right as Rory says, “You should stay over. We can watch a movie.” 

“Oh.” Paris is caught off-guard. “You don’t have to do that just because I lied for you. I mean, it’s like you said. I wasn’t invited.” 

“I just said that for Dean, Paris,” says Rory. “You know you’re welcome here any time, right?” 

She’s just being nice. She doesn’t mean it. That doesn’t help the butterflies unfurling in Paris’s stomach. Or maybe that’s the ungodly marriage of mac n’ cheese with vodka against her weak-ass stomach. Maybe it’s time to go freak out in the bathroom. Except Rory’s standing kinda near the doorway now and Paris doesn’t want to push past her. 

…Would she really let me sleep over? 

Under most circumstances, Paris would have jumped on that chance. She would have let Rory pick out some spare blankets from her linen closets and fuss a little about whether she’d be adequately comfy on the couch, and maybe Paris would be more comfy in her bed, to which Paris would say I’ll be fine, Gilmore, I’m not a damn princess but spend the rest of the night running through that fantasy a million times in her head. Tonight, with all that’s happened, something in her freezes and she just can’t. 

“No. I really should go,” she says instead. And maybe it’s her imagination—wishful thinking—but for just a flicker of a moment, Rory looks a bit disappointed. 

“Are you okay to drive? You know, with the alcohol and all?” 

Paris hadn’t even considered that. “Uh, yeah, I think it wore off.” 

“Okay! Well, you can take a rain check,” she says. “The non-stained side of the couch cushions have your name on them.” 

(So maybe Rory wouldn’t put up a fight about the couch thing after all—Paris makes a mental note to factor that into her daydreams.)

She packs up her backpack, all the while feeling that heavy stone of dread in her gut over what she said to Jess. It messes with her coordination so much it takes three tries to zip her pencil case shut. When she’s done she checks her pocket to make sure her car keys are still there and makes for the door. 

“Set that down for a moment,” says Rory, gesturing toward the backpack. 

Paris is confused—what, is Rory going to insist on carrying it to her car for her or something?—but she does it. 

Then Rory hugs her. 

It’s not a normal hug that Madeline and Louise would occasionally give her at the end of a hangout or some aunt whose name she forgets at a family reunion—the kind that stems from obligation, or a stiff sense of politeness, and is designed to minimize physical contact. Instead it’s disarmingly earnest how Rory wraps her arms around Paris’s chest and squeezes hard, Paris’s cheek pressed against her neck. And it’s not like Paris has much frame of reference, because in all honestly people don’t hug her that often, but it seems like it lasts a little longer than a hug is supposed to. But it’s making her stupid. Her body feels limp and useless and her mind chugs to a stop and Rory might or might not be rubbing her back a little (what the hell?). 

“Thank you,” Rory all but whispers in her ear, and that’s the last straw before Paris’s brain breaks completely. She sits in her car processing that for a good fifteen minutes before she starts driving. 

Because she knows she’s so completely screwed.

Chapter Text

Jess yawns. 

It’s five thirty in the stupid morning and he wants to still be asleep. He would be still asleep if not for Uncle Luke’s downright masochistic work schedule and his inability to realize that other people might not desire the same. He’s been adhering to it ever since Luke dumped cold water on his face to wake him up a few weeks ago. So there he is, standing there and trying to figure out how he can distribute all the ketchup left in the big ketchup bottle so that all the little ketchup bottles look more or less full and he doesn’t have to admit to Luke that he slacked on the order list last week and forgot to check if they needed to order more ketchup. 

But then again, who the fuck cares? 

“Ugh.” Jess scowls, offended by Luke’s music choice as a soulless rendition of Aerosmith’s Livin’ On The Edge sung by a gentrified thirty-something assaults his ears. “What is this, slightly worse covers of good songs radio? Crazy idea, what if you just listened to the real songs?” 

Luke scowls. “I don’t know what the…what the kids listen to, alright?” 

“Well it ain’t this,” says Jess as he twists the cap on the last ketchup bottle. 

“Hey, it’s not all my fault. Taylor came into the diner a year ago in his ‘official capacity as town selectman’ and got on my ass for playing a song that was ‘too sexually explicit in nature’ and I’ve pretty much given up ever since.” He does air quotes at the appropriate points. 

“What was the song?” asks Jess, interest begrudgingly piqued. 

Luke thinks. “I don’t remember.” 

“Yes you do.” 

Luke sighs, defeated. “It was I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred.” 

Jess snorts with laughter, thinking how for once in his life this might shape up to be a half-decent morning of work. That hope is dashed when, as Luke heads upstairs to make a phone call to their bagel guy (the downstairs phone is stuck at max volume and nobody can figure out how to change it), someone comes pounding on the door like they’re trying to escape the zombie apocalypse. 

“We’re closed, dimwit. It’s on the sign,” Jess barks out. 

The knocking persists and it’s really frantic. Jess is just thinking that Lorelai must need her morning coffee more desperately than usual—but Lorelai’s gone for the weekend, and she’d never be up at six AM anyway, and—Jess squints—wait, is that who he thinks it is? 

It can’t be, right? 

A muffled yell comes from behind the glass. “Open up!” 

Jess cracks his back, gets up, and lets Paris in. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Wow. Your feelings for me must run deeper than I thought if you were willing to drive out from Hartford at the asscrack of dawn.” 

“Shut up,” says Paris. She looks around. She looks like a hunted animal. “Is there anyone in here?” 

Jess and Luke haven’t even begun the opening process yet, chairs still up on the counters and the tables with the lights off. “Gee, I’ll have to check. Maybe Kirk tried to climb in the oven again last night.” 

Paris has the dignity to look confused by that for a moment before dragging Jess by his sleeve and stalking through the diner straight to the employees only area. She may be short, but that gives her a lower center of gravity; between that, the element of surprise, and sheer angry willpower she makes a surprisingly effective dragger. The supply closet smells like dust and coffee beans as Paris shuts the door behind them. Jess is glad she chose this and not the walk-in freezer. 

Right as Jess opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, Paris says, “You didn’t tell Rory about the conversation we had last night, right? Because I—I didn’t mean it. Just don’t tell her. I know I’m a weird little freak girl and it’s real fun to laugh at me but Rory’s one of the best friends I have and if—if she were to be scared off by a…misunderstanding, honestly it’s a misunderstanding—” 

Oh. Jess feels bad all of a sudden for teasing that out of her while she was drunk. It was obvious, really, the way she’d been looking at Rory. Jess knows that look. He’s worn it himself on numerous occasions. 

“Hey.” Jess yanks his sleeve out of her grip. “First of all, no I didn’t tell her because I was asleep like the rest of the time zone. And I’m not gonna. It’s none of my business and frankly, I don’t really give a shit. No offense but for all Rory talks about you I barely remembered your name until just last night.” 

“Rory talks about me?” Paris’s eyes widen with interest for a moment before she catches herself. “Nevermind. That’s, that’s not the point. There is no point! You believe me, right? That it was a misunderstanding?”

“Sure, yeah,” says Jess. And she does—one day Rory will be talking about how much she hates it when Paris hogs the frog guts during dissection day and the next she’ll be fretting over which colors to make their friendship bracelets. It’s damn confusing but Jess knows better than to question it. 

“That’s not good enough!” 

“Well what do you want me to say?” Jess tries to leave the storage closet but Paris blocks the door with her body. “As delightful as this has been I have, like, six dozen eggs to crack.” 

“Say you believe me.” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice that makes Jess almost want to lie to her. 

He hesitates. 

“You hesitated!” Paris says, and jabs an accusatory finger at him like they’re at the Salem witch trials. 

“Fine! I don’t believe you. But I’m seriously not gonna tell Rory.” 

He extends his pinkie. Paris bats it away. 

They both turn around when they hear Luke coming down the stairs, footsteps cumbersome. He’s calling out something to Jess, some complaint about how their bagel guy raised the price of everything (everything as in the bagel, not everything as in everything) and also is trying to sell him on some fancy new bagel with three cheeses baked into the hole and why can’t you get a plain damn bagel anymore? 

“Aw, shit,” says Jess. “You realize how this looks now, right? He’s gonna think I have a girl in the closet.” 

Paris, bless her soul, looks confused and says, “But you do have a girl in the closet.” 

“Jess, where the hell—you had better not be outside smoking again,” calls Luke.

“Just, uh, grabbing some more pickles,” Jess calls back, then narrows his eyes at Paris. “You’re getting out of here on your own, you know. And then you’re leaving the diner, too. Then you’re going to go home and do a paint by number or whatever shit you girls do to relax and you’re not going to worry about me or Rory because according to you there’s nothing to worry about.” 

“I don’t paint by number!” Paris protests. 

“Well maybe you should start. You’re really uptight.” 

Jess grabs some pickles and leaves the closet, all the while wondering exactly what he’s unleashed. 

***

The day only gets worse from there. 

The line spans out the door. Two different old ladies make faces as Jess when he refuses to put on a customer service smile for them and tell him they want Luke to take their orders instead, because they’ve been coming in every day for two years and Luke always takes care of them—as if it takes a special hand to mark down whether or not to put onions on a damn burger. One man fumes at Jess saying he called five times to make an order, which thanks to the broken phone he couldn’t pick up even if he had a second between tasks.

That and Paris won’t leave. 

Just his luck, it’s the one day of the century Rory and Lorelai don’t stop in, so he doesn’t even have anyone to plead his case to as she sits at the counter, tapping her foot under her seat and sipping petulantly on an iced tea Luke threatened to kick her out if she didn’t buy. She’s been working on homework, because apparently she went so far as to bring her whole backpack. 

“What are you still doing here?” Jess demands as he puts a pot of dark roast on to brew. 

Paris looks around, presumably in case Rory has popped up out of nowhere. “I’m not leaving ‘til you say you believe me.” 

“Or until my shift ends.” Jess checks an imaginary watch. “Twenty minutes,” he bluffs—really it’s more like an hour. Luke hasn’t given him a break yet so he’s grumpy as well as hungry. 

Speaking of which—“Actually, screw this,” says Jess, casts aside his apron, and walks up the stairs with a brief shout to Caesar that he’s going on his break. 

Luke is in the apartment when he gets there. Jess has his mouth open to make some sarcastic comment about why he’s not down there serving the masses, but it dies on his tongue when he sees Luke: crouched over his open backpack, rifling through his papers. There’s his report card and a failed essay set down on the table. When Luke sees him his eyes widen. 

“What the hell, man,” says Jess, affronted. 

“Look,” Luke ventures, scratching his head beneath his cap, “This isn’t the best time to have this conversation, alright, there are customers downstairs—” 

“Oh, no.” Jess pulls up a chair and sits on it incorrectly. “The only conversation we’re having is the one where I tell you not to snoop through my stuff.” 

“I had to, alright? Your teacher, the one with the weird haircut, she called me and said that you’ve been…showing up. Ever since we had that talk. And don’t get me wrong, I’m over the moon about that.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“But you’re still not applying yourself.” 

“Why should I? It’s not like I’m gonna go to college. For crying out loud, Uncle Luke. We both know where I’m gonna end up.” 

“But you could. I know you’re smart. The fact that you can keep up with Rory when she talks about half the stuff she talks about already blows my mind, I mean—”

“Oh. So I’m a fraction as smart as Rory Gilmore. What a compliment.” Jess lets acid drip from the words. He’s angry now, thinking about going downstairs and finding a particularly annoying customer to stab. Why does Luke care? Why can’t he just leave Jess alone and let him rot like God intended?

Everyone thinks Rory is too good for him. Even Paris with her iced tea, probably. 

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Luke accuses. 

“No, man, you’re putting them in your own mouth. How about you just shut up. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Paris is still there and glances at him questioningly as he stalks out the door. She probably never has this problem, what with her private school education and several academic accolades and cozy future as a lawyer and–or doctor. 

What Jess hasn’t planned for is how he lives in the middle of nowhere now and there’s barely even anywhere to stalk off to, so he ends up being harassed by a wild turkey with its feathers puffed up while he sulks behind the gazebo. 

“I hate this stupid town,” he mutters as the thing’s snood bobs up and down in agitation. 

It gobbles in turn.

Chapter Text

Rory still wears the bracelet Dean gave her. 

She wears it like it’s melded to her skin; after she lost it the first time she vowed she’d never take it off again. Now it’s itching, the leather rubbing up against her skin while she’s trying to focus, and she wants to tear it off. She wants to tear it off but she doesn’t know how without breaking it at this point, because the clasp broke and she tied it to her wrist in a knot. 

Really tightly. 

She rubs at it while she works on some homework and Lorelai, who had somehow failed at making brownies from a mix, washes dishes behind her. 

“Dean called while you were out,” she says. 

“Hmm,” says Rory noncommittally. 

“Then he called again. My goodness, Rory. I know my voice is sexy, but I’ve never known any man to want to hear my customized answering box message quite so many times.” 

Lorelai has just only just gotten back from her trip with Emily; Rory has no idea how she has so much energy. Usually Emily’s very presence is a drain on Lorelai—Lorelai has made some very dramatic comparisons of the parasitic variety. 

“Lane invited me to this little music event that’s happening tonight at Antonioli’s. She said it’s gonna be old people music played by old men on acoustic guitars, but her mom’s actually letting her go.” Rory gets up, stretches, and closes her book. 

“Oh, no. No no no. That’s not happening,” says Lorelai. 

“What? Why not? Are you trying to steal Mrs. Kim’s niche while she’s being lenient for once?” 

Rory goes over to the counter and tries to find a cohesive brownie in Lorelai’s pan amongst the chocolatey brown mush. 

“If the people see you in town, see, then Dean’s gonna know that you were free and didn’t call him back. You’re already in hot water with him—and rightfully so, from what I hear. No offense.” Lorelai pokes Rory’s shoulder with a hand covered in soapy dish water. Rory squirms away. 

“What happened, anyway?” Lorelai gives up the pretense of dishes. “You used to be crazy about that boy and now you’re avoiding him.”

“I don’t know! He never used to be this…clingy. I think he’s getting insecure because he thinks I like Jess more than him or something.” 

“Self-fulfilling prophecy, huh?” 

“No! I don’t even like Jess like that. I’ve told you this a million times.” Rory flicks her handful of brownie goop back into the pan and stalks away, loading three books (contemporary fiction, memoir, short story anthology) from her backpack into her tote bag as she goes. 

She picks up Lane at her house so Mrs. Kim can see it’s actually Rory and not some boy. They walk together, the businesses of the town already starting to close up since it’s edging dangerously close to seven PM and Stars Hollow has dismally little nightlife. 

“See, I’ve been thinking if I take some community college courses and say it’s to support my high school education then maybe I can sneak in one or two music theory classes. They’ve got those,” Lane is saying. 

Rory hums in agreement. 

“Of course, I don’t know how I’d get to Hartford that often. By bus I guess.” 

Rory tugs at her bracelet. 

“You’re not even listening,” says Lane. 

“Sorry!” Rory realizes, with a twinge of guilt, that she hasn’t. “I totally want to hear more about what’s going on with you. I’ve just had a lot on my mind ever since the fight with Dean. It was a nightmare, Lane, it was the worst. He was so mad I thought he was going to break up with me right then and there.”

Lane cringes in sympathy. They turn their heads and speed-walk past Babette to avoid getting sidetracked. 

“I mean, do you think you can fix things with him?” 

“What? Oh, yeah. Of course. Why would you even—” Rory stops. Hard stops, because she’s walking past Luke’s and she just saw the least likely thing ever behind the CLOSED sign Luke’s just flipped around with a weary sigh. “Wait, what?” 

“Luke’s closes early on Tuesdays,” Lane reminds her. “He usually has to have that big order of scones ready Wednesday mornings for Morey’s soft jazz group—” 

“No, not that. That.” 

Lane squints. “What?” 

Rory is pretty sure she’s hallucinating. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating,” she says. Because behind the windows of Luke’s—with a rag in hand, scrubbing down one of the tables—is certified snob, never even been to a diner in her life rich girl who doesn’t even live in Stars Hollow Paris Geller. 

“Oh, no way,” says Lane, head tilted. “That’s…” She snaps in recollection. “One of your school friends, right?” 

Paris looks up. Her eyes go wide and she drops the rag, making a beeline for the back but Rory is already banging on the doors, and Luke is already sauntering over to let her in. He’s got one hand shoved in his pocket and is stifling a yawn—looks weary, but not as though he has any idea what he’s unleashed upon her. Lane is waiting outside. 

“Hey, Rory. What’s up? I already dumped the coffee, and Jess is out, but if you want you’re welcome to—” 

“What’s Paris doing here?” Rory cuts him off in a horrified squeak. 

“Wait, so you know her?” Luke jerks his thumb toward the kitchen, looking back uncertainly. 

“She was—she was Romeo,” Rory gets out, remembering that one of the main times Luke has heard about Paris was when she explained the Romeo and Juliet performance to him. When Luke looks confused she adds, “I brought her here when she was looking for the seedy underbelly of Stars Hollow! You really don’t remember?” 

“Oh.” Luke’s face flickers with recognition. “She’s that Paris? I didn’t realize.” 

“How many Parises—” Rory says this slowly because she cannot emphasize it enough—“do you know?” 

“Just France and New Mexico.” Luke leans against the counter, cringing as he contemplates the question. “I didn’t realize, honest. I’m not that great with faces. But she’s your friend, right? Why don’t you seem, uh, a little happier to see her?”

The truth is, Rory’s general exasperation with Paris as a person—things like outing Lorelai and Mr. Medina to the school and angry-reciting Shakespeare to intimidate her on benches—has since given way to a different sort of resentment: Rory can’t stop thinking about her. She first realized it when all her other friends (okay, her mom and Lane) started pointing out she’d gone from talking about Dean all the time to fuming about Paris. The only saving grace is that she has Jess now as a scapegoat for her distraction, and even that is such a mortifyingly grim silver lining given how rapidly her and Dean are falling apart. 

She wishes she could stop. She’s tried to stop. She’s spent plenty of nights trying to convince herself that the weird Paris feelings are just her confused brain’s attempts to self-sabotage the perfectly good thing she’s got going on with Dean, and that if she can just snap out of it everything can go back to being perfectly good. 

But the thing is, she can actually remember the day her feelings shifted. Can track it down to the moment. It wasn’t even a particularly exceptional moment—maybe if it was, if she had a more remarkable catalyst, she wouldn’t blame herself so much.

It was during the flag football unit in PE class—about half the class, being bloodthirsty teenage girls, took the flag part as a suggestion. Everyone else, including Rory, had cringed back and despaired at their bad luck in having to wear the stupid-looking belts with the flags hanging off. That and it was drizzling outside. 

Rory was—okay, she doesn’t know what she was because she doesn’t know football positions, but she was one of the ones hanging at the sides not doing much. 

“You’d think they’d have rich people sports here,” Rory had whispered to the girl beside her, tugging distastefully at the colored flags. “You know, like lacrosse. Ooh, or polo.”

(Rory thinks she might have become a horse girl if she’d grown up around the type of people who play polo.)

The girl, being one of said rich people, hadn’t said anything and put a few steps worth of distance between herself and Rory. 

Someone shrieked as someone else threw them into the mud and the gym coach yelled at them that if even one more of you tries this kind of horseplay, you’re going to be suspended, hear? and that it was the last straw. Rory had jumped and decided that, okay, this was the last straw for her as well and it was time for an extended water break. 

She went back to the locker room. One of the doors to the tall lockers was swung open and there was a rustling noise—had an animal gotten into one of the lockers? The coach was always warning people about leaving food in there. Well, Rory wasn’t about to get into a scrap with a rat but she could at least see what it was to warn the rest of the class. 

But as she edged the corner, what she saw instead was Paris. Sitting inside the locker, for some reason—it was empty, it must have been a spare–-with messy hair, streaks of mud on her face and clothes from tackling everyone, and a book in her lap. Her legs hung out the front. She looked so focused, the eraser end of a pencil she was using to annotate in her mouth—Rory smiled.

That was, until Paris looked up, yelled out, and sat up so fast she hit her head on one of the shelves in the locker. Her legs kicked out like that of an upturned bug as she scrambled to slide out of the locker and onto the floor in front of it

“Paris, are you skipping class?” Rory had realized with a theatrical gasp. 

“No! I’m protesting against an unnecessary aspect of our education. It’s absurd to think learning how to kick a ball around is going to help me become a doctor. Hell, it wouldn’t even help me become a trophy wife.” Face red, Paris brushed some grass off her gym shirt. She was still wearing the flags. 

“Be that as it may, you seemed to have fun tackling Sammantha B. to the ground three times.” 

“Well, Sammantha B. is a dumb sheep who keeps getting her polarities wrong in chem,” Paris had said. She’d propped her book higher up on her lap. She was reading Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier.

“Well, I think it’s unnecessary too. Move over—that’s one of my favorites.” Rory had sat next to Paris and read over her shoulder. 

So they’d sat there together for the rest of that period, knees brushing as they read in silence, Paris occasionally brandishing her pencil to scribble a note in the margins. And as Rory had tried to ignore the smell of Paris’s pre-shower sweat, she’d appreciated a new side of Paris she’d never seen before: a girl who would attack with the ferocity of a Trojan soldier one moment and the next just wanted to sit and read classic literature in a confined space—an urge Rory can relate to. When the bell rang, Rory had Paris turn to her and had swiped the mud off Paris’s cheek with a flick of her thumb. There was a cute flicker of surprise that turned to embarrassment on Paris’s face as she’d stood up, muttered something, and went to the showers. 

Nobody had even noticed they were gone. It was the best forty-five minutes Rory had in a week when Lorelai couldn’t stop fighting with Emily and Richard over some financial issue and Dean thought she didn’t notice his increasingly frequent hints about The Future and whether or not she’s ready to start having sex with him. 

And maybe she would be, except then she’d have to ask Lorelai to take her to the doctor for a birth control prescription and that would become a whole new thing for Lorelai to fuss over given her history with teen pregnancy—it’s that conversation she doesn’t want to deal with. 

Anyway. 

Rory pushes past the counter into the kitchen where Paris is aggressively washing dishes. Then wonders how it is that Paris even knows how to wash dishes. 

“This just keeps getting weirder!” she says, mostly to herself. 

“Oh, Rory. I didn’t see you there,” says Paris as though she didn’t just flee Rory’s presence two minutes ago. “So you see I’ve got a new job. It may seem like a strange choice, but if you think about it it’s actually great—I get to put it on my college application, have it lend credibility to my work ethic, yada yada—there’s even the corny small town charm aspect that you’re already way ahead on—and at the same time it lends credibility to my lie for your airhead boyfriend. Perfect, right?”

“That’s okay, Paris, you…really don’t have to put that much effort into trying to save my relationship. I know you’re already very busy.” 

Unless she actually does like Jess, which is seeming like the only semi-sane explanation for this; jealousy coils in her stomach at the thought.

Paris shrugs. “Hey. If it’s worth doing it’s worth overdoing, right? Luke was understaffed anyway. I’m telling you, he runs this place like a barn. I could help him set up a spreadsheet.” 

“What do you even need the money for?” 

“I don’t. Fortunately, money wasn’t on the list of reasons I just gave you. Funny how that works.” She examines a knife she’s just sanitized then hangs it up on a magnetic strip near the sink. Rory thinks she’s about to have a stroke. She grabs the edge of the basin for stability. “Now, in case you haven’t noticed, this is actually the employees only area.” 

Rory crosses her arms. “Hey, I’ve been running around here making a tripping hazard for all Luke’s employees since I was ten years old, thank you very much.” 

Paris cranes her head to glance through the serving hatch and out the front door. 

“Hey, I think your friend out there is waiting for you. Jane, was it?” 

Rory exits with an undignified huff. Later, she doesn’t register a single note of the old man guitar music.

Chapter Text

Paris is surprisingly good at her new job.

Well, it’s not surprising, per se; of course Paris is good at it. She’s good at pretty much everything except dating and deciphering Rory’s rapidfire pop culture references. 

Maybe Luke doesn’t actually let her interact with the customers—probably due to an incident in which she called an old lady a redneck hag, which was totally warranted—but there’s plenty of other stuff to do. She does the dishes, chops vegetables, wipes the tables, and…okay, she kind of hates it. But, as she’d told Rory, if it’s worth doing it’s worth overdoing so that doesn’t stop her from absolutely killing it. 

One night after closing Luke drops a wad of cash in front of her before he heads upstairs for whatever Luke does after work. He probably polishes his toolbox then goes to bed at nine PM or something. Maybe lectures Jess a bit. 

“You dropped this,” Paris says when he’s a few steps up. 

Luke turns around to look at her. “You’re done with training, kid. Those are your tips.” Then, when Paris frowns down at it, “See, sometimes when people eat at a restaurant they’ll do this thing where they leave a little extra money on the table, and—” 

“I know what tips are,” says Paris. 

“So then we’re clear,” says Luke. 

She rifles through. There’s a solid hundred dollars in there. 

“But I didn’t even wait on any tables.” 

“Well, the owner doesn’t take a cut, so it’s all yours today.” Then, after a pause, “You earned it. You’ve been working hard.” 

“Why do people tip so much? I thought everyone was poor around here.” 

Luke sighs. “Just take the money. And lock up when you go.” 

Paris looks down at her sweater. It’s covered in dirty dish water and she’s going to have to give Nanny extra instructions to make sure it gets dry cleaned. She’s covered in sweat, dog tired, and probably going to get honked at at least three times on the thirty minute drive home. And there’s a hundred dollars cash in her hand that didn’t just magically appear in her trust fund, which she has absolutely no idea what to do with. 

It hadn’t occurred to her that she might get tips—she’d assumed she’d only make enough to pay off the gas from driving back and forth all the time. And now she feels kind of silly with this apron and a sum of money that’s like a kiddy pool in the ocean of her parents’ wealth. 

She casts off the apron and, as Luke said, locks up behind her. 

As for her damage control mission, it’s been more or less successful—that is, there’s no way Jess could have outed her to Rory because as far as she’s aware Jess has been sulking in his room for the past week. Twice Paris has been called in because Jess threw a hissy fit upon being asked to actually come work his scheduled shift. Once Luke has come yelling down the stairs, during the workday and in the middle of a busy crowd, because he found Jess smoking. 

And every day has Rory come in with her mom, sat down at the same table, and acknowledged Paris with a little smile. Sometimes she also has Dean in tow, and he’ll sneak kisses behind the menu while Rory giggles bashfully about it. At which point Paris takes it upon herself to find a conveniently full trash can to go take out so she can scream at the dumpster. Maybe kick it a little. 

One time when she’s doing this a balding man in a cardigan who Paris has been instructed to engage in conversation which under no circumstances spots her and says, “Young lady, that is not how we treat the community dumpsters!” 

“Bite me,” says Paris, and drops the trash bag in with a distasteful wrinkle of her nose from a height that breaks all the glass inside when it drops. She starts back to the diner.

The man follows her. 

“I don’t like your attitude, young lady. I swear, I do not know where Luke sources these absolute hooligans from.”

“Hey. I’m not a hooligan. I’m going to Harvard. I’m going to become the youngest supreme court ju—” Paris cuts herself off and stumbles back as someone guides an honest to goodness goat across the square. 

“Oh. You didn’t know?” The man’s face changes from angry to eager. “Next week is the Stars Hollow Easter Bunny Festival. We’re trying out goats for the role of Samuel Goat. See, the old Samuel Goat kicked the bucket years ago but we can’t disappoint the kiddies. Now, seeing as you’re now working at Luke’s I expect you’ll be there to help work his pie booth.” 

“What,” says Paris. 

“Yeah, Paris,” chimes in Rory. 

Paris whirls around and sees her standing outside the door of Luke’s, giving Paris a teasing smile. Dean is watching her like a lost puppy through the window. 

“You should totally come! It’ll be so much fun. The best part is the one-legged sack race. Usually someone puts a trail of chicken feed along the track so that everyone can see if they’re faster than a chicken. Doesn’t that sound great?” 

“Oh, yeah. Hope Farmer Joe doesn’t trip and knock his false teeth out,” says Paris, then flees back inside. 

Luke is watching her behind the counter and sighs a long, pained sigh. “See, I told you never to talk to him. Now I’ve gotta make a goddamn pie booth.”  

Paris has to admit that one is on her. 

One Saturday night Paris loses track of time and stays late helping Luke prep. She’s draining the tuna for the tuna salad when she hears the bell on the door ring and, a few minutes later, sees Lorelai leaning across the counter and flirting with Luke like she always does. 

“You’ve got to get your beauty sleep. It's already ten o’ clock. Can you believe that?” gasps Lorelai in mock scandal. “You know what they say. Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy and—oh my God, is Paris still here?” 

Paris pokes her head around the corner of the kitchen. “Hi, Lorelai.” 

“Luke, you shouldn’t have made her stay after dark. Now she’s not going to be able to drive home,” says Lorelai. 

“That’s what they made headlights for,” says Paris, can of tuna still in hand. 

Lorelai cocks her head and a frown. “I would never let Rory drive that far this late, hon.” 

(So that’s what it’s like to have parents that care—huh.) 

“I’ll tell you what. You can stay over and that way you won’t have to drive back for your shift tomorrow morning,” Lorelai says. “I’ll tell Rory. It’ll be like a sleepover.” 

On one hand, Paris has her backpack in her car and it’d definitely be time-efficient to get some homework in. But on the other hand, she’s mortified at the idea of imposing a probably unwanted sleepover on Rory. Of course Rory would be so nice about it, but she probably just wants to sit around in her pajamas and read Jane Austen. Besides, her pride is wounded by the implication that she can’t drive home in the dark. 

But now Luke is teaming with Lorelai. 

“She’s right, I shouldn’t have had you stay. Sorry,” he’s saying. 

“You should call your parents and tell them not to worry,” Lorelai adds. 

Paris wonders whether it’s worth faking a phone call to her parents, who in all reality would probably refer her to leave a message with the maid.

“I—They’re not worried, they know where I am,” she huffs instead, and crosses her arms. “You’re not my mom.” 

“Guess not. But I am a mom, and I can tell you that I’m making a ruling on behalf of the executive council of moms in lieu of any better ideas.” Lorelai plucks the top off the dish of donuts and tucks one into a napkin. “Meet me outside in ten.” 

When Lorelai walks back outside, donut between her teeth, Luke gives Paris a shrug which indicates there’s no use in arguing.

***

When Lorelai fumbles with the key to the front door of the Gilmore household, Paris hides around the corner. The lights are on inside and she can see through the window Rory, in her pajamas, lounging and watching something on the TV. There’s a bowl of popcorn resting on her midsection. Just the sight of that makes Paris want to call it quits and run back to her car. 

But before she can come up with an excuse, the door swings open—“Got it, the lock’s been sticky. I’ll have to call Luke about that. Or I guess Kirk.” 

The last part is said with slightly more hesitance. Paris wonders who Kirk is. 

She hears Rory rustle on the couch. “Mom, you’re totally missing Survivor. They’re about to beat this one guy with sticks because he ate the last of the chicken. Or something, I caught the middle of an episode.”

“Sounds riveting,” says Lorelai. “Paris is here.” 

Rory sits up. “Huh?” 

“She was working late at Luke’s, and since she’s working again tomorrow I figured I might as well save her the drive. That’s okay, right?” 

“Yeah, totally,” says Rory. She cranes her head to look at Paris, who has just come through the door, backpack hanging off her shoulders. 

“Rory. Don’t worry, you don’t have to entertain me or anything. I brought tons of homework—you know that big packet of reading Ms. Caldacott gave us on Homer, I want to go through it one more time and do some more in-depth annotations, so.” Paris realizes she’s rambling, and it dies lamely on her tongue. 

“Right, right. Good idea.” Rory tugs on something. Paris looks closer and sees it’s the leather bracelet she always wears on her wrist. There’s an unreadable expression on her face. 

“There’s casserole in the fridge.” Lorelai goes upstairs, then calls out, “Don’t worry, I didn’t make it.” 

Paris’s face goes hot; she feels like a kindergartener following another kindergartener around the playground. She sits down next to Rory, grabs a throw pillow, and kneads it hard with her hands. The show playing on the TV looks stupid, grown adults tumbling over each other on an obstacle course. She shifts closer to the far end of the couch. 

“I didn’t even want to come here, you know,” she clarifies. 

“Right,” says Rory. “Of course you didn’t.” 

Paris frowns; what does that mean? Then Rory grabs the remote, shuts off the screen, and sets the bowl down on the sidetable. The phone rings and she goes to get it with a mumble of an excuse. 

The living room is messy—homely—with the fireplace burning and a series of sticky notes lined up on the mantel. Rory’s handwriting, then Lorelai’s on the next sticky note, then Rory’s again, an immature back and forth of Rory badgering Lorelai to sign a permission slip for a field trip. Paris walks up and takes a closer look at them while she listens to Rory answer the phone. 

“Yeah, of course,” she says, tapping her foot on the floor. “No, I couldn’t get out of Friday night dinner.” Another pause. “Totally. I’m super excited. I’ll bring Twizzlers.” Then, “I actually have someone over right now. Yeah, I know.” Then, “Of course not. Geez. You’re really still mad?” 

It goes on for about five minutes and listening to it is its own form of masochism, Paris grinding her nails against her palms in irritation, until Rory finishes with “Love you, bye,” and hangs up. 

Rory runs her hands through her hair, then glances between Paris and the phone. 

“I need to go shower,” she says.

And Paris is confused. It’s so irreconcilable with the last time she came over unannounced, the way Rory hugged her. Maybe it was just the buzz of the last of the alcohol. Paris sighs; she can feel herself being irrational but she can’t stop it. 

“You know what, forget it. I only came here because your mom made me. I’m going. I can walk back to my car.” 

“Paris!” 

Paris grabs her backpack and takes one final look around as she leaves. She gets about thirty seconds headstart before Rory comes after her, except the problem is that it’s dark and she doesn’t know the town very well and she’s trying to go too fast with Rory following her, so she ends up going the wrong way. She has no idea where she’s going but it feels wrong to stop so she just powers through. 

“Paris, stop, you’re being ridiculous. Let’s just go back,” Rory’s saying. 

“It’s fine,” Paris bites out, “I don’t even want to be here, just let me leave.” 

“You keep saying that—Paris, seriously, at least let me walk you since you clearly don’t—wait, stop—” Rory’s hand wraps around her wrist and Paris stumbles forward with a jolt. 

There’s something slipping under her shoes—is that mud?—and she realizes she almost walked straight into some sort of stream. Her embarrassment reaches its full potential as Rory pulls her out of the bank with a huff. It’s cold outside and way too dark. 

“Wow. You weren’t kidding. You really don’t want to sleep over,” says Rory with mirth. “I just didn’t think impromptu baptism was on the list of more appealing alternatives.” 

“Rory, I’m Jewish.” 

“I know. Further reason why it was unexpected.” Paris opens her mouth to say something but Rory gets to it first. “Of course, not nearly as unexpected as Luke hiring you. On that note, who are you and what have you done with my friend?” 

Paris looks down at the faint glint of moonlight casting off the ripples of the stream and thinks she might want to jump in after all. 

“We’re friends?” she says at last. 

“Jesus. Yes.” Rory gives her a light little push for emphasis that has her stumbling again, but she catches her balance. 

Then she sits down. Paris sits next to her. 

“Look,” she says at last. “I know you think it’s weird. I know you don’t want me spending time around here.” 

There’s a long silence. Then Rory says, “One, not true, and two, I’m still waiting on an actual explanation. I mean, are you…do you…”

Paris’s stomach lurches—she can’t possibly have figured it out.  

“Forget it, okay? It was a stupid idea. I’ll quit.” She stares again at the water—or what she can see of it in the dark—and laughs a humorless laugh over Rory’s stammered protests. “Shit, Rory. I don’t even know how to swim.”

“You never took swimming classes as a kid?” 

“Well, I failed.” 

Paris can feel Rory’s eyes on her. “Paris Geller failed a class. Who would have guessed.” 

The faint emanation of Rory’s body heat is the only hint of warmth in the cold. Unwilling to get closer but not wanting to stray farther, Paris stays frozen in the same spot as Rory keeps talking over the sounds of water. 

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want you to be here. I do! It’s just that Dean has been really weird about that night. And I can’t blame him. I mean, the fact that Jess brought alcohol is kind of crazy, we can all agree on that much. I just want to be…a good girlfriend. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be your friend, right?” She says the last part almost like she’s trying to convince herself. Paris can’t parse it. “None of that was your fault. Please don’t quit Luke’s.” 

“But—” 

“I don’t understand it, but hey, I’m not the employment police.” She shrugs. “You could even sleep over sometimes if you want.” 

It’s cold outside; Paris shivers. Something rustles in a nearby bush. Rory stands and offers her a hand to help her up. She takes it—not because she needs it but for the sake of accepting the gesture—and lets herself be pulled up. The hand’s gone as quick as it came, slipping out of hers the moment she’s upright again. Some of the dirt and the mud has gotten on her clothes and the mud slicks against the soles of her shoes as they walk back. Rory shows her the way. 

Paris concedes, only to herself, that she may have overreacted; Rory is kind. Rory considers her a friend. Rory doesn’t mind her neuroses, and the fact that she takes calls from her boyfriend doesn’t make any of that less valuable. 

It doesn’t. 

Rory gives her an old sweatshirt and gym shorts to wear since she got her clothes muddy and didn’t bring pajamas anyway. She picks from a bag of Sour Patch Kids while kicking her feet up on the coffee table and explaining trivia about the movie that they’re watching (not that Paris is paying attention). She shares a blanket with Paris that’s only big enough to partially cover both of their legs. 

Paris doesn’t sleep well when she’s not in her own bed, and the Gilmore couch is far from comfortable—too soft, her back is sinking and she’s going to ache like hell in the morning. But Rory gave her a pile of pillows and blankets to choose from the linen closet, and the electric buzz of the air conditioner and the fridge are sort of mesmerizing as she stares up at the ceiling and notes the lamp that’s still on a dim setting. 

It’s really no wonder everyone loves Rory Gilmore, she thinks absently between attempts to count sheep. 

The ice maker shakes out a batch of ice. 

It’s almost better than her white noise machine at home that feels like falling down, down into TV static. And certainly better than the blank nothing of her room without it.

Chapter Text

Rory’s in a weird mood. 

She’s been in a weird mood. 

Currently, she’s watching Paris sleep from the corner of the room like a freak. Standing very, very still, as though Paris is a bear who will attack her if she wakes up too suddenly. 

It is way too early in the morning for this. The sun’s not even fully up yet, just a faint crown of yellow peeking through the blinds. 

“Whatcha doing?” stage-whispers Lorelai behind her. 

“Uh, nothing,” Rory real-whispers back. 

“Marveling once again that Paris exists outside of Chilton and isn’t just a stone-cold killer and or  robot devised for your torment?” 

“No, actually. I was walking across the living room and on the way I got lost in thought about this really cool book I’m reading.” 

***

For the next week Rory spends almost all of her free time studying for the tests that are coming up. When she isn’t studying she spends time with Dean, going to the movies with him or making him watch her browse the contents of the bookstore. 

When they see each other at school, Paris is nicer. Only marginally so—the difference would be barely noticeable to a third party. But Rory notices it, the way Paris doesn’t immediately drag Madeline away when she tries to talk to her and, when school ends, hangs around just a little bit longer until Rory’s bus comes instead of fleeing to her car. She still scowls, but Rory suspects her heart isn’t in it. Maybe. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. 

But Paris is still Paris, so of course she’s bound to invent a grievance out of something.

They’re playing Mafia in history class—allegedly to illustrate the paranoia behind historical witch hunts, but Rory suspects the teacher just ran out of curriculum for the quarter. During one of the nights, while she’s absently listening to Madeline and Louise yammering about a party that’s happening that weekend, Rory hears Paris’s blazer shifting in the circle beside her. 

So when the day comes, Rory has her executed. 

When the period ends and it’s time for lunch, Paris doggedly trails Rory into the lunch line even though she brings her own lunches. 

“How did you know?” she demands.

Rory shrugs. “It was just a feeling. You know, I’ve spent enough time around you to read you pretty well.” 

The line moves. Paris hovers yet closer behind her, close enough that Rory can feel her breath on her neck. 

“Okay, but how? What was my tell? Was I smiling too much? Playing too much of an active role for a civilian—or not enough?” she persists while Rory’s getting her tray of food, waving off the lunch lady who tries to give her one. 

Rory sighs. “Fine. I didn’t socially deduce your guilt, alright? I heard you wake up during the night.” 

“So you cheated.” 

“It wasn’t cheating. You shouldn’t have moved so loud.” 

“You shouldn’t have been listening!” Rory decides then that she’s going to eat outside. Paris follows her, hot on her trail. “That ruins the integrity of the social experiment and removes all intellectual value from the exercise. Besides, what if I’d just been adjusting my jacket?” 

“But you weren’t,” Rory points out without looking back. 

She’s reached a concrete bench carved tastefully with a pattern of ivy up and down the sides. She sets her food beside her and is starting to pull a book from her backpack when she looks up and realizes Paris is still fuming at her. Not only that, she looks genuinely upset—face red like she might actually be about to cry. Rory frowns at her. 

“Paris, what? It’s just a game, I didn’t mean—”

Paris splutters, gets out an eloquent “Screw you!” then stalks away on her short little legs. 

Some other student walking past gives Rory a look as if to say, what’s up with her? Rory just shrugs, helpless. 

“Listen,” says Lorelai later, on Friday when they’re driving to Emily and Richard’s. The highway’s empty that night, no traffic. “I got a call from Luke today.”

“Yeah?” Rory leans her head against the window, looking questioningly at Lorelai’s profile. “Did you finally drink him out of business in free refills?” 

“No, nothing like that. It’s just that he was looking through the apartment and apparently Jess was keeping a ton of alcohol under his bed. Like, enough to get a small army wasted. Luke was really mad.” 

“Oh,” says Rory. 

“Jess…he’s never…offered you a drink, has he? And if he did you wouldn’t take it?” 

“No,” says Rory; she doesn’t mean to lie, it’s just a gut instinct. But she regrets it immediately when she sees the tension in Lorelai’s face drop with her relief. 

“Good. That’s good.” Lorelai taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t think you would! You’re a good kid, you know? This is why I can always trust you.” 

“Yeah. Of course,” says Rory, then looks away and cringes as she hedges, “I mean, apart from that one time.” 

“What? What one time?”
“Oh.” Rory worries her lip, trying to sound casual. “You know, when Jess came over and Dean found us and got mad about it, that time—”

“You mean he brought it into our house?” 

“Yeah. But it was seriously fine, I only had a little. And, I mean—” Rory tries her luck—“you’ve never told me not to drink. Sorry.” 

“I shouldn’t have to say it! United States federal law says it for me.” Lorelai leans forward and pinches the bridge of her nose. “And it all comes together. I feel so naive for thinking you’d never do anything stupid like that. God, I was wondering what was so bad about that night that Dean almost broke up with you. I get it now.” 

Rory’s face is hot with humiliation and anger, but Lorelai keeps going. 

“You really shouldn’t be hanging out with Jess at all. Luke kept thinking you’d be a good influence on him, but it’s clearly the other way around.” 

“Why is it my responsibility to be a good influence?” Rory snaps back at her. “And why don’t you trust me? I’m telling you, it was fine.” 

“Because I know you, Rory. You’re only responsible until it comes to a boy you like.” 

“I do not have feelings for Jess! He’s just a friend! He’s barely even a friend, he’s just some guy who likes to mess with me!” 

“And you’re letting him. Think of how that makes Dean feel.”

“Trust me,” Rory bites out, “I know.” 

Of course she knows. It’s all she can think about. 

Another car zooms past them on the highway, headlights putting a glare in the windshield. Rory crosses her arms over her chest, trying to breathe—if she tries to say something right now she’s going to lose it. The silence stays for another few minutes, the sun dropping lower toward the horizon. 

“Mom?” says Rory. 

“Yes?” 

I don’t have feelings for Jess. I have feelings for someone else. And I don’t know if you’re gonna like it any better. She wants to tell the truth, she really does, but somehow she can’t bring herself to. 

It’s not that Lorelai wouldn’t accept her or anything—of course she would—but Rory has a feeling she would make Rory coming out about her somehow. I thought I knew everything about you, she’d say. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? Are you sure? 

“Nothing,” she mumbles instead. “We’re going to be late.”

***

Friday Night Dinner is miserable to epic proportions that night. Rory and Lorelai sit on the opposite side of the couch during drinks, Rory staring absently through the sliding glass door with her chin on her fist while Emily prattles on about something or another. Something about the ladies in her book club and she feels like she wasted her time having read the book because none of the other ladies read the book. Rory thinks that’s blasphemy. 

Richard sets a club soda in front of her. She sips at it. 

“My, my, are we quiet tonight,” says Emily. She sits down in her customary seat and wrings her hands together like a supervillain. “You haven’t even made any rude comments yet, Lorelai. Is something wrong?” 

“Well, I can probably brainstorm a few rude comments if you need me to,” Lorelai says back. “Like, uh, whatcha reading in your book club, Mom? The ladies’ manual on being snobby and eating with the right fork?” 

“Not your best work,” Rory mutters. 

“Don’t be so hard on the woman, Rory, she’s trying her best,” says Richard. “I’m sure she’ll say something absolutely devastating and childish during dinner.” 

“Thank you, Dad,” says Lorelai. 

“Speaking of dinner—” Emily stands, strides self-importantly into the kitchen, and yells, “Alberta!”

The dinner is quiche. She has to admit that it’s pretty good because it has sun-dried tomatoes. Okay, she could eat, like, five slices of this quiche, which is upsetting because Rory’s gone her whole life thinking she doesn’t like quiche. Lorelai certainly doesn’t, judging by the way she’s picking at her own slice with her fork and giving it a distasteful look every so often. 

Yummy as the quiche is, Rory can’t focus for her irritation. 

Who is Dean to dictate who Rory can and can’t hang out with? 

And who is Lorelai to decide that Jess is a bad influence? Or to decide whether or not Rory is acting fairly in her relationship with Dean? Those things are Rory’s business, not Lorelai’s, but the part that upsets her the most is how Lorelai’s not strictly wrong about any of it. 

The leather bracelet is getting even itchier, somehow. These days it’s like she’s constantly aware of how rubbing on her skin. 

And the usual Lorelai and Emily bickering just keeps getting louder. 

Rory stands up abruptly. “Excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom,” she says. 

She doesn’t go to the bathroom. Instead she takes a few turns to make it look like she is, then goes to the kitchen. 

Some of the cooks look at her questioningly. 

“Excuse me,” says a woman Rory presumes to be Alberta. 

“Sorry! I’ll be right out,” Rory tells her. She tugs on the bracelet. “I just need…”

What she needs catches her eye: the knife rack, tucked in the corner of the counter by the KitchenAid mixer. She pulls the knives out one by one until she finds one that will work. It’s a small, serrated blade, the kind she uses to cut slices from apples in the kitchen. She turns her wrist up, slips the blade under the bracelet so that the dull side is pressed to her skin, and saws clumsily through the weakest part of the leather. 

The bracelet falls off and hits the counter. Rory sets the knife down and rubs her wrist. She can still vaguely hear the argument in the other room. 

The truth of what she’s done hits her a second later. 

“Oh my god,” she says, then runs over the edge of the bracelet, searching for a part she could still tie together. But it’s well and truly broken. “Oh my god.” 

“Is everything okay, Miss Gilmore?” says Alberta. 

But Rory doesn’t answer. She can barely hear over the blood roaring in her ears, shame overpowering. 

What’s happening to me?

Chapter Text

Rory is a bundle of nervous energy as she sits with Dean in her bed while Lorelai is at work. He’s showing her something on a Game Boy, which he apparently is borrowing from his sister. Rory’s barely watching. She couldn’t care less about the game. She’s hyper-aware of keeping her wrist tucked in the end of her sweater, hoping that Dean doesn’t notice her bracelet is gone. 

They’d sat like this a million times before. Rory remembers sitting like this a few weeks after they’d first gotten together, the butterflies making her giggle too hard at Dean’s words and stumble over her own. She still remembers when him running a big hand through his hair, or that sheepish smile, used to make her go crazy. It doesn’t even feel that distant. 

Earlier that morning, they’d eaten at Luke’s. Paris and Jess were both on shift. Dean had grit his teeth at Jess as he walked over to pour their coffee, prompting Jess to raise up his hands and mockingly say, “Careful, boy, or we’ll have to put a muzzle on you.” 

Rory wishes Jess wouldn’t say things like that. 

Paris had given Rory a cocky look as she came through the front to refill the salt shakers. 

“What?” Rory had demanded. 

“Did you like my essay on the epic poetry tradition? I still can’t believe Mr. Medina had me read it out loud for the class. Susan looked so jealous. Maybe next time.” Paris had leaned over Rory and Dean’s table to grab their salt shakers. 

Upon closer look, though, Paris looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes and her hair was ruffled like she hadn’t bothered to wash it lately. 

“Be right back,” she’d said to Dean. 

“I’ll order for us. Do you want the blueberry pancakes?” Dean had said. 

Rory had thought. “Get me the French toast this time.”

Paris had barely given Rory a backward glance as Rory followed her into the kitchen. “What?” 

“You’re acting weird,” Rory had said. “First you overreacted to the Mafia game—” 

“That was a perfectly proportional reaction—”

“And now you’re bragging about your essay.” 

“Hey, not my fault you dropped the ball. Or that your not-stepdad didn’t want to look like he was picking favorites.” 

Paris set down the salt shakers and grasped her hands against the side of the counters, turning to face Rory. 

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get what?” 

“How is that any different from normal?”  

“I don’t know! I thought…” That was all the kind of stuff Paris had done before she and Rory had become friends. 

But they’re friends now. Rory has gotten more used to the Paris who gets excited over mac n’ cheese and paces for an hour while fretting over putting on a good impression at college fairs. 

God, how she wants to drag Paris home with her and force her to take a nap. 

“Go back to your boyfriend,” Paris said. “He looks like he’s awfully eager to hold your hand while feeding you bites of his breakfast. Maybe he’ll get to lick some whipped cream off your finger. Yum.” 

Paris had leaned in too close, eyes searching Rory’s up close. Rory had flinched back, stammering out something about how insane Paris was acting before retreating back to her table with Dean, where he had not licked whipped cream off of anything, thank you very much. 

“I hate her,” she’d affirmed to Dean.

From across the diner Jess had raised one eyebrow. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean had said, then tried to hold Rory’s hand but Rory yanked hers away because it was the one that was missing the bracelet. 

The Game Boy drones on, Dean’s fingers eagerly stumbling over themselves to hit the little buttons. He looks at Rory to make sure she’s watching, as though her approval is paramount. 

“So.” Rory nudges her shoulder into Dean and bats her eyelashes at him. It’s all too easy to get his attention; he drops the game. His eyebrows shoot up. Rory leans in and kisses him. “My mom’s getting back late tonight. The inn is having a wedding.” 

“Woah. Who’s it getting married to?” 

“The farm supply store,” Rory quips back, and kisses him again. 

She brackets him with her elbows and kisses him harder. Just as she’s reaching to slip a hand beneath his waistband, Dean grabs her wrist. 

“Rory, stop.” 

“What?” Rory sits up, still straddling his legs. 

“Why aren’t you wearing your bracelet?” 

Rory realizes he would have felt the difference when she reached under his shirt. “It was itching.” 

“Maybe now’s…not the time for this.” 

Mortified, Rory returns to her side of the bed and looks down at her lap. “I thought you wanted this.” 

“I do! But you’ve been acting weird, Rory. Like you’re distracted or something. I don’t want our first time to be like that.” He dusts off his knees as though brushing the impropriety off himself. “Don’t you want it to be special, too? Like our first kiss. That was special.” 

Rory mutters something under her breath.

Dean leans in. “What did you say?” 

“I said, you didn’t even ask. You just grabbed some soda cans to entice me and went for it. That would have been so creepy if it turned out you misread the signals or something. You realize that, right?” Dean opens his mouth—presumably to defend himself—but Rory keeps going. “Why does everything have to be special and romantic for you? Why can’t you just accept that our honeymoon phase is over?” 

Dean tilts his head at her, looking affronted. “Our honeymoon phase. Do you mean the part of the relationship when you gave a crap? Yeah, actually, I’d have liked to keep that up.” 

“Dean, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’s Jess, isn’t it? Who’s been distracting you?” 

“No! Of course not, I just have a lot of schoolwork, and—” 

Dean gets up and walks out. On the way he accidentally bumps into Colonel Clucker and knocks him off the bed. His little chicken face looks sadly up at Rory as she reaches down to grab him, which she’s humiliated is her first instinct before going after Dean. She does, though, walks through the door and gives it a half-hearted, “Dean, wait.” 

He’s already gone, though, and she doesn’t follow. 

The rest of the afternoon is miserable. Lorelai doesn’t seem mad, exactly—they form a silent truce over making fun of Taylor’s new scheme to organize a dunk tank for charity at the Easter Bunny Festival, complete with the dunk-ee wearing a chicken suit (“let’s see if he still likes it when we unanimously vote for that miserable sucker to be the dunk-ee,” Lorelai had snickered) but there’s still an undercurrent of tension to it all. 

At some point Rory gets out a water glass and holds it under the tap only for Lorelai to call out from the living room, “Don’t drink that.” 

“What?” says Rory. 

Lorelai walks in. “I just got a call from the water company. The, uh, water thingamajigy is malfunctioning. Only boiled or bottled water is safe to drink until further notice.” 

Rory makes a face at her glass. It looks normal enough. “Gross. So we’re pioneers now?” 

Lorelai shrugs. “I guess. It’s especially been a pain at the inn. Sookie’s upset we’ve had to co-opt her biggest pot. Now all we need is to have Dean over twenty-four seven to change our water bottle every hour, on the hour.” 

There’s a silent question in that—why did Dean go home so soon?—that Rory doesn’t bother to address. Instead she just sighs and pours the contents of her glass back in the sink. “What about showering?” 

“We can shower. Just don’t get it in your mouth.” 

“That…does not sound like a very appealing showering experience.”  

“Hey, maybe it’ll give us superpowers. Like Spiderman.” 

It’s then that there’s a knock on the door. Rory goes to the living room and opens it to find Paris, standing too close to the door with car keys in her hand. She steps aside and gestures to her BMW, businesslike with her brow furrowed and her lips set firm. 

“Get in the car,” she says. 

Rory feels like she’s being kidnapped and is rendered incredulous for the second time in five minutes. “Nice to see you too, Par.” Then, after a long pause, “Sorry, why am I getting in your car?” 

“Madeline’s party. I’m going. And I hope you’ve got a good book in that bag of yours because you’re going, too.” 

Rory reaches down to the hem of her T-shirt; her outfit is ratty because it’s laundry day. She’s not dressed for a party, and she’s certainly not dressed to interact with Paris without tripping over something. She looks back up, trying to twist her face into something casual and nonplussed. 

(She does, in fact, have a book in the bag.)

“I am?” she finally manages.

“My mom’s making me go be the French soda monitor again and I’m sure as hell not going alone.” 

“Okay. I guess so. I mean, do you think Madeline will let me use her shower?” 

Paris raises her eyebrows. “What?”

“The water’s poison,” says Rory by way of explanation, then gets in the car. She can feel Lorelai’s eyes on her back as she shouts out a brief explanation that she’s going out to a Chilton party with Paris. 

***

Madeline’s house is just as outrageously massive as Rory remembers; surely, she thinks, there’s a vacant room somewhere in there she can hide and read a book. And yet there’s Paris, practically vibrating with nerves next to her. Her muscles are scrunched in extreme tension. 

“Breathe,” says Rory. She presses her hands on Paris’s shoulder. 

Then there’s the rustle of people inside, roaring with laughter or bumping into each other trying to get to the drinks table. As far as Rory can tell it’s not alcohol, just an even more impressive array of French sodas than last time—that part, if nothing else, is a relief. 

Paris works her jaw. 

“Hey, why do you come here if you hate it so much?” says Rory as the thought comes to her. “Why not just kill some time getting dinner or something then go back and act like you did?” 

“It doesn’t work like that, Rory,” says Paris. “There are kids here I know. And those kids’ parents know my parents. If I’m not here, then Susie Hollis is going to offhandly mention to her mom Eleanor Hollis how lame I am, and then Eleanor’s going to say something passive-aggressive to my mom about my stunted social skills, and suddenly I’ll be shipped off to something even worse than this like a shopping trip or—or a slumber party and you won’t be there to save me then because you’ll be too busy canoodling with your dumb, tall boyfriend. And I won’t even be able to blame you. So at that point I’ll be searching the Hollis basement for a length of rope, but I won’t tie the noose right so I’ll just be kind of pathetically dangling there—” 

“Paris,” says Rory, and gives her one final shake for emphasis. They’re getting a few curious glances. “You are officially freaking me and everyone else within earshot out.”

“Sorry, but it’s true,” says Paris. 

Rory is just opening her mouth to confess—for the first time—that she doesn’t see much canoodling in her future when they’re interrupted by Madeline and Louise. Madeline gives them a cheerful greeting while Louise stands behind her eyeing some guy out of Rory’s eyeline. 

“Oh my God, Par, I’m so glad you could make it. And Rory, you weren’t coming, what changed your mind?” says Madeline. 

Paris gives her a desperate look and Rory guesses Paris dragged me isn’t an acceptable answer. “I ended up with more free time than I thought,” she answers instead. 

“Don’t look now, but Chad is so checking me out,” says Louise. 

“Chad would check out anything with a pulse,” scoffs Paris. 

“Oh, I’ve got a pulse alright. And so does he, babe,” says Louise suggestively. 

Rory makes a face, because that sounds gross even though she can’t quite figure out what exactly the intended innuendo is there. She looks beside her and realizes Paris is making almost the same face, but more judgmental. 

Rory spends a little time chatting, lukewarm in her enthusiasm, with a couple nice enough boys from some sports team or another. When she’s done with that she samples some fancy cheese on fancy crackers from the snack table. It’s so good she half wants to shove some of the fancy cheese in her bag and take it home, but she restrains herself. It’s after that, when she’s had enough and Paris is clearly still miserable, that she tugs on Paris’s sleeve to get her attention.

“I’m going to go find a corner to hide in upstairs,” she says. “Do you want to come?”

Paris takes a cursory look around. “You think being here is enough? You don’t think Susie Hollis has to actually see me for it to count?” 

“Madeline will vouch for you. It’s her house,” Rory offers. “And if you’re really worried, I’m sure Susie can be dragged away from her weird Ouija board circle over there long enough to stage an appearance first.” 

“Alright. If you’re sure, I guess ten or fifteen minutes of hiding won’t hurt,” Paris concedes. 

Rory smiles a secret little victory smile, certain she can negotiate up to twenty or thirty minutes of hiding once they’re there. She puts a hand on Paris’s arm to guide her upstairs. “Great. Shall we?” 

Climbing up the winding staircase feels downright like hiking to Rory’s unathletic figure. She can hear Paris huffing behind her, too. Once they get up, there are a few kids sitting around the main loft. Rory recognizes Tristen and a few of the Puffs, all people she’d rather avoid. Madeline, Louise, and the boy Louise had been eyeing are also there. 

“Mary,” says Tristen invitingly from where he leans against the wall. “You made it. Didn’t think of you as much of a party girl.” 

Paris scowls at him. She leans in to Rory and whispers, “Scum.” 

“Paris, you’re back! We lost you earlier,” says Madeline, and hops a little in excitement as though she wasn’t the one who’d scurried off after greeting them. 

“You’re right on time,” Louise simpers, and eyes Chad. They’re sitting together on the couch, Louise not-so-subtly angling to close the gap of about half a foot between them. “We were just about to play spin the bottle.” 

“Rather juvenile, if you ask me,” says Francie. 

“We didn’t ask you,” says Louise back. 

“So, are you in?” Madeline. 

Rory can feel Paris actively about to bolt back down the stairs and does her best to remedy the situation. “Oh, well. That’s nice of you to offer, but Paris and I were just passing through…” She realizes, as she speaks, how flimsy the excuse is—passing through to where? This is clearly the last officially sanctioned partying location. “On our way to the bathroom,” she adds to save herself. 

“Come on. You’re no fun. Just stay for a few rounds,” says Louise. She makes eye contact with Paris, then drags her gaze suggestively to Tristen. Because she’s apparently missed the memo. Many memos, starting with an unfortunate misunderstanding that wrecked Rory and Paris’s friendship for a month. “At least until you get a chance to play.” 

“I have a boyfriend,” Rory offers. 

Louise just laughs, as though this is no significant obstacle. 

“So,” says Rory, “where’s the bathroom?” 

Madeline perks her head up. “Down the left hall, then take two rights, then skip the next two turns, then left past the home theater, and then if you go between the staff restroom and the gym—which is getting renovated right now, so don’t mind the noise—” 

“Jesus,” Rory mutters to herself as Madeline babbles on with her mildly horrifying but ultimately useless directions. 

“I’ve got it, thanks,” Paris cuts her off, then makes a beeline across the loft and into the hall. 

For a mansion that probably has more guest bedrooms than Rory has rooms in her entire house, she has a hard time finding an empty one. The first room she tries has a girl who just got dumped crying her eyes out while her friend comforts her. The next has a guy smoking a joint and funneling the smoke out the window. The third, thank God, just has a few kids playing board games on the floor. It’s the fourth that permanently scars Rory when they walk in on a topless girl giving a guy a blowjob. 

Rory screeches and covers her eyes. 

Paris drags her out of the doorway and shuts the door, but not before she calls through, “Lock the damn door! Idiots.” 

“I need brain bleach,” says Rory. 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I need to watch a forty minute clip of a bunny rabbit napping, then put it on loop a few times for good measure.” 

“Mhm.” 

“I need to get my hands on a time machine and tell my past self not to open that door, and even if it has a butterfly effect that results in evil aliens taking over the Earth and every human person has to crouch down and act as their loveseats it still will have been worth it.” 

“How did I never notice you were such a prude?” 

Face still burning, Rory splutters a little. “Shut up.” 

Paris opens one final door. This one is an oversized linen closet rather than a guest room and is empty. Rory sits down on the ground and sighs, hugging her knees. Paris sits down across from her. They sit there in silence for a good ten minutes. It’s comfortable to lean against the insanely soft towels and enjoy the calm of the darkness. At some point Paris lies down and stares at the ceiling. 

“I don’t get this stuff,” Paris says finally. “I mean, playing spin the bottle and all that. I don’t want to do it. I never have.” 

“Oh,” says Rory. She’s never really thought about it; there were never enough kids in Stars Hollow to play spin the bottle even if she wanted to. 

“It’s stupid,” says Paris. 

“They seem to be having fun,” Rory says. “More power to them.” 

“I guess, yeah.” Another silence. This time when Paris speaks up it’s more insistent. “But I don’t get it. I mean, you’re relatively normal. Can’t you explain the appeal?” 

“I don’t know, Paris, they want an excuse to kiss the boy or the girl they like.” 

“But why not just ask?” 

“Have you ever just asked someone you liked to kiss them?” 

“No. But that’s different.” 

“How is it different?” 

Paris doesn’t answer. She goes a long time without answering until Rory realizes she isn’t going to. And part of Rory really, really wants to know what the answer would be. Because Paris is one of the boldest people she knows, if one of the least straightforward, and Rory can’t imagine why she wouldn’t. 

She plays with the carpet under her fingers. 

“I made a move on Dean today,” she says. “I mean, tried to…you know, have sex with him.” Her voice goes quiet at the last part, and she realizes she’s not beating the prude allegations. 

“What do you mean, you only tried to? Looking like that you must have done something really embarrassing to put him off,” says Paris. 

“I mean, he’s still mad. About that night. He keeps saying I’ve been distant. But I thought this was what he wanted.” Her voice rises, sulky. “I think—I think I’m going to have to break up with him. So that sucks.” 

Rory can practically hear Paris’s brain whirring as she tries to think of something appropriately sympathetic to say, which is somehow endearing. Eventually she bumps her socked foot against Rory’s ankle and says, “Good riddance, then. Maybe the next one won’t trail you like an apron-wearing puppy dog. You’ve got greater things ahead of you, Rory.” 

“Thanks,” says Rory, and feels herself welling up a little, because coming from Paris that’s practically affectionate. 

Maybe if she asks now, she can finally get a straight answer to why Paris is working at Luke’s. She’s about to ask, but then the door creaks open and she winces at the light as two girls and a boy scrutinize the closet and frown down at her. 

“Come on,” groans one of the girls. She addresses Rory. “We need this closet for seven minutes in heaven.” 

Rory puts up her hands. “We’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Or seven,” says the boy, and snickers. The other girl makes a face and smacks him on the arm. 

The door creaks back shut then. Paris sits up. 

“What’s seven minutes in heaven?” she asks. Then, more uncertainly, “Are we supposed to be doing it?” 

Rory chuckles and rubs her eyes. “It’s where you choose a guy and a girl and then they go in the closet for seven minutes to kiss and stuff. In other words, one of the stupid party games you hate and no, we’re not supposed to be doing it.” 

“Good. You’re right. That sounds utterly insipid,” says Paris. “I mean, it’s not like I’d even want to kiss a girl in the first place.” 

“Okay,” says Rory, who thinks that would have gone without saying and is confused why Paris felt the need to voice it. 

“Seriously,” says Paris. 

Rory has an idea, then. She takes Paris under the chin, brings it forward, and kisses her on the forehead. 

She likes doing these things, like hugging Paris for too long or brushing their hands together when handing a pencil to her in class. She likes seeing how Paris reacts, which is almost always startled and flighty. But this is farther into those waters than she’s ever ventured before; maybe knowing she’s going to break up with Dean is making her reckless. 

“There,” she says. “Now we can tell Madeline and Louise we’ve cooperated with general insipid party game etiquette and, when we pass them on our way back downstairs, they’ll have no choice to leave us alone.” 

Paris speed-walks in front of Rory when they leave the closet. She mutters something under her breath Rory doesn’t hear, and she’s definitely blushing. 

“What?” says Rory. 

“Nothing,” says Paris. 

Chapter Text

What Paris said was, maybe she understands the point of those party games now. But she doesn’t dare repeat that. 

She has to come clean to Jess the next morning when they’re opening together and he sees her wipe down the same table three separate times.

“Dude,” he says. 

Paris does her best bad-boy impression and intones, “Dude. What? I’m trying to work. Is that funny to you? Just wait until you see me slicing the tomatoes, that’s gonna be really hilarious.” 

“Paris,” Jess tries. 

Paris only wipes with more vigor. “Or, rumor has it people pay hundreds to watch me scrub down the griddle at the end of the breakfast rush. What a riot. Harvard-bound star student reduced to blue collar grunt work. Twice on Sundays, ladies and gentlemen.” 

She’s making no sense. She knows she’s making no sense. She just hasn’t been able to think straight since the party, the moment when Rory kissed her on the forehead playing on repeat in her brain. Between that, her schoolwork, and Luke’s, her whole head has turned to chaos, shuffling one thing after the other and trying to keep everything in balance. Something’s got to give—she knows that. And, ideally, it would be her childish hang-up with Rory.  

And if she weren’t so anxious about the thing with Rory, then she could give up Luke’s, too. 

But, deep down, both Paris and her miserable lizard brain know that’s never going to happen because if it was possible to stop that trainwreck, she would have already. Her stomach knows it too, what with the near constant nausea she’s been experiencing ever since she accidentally showed her hand to Jess. Her face must know it, because it feels hot. 

She stares, cross-eyed, at a dent in the varnish of the table she’s now wiped down four times. 

There’s about ten minutes left before the diner officially opens. So she and Jess are alone. 

“Come on. All I said was dude and now you’re freaking the hell out,” says Jess. “You’re right, this is kind of funny.” 

“So, I take it a decent amount of girls over the years have spent a week or two entranced with your charming good looks and disdain for societal convention before realizing you’re a douche and losing your number,” says Paris. 

“What,” says Jess. 

“Answer the question. 

“There wasn’t a question in there.” 

Paris snatches her gaze up from the table and gives Jess a pointed look. He raises his arms in defense. “If what you’re asking is if I have experience with the ladies, then yeah, I’d say I’ve been around the block a few times.” 

Paris rolls her eyes heavily at his wording. 

“So,” Jess persists, plucking from a basket of fries he made himself instead of working, “what about it?” 

Here goes nothing, Paris thinks—she’s already screwed, so why not screw herself a little more? 

“Let’s say, if you were…friends with a girl, like—okay, you’re only really friends as of recently even though you’ve known each other for a while because you were kind of mean to her before, but you’re friends now—anyway, you’re friends.” 

“Well. In that situation I’d venture to the conclusion that we’re friends,” snarks Jess, earning him a whack with Paris’s dirty sanitizer rag. He gives her a shit-eating grin. 

“And you’re absolutely certain she only sees you as a friend, but then she does something that’s completely inconsistent with that dynamic. At least, as far as I know since I don’t have many friends. Like, um,” Paris acts like she’s thinking, “Say she kisses you on the forehead.” 

“Like, here?” Jess points to his forehead. Paris gets the impression she’s being mocked. 

“Yes, there.” 

“I mean, I’d say either she’s my grandma or she’s into me. One of my grandmas is super dead and the other I haven’t talked to since I was three, so.” Jess walks to the front to flip the closed sign to the open sign. “If I were you I’d go ahead and give up on Rory now, because whoever this other girl is you may actually have a shot.” 

He turns around and something in Paris’s face must give it away, because his own casual smile drops. “Oh, shit. No kidding. That’s…”

“That’s what I said!” says Paris, and throws the wet rag down for emphasis. It lands with a loud thwap. “I don’t get it. She has to be messing with me or something” Then she catches herself. “I mean, she would have to be messing with me. Hypothetically.” 

“I’m, like, pretty sure Rory’s straight, man,” says Jess, which hurts Paris’s heart more than it should for something she already knew. “Maybe it’s different for chicks or something. Maybe that’s just a normal thing to do.” 

“But just a moment ago you were saying—” 

“Well, turns out I needed full context to properly judge the situation.” Jess’s tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. The bell on the door rings. “Golly gee, a customer.”

Five minutes later Luke comes in to cook, since neither Paris or Jess are officially trained to do that, and then there really is no opportunity for further discussion. 

“Also, there is no further context! It’s still a hypothetical,” Paris still yells at Jess while the first customer of the day is looking over the menu.

Jess doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he grunts like a caveman. 

Regrettably, the rest of the day goes to shit. Paris can’t stop thinking about how she still has to study for a test the next day because she’s been putting it off which is crazy because she can’t even remember the last time she put something off, which means it must be Rory’s fault. Which means she also can’t stop thinking about Rory. Which means she also can’t stop thinking about what Jess said, or what Jess might say, which means she forgets to ask three customers what type of bagel they want and accidentally pours buttermilk in the pitcher that’s supposed to hold the half-and-half for the customers’ coffee. Drops three different substances down her shirt: coffee, iced tea, and maple syrup. 

At some point she doesn’t think she can talk to one more customer without committing physical violence but when she asks Jess to take over, he looks at her sideways and says, “Not my problem.” 

Paris almost never sees Jess take orders—what a damn slacker.

After the maple syrup spill Luke pulls her aside in the kitchen and says, “Go home.” 

“What?” Paris is startled. “Are you firing me?” 

“No. I’m telling you that it’s slow and Jess and I have got this, so you can go home and enjoy some free time. Watch a movie or something.” 

The concept of free time is foreign to Paris. She cranes her head toward the kitchen; it’s a Sunday morning, and is therefore not slow at all. The initial morning rush is clearing out, but Paris has seen the diner’s slow days—the kind of afternoons that result in Caesar trying to innovate disgusting new dishes such as a patty melt between French toast—and this is not it. She’s watching just in time to see Rory and Lorelai come in. 

Luke sighs. “Look. I’ve been friends with Lorelai for a long time, so I see how hard Rory is working at Chilton. I can only assume you’re working equally hard and you’re clearly tired, so just go home.” Then, when Paris remains dumbfounded he adds, “It’s not a punishment.” 

“I don’t get tired. I can run on three hours of sleep sometimes. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,” Paris insists. “Come on, boss. I can do this!” 

“I know.” 

“So then—” 

“I’m telling you you don’t have to do it. Not today, anyway. Go home.” 

Luke then proceeds to nudge her out of the kitchen. 

Paris goes to sit in her car, which is parked right out front and dirty from driving unpaved roads. She clutches the wheel and taps her ankle against the floor of the car. She can see inside that Lorelai and Rory are ordering, and Rory is talking to Jess. And suddenly she feels so stupid for dashing the last bit of plausible deniability she had left—Jess wouldn’t even need malicious intent to out her to Rory at this point. All it would take would be one loose-lipped comment. She’s given him too much to work with. 

If Rory found out that Paris had feelings for her, she wouldn’t be mad. She’d be courteous outwardly, but then she’d never want to talk to Paris again. She’d avoid her at school. She’d think she was a creep. 

When she lost at Mafia in class against Rory, it had alarmed her—if Rory could read something simple like that from her, then maybe she’s already caught on. Maybe Rory already knows everything she’s thinking, maybe she can read it on Paris’s face. It wouldn’t take much. Paris has a shitty poker face; usually she can distract from that with open hostility, but Rory knows her well enough to see through that. 

She cranes her head to look more closely. She can sort of read lips, but she can’t tell what Jess is saying exactly. Something about…pancakes? Well, that would make sense. 

Paris realizes her hands are sweating and she’s breathing too heavily. She has to calm down before she can drive away, and she can’t drive away anyway. The moment she drives away, everything is out of control again. As out of her control as it always has been. 

She must be sitting there for a good twenty minutes. And Luke must spot her car out the window because he pokes his head out the door, frowns at her, and mouths something that looks like go home. 

So there’s nothing to do but drive. Usually driving soothes Paris’s nerves, but today they still sit tight in her stomach as she rethinks her conversation with Jess, trying to tease out all the most incriminating details and brainstorm ways to explain them away. Agonizingly, there is no way to explain it away. Any of it. 

And beyond all that, she still thinks she can feel the spot on her forehead Rory kissed. 

Why did she do that? 

Jess had to have been right. It was probably just yet another thing about female friendship Paris had yet to learn in her social isolation, and she was probably overthinking it. Like an idiot. 

Paris fucks up merging onto the highway and nearly scrapes against someone else’s car. They honk at her and, well, she honks right back. Twice. Even though it’s her fault anyway. 

When she gets home, she tries to study for her test but the anxiety and brain fog cocktail is deadly enough that all she can manage is staring at the textbook for a good hour and barely registering a single sentence. Deciding that maybe a glass of water will help, Paris goes out into the living room. What she hadn’t accounted for is that her mom, for once not out to some social function, is lounging in a leather chair sipping a cocktail.

Paris thinks she can pour her water without a comment. 

Naturally, she’s wrong. And just like that a bad day gets worse. Which is ridiculous because just last night she’d been so damn happy, and now she’s managed to make even that a bad thing with so much overthinking. 

“Paris, where have you been all morning? And what’s that on your shirt?” her mom criticizes. She tilts her glass and some of the ice clinks on the side of the cup. 

“Um…” Paris can’t think of any reason why she shouldn’t tell the truth. And yet there’s a little voice in the back of her head insisting that her mom would somehow just ruin this for her. “I slept over at Madeline’s last night after the party. We had pancakes this morning.” 

“You’ve been out a lot lately. Have you been seeing someone?” 

Paris’s mom tilts her head, curious. Paris pours herself a glass of iced water from the drink cart. “Nobody worth going out with a second time,” she lies. 

“Boys your age are idiots,” says her mom. 

“You can say that again,” mutters Paris, and makes her escape up the stairs.

Chapter Text

The closet is cramped; Jess’s legs ache from keeping his knees folded awkwardly near his chest. A flashlight sits on the floor, casting a yellow beam that doesn’t quite reach the legal pad in his lap. Still he chews his lip and frowns down at it, pen tapping against the page. There are a few ink smears on his fingers from fidgeting with it.

What he’s never let on—what he hides behind packs of cigarettes and petty crimes—is that Jess has a pet project. A hobby that the kids in LA would have beat the shit out of him for if they’d known, if he didn’t hide it like an affair. 

Ever since Jess was in fourth grade, teachers have been criticizing his writing. Bad spelling, they say, or illegible penmanship. So for them, Jess stopped trying a long time ago. But for himself, he tries. 

It’s a short story. A new one, and he’s written about ten. 

Something rattles, the sound of Luke rooting around the fridge. The door clanks shut. It can’t be later than four in the morning. 

“Jess,” Luke calls groggily. A yawn. “You had better be in the bathroom or I’m gonna kick your scrawny little ass.” 

The noises get closer; Jess scrambles to cram his legal pad into his backpack (filled with crumpled forms and loose pencils that cover everything in a thin film of graphite) right as the closet door swings open from the other side and the hangers clink above Jess’s head. 

Luke stops, sees him, and they make eye contact. “I’m not even gonna ask,” says Luke.

Jess blinks docilely. 

“You doing drugs?” Luke ventures. 

Jess shakes his head. 

“Then I’m not gonna ask.” 

Luke takes a plaid shirt only marginally distinguishable from the one he’d worn the day before and shrugs it over his shoulders. 

Jess is not only being made to help open today, but Luke is insisting he help prep the pastries, which cruelly tears away another hour from his sleep schedule to trudge downstairs at the asscrack of dawn. He makes a point of being late and slightly burns a batch of croissants—Luke isn’t mad, just sighs and marks them for a discount. 

By seven AM, Jess has forgotten all about the pastries. Because at six forty-five AM, a moment occurs which will forever live in the hearts and souls of all the Stars Hollow busybodies nursing their coffees and gaping stupidly like fish. 

And Jess. 

It’s a small moment—blink and you miss it. Yet nobody misses it.

Lorelai comes in still wearing her pajamas. There’s an uncharacteristically grave look on her face. She walks straight over to the counter, ignoring the greeting of Luke’s egg supplier who apparently also works for the inn. Then she leans over the counter and, in what strikes Miss Patty as a remarkably intimate gesture (Jess knows this because she says it very loudly about three times after Lorelai leaves), puts a hand on Luke’s shoulder, pulls him in close, and whispers something into his ear. 

Then Luke gets the grave look on his face, too. 

He disappears into the kitchen and, a few minutes later, returns with a plate covered in tinfoil. He hands it to Lorelai. Lorelai leaves, but not before giving Luke a long hug complete with rubbing that even strikes Jess as remarkably intimate. 

“What was that?” asks Jess as he changes the filter on the coffee machine. 

Luke gives him a weird, sideways glance. “Peach pie.” 

Luke giving Lorelai a slice of peach pie is remarkable for two reasons: one, Luke’s doesn’t serve peach pie. The only peach pie Luke made that morning had been a test run for the pie booth at the festival that weekend. Two, peach pie is Rory’s favorite pie. 

So it dawns on Jess at the same time it dawns on the rest of the diner that Rory and Dean are over. 

Jess realizes, with a crushing weight to his chest, that this doesn’t make him happy like he thought it would. Instead he just feels numb and kind of ashamed of himself for manifesting this. 

Part of him wants to help, but Jess doesn’t have any peach pie and he’d probably be unwelcome, anyway. So he’s thoroughly surprised when, around midnight when Jess is twiddling his thumbs downstairs, Rory shows up outside Luke’s and gestures for Jess to let her in. 

Not for the first time that day, Jess thinks about his conversation with Paris and his head swims. 

He expects Rory to be sad. Instead she just seems resigned as she walks in without waiting to be invited, yanks one of the chairs down that he’s already set on top of the tables, and rests her chin on her crossed arms like a puppy. 

“Vodka,” she says. 

Jess does have vodka. It’s only a quarter pint and it’s in his underwear drawer. But as he plays dumb his shock is real, blinking down at her as he rests an elbow on one of the chairs still on top of the table. 

“Hey, now. There’s no need to drown your sorrows just yet—might wanna save that for one of the other four stages of grief. You can’t possibly be past denial yet, right? Or do you really work that fast?” 

Rory gives him an exaggerated scowl. “People keep acting like I can’t hold my liquor. They don’t know me. You don’t know me.” 

Jess pulls down the chair he’s been leaning on and sits backwards, straddling the back. “Okay. So first of all, when I brought vodka to your house last time you were the person who had the least. You had, what, a shot and a half? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but you can hardly claim to be a hardcore drinker.” 

Rory sulks for a couple minutes. Jess watches a bird poke around outside the front window. 

“What happened between you two, anyway?” he asks. “Get bored of watching Marvel movies every night? Or did he get insecure the only books he knows how to read are Cheryl’s coupon books at Doose’s?” 

He’s going through the motions of his usual snark, but there’s no bite to it; he speaks gently, reading her features for a reaction. Rory concedes an eye roll. 

“You know, you can pretend you’re above it all but it’s actually nice to have someone in your corner. Maybe you could get that, too, if you weren’t too busy being the type of person who’s above human feeling.” 

“But he’s not in your corner,” Jess points out. “You broke up.”

“Well, yes, but I broke up with him so that’s not the point. Or,” Rory catches herself, “it was kind of mutual. But I was the one who manned up and said it. I don’t know.” 

Somehow, Jess imagines it wasn’t so mutual. He imagines Dean laying in bed counting the patterns on the ceiling wallowing in all the happy memories and waiting for his phone to ring while Rory is here, soliciting Jess for alcohol. Which is uncharacteristic, so maybe she really is upset and has a weird way of showing it. 

Jess flicks on one of the lights in the kitchen and pours Rory a glass of water from the sink. It bubbles with the motion, then settles down and leaves him with a glass half empty. He sets it down in front of her.

“Here,” he says, “use your imagination. Maybe you can placebo-effect yourself into getting tipsy.” 

“Thanks.” Rory traces a finger around the lip of her glass. She’s focused on it, lit from behind by the street lamp outside the window, and Jess likes the image more than anything else he’s seen in Stars Hollow.

Jess jerks his foot, tapping it against the floor as he sits there and realizes he’s not sure what to say. Jess isn’t very good at being sincere. Everything comes out a joke or a slight but Rory deserves something better than that. He clears his throat. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says. 

Rory tilts her head and her hair swishes like a curtain. “Jess, come on. You’re flattering yourself if you think it’s your fault. Believe it or not, your grungy charm is entirely resistable.” 

“I’m not sorry like I’m personally responsible, alright, I’m just sorry you’re sad.”

“I’m not sad.” Rory pauses. “Do you think I’m a good person? I mean, Dean’s been nothing but perfect. He always says the right things, he’s respectful and listens when I need to tell him something, he’s so sweet and brings me gifts. He didn’t deserve any of this. All because—”

Her voice catches. Jess leans in. 

“All because of what?” 

When Rory looks at him, it’s like a deer in headlights with those wide, blue eyes—that is, a deer less afraid or startled than she is resigned to what’s coming. Someone once explained to Jess that deer keep getting hit by cars because they have no way of telling their young that a car is dangerous; Jess thinks Rory knows exactly what danger looks like.

“I’ve changed,” says Rory simply. 

She takes a longer pull from the glass. 

Jess leans in. “Rory, why are you here? You should go home.” 

Jess knows that in ten or fifteen minutes Luke will come back and grumble to Jess that he needs to get to bed and Jess will stay up another few hours just to spite him, even though he’s exhausted. Jess is so terribly tired of being disobedient; it’s difficult work.

Jess is aware that all he’s done since getting to Stars Hollow is make Rory uncomfortable with his unsolicited attention—the attitude, and the flirtation. So when he tells Rory he’s sorry, maybe he does feel a little personally responsible. 

“I wanted alcohol. You know I’m not as fragile as you think.” 

Right at that moment, something passes over Rory’s face. She picks up the glass of water and picks it up, examines it at an angle. Under the light. 

“Calm down, Rory, I didn’t poison you,” says Jess. 

“Is this tap water?” 

“Uh, yeah. What, does the princess only drink perfectly purified water? Sourced from a stream in Switzerland and bottled specially for Your Majesty?" 

“No, you idiot, we’re on a boil water notice. This could make me sick.” 

Jess shrugs. “You know it’s just an extra precaution. I’ve been drinking it this whole time and I’m fine.” 

“Are you really?” 

“Yep.” 

Rory gives the water one final glance, then upends the rest of the glass into her mouth. Jess watches the muscles of her throat as she swallows. When she sets it back down, there’s a satisfied look on her face like she’s done something brave instead of dumb that ultimately accomplishes nothing. If this is how Rory gets her kicks, Jess decides, then more power to her.