dollsome

The Best of It - Part 13 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Thu, 30 Jun 2016 05:41:39 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 13 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 5,300

Part 13: Emily Says Hell No

By the time afternoon rolls around, Richard and Emily Gilmore having dinner in Stars Hollow sounds like the greatest way to spend an evening that Rory could ever imagine.

Anything that’s not dancing sounds like the greatest way to spend an evening that Rory could ever imagine.

On the plus side, after hours of rehearsal she’s pretty sure she and Paris are prepared for tonight. If they’re going to do the stupidest and most unnecessary dance known to mankind, well, at least they’re going to do it well!

What’s going less well is actual interaction with Paris. With every hour that passes, she seems to retreat more and more into Robot Paris mode. By the end of the practice, Rory’s resigned herself to the futility of trying to start any small talk that isn’t directly related to giving Republicans Firelight Festival nightmares for years to come. She knows how Paris gets sometimes, so fixated on whatever she’s trying to accomplish that she forgets to operate on a normal human beingly level.

But it’s been awhile since she was like that with Rory. Over the years, Rory has secretly prided herself on her ability to snap Paris out of it and bring her back to the world of the mostly non-crazy.

She feels like she’s seventeen and accidentally did something to make Paris hate her. It still leaves the same hollow sick sinking feeling in her stomach, but roughly a million times worse. Back then, Paris was the almost-a-friend that Rory never could have predicted. Now, Paris is like a limb or something. Maybe even more important than a limb. Necessary for a complete Rory Gilmore existence.

The grandparents’ car is already parked outside the house when they get home from Miss Patty’s. Emily must have been watching from inside for the camera crew to show up, because she bursts out of the front door with all the subtlety of Scarlett O’Hara and cries, “Rory, Paris! There are my girls!”

“Simply divine, Emily!” Nigel effuses, scurrying up the driveway. “Will you do that again so that we can capture it properly on camera?”

Emily, of course, obliges.

“Jeez,” Paris grumbles, watching the déjà vu unfold.

“You’re the one who got them involved,” Rory sing-songs under her breath, and then they’re swept up the steps and into Hurricane Affectionate Grandmother.

“It’s so good to see you both,” Emily says, wrapping an arm around each of them and guiding them into the house. “Albeit at a very strange time for dinner.”

“We have to be back at Miss Patty’s at five thirty sharp for costumes and hair and makeup,” Rory says, and manages not to grimace while saying the words.

“Oh, as if either of you will need any makeup. You’re flawless as can be.”

“Look who’s talking!” Paris says in that fake-Paris voice. Rory’s getting really sick of that voice. Of this fake world where Paris and her grandparents are best pals and they’re all one big family and everyone is happy and capable of holding casual conversations with each other.

When they step inside the house, Rory is immediately overwhelmed by delicious food smells. It’s clear Luke has been making some miracles happen in the kitchen. Meanwhile, Emily and Paris seem to have spiraled into some sort of complimenting-each-other competition for the camera, and Nigel is eating it up.

“Richard! Come sing Paris’s praises with me,” Emily calls.

Richard puts down the copy of Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) that he must have discovered on the coffee table. “Gladly, my dear.”

Nigel does a giddy little bounce as Richard joins the party.

It feels like a good opportunity to sneak away.

And so sneak away Rory does, ducking into the kitchen. Luke is at the stove working his magic, and Lorelai gets up from the table at the sight of Rory.

“Hey, dancing queen! I thought I heard a girl and her trusty camera crew.”

“Then why didn’t you come say hi?”

“Well, I would have, until my mother decided we needed to coordinate our casual greeting of you by bursting out of the front door like Keira Knightley in a Chanel commercial. You know me, I like a good dramatic entrance, but things were veering dangerously close to Jenna Maroney level madness.”

“I forgive you,” Rory says. “Mostly because I’m too exhausted to hold a grudge.”

Lorelai pouts sympathetically. “Aw, honey. Break any toes yet?”

“Only the toes of my dignity.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, don’t expect me to say anything that makes sense today.”

“Poor little groove thing shaker.” Lorelai kisses Rory’s temple. “Have you had coffee?”

“I’m about ten percent Rory, ninety percent coffee at this point in time.”

“Yikes. That’s probably not what the doctors would call wise.” Lorelai pauses mock-thoughtfully for a moment, then drags Rory toward the coffeepot. “Well, come on, let’s see if we can get you to ninety-five.”

“Indubitably, Dr. Gilmore,” Rory says, and accepts the cup of coffee that her mother pours for her.

“She’s never gonna sleep again if she drinks that,” Luke warns, “and she needs sleep.”

“Is it that obvious?” Rory asks, just loving that confidence booster.

“You look great,” Luke backtracks sheepishly. “You always look great. It’s just a sleepy great right now.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some sleep,” Rory says. “Like, say, sleeping through this entire stupid night and not waking up until the only cameras in Stars Hollow are the ones on everyone’s phones.”

“Pfft,” Lorelai scoffs. “Do the great lords and ladies of the dance let sleep get in their way? Did Natalie Portman sleep in Black Swan? No, she did not. When she was in bed, she was doing things that you should never do in front of your mother in front of her mother. On second thought, maybe sleep isn’t the worst idea—”

“I’d really appreciate it if people would stop making Black Swan references,” Rory declares.

“You won’t hear any Black Swan references from me,” Luke vows.

“Because you don’t know what it is?” Rory ventures a guess.

“Exactly,” says Luke.

“You’re a good one, Lucas Danes.” Luke bristles slightly at the ‘Lucas,’ but doesn’t verbally strike back. Aw. Being an old married person has really softened him. “And,” Rory continues, “it smells amazing in here. Thank you so much for leaving the diner to cook for us.”

“It’s no problem,” Luke assures her. “In fact, you probably did me a favor. If Kirk had asked me to give him feedback on his talents—and I use that word loosely—one more time, he would have gotten to see my talent, which happens to be beating annoying people to death with a spatula.”

“And making amazing mid-day feasts,” Rory teases. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Get a man who can do both,” Lorelai says with a hearty wink. Then she says to Luke, “Wait. Are you saying you’re willing to make Lulu into a spatula widow?”

“Kirk,” Luke announces grimly, “has been working on his bellydancing. See, I know that because he showed me.”

“There’s a certain quiet dignity to being a spatula widow,” Lorelai decides.

“Why was Kirk bellydancing at you, exactly?” Rory asks. A dim dread starts to rise up in her.

“Oh,” Luke says, with the tense too-calmness that always precedes his most legendary rants. “He’s decided tonight’s his night to make it big. Apparently, he’s gonna be in the background impressing America at the Firelight Festival. He plans to, and I’m quoting here, ‘make background the new foreground.’”

“Oh boy,” says Rory.

“He’s a man of many talents, according to him and only him. The struggle – once again, according to him – was deciding which of those talents to show off. I saw bellydancing. I saw juggling. I heard the song stylings of Kirky Beige the Macy Gray impersonator.”

“Oooh, Macy Gray!” Lorelai says. “I haven’t thought about her in forever.”

“Where is Macy?” Rory muses.

“So Rory, just try to stand in front of him tonight while there’s filming going on,” Luke concludes. “And maybe wear tall shoes.”

“You mean high heels?” Lorelai says.

“Same thing,” Luke shrugs.

“Not really,” Lorelai says with an affectionate-slash-judgy huff. To Rory, she adds, “It’s like the man has never heard of platforms.”

“Then shouldn’t we envy his ignorance?” Rory says.

“Good point,” says Lorelai.

Rory adds another concern to the ol’ worries pile that is the impending evening. It feels inevitable that Kirk is going to crash into either her or Paris at some point tonight, and that somebody’s walking away with some grievous bodily harm.

Or not walking. Most likely not walking.

The only way to triumph over the feeling of dread paralyzing her body, she concludes, is to lean into the silliness.

“Maybe he’ll do a live reenactment of his short film,” she speculates. “It’s been way too long since I saw A Film By Kirk.”

“I sent you the YouTube link!” Lorelai says indignantly.

“If I watched every YouTube link you sent me, I wouldn’t have time to get dressed in the morning!”

“You exaggerate,” Lorelai accuses.

“You didn’t have to link me to every Ylvis music video. I get it. They’re funny and Norwegian.”

“But Rory,” Lorelai implores in an annoying sing-song, “what’s the meaning of Stonehenge??”

Rory makes a dramatic show of collapsing face-down onto the table. An action that has become an unsettlingly regular habit over the past few days.

It’s actually kind of comfy, considering the circumstances.

Who needs a pillow when your eyes are closed and you’re resting on a flat surface?

“What are you doing?” come Paris’s sharpened tones.

“Paris,” Rory says, forcing her eyes open and sitting up. “Hi.”

“You’re fading fast,” Paris determines with a sort of clinical coldness.

“Not all of us embraced the dark kiss of vampirism so that we’d never have to sleep again, Edward Cullen,” Rory says grumpily.

“That was a weirdly specific Twilight reference.”

“I had to read them to make sure my mocking was accurate!”

Paris huffs impatiently, making strands of hair dance around her face. “Nerd.”

Then she leans down and presses her lips to Rory’s forehead, which would have been enough of a dead giveaway that the camera crew had ambled in even if you couldn’t hear the footsteps. Rory looks over, and sure enough, there they are, accompanied by Richard and Emily.

“Go to bed and close your eyes for fifteen minutes,” Paris instructs. “It’s as good as a five hour nap. That’s scientifically proven.”

Even the words ‘five hour nap’ make Rory’s heart ache with longing. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

“It got me through med school. You’ll deal.” Paris pauses for just a second too long. “Sweetheart.”

Rory notices her grandfather watching them with concern. Rory gives him a weak, what-can-you-do smile.

Meanwhile, Nigel is committed as ever to making TV magic happen. “Emily, Lorelai, I’ve been dying to get you together. This must be such a special evening for you,” he says excitedly.

“Having my parents over for dinner? Nige, it’s the stuff dreams are made of.” Off Luke’s doubtful look, Lorelai says, “What? Dreams, night terrors—same difference.”

“No, no, I meant—” Nigel pauses, puzzled. “Is having your parents over for dinner really such a rare occasion?”

“Uh, of course not! They’re over for lunch, breakfast, you name it.”

“Those are the two other meals,” Luke tells her. “There’s nothing left to name.”

“Okay, brunch denier,” Lorelai scowls. “Shunner of linner.”

“You just let me know when linner catches on,” Luke says.

“The trend is starting tonight, buddy.” Lorelai pokes his shoulder. “You’re one of the forerunners of the linner revolution, whether you like it or not.”

Emily clearly decides to just pretend her daughter’s not speaking—a pretty common Emily Gilmore tactic. “We just love small town charm, don’t we, Richard?”

“Can’t get enough of the stuff,” Richard says affably.

“That makes three of us!” Nigel exclaims. Emily titters sociably. Sobering, Nigel says, “But no. I’d really love to hear your thoughts as Rory’s grandmother and mother on her big day.”

Something about the phrase ‘big day’ sends a gross shiver through her.

“It’s not that big,” Rory protests. “It’s not like being born, or graduating college, or watching the Lord of the Rings extended editions for the first time.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nigel says rhapsodically. “It seems big to me! A fairytale festival!”

“Firelight Festival,” Rory says glumly.

“Nigel, we would love to chat with you,” Emily declares graciously.

“Uh, I guess we’d love to chat with you, then,” Lorelai says with a very unconvincing smile.

“Wonderful! Where would you like to talk?”

“Here in the kitchen should be fine,” Lorelai suggests.

“Really, Lorelai? The kitchen? You want us to be interviewed on television sitting in your kitchen like some scullery maid?”

“Sorry we don’t have a drawing room, Mom. Sorry we can’t convene in the parlor.”

“I think the front porch would be simply perfect,” Nigel interjects brightly. “There are few things more charming than spending an afternoon just lazing around on a good front porch.”

“Nigel, I always say that,” Emily says, at which point Lorelai breaks into a very suspicious coughing fit.

Paris clears her throat, snapping Rory’s attention back to her.

“Fifteen minutes,” Paris says brusquely. “Rest. Now. I’m stealing your parents’ bed.”

“So you do need sleep like the rest of us.”

“Can it, Bella,” Paris says, and then turns and storms away. She does a furious little heel click before she disappears from Rory’s view. Determined to perfect those dance moves until the very end.

Meanwhile, Nigel herds Emily and Lorelai and the camera crew out onto the porch.

“Ookay, then,” says Rory. She turns to ... well, her grandfather, since he got miraculously left out of Nigel’s interview plan.

“Um, I guess it’s super fast naptime for me before the big night begins. According to Paris, I’ve got fifteen minutes.”

“Good idea,” Richard says. “If you need someone to wake you in fifteen minutes, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Please do,” Rory says. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to be in Mom and Grandma’s special interview.”

“I think I’ll find the will to live on,” Richard says wryly. “Especially with some light reading at my disposal. She’s funny, that Kaling girl. Paris should try reaching out to her on Twitter instead of provoking Donald Trump at every turn.”

“You read Paris’s Twitter?” Rory asks, smiling.

“Oh, I’m on the cutting edge of technology,” Richard assures her with a twinkle in his eye.

“I don’t doubt it,” Rory says. “You know, if you’re in the mood for witty writings of TV funny ladies, you might like Bossypants by Tina Fey too. It’s fluff, but it’s good fluff, you know?”

“I do enjoy her credit card commercials. You’ll have to show me how to download it onto the Kindle.”

“I thought you were on the cutting edge of technology,” Rory reminds him.

Richard smiles at her. “There’s one exception, and it's called making excuses to spend time with my granddaughter.”

Rory smiles back. “Goodnight for fifteen minutes, Grandpa.”

“Goodnight for fifteen minutes, Rory.”

+

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 6: “THE FIRELIGHT FESTIVAL”

INTERVIEW – Lorelai Gilmore and Emily Gilmore

LOCATION – the front porch of the Gilmore/Danes residence

INTERVIEWER
Now, Lorelai, you’ve made it clear that you enthusiastically support your daughter’s relationship.

LORELAI
Team Raris forever. Or as I like to call it: Team Pory Gilger.

[Let the record state that EMILY looks not precisely impressed by this team name.]

INTERVIEWER
And Emily, you spoke glowingly of Paris to us in the past.

EMILY
Can you blame me? The girl is an angel.

LORELAI
One of the biblical ones. You know, with the sword and the twelve faces.

EMILY
Lorelai, really.

LORELAI
I’m saying that with a future mother-in-law’s love. Obviously. Hey – it’s kind of like all those lovely descriptions of Luke you used to come up with, Mom!

EMILY
I’m sure it is.

INTERVIEWER
You said, Emily, that you and Richard have loved Paris ever since Rory brought her home to meet you years ago. But was it ever a struggle for you to accept that your granddaughter has chosen to spend her life with another woman?

LORELAI
Fun fact about my mother, Nige: a more accepting person has probably never drawn breath on this earth.

EMILY (smiling)
You’re too kind, Lorelai.

LORELAI
How could I not be, with such an accepting mother? It’s just the way I was raised. I tell you, Nigel, this woman is an angel. The fluffy clouds and harps kind. Can’t you just imagine a halo atop that auburn head?

EMILY (smiling harder)
Nigel, I’m going to answer your question now.

INTERVIEWER
Spectacular!

EMILY
While no, I did not expect my granddaughter to spend her life with a woman, I’m happy to support her in all her decisions. As my daughter said, I’m a very accepting person.

[At this point, LORELAI is overcome with a coughing fit. Perhaps plagued by some illness?]

EMILY
Do you need a lozenge, Lorelai?

LORELAI (recovering)
Do you have a lozenge, Mom?

EMILY
I most certainly do not. You don’t carry around cough drops in a Louis Vuitton.

LORELAI
Ricola tease.

EMILY
Nigel—

LORELAI
Riiiicolaaaaa!

EMILY
It’s true that on occasion in the past, I’ve gotten carried away with thinking I know best about the lives of my family members. It’s possible that once or twice, this tendency has caused conflicts between myself and my loved ones.

LORELAI
That was before she became so accepting, you see.

EMILY (oddly pensive)
Yes, it was. [A pause.] But I love Rory with all my heart, and I’m proud to be there for her, whatever she chooses. It’s an honor to be a part of her life, and one that I hope never to jeopardize by regarding her with judgment instead of support. One can waste so many years when they approach life that way, even if they think they’re acting out of love. The fact that Rory trusts me enough to let me into her life ... I count myself very lucky to have gotten that chance. It’s hard to imagine what these past many years would have been like otherwise.

LORELAI
Aw. Mom.

INTERVIEWER
Lorelai, you sound like you’re not used to hearing your mother talk this way!

LORELAI
Uh, of course I am, Nige. This woman is a regular well of compliments and affection. Hey, Mom! Tell him all the good stuff about me next.

EMILY
Oh good Lord.

INTERVIEWER
Oh, yes! Let’s hear the good things about Lorelai! I’m sure that list would go on for pages and pages.

LORELAI
Well, I don’t know if we have time for pages. But heck, Mom! Treat us to page one.

[A long pause.]

EMILY
Lorelai manages to eat an astonishing number of French fries without dropping dead from congestive heart failure. I suppose you could call that a skill, in its own bizarre way.

[Another long pause.]

INTERVIEWER
Ha ha ha! Oh, goodness gracious. You almost had me there, Emily! Let me guess: that was your best Lucille Bluth impression.

LORELAI
‘I don’t care for Lorelai.’

INTERVIEWER
‘I don’t care for Lorelai.’ Oh, classic!

The INTERVIEWER and LORELAI laugh hysterically.

EMILY
What?

INTERVIEWER
‘Get rid of The Seaward.’

LORELAI (in a shockingly effective Snooty Old Lady voice)
‘I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.’

The INTERVIEWER and LORELAI continue to laugh hysterically.

EMILY
What?

+

It turns out that fifteen minutes is a hideously brief amount of time.

Rory finally nods off. What feels like one second later, there’s a light knock on her bedroom door.

“No, whyyyyyy,” she mumbles, and takes a few seconds to feel abjectly sorry for herself.

Then she sits up. The act of sitting up may be the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. Forget fixing her life after the whole dropping-out-of-Yale debacle. Forget turning down Logan’s proposal. Forget leaving her mom and the promise of dozens of rollercoasters behind in order to very suddenly become an employed journalist-shaped adult. This, this business of sitting up—this is the hardest challenge Rory Gilmore has ever had to meet.

She does it.

But man oh man, is it intensely unrewarding.

Finally, she finds the strength to (at least try to) smooth her hair and calls, “Come in!”

Richard enters obediently. “You look exhausted, poor girl.”

“Nothing a team of professional makeup artists can’t fix,” Rory says, trying to sound chipper.

“When all of this is over, you deserve some relaxation. I tell you what: I’ll have your grandmother book you an appointment at one of those lavish spas of hers.”

“Honestly, I would rather spend a weekend reading in my pajamas.”

Richard chuckles. “A girl after my own heart.” His eyebrows furrow as he looks at her more closely. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Rory says with a sigh. “Cameras following me everywhere? I’m living the dream. At least according to Madeline and Louise.”

“But you’ve never been interested in fame for fame’s sake,” Richard says discerningly.

“No. And I gotta say, I don’t know how Taylor does it.”

“The power-mad man who makes you all congregate in the dancing barn? I wasn’t aware he was popular.”

“Swift. Sorry, I should have clarified.”

Richard laughs, and Rory feels a slight sense of I-don’t-entirely-hate-the-world in her heart. “And how’s Paris holding up?”

“Oh, you know. She’s Paris. She’s terrifying in her thirst to succeed. All that fun stuff.”

“Ah yes,” says Richard. He sits down at the foot of Rory’s bed. After a moment of tactful silence, he says, “Things seem a bit chilly between you two.”

“Yeah, well. It’s been a long two weeks. We’re both just tired.”

“I can imagine. I suppose you’ll be glad when all of this is over, hmm?”

“Oh yeah. Once things are back to normal, it should—it should all be good.” Rory puts on the best smile she can, and thinks about drifting back into pre-Nigel normalcy. There’s a part of her that hates the idea of being so far away from Paris, and another part that wants to lean into the way things were before and pretend that nothing’s changed.

She suddenly feels so overcome with the urge to cry that it almost makes her head ache. Without quite meaning to, she covers her face with her hands.

“Rory?”

“I’m fine,” she says shakily from between her fingers, not completely able to keep the weepiness out of her voice. “I’m fine. I just – I was up really early rehearsing breakfast with Madeline and Louise, and I said ‘on fleek’—”

“Dear God. Why?” Richard murmurs, aghast.

“And Madeline and Louise said—” Rory stops.

“Said what?” Richard asks.

“They seemed to think that maybe Paris ...” Rory inhales. “... that she ... liked me back when we were in school. You know. In a more-than-friends kind of way.”

“Ah,” Richard says.

“And it’s completely crazy, and when I talked to Paris about it she said it wasn’t true, and I know I should just believe her and get over it. But I know her, and I know that she gets like this sometimes, where she gets so stubborn and stuck in her own head that she won’t admit what’s really going on, and instead she just turns into this really efficient terrifying robot person, and if that’s what she’s doing this time, I don’t want her to get trapped in it. I don’t want us to miss whatever chance we might have. But then it sounds so stupid to say it out loud, because it’s Paris, and how are we even supposed to be in a relationship? We’re like the strangest best friends ever. It’s a miracle we still talk to each other. It defies science! Did you know that she’s declared us to be mortal enemies for life on at least six separate occasions in the twelve years we’ve known each other? And now, what? She’s my Pacey? And so I try to tell myself that once this is over and we’re past it, I can get back to imagining that person I might be with someday. Get back to thinking about how—how they’re out there, and my life still has all this possibility. But when I do think about it, it just makes me really sad. Because they won’t be her.”

Rory finally succumbs to the urge to cry. She can’t remember the last time she needed a good cry quite this much. Or, to be more accurate, a really bad ugly cry. There’s no way this isn’t an ugly cry.

Then comes her grandpa’s hand on her back and his voice, gentle. “I know that feeling, as it so happens.”

“You do? Why?” Rory is so, so, so not in the mood to find out about the (second) dissolution of her grandparents’ marriage right now. She might have to throw herself out the window. Which won’t do much harm, on account of the whole first-floor thing, but as a symbolic gesture, she feels like it will sum things up pretty accurately.

“When I was engaged to Pennilyn Lott,” Richard says, and that’s a blast-from-the-past relief, “I did strive to keep things going between us after I first met your grandmother. But the thought of a life without Emily was such a depressing thing. When I tried to imagine the future, there seemed to be no color in it. Breaking off an engagement to someone is no small feat, but I mustered up the nerve and I did it. And damned if it wasn’t the best choice I’ve ever made.”

“Oh yeah?” Rory says, hope starting to rise in her.

“Oh yeah,” Richard repeats in Very Serious tones, making Rory laugh. “You know, I like Paris. I’ve always liked her a great deal. She’s an extraordinary girl—well, young woman now. I’ve enjoyed having her be part of the family over the past few weeks. Not to mention that time that you brought her to the family Christmas party a few years ago. Granted, she may have horrified some of our guests with her political views, but there’s no denying that she brings a certain zestful presence to a room.”

“Well, she and Doyle had just split up, and I didn’t want her to be alone for the holidays.” Rory smiles slightly at the memory. “She did make some waves, huh?”

“One of the guests assured me that my granddaughter’s companion was another Hillary in the making.”

Rory laughs. “I’m definitely going to have to pass that one along to her.”

“I don’t know that it was entirely meant as a compliment,” Richard adds, frowning slightly.

“She’ll take it that way. Don’t worry.” And then it finally registers in Rory’s brain. “‘Companion’?”

“Do you know, it’s possible he thought you were life partners,” Richard says in a tone of pensive surprise. “It didn’t cross my mind at the time.”

Rory feels caught between laughing and more weeping hysterically. It would have been nice for Mr. Snobby Christmas Guest to fill her in on the whole companions thing before the situation became more or less broadcast to the entire world.

“But my opinion on the subject isn’t the one that matters,” Richard says more seriously. “Rory, what is it that you want?”

It feels so strange, to have her grandfather looking at her like he is, all kind and supportive. Like she could say anything and he would keep sitting right there, making her feel better. He’s so different from the cold and distant man that her mother always described when Rory was little.

Rory stares at the bookshelf across from her bed. Most of the books that are left here now are the ones she loved as a kid, stories about trapped girls defying the odds and finding adventures. Being brave.

Staring at the spine of Anne of the Island, she says the truth out loud. “I want to ... be with her, I guess. Is that stupid? It feels stupid.”

“Not stupid at all. This girl is devoted to you. She adores you—it’s plain to see. And it would be a shame for you to miss out on a great opportunity just because both of you are too afraid to make the first move. After all, neither of you are usually timid of heart.”

“So you don’t ... disapprove?” Rory checks.

“It may not be what I expected for you,” Richard says. “And if your mother had come home with the same news when she was young, perhaps I would have started having heart trouble much earlier in life.”

“Not funny,” scolds Rory.

Richard chuckles a little. “But the only thing I disapprove of is my granddaughter missing out on a chance at happiness. And if you ask me, I think you have a very good chance. You two have had a special bond since you first brought her home to our house for that business project at Chilton.”

“A special bond? I can barely remember that project, but I’m pretty sure all she did was berate me.”

“A certain amount of berating can keep things fresh. Take that from your grandparents who’ve been married for over forty years. Judging by the Richard and Emily Gilmore gold standard, you and Paris are a couple for the ages.”

“God.” Rory lets out a watery little laugh. “Imagine what Grandma would say if she knew about this.”

“Never mind your grandmother,” Richard advises, patting her hand. “It may take her a little time to adjust to the news, but she only wants what’s best for you. You just do what will make you happy.”

“Adjust to what?”

Rory looks up at the new voice. Emily is standing in the doorway.

“Oh,” Rory says quickly, trying to give off the air of somebody whose heart didn’t just plummet to their toes, “nothing. Hi Grandma.”

“Hello,” Emily says icily. “Adjust to what?”

“Rory’s quite right: nothing at all,” Richard says smoothly, getting up from the bed. “Now let’s get ready for more time in the spotlight, shall we? You look lovely, my dear.”

Emily ignores him. “Because it sounds like I’ll adjust to the fact that you and Paris are in a real relationship. You know. Assuming you ever get around to telling your hysterical old-fashioned grandmother.”

“Grandma—” Rory attempts, feeling more nauseated with every step that Emily takes toward her.

“I can’t believe you would spin a lie this elaborate just to avoid having to tell me the truth. You’ll tell the world on national television, but not me?”

“Grandma—” Rory says, standing.

“You’ve officially surpassed your mother, which is something I never thought possible.” Emily’s eyes are gleaming, and Rory can’t quite tell if it’s from tears or pure fury.

Richard frowns. “Emily, it was a private conversation, and Rory will tell you what’s going on in her own time—”

“And of course you’ll tell your cuddly old grandfather, but the idea of sharing any aspect of your personal life with me is tantamount to having a heart-to-heart with Hitler—”

There’s the sound of footsteps scuffling, and Rory looks past her grandmother to see Nigel and the crew appearing outside the door. Lorelai is at the head of the group, a distinct ‘Danger! Danger!’ expression on her face.

“Hi Mom and everyone else!” Rory yelps, desperate.

“—and I swear, Rory Gilmore, you become more beautiful every day,” Emily adapts gracefully. She puts her hands on Rory’s shoulders and presses an elegant kiss to her cheek. “It will be such a treat to get to sit down for a meal with you and your sweetheart.”

Richard coughs nervously.

“Thanks Grandma,” Rory says, and decides that Emily Gilmore is in fact the most terrifying person in the world.

The Best of It - Part 12 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Thu, 09 Jun 2016 20:38:34 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 12 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 2,900

Part 12: The Not-So-Calm Before The Storm

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 6: “THE FIRELIGHT FESTIVAL”
LOCATION: The Dragonfly Inn Restaurant, Breakfast Time

LOUISE
Rory, Paris, it is so good of you to take some time out of your busy schedule to have breakfast with little old us.

MADELINE
Yeah! You didn’t have to get up this early! We know how hectic things have been for you.

PARIS [strangely flat]
Are you kidding? I would have gotten up at 3 A.M. happily if it meant hanging out with a couple of boss bitches like you.

RORY
Totally. I wish we could be around you two all the time so you could give us pointers on how to stay as young and hot as you are while still balancing a sweet career and a totes adorbs family.

PARIS
Yeah, Louise. How do you keep your eyebrows so on fleek?

THE CONVERSATION goes on for much longer, but its inanities are not worth transcribing. This isn’t The E Network.

+

Today, coffee is Rory Gilmore’s best friend like it never has been before. And that’s saying something.

It’s probably for the best that her brain has turned into a fuzzy caffeinated wasteland. Breakfast with Madeline and Louise at The Dragonfly flies by in a dreamy haze. Rory says the lines that were written out for her. That is, when she’s not drinking desperate swigs of coffee. She burns her tongue, but it seems like a small price to pay for sweet, sweet caffeinated oblivion.

Paris holds Rory’s hand firmly throughout the entire breakfast, their entwined hands resting on the table, and doesn’t look at her once.

Filming wraps up when Michel comes over with Channing, looking surprisingly cheerful considering he’s just spent time with a child. Madeline and Louise really must be the sources of fabulousness he’s been searching for in life if he’s willing to sacrifice so much. Unsurprisingly, Nigel is unable to resist the lure of Michel and adorable children. (Not to mention that he’d been nodding off to sleep while witnessing Madeline and Louise’s Boss Bitch Breakfast.)

“Is it just me, or did he not like us?” Louise asks, glaring at Nigel’s back as he wanders off with his new buddies. Michel throws a yearning glance backward at their table, but doesn’t seem willing to abandon his $200 an hour babysitting gig just yet.

“We’re great,” Madeline says consolingly, patting Louise’s arm. “And the greats are always misunderstood.”

Paris doesn’t audibly scoff at that. The absence of scoff is downright chilling.

“I need coffee,” she says instead, getting up. Without wasting an instant, she bolts toward the kitchen.

“You stole my line,” Rory calls after her, trying to sound chipper.

Trying and failing.

Rory watches her go, caught between feelings of My heart hurts and Typical Paris weirdness and There’s no way she can sabotage Jess and Alex’s relationship from the kitchen of the Dragonfly, right?

When you’re emotionally invested in Paris Geller, it’s a feelings rollercoaster 24/7.

“Hey.” Rory looks over to find Madeline standing beside her, her face crumpled in a frown. “I’m sorry if we messed things up between you guys. I swear, I just wasn’t even thinking about it. I thought you two were really—”

“I know,” Rory interrupts. “It’s—it’s okay.”

“She’s just going all ice queen because she can’t deal with how strong her Rory feels are. We’ve seen it, what, a billion times before?” Louise takes a queenly sip of her mimosa and declares, “Don’t worry about it. You guys will kiss and make up like you always do.”

“We’ve made up,” Rory says, blushing. “We’ve never kissed.”

“You’ve never kissed,” Louise repeats doubtfully, leveling Rory with a very on fleek eyebrow raise of skepticism.

“Well, not before recently,” Rory grumbles.

“And Spring Break ’04,” Madeline contributes.

Rory groans. “Why does everybody remember that??”

“It was super epic,” Madeline assures her.

Was it? All Rory has is a somewhat fuzzy memory of being extremely freaked out in a very loud club. There were exactly zero super epic oh-my-God-I’m-butt-crazy-in-love-with-Paris epiphanies. Most of what she remembers about her freshman year love life is being treated like an increasingly hopeless freak for being single. And, okay, freaking out a lot about Paris’s love life, but Paris had been dating the infirm! What was a bestie to do besides freak out?

She remembers how desperately she used to hope that Paris would come back to their bedroom one day and announce that she and Asher were done for good. The whole thing was just so weird and gross and resulted in Rory spending a lot of time sitting alone in the room that was supposed to be for the both of them, worrying about what Paris was getting herself into. Part of the reason it had been so easy to fall back into things with Dean was how good it felt to feel special, to feel wanted, to be someone’s number one choice the way she used to be—

“Wow, okay, I can’t really get into every nuance of Paris’s and my relationship in the 2003-2004 academic year right now,” Rory interrupts her own crazy swirling abyss of a brain.

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

“Because,” Rory babbles on, unstoppable, possessed by a rambly ghost, “there’s a very good chance that she’s going to break up the impending engagement of my high-school-ex-boyfriend-turned-just-friend so that I can have him—never mind that I don’t even want him—because apparently, that’s just what BFFs do!”

“Damn,” Louise says. “She’s dragged you into some next level Paris crazy.”

“Life really does get more complicated when you get older,” Madeline reflects sagely. “Remember when you guys were just really obsessed with the school newspaper?”

Louise wrinkles her nose. “God, what was that called? The Hamilton?”

“You know it was The Franklin!” Rory scolds. “This too-cool-to-remember-things facade isn’t as charming as you think it is.”

“Yes it is,” says Louise.

She’s kind of right. Damn it.

Rory sighs. “Well, will you guys see if you can talk her out of it? She won’t listen to me, and if she screws things up for Jess, I don’t know what I’ll do—”

“Say no more,” Madeline interrupts. “We’re on it.”

“On it like I’ll be on Channing Tatum if I ever get the chance,” Louise says. Well. Snarls, almost.

Rory cringes.

“What?” Louise demands.

“I just feel like ... you know, maybe you shouldn’t say stuff like that, considering your kid’s name and all,” Rory answers delicately.

“Please. Why do you think I named him that? Let me walk you through the scenario. I run into Channing Tatum. I’ve got Channing with me. Channing Tatum says, ‘Hi, I’m Channing Tatum.’”

“Does Channing Tatum really have to introduce himself to people?” Rory muses.

“—and I say, ‘Oh my God, no way! My son’s name is Channing.’ Boom. Instant connection. I’m in. It’s going down.”

“What does your husband think about that?” Rory asks tentatively.

“He thought it was genius. If Channing had been a girl, we would have named him Rihanna.”

Well okay then.

At least Louise isn’t plotting to steal Luke anymore. It’s not like her kid is named Luke.

At the same time, Rory’s pretty sure her fatigued brain is going to melt out of her ears if she has to listen to any more of this.

And so in an act of self preservation, she cries, “Paris could be ruining lives right now!”

“Right,” Louise says, snapping back into action. “We’re on it.”

+

Madeline and Louise come back five minutes later.

“Paris says don’t worry about it,” Louise reports. “She was just sleep deprived and overstressed. Obviously she’s not going to screw things up for your high school ex-boyfriend who she, and I quote, ‘knew for five minutes and cares about literally less than Frozen’.”

“And she really doesn’t care about Frozen,” Madeline says. “When I was like, ‘What? Everybody loves Frozen’, she said ... ‘fuck Elsa.’” Madeline whispers the last two words like they’re blasphemous to the highest degree possible.

“Oh. Well, okay then.” Rory smiles at them. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” says Madeline brightly. “Wait—where are you going?”

Rory finds Paris in the kitchen, chugging down coffee. The staff are all cowering in the corner. Sookie doesn’t seem bothered; she’s stirring away at the stove fearlessly.

Rory definitely remembers her mom telling tales of Sookie and Michel living in fear of Paris’s visits to the Dragonfly during the Rory’s Break From Yale era. Sookie’s probably just trying to keep a cheerful face on in case the cameras come in.

Or maybe she’s been picking up on Rory’s real Paris feelings and wants to show that she supports Rory in all her romantic decisions, no matter how objectively bonkers.

Aw. That would be kind of nice, under other circumstances. Paris-not-being-a-scheming-maniac circumstances.

“Hi Sookie,” Rory greets her.

“Hiya honey,” Sookie says cheerfully, and goes on stirring.

“How are you? How are Jackson and the kiddos?”

“Good, good, everyone’s good.”

“That’s so nice. I’m glad.” She gives Sookie one last smile, then whips around to face Paris.

“Okay,” she sneers, “what’s up your sleeve, Littlefinger?”

“What do you mean?” Paris asks blithely.

“Madeline and Louise might buy your story, but I’m not falling for it. You’re just trying to get me off my guard so that you can keep on scheming. Well, it’s not gonna work!”

Paris gives her a Look. “You do realize how crazy you sound right now, don’t you?”

“You stole my line,” Rory accuses.

“Get a grip, Gilmore. I’m over it. That was sleep deprivation talking. Not to mention the fact that I’ve completely lost my Madeline-and-Louise tolerance over the years. Is it just me, or are they way more the worst than they used to be?”

“They’re about the same level of the worst,” Rory appraises. “But now they’re the worst with a private jet.”

“God, I can’t believe they made up one hundred percent of my friend group for the first fifteen years I was alive. It’s a miracle I’m not spending my life in a straitjacket, or having opinions about the Kardashians’ life choices.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I showed up when I did to keep you nerdy and proud.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Paris says, staring down into her coffee cup.

Paris was pining for you hardcore from the second you showed up at Chilton.

Before Rory can start to decipher the look on Paris’s face (or, alternately, spiral into a total mental meltdown), Paris gives Rory the ol’ scrutinizing stare. “So, what did you come in here for?”

“Seriously?” Rory crosses her arms. If Paris is going to be all back-to-business, then so is she. “To tell you that you need to abandon this thwart-Jess’s-proposal idea.”

“You mean the idea that I already abandoned? And by the way, calling it an idea is a little much. It was more like a momentary flicker in my Madeline-and-Louise-diseased brain. I’m not proud of it, Rory, but even I can’t be brilliant all the time.”

She looks so disgusted that Rory is dangerously tempted to believe her.

The key word being ‘dangerously.’

“You sound like you really mean that,” Rory tests.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Paris answers evenly.

They stare at each other in tense, crackling silence.

The kitchen staff is starting to mumble nervously in the corner.

And then Rory sees it: a flicker of fiendishness in Paris’s eyes.

Or it might just be dust in the air or something, but at this point, Rory’s not in the mood to take any chances.

“If you ruin Jess’s proposal,” Rory explodes, “I swear I’ll make you sorry, Paris! I’ll steal all your whiteboards, and tell all the whiteboard salespeople around that you’re on the blacklist. You’ll never plan efficiently again!”

“Okay, you’re way out of line!” Paris hollers.

“Ooh, look, scones!” Sookie says, bustling over and shoving baked goods into Rory and Paris’s mouths with the swiftness that only a mother of multiple children can bust out. “They’re just—so much better than confrontation—”

“Dammit, that’s good,” Paris scowls through a mouthful of scone.

“It’s kinda hard to be mad while eating this,” Rory admits, reluctantly basking.

“My work here is done,” Sookie says, and returns to the stove.

Rory devotes the next minute to letting herself disappear into sconey heaven. No stress. No outside world. No impending Firelight Festival disaster. Just scones and Paris and a moment of peace.

Embracing the moment-of-peace thing is actually kind of nice. This scone is amazing, and it smells like coffee in here, and there’s wintery sunlight glinting through the window, catching in Paris’s hair and giving her this golden glow that seems somehow completely fitting.

And if Rory was going to listen to certain people, this is the human being who’s been in love with her—in love, in like, in something—for the past twelve years.

“What are you looking at?” Paris asks.

“Nothing,” Rory says. Moment of peace over.

“Listen,” Paris says once she’s done chewing. “The fact that you think that I care enough about Broody McHairGel to spend any time or energy on him insults me, Rory. All I’m planning on is kicking some serious Modern Stars Hollow Family ass and then putting all this crap behind us. Get ready to give the people the schmoopiest, most sickeningly romantic event in television history. We’ll make Will and Kate’s wedding look like an episode of Pawn Stars. The goal is to make Michele Bachman cry and barf at the same time while she’s watching—which we both know she will be—and I will settle for nothing less.”

“As always, I admire your vision,” says Rory.

“Which means that we’re not going to look like jackasses doing the Firelight Fairy Dance. Your moves need some serious work.”

“I am not that bad!”

“I’m so not the kind of person that says ‘oh honey,’ but oh honey.”

“Hey, you’re not exactly Britney!”

“Aren’t I, Rory? Aren’t I?”

Rory does have to admit that for a neurotic book nerd, Paris is abnormally gifted in the moves department.

“What can I say?” Paris shrugs. “Some people are naturally graced with the power of the dance; others try and fail until their psyches shatter . I’m Mila, you’re Natalie Portman.”

“Yes, please, compare our situation to Black Swan. That’s really going to bolster my enthusiasm.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not that bad. But I know how you like to be perfect in all you do. It’s what makes us drift compatible. So let’s make this hideous grown up Toddlers and Tiaras abomination of a dance number something worth giffing. In a good way,” Paris adds as a stern afterthought. “Not a ‘Jennifer Lawrence tripping up the stage’ way.”

“Didn’t people think that was adorable?” Rory points out.

Paris snorts. “If the best you can do is charm people with your inability to be a functioning adult human being, then are you really succeeding? You might as well be a kitten video on YouTube.”

Which is fair enough.

Paris really does seem to be in in-it-to-win-it mode, with nary a distraction allowed. It’s like last night never even happened. Like what Madeline and Louise said didn’t matter at all. Like any emotional freak-outs that may have ensued are now null and void.

“Do you swear you’re not planning to do anything to Jess and Alex?” Rory finds herself asking.

Paris rolls her eyes. “I swear. Let them get engaged and have their dream hipster nuptials where the guests all get to drink dandelion wine out of mason jars and eat tofu cake. (So not going if I’m invited, by the way.) All I’m focused on right now is finishing this thing and making conservatives barf-cry.”

“Well, good,” Rory says weakly. Then she reevaluates that statement. “Also, gross.”

“What can I say? This lifestyle isn’t for the dainty of stomach.”

“Or people who like the idea of holding onto their last shred of dignity.”

“Exactly.” Paris grips Rory’s shoulders. Rory thinks of Paris pulling her in for that Godfather kiss in the garage. “Everything I do tonight, I’m doing to make sure we end this thing as champions; screw everyone else. Remember that.”

“Okay, fine.” Rory shrugs her off. “Calm down, Cersei Lannister.”

“Well, who am I? Cersei or Littlefinger? Your Game of Thrones references are very inconsistent today.”

Logically, Rory gets that this isn’t the most scathing of criticisms.

Still, something in her just crumples.

“I know,” she whimpers—oh great, she’s a whimperer now. “I’m just so tired.”

Sookie clucks her tongue sympathetically from the stove. Meanwhile, Paris’s expression softens. She looks at Rory in a way that somehow gets past the billion layers of exhaustion and worry and unholy nervousness, and Rory’s heart goes calm. And then maybe skips a beat or two.

Paris tears her gaze away after a moment, then pours Rory a cup of coffee—also known as salvation—and holds it out to her.

Rory takes the cup gratefully, and their fingers meet.

Paris was pining for you hardcore from the second you showed up at Chilton.

Paris pulls away. “Remember,” she says brusquely. “If you fail today, you’re failing for two, Natalie. Get it together.”

Without further ado, she storms out of the kitchen.

Rory stares after her.

“Oh, honey,” Sookie says sympathetically.

Adventures In Babysitting (Haymitch/Effie)

dollsome — Sat, 12 Mar 2016 00:37:46 GMT

Adventures In Babysitting - The Hunger Games; Haymitch/Effie; 3,400 words; post-series. In which Effie decides that it's a marvelous idea to babysit Katniss and Peeta's daughter, and Haymitch gets to watch the disaster unfold. Featuring resolutely chipper Effie, snarky Haymitch, a two-year-old bundle of endless energy, and a showdown with a wig-stealing goose.

“I’ve just had the most wonderful idea,” Effie declares, tapping Haymitch’s shoulder for emphasis. They’re sitting at the table, enjoying a breakfast of coffee and toast from a loaf of freshly baked bread Peeta brought over the day before. Neither Haymitch nor Effie can brag about any particular culinary skills, but it’s hard to screw up toast.

Effie has been back in District 12 for three days now, and frankly, Haymitch can’t imagine a more wonderful idea than keeping up their current pattern. Namely: spending most of their time in bed.

“Oh yeah?” he asks warily, and takes a bite of toast. “What’s that?”

“Why don’t we take Willow for the day? Katniss and Peeta always have their hands so full; they deserve some time to themselves, don’t you think?”

“Why? So they can get their hands fuller?”

Effie gives him a Look.

Haymitch, who’s had some experience watching the little Mellark, decides he needs to bring some perspective to this situation. “I thought you said you had a wonderful idea.”

“Those two need a break, Haymitch. Can’t you see how they’re running themselves ragged?”

“They’re raising a kid, not toppling a regime.”

“And which would you rather do?” Effie asks knowingly.

Haymitch stares at her. Effie arches her eyebrows.

“Fair point,” he admits grudgingly.

“Besides,” Effie says, lighting up, “I absolutely can’t get enough of the little darling.”

Haymitch snorts.

“What?”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve seen her for, what, two hours altogether?”

“How dare you! I was there when she was born. I helped out Katniss for weeks afterward.”

“Newborns are easy,” Haymitch says, unimpressed.

“Easy? That little girl spit up all over my favorite cashmere wrap, remember!”

Oh, he remembers.

“But I didn’t make a fuss,” Effie persists heroically. “All of those years of being thrown up on really prepared me to keep my cool when it counted most.” She gives him a significant look.

“I haven’t thrown up on you that many times.”

“Three times,” Effie reports. “Shoes, lap, cerulean wig.”

Haymitch squints, the dim memory coming back to him. “But you weren’t wearing the wig.”

“You pulled it off my head in order to throw up into it,” Effie informs him.

“Oh yeah,” he says, frowning. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Charming,” Effie huffs.

"No one's hair should be blue. I was doing you a favor. I was doing the world a favor."

“I'm not going to dignify that narrow-mindedness with a response. The point is, I’ve dealt with you at your most inebriated, and you weren’t nearly as adorable as a darling little baby.”

“Ouch,” says Haymitch.

“And she’s much older now, so she’ll be much easier to take care of!” Effie reasons cheerfully.

Haymitch is almost tempted to let her discover how wrong she is on her own. But he guesses he’s got an obligation to help her out. Stand by your woman, and all that. “You’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Newborns stay in the same place. She’s in the terrible twos now, princess. Anything can happen.”

“Oh, don't be dramatic.”

"Have you ever actually watched a toddler?"

"I've seen plenty of toddlers."

"Effie, seeing a toddler isn't the same as watching a toddler."

"Haymitch, must you always be so pessimistic?"

Hey, he tried.

“Tell you what,” he says. “The kiddo can come hang out for the day, but you’re in charge of babysitting.”

“Fine,” Effie says regally. “I’m sure we’ll have a glorious time.”

“I’m sure you will,” Haymitch says, giving her a peck on the lips.

Effie hmms triumphantly.

Haymitch settles in and waits for the storm to hit.

+

It all starts out perfectly cheery.

“AUNTIE EFFIE!!!!!” Willow cries, dropping Katniss’s hand and throwing her arms around Effie’s legs. Frankly, it baffles Haymitch that the sight of Effie doesn’t scare the shit out of the kid – even though it’s settled down a bit over the years, Capitol fashion is still an acquired taste, and definitely not a look that you see around 12 – but Willow has always treated an Effie appearance like a visit from a fairy godmother.

“Sweetheart!” Effie effuses, scooping Willow up into her arms. “Oof—you’ve gotten heavy, haven’t you?”

“Not polite to comment on a lady’s weight,” Haymitch contributes. “Bad manners.”

Effie tsk tsks at him.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Katniss says, watching them warily.

“Oh, hush!” Effie orders. “You and Peeta go have some alone time. We’ll be just marvelous over here.”

“Marvelous, huh?” Katniss says doubtfully, catching Haymitch’s eye.

Haymitch shrugs. “Look at it this way: kid’ll definitely do more damage to Effie than the other way around.”

The corner of Katniss’s mouth twitches.

“Laugh all you like, you two,” Effie says. “This afternoon is going to be a smashing success.”

“Okay,” Katniss says. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Effie says. “Now shoo!” She waves Katniss away impatiently.

Katniss throws one last skeptical expression Haymitch’s way, then departs with a wave.

Meanwhile, Willow doesn’t waste any time; she starts pulling at Effie’s wig, fascinated by the strands of pink woven into the blonde.

“Oh!” Effie cries, shocked.

Willow’s eyes light up with diabolical interest.

Haymitch knows that feeling himself. It’s hard to begrudge the kid for wanting to mess with Effie Trinket.

“Oh—” Effie cringes, trying to steer Willow’s tiny hand away from her wig. “Nope—now, don’t do that, darling—”

Willow laughs hysterically, pleased with the results she’s yielding.

Haymitch smirks, watching the struggle.

“Need a hand?” he asks.

“No thank you,” Effie says loftily. Then, to Willow, she coos, “Now then, sweetie! We’re just going to go take this wig off. After all, they aren’t at all the fashion here, are they? One must pay attention to the trends in one’s surroundings! Shall we try the au naturale look? What do you say? That sounds splendid, doesn’t it—ooh! Ouch!”

“You sure?” Haymitch calls after her, grinning.

“We are terrific, thank you!” Effie yells obstinately.

+

Effie reemerges from the bedroom with her wig out of sight, her hair in a braid, and Willow propped on one hip.

It takes about two minutes for her to find the flaw in that course of action.

“Ow – oh – you certainly have your mother’s fierceness, don’t you?” Effie remarks with a strained smile as Willow tugs repeatedly on her braid.

Willow giggles.

“Updo it is, then!” Effie announces with that classic Effie Trinket forced cheer. It’s not quite May the odds be ever in your favor!, but it’s close.

Haymitch chuckles and sips his coffee.

+

“What do you think?” Effie asks, coming back out of the bedroom. She’s arranged her hair into some sort of complicated arrangement of braids that circles her head.

“Beautiful,” Haymitch says, and watches Willow sprint past them, Effie’s wig in her hands.

“Thank you,” says Effie, smiling and oblivious. “I figured if I was going to start showing my real hair, I might as well figure out how to do it with some style. I’ve been researching all the old coiffure trends—”

“Effie?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s the kid?”

“Oh! I swear she was here just a minute ago!” Effie frowns, putting her hands on her hips, and then gasps when she spots Willow. And, more importantly, the wig. “How in the world did you get that??”

Willow runs by, shrieking with delight and dragging the wig behind her.

“Willow Primrose Mellark, you get back here right this instant!” Effie cries, chasing after her.

“You tell ‘er, honey,” Haymitch contributes, raising his coffee cup. Call it a gesture of moral support.

+

By the time Effie catches up to Willow, everyone’s outside and the wig has been commandeered by Haymitch’s grumpiest goose. Willow is watching the goose peck at the wig with a mixture of awe and unease on her little face. She’s a smart kid. Messing with that goose leads to one thing, and that’s doom.

Effie lacks Willow’s level of poultry awareness.

“That is a one of a kind design!” she shrieks, hurrying into the pen.

The goose punishes her with a honk so loud and full of hate that it damn near sends a shiver down Haymitch’s spine.
Effie makes a grab for the wig. The goose fluffs out its feathers and hisses. Effie screams. Willow, remarkably, just seems to think the whole thing’s hilarious. And she has the good sense to back up several feet.

“You know what, I take back what I said before,” Haymitch remarks placidly from the porch. “Babysitting’s delightful.”

“Quiet, you!” Effie snaps. Then she goes back to negotiating with the goose. “This wig was very expensive, young man!”

“Did you just call the goose ‘young man’?” Haymitch inquires innocently.

“Did I or did I not say quiet, Haymitch Abernathy?”

“They’re all female; that's all I’m saying.”

“Well, she is not comporting herself like a young lady!!” Effie cries furiously.

“Maybe she wants to try out the world of fine Capitol fashion for herself. Would you really begrudge her that?”

Effie ignores him. She’s a woman on a mission. “Bad goose! Bad goose!”

Willow scurries over to Haymitch and takes a seat on the bottom porch step. She watches the scene for a minute, then giggles delightedly and looks up at him.

“Funny,” she declares.

“Right?” Haymitch says. “Classic.”

+

After a very dramatic half hour, Effie gives up and relinquishes her wig to the goose, and she and Willow come back inside.

“I’d gotten tired of that wig anyway,” Effie says with great dignity. “Pink and blonde. So passé!”

“You know,” Haymitch replies, “I didn’t wanna say anything, but I’ve been thinking that for ages. Get with the times. You know what I mean?”

Effie narrows her eyes at him. He responds with a shit-eating grin. Ordinarily it’d be the kind of moment that led to either Effie storming out or sex on the table, but today they’ve got other things on the agenda. Shame.

+

It goes without saying that lunch winds up all over the walls.

Since Effie made it (or, well, tried), that’s probably for the best.

+

“Maybe she’ll nap,” Effie theorizes a half hour later as she watches Willow bang on a pot with a wooden spoon. It was the closest thing to a toy Effie could improvise on short notice. “Children nap, don’t they? That’s a thing children do?”

“Some children, in theory,” Haymitch agrees, wincing as the pot-banging gets louder. “Not sure about this one.”
Effie wilts.

“You want to take a break?” Haymitch shouts over the noise. “Let Uncle Haymitch take over? Because I’d be—” Willow starts banging the pot with a level of ferocity that confirms, yep, she’s definitely her mom’s kid. He clears his throat, feels thankful for once that he decided to embrace this whole life-of-sobriety thing (that noise would not go pretty with a hangover), and tries again. “I’D BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO HELP.”

Effie frosts over. “CERTAINLY NOT,” she retorts. He has to give her points for trying to yell with poise. “I’VE GOT THINGS ENTIRELY UNDER CONTROL.”

“RIGHT,” Haymitch says.

“RIGHT,” Effie agrees stubbornly.

+

The next Effie Trinket’s Signature Style items to go are the shoes. Willow decides that running around the house is a great idea, and Effie decides that running around the house might lead to Willow getting sleepy. (Effie doesn’t admit as much out loud, but Haymitch knows how to read her.)

Effie valiantly survives a few laps in her heels, then pauses for a moment to kick off her shoes. And then pauses for another moment to straighten them so one of them’s not knocked over sideways on the floor.

Classic Effie.

“Don’t judge,” she orders, pointing sternly at Haymitch.

“Judge what?” Haymitch asks, leaning back on the couch. “You’re giving me so much to choose from.”

Effie apparently gives up on sparring with him, which is a true testament to her distress levels. Seemingly to herself, she mutters, “Children nap. I know that children nap. She just needs to get tired, and then she’ll nap.”

“You sure you don’t want me to join in? Help out?”

“No, no!” Effie says with forced brightness. “This is girls’ time!”

“Oookay,” says Haymitch.

And that is how Haymitch spends an hour sitting on his ass watching his insane girlfriend chase a two year old.
Really magical stuff.

+

When naptime finally comes around, it’s mostly because Effie has taken the lap-running into the bedroom, and then lap-running turns into taking a breather on the bed, “just for a minute,” and then Effie can’t quite seem to get up again. Haymitch watches from the hallway, smirking.

Willow gets curious and raises her arms in a request. Effie lifts her up onto the bed, and that seems to be the last of her energy gone.

“Do you ever take naps at home, Willow?” Effie asks faintly.

“Nah,” Willow says.

Haymitch watches as all the hope drains right off Effie’s face.

Willow starts wiggling around on the bed, bouncing up and down to the best of her ability. Effie seems to decide that this is as good as it’s going to get, and watches blearily as Willow’s bouncy reign of terror commences. Haymitch thinks about sneaking in there and grabbing the kid so that Effie can get some rest.

But before he can, the miraculous happens: Willow settles down.

She crawls up the bed until she’s sitting next to Effie. “Story time?”

“You like stories?” Effie says, seeming surprised that the kid likes anything that doesn’t involve maximum speed and maximum noise levels.

Willow nods.

“Well, I suppose I can come up with something ...”

“Good,” Willow says, and snuggles against Effie.

Effie looks down at her and smiles in surprise.

“Well,” Effie starts after a moment of contemplating, “once upon a time, there was a grumpy old gander who lived on his own, and honked at all the other geese who came by until finally they left him alone. He was such a frightening old thing that no one wanted much to do with him—which was a shame, because he really was a very nice gander, underneath it all. Then one day, a beautiful peacock crossed his path. Now, this peacock was very witty and charming – not to mention very stylish – and the gander couldn’t help but like her, even if he would have never admitted it to any of the other geese, or even himself...”

Haymitch rolls his eyes affectionately and leans against the wall to listen.

+

Fifteen minutes later, the impossible has happened: Willow’s asleep.

And so, apparently, is Effie.

“Nice story,” Haymitch says as he comes into the room, keeping his voice quiet. “You know the pretty peacocks are the boy ones, right?”

“Must you thwart me at every turn?” Effie demands, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Well, yeah,” Haymitch says. “Wasn’t that our agreement all those years ago? It’d be a shame to switch things up now.”

She smiles just slightly. He admires the sweet curve of her mouth, and how pretty she looks with her hair sneaking all wild out of those meticulous braids. “You have a point,” she says.

Haymitch sits on the corner of the bed, and Effie opens her eyes to smile groggily up at him.

“She's asleep," Effie announces. "I knew I would triumph eventually."

“You’re unstoppable, that’s for sure.”

“And it’s taken you this many years to admit it?” Effie clucks her tongue softly, then turns her head slightly so she can watch Willow sleep. “You’d hardly believe what this girl can get up to, looking at her now.”

“Yeah,” Haymitch agrees, chuckling.

She smiles and touches her fingers lightly to Willow’s dark curls.

“You’re starting to seem pretty fond of this whole child-nurturing gig,” Haymitch remarks nonchalantly. “Whaddya say we keep her for another day?”

Effie stops with the poignant hair-touching. Instead, she flops her hand in his direction in an attempt to smack him. It doesn’t land – her form’s a little too sleep-sloppy – but he gets the message. “Do not even joke about that,” she orders.

“Eesh.” Haymitch catches her hand and kisses it. “Yes, ma’am.”

+

There’s a rap on the door that evening. Haymitch opens the door and lets Peeta in.

Peeta takes in the sight that meets him with surprise. Haymitch can’t blame him. For a lot of reasons.

Effie and Willow are sitting on the couch as calm and companionable as can be, Effie trying various hairstyles on Willow’s dark curls while Willow investigates the results in Effie’s sparkly compact mirror.

Turns out, naps work wonders.

So does hairstyling time. Effie let Willow have a turn as hairstylist, which mostly involved Willow enthusiastically tugging on Effie's hair and putting in barrettes at random. Haymitch swept in to rescue his girl, figuring she could at least be spared the scalp pain after a long day. But then Willow got it into her head that she didn't want to do Haymitch's hair. Oh, no. She wanted to watch Effie style it.

As a result, his hair is currently sporting a bunch of little braids. It's possible there's a sparkly butterfly-shaped barrette or two.

"Nice look," Peeta greets him.

"Don't start," Haymitch grumbles, and sets to work tearing his fingers through his hair. There's a definite gleam in Peeta's eyes that means Katniss is gonna hear about this, and they're gonna laugh.

Swell.

“Oh, hello Peeta!” Effie trills. “Has the whole day really gone by already? The time has simply flown!”

“Oh yeah?” Peeta says, grinning. He's thoughtful enough not to mention Effie's hair situation. The injustice is staggering.

“Daddy! My hair!” Willow says gleefully.

“Very pretty,” Peeta compliments. “I’m glad to see you all had such a good time, Effie.”

“Why wouldn’t we have?” Effie asks. A dangerous undercurrent sneaks into the words.

“No reason,” Peeta says easily.

“I do hope you and Katniss got some time to yourselves!”

“We sure did. Mommy and I got to rest and relax.” Peeta goes over to Willow and sinks down to his knees so he can meet her eye level. “Did you rest and relax?”

“No,” Willow reports proudly.

“No?” Peeta repeats with a mock-gasp.

“No!” Willow giggles devilishly.

Peeta casts a cheerily doubtful look Effie’s way. “You sure she wasn’t too rowdy?”

“She was a perfect angel!” Effie insists.

Haymitch lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Peeta says, picking Willow up. “Say goodnight, Wills.”

“Night!” Willow chirps obediently.

Haymitch catches Peeta before he can go out the door under the guise of giving the sparkly butterfly barrettes to Willow.

"You sure you don't want to keep them?" Peeta asks with a perfect straight face.

“Cute," Haymitch glowers. In an undertone, he adds, "You and Katniss were watching out the window all day, weren’t you?”

“No,” Peeta says, his eyes wide and innocent.

Haymitch stares him down.

“A little,” Peeta relents. “Mostly the goose thing.”

“Hey, I’m not blaming you. How could you resist?”

“It sounded pretty chaotic over here. We thought the house might fall down.”

“Not this time, kid,” Haymitch says.

Peeta smiles and shakes his head. Abruptly, he goes back to Effie and leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Effie.”

“Any time, sweetheart,” Effie says, pressing a hand to his face and sounding worryingly sincere. She does always tend to melt where Peeta’s concerned.

“Really, Eff?” Haymitch says. “Any time?”

Effie strives to death glare at Haymitch and smile winningly at Peeta all at once. The resulting facial expression sure is interesting.

“Tell you what, Effie,” Peeta says, “We’ll leave you to keep an eye on Haymitch for the next few days. We all know he’s the biggest handful.”

“Peeta my dear, truer words were never spoken,” Effie praises.

“Excuse me?” Haymitch demands. “I’m a peach.”

“You’re something,” Effie says darkly. “That’s for certain.”

Peeta laughs. “Goodnight, you two.”

Willow waves merrily goodbye over Peeta’s shoulder on the way out. Haymitch notices that in spite of everything, Effie looks genuinely touched.

“Well?” he asks once the door’s closed and it’s just the two of them again. “What’s the verdict? Are you heartbroken you don’t have a dozen of your own little hellions running around?”

“I’m glad,” Effie replies, resting back on the couch, “that our little family is just the way it is. Aren’t you?”

There’s still something in him that bristles on instinct at the word family, that doesn’t want to trust it. But the war is over and they’ve all got some peaceful years behind them now. Not easy years, necessarily, after all they’ve got to remember—but peaceful. And maybe it’s about time to start trusting that.

“I am,” Haymitch admits.

Effie gives him a smile.

“With that being said,” she adds, resting her hand on his thigh, “it is nice to have a little private time.” Her eyes are bright and flirtatious.

“Amen to that,” Haymitch says heartily, and pulls her in for a well earned kiss.

so i stayed in the darkness with you (The Hunger Games; Haymitch/Effie; Pt. 2)

dollsome — Sun, 22 Nov 2015 19:58:52 GMT

so i stayed in the darkness with you - The Hunger Games; Haymitch/Effie; 5,500 words; Part 2 of 2. Effie adjusts to life, and Haymitch, in District 13.

Part 1

+

When she hears that Peeta’s been rescued, that all of the captured victors have, Effie feels such happiness.

Like most happiness these days, it’s short lived.

She visits Katniss in the infirmary. The poor thing is drowsy from morphling, wearing a bulky neck brace. When Effie approaches, Prim gives her a tight smile, hugs Katniss, and leaves.

Effie has always found Prim wonderful. She supposes she can understand why the girl might not return the feeling.

Katniss lifts her hand weakly in greeting. She can’t talk. Haymitch told Effie all about that beforehand. Peeta did quite a number on her vocal cords.

Effie smiles at her and sits daintily on the side of the bed.

“You know, I like this,” she says, tapping the neck brace with a careful finger. “It’s the closest thing to innovative fashion that I’ve seen in this dullsville district.”

The corner of Katniss’s mouth twitches, just slightly. Still, her eyes are weary, oddly blank. Effie feels a flash of nostalgia for the old surliness that used to blaze in them.

“Oh, darling girl,” Effie says, pressing her fingers lightly to Katniss’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Katniss nods slightly. Effie kisses her forehead.

“We will find a way to—to snap him out of this,” she promises, and hopes her smile is more convincing than it feels. Now more than ever, it’s important to look on the bright side. “He has too many people who love him too much to just let him slip away. He’ll remember that."

Katniss doesn’t nod this time. Just stares forward. Effie blinks back tears, and holds her poor girl’s hand.

Effie loves both of her victors equally, but she’s always had a soft spot for Peeta. Such a gracious gentleman, always so pleasant and thoughtful. Whenever Katniss and Haymitch would balk at one of her suggestions, united in their prickliness, Peeta would hear her out patiently, and treat her with respect. Perhaps it was a respect she’d never even deserved.

And so even though she hates the thought of seeing him in his current state, she goes with Haymitch to watch him through the glass.

At the sight of him, all of her worry vanishes. He looks terrible, but it’s Peeta all the same, their Peeta, back where he belongs. With them. She wants to sit at his bedside, smooth his hair, coo worriedly over the sharpened angles of his face. It’s the least she can do, after how kind he’s always been to her.

But it isn’t wise. Just because he’s a weapon aimed at Katniss, Haymitch explains, it doesn’t mean his memories of Effie will be fond.

“I’m not saying that to hurt your feelings,” Haymitch says. “Devoting yourself to those kids is the best thing you’ve ever done. I’m just saying, there’s a good chance he associates you with one of the worst experiences of his life; it’s not safe, and the risk isn’t worth it.”

She presses her fingers to the glass, watching Peeta stare blankly into space just as Katniss had. “I just want him to know that I—”

“He will,” Haymitch promises, although of course there is no possible way to know that, and very little reason to hope.

She nods and puts a hand to her mouth, holding back tears. Haymitch rests a hand on her shoulder, and together they look through the glass at their boy.

“I never used to understand it,” Effie says sleepily, resting against Haymitch’s bare shoulder. He plays idly with her hair. It made her uncomfortable at first. Having someone else see your real hair in the Capitol is akin to a much more blatant faux pas in the Districts. Running through the street with no pants on, maybe. But they’ve been at this for awhile now, and she’s grown to like that he likes it. She supposes it must make her more like the women from 12. More real in his eyes.

“Understand what?” he mumbles.

“The idea of loving someone so much that it would move you to tears. Clothes, yes. People, no."

Haymitch snorts.

“Love isn’t really that way in the Capitol. You adore things, of course. And people. And parents are wild about their children. But the idea of loving someone so much it hurts—you don’t really find that. It’s not proper.”

“Go figure,” Haymitch says, sounding not at all surprised.

“And then the Games would come around,” she continues. She doesn’t know why she’s thinking about this, and yet it won’t get out of her head. She suspects she won’t be able to sleep until she’s said it out loud. “And you would know that finally, here was the chance to really feel something. Besides ... besides full, or bored, or besotted with the new fall fashion line. Here were people whose lives were so different. So important. And we would sit and watch and feel for them and cry for them, and it was like—like coming to life yourself. Like waking up. The idea of working with victors ... it was magical to me when I was a girl.”

She can still feel the old giddiness rise up in her at the memories. It makes her stomach turn. She thinks of Peeta, a killer waking up in him whenever he looks at the girl he loves. Maybe this is what the Capitol does best: it turns people against their own hearts. Or maybe just twists their hearts into monstrous things.

“I watched you,” she recalls. “In your Quarter Quell.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before,” Haymitch says dryly.

She cringes, thinking of all the fawning silly things she’d said back when they first met. Even though he was far more of a disaster than she’d anticipated, she had been so awe of him. Until he’d thrown up on her shoes.

She had been so disappointed. All her hopes dashed of a valiant hero who’d sweep her off her feet. A Capitol citizen could never fall in love with a victor from District 12, of course; that would be like falling in love with a farm goat. But a little flirtation had seemed so delicious to her young self.

“What monsters we all were,” she says, ashamed.

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it, but he doesn’t argue.

She can hardly blame him for that.

“But they’ll see,” she presses on. “The people in the Capitol. They’re not all bad. Some are, of course, but most of them ... They just don’t know any better, that’s all. They’ll come to understand, like I have. One day.”

Haymitch gives her a look. “So we’ll all live happily ever after having Capitol/District dinner parties, huh?”

“My friends would hate you,” Effie says, laughing a little at the thought. “The ones who’ve met you already do.”

“Considering what your friends are like,” he says, “I take that as a compliment."

She swats at his chest, and he laughs.

It’s such a lovely thought. Her two worlds, becoming one.

“I suppose they’re not safe anymore, are they?” she says softly.

“None of us are safe,” he points out.

“No,” she agrees, and doesn’t press the matter.

She suspects the odds of a happily ever after for her must be very low.

Chapter Text

Effie is walking out of the cafeteria after a positively mundane breakfast of water and what she charitably dubs gruel. A year ago it would have been the breakfast of her nightmares, but she’s grown accustomed to having no standards beyond I must consume it to live. It’s an ordinary morning. That is, until a man coming into the cafeteria mutters, “Capitol bitch.”

His voice is so low that she wonders if she misheard, but when she turns to look, he’s watching her, hatred clear on his face. She realizes that he’s more a boy than a man; he can’t be much older than sixteen. He’s gangly and thin with a patch of angry red zits on his forehead. Once she meets his eyes, he looks back down and hurries away. She knows he won’t give her any real trouble. She’s very familiar with scared children lashing out.

Part of her wants to give him a good scolding. The Excuse me, young man? burns on her lips. But then she looks into the cafeteria and finds a sea of unfamiliar faces. Haymitch is visiting Katniss in the infirmary, and Plutarch is tucked up conspiring with President Dull Hair like always. For the moment, she’s without allies.

So she straightens her clothes, pushes up her sunglasses, and keeps walking away.

It’s the only time she’s been spoken to like that, but some of the looks she’s gotten over the weeks have told her the same thing plainly enough. She knows no one would dare harm her—not when she’s so close with the higher-ups, with the Mockingjay herself. But it hurts all the same.

When she reaches her quarters, she goes straight to her most precious belongings. Her wig is a little the worse for wear, but nothing some tender loving care won’t fix. Her pink dress is nearly finished. She resolves to debut them at the next possible opportunity. The next cause for celebration, assuming another such instance ever makes its way to this place.

She won’t be shamed into hiding herself. Not when she is here, and she is trying. These people aren’t the only ones who can rebel.

“Beautiful,” Effie declares, her eyes bright with tears. She clasps her hands over her heart. “Just beautiful.”

Haymitch grunts in response, but Effie decides that it’s a less ornery grunt than usual.

“To finally see some joy in this wretched place,” Effie continues happily, watching Finnick and Annie swirl around the makeshift dance floor, surrounded by revelers but so clearly lost in their own little world. “Granted, the dancing is rather provincial, but at least there is dancing.”

She watches the dancers for a moment, then turns and gives him a beseeching look.

“No,” Haymitch says. He manages to pack a lifetime’s resistance into the tiny word. These District 12 victors—always so stubborn.

“Fine,” she huffs.

“I’m sure you could get one of these other dashing gents to take you for a spin on the floor,” he adds with a smirk, gesturing around the room.

“I’m sure I could,” she agrees lightly, mostly for the sake of banter. She’s been here for months, and most of these people still look at her like she’s some sort of freak. Never mind how friendly she tries to be—and she has begun to try.

Then again, so many of them have watched her take their children away year after year. Effie tries to remind herself of these things. To be patient with them. To see—really see—things from their points of view. One day they’ll realize that she understands, and she means well.

Capitol bitch.

Effie shakes off the thought and smiles brighter. She focuses on the music, so quaint and merry. It isn’t the sort that they’d play at a Capitol celebration. There is something rustic about it, something that makes her think of the dreary square of District 12 and wonder if there had been some beauty in that place she had never noticed.

“So what’s the problem?” Haymitch asks, sly. “None of these boys to your liking?”

“I can’t just leave you standing on the sidelines alone,” she replies. “Imagine how pitiful you’d look.”

“So this is you doing me a favor,” he tests.

“Precisely,” she says, and gives him a brilliant smile.

He rolls his eyes, but smiles back.

“I think everyone needed this,” she declares. “One night where we can all turn our thoughts away from all of this horrible tragedy.”

“You know what the real tragedy is? A wedding with no booze.”

“Oh, hush,” she says, slapping his arm lightly.

He scowls.

“You’re doing very well,” she adds, softer. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, uncomfortable, and exhales sharply. “It’s not like there’s a choice.”

“Still,” she insists. She slips her fingers into his and squeezes his hand reassuringly, just for a moment. They’ve both agreed that there’s no sense in public displays of affection under the circumstances, but tonight they’re hardly noticeable. Not with such a beautiful couple front and center.

Effie watches the newlyweds twirl around the floor. The music settles into something less cheery, more slow and romantic, and Finnick pulls Annie into his arms. To think both of them have known such incredible suffering. At least for now, you can see none of it on their faces.

Despite herself, she imagines what a magnificent propo this will make. How people will ooh and ahh all around Panem watching such a beautiful scene, love triumphing against all odds. If anything could sway the people of the Capitol, it’s this. Ugliness doesn’t work to change minds in the Capitol; all this talk of war and justice, it only makes them afraid. But give them something lovely—something bright and glimmering with hope—and they just might listen. No one else here understands that, but Effie does.

She saw it begin to happen, before.

“I can’t help wishing that it were them,” she admits aloud, her voice wavering slightly. She never can keep from crying on a sentimental occasion. “That we had gotten to see that wedding—”

Haymitch knows right away who she’s talking about. Katniss and Peeta are never far from his thoughts either.

“You and the rest of the Capitol viewers,” he remarks dryly. “Sending kids off to fight to the death’s all well and good until two of them start making googly eyes at each other. It was a smart strategy.”

“It was more than a strategy and you know it,” Effie scolds. “They’re so young, and they love each other so dearly. They deserved some joy, and peace, and babies—”

“I know,” Haymitch says, resting his hand on the small of her back, and she gets ahold of herself.

Peeta’s sweetness stolen. Katniss with those haunted eyes, bruises on her neck, her voice raspy as a tired old woman’s. It isn’t fair.

She had seen Katniss earlier, twirling around with her sister, but now she can’t spot her in the crowd. Effie supposes the poor girl wanted to retire early. After all she’s suffered, who could blame her for not knowing what to do in the face of happiness?

She sniffles in spite of herself.

“Hey,” Haymitch says.

She looks over at him, and he holds his hand out in an invitation.

Effie gasps, delighted.

“None of those fancy Capitol moves,” he orders. “You try any of that, I’ll step on your toes and make it look like an accident.”

“If you step on my toes, I’m sure it will be an accident,” she replies, but smiles to show that she’s teasing. “You, Mr. Abernathy, are a positively hopeless dancer.”

“Maybe, Ms. Trinket, that’s just because we’ve never danced before when I was sober."

She sighs with faux weariness. “There’s only one way to find out, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says as she slips her hand into his.

“But don’t you step on my toes,” she warns. “I spent hours making these shoes look presentable. Do you know the kind of effort it took to put together an ensemble like this in these circumstances?”

“Effie,” he says with a crooked smile, “I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Well,” she says, “first I had to completely take apart the dress I was wearing when I got here and turn it into something new; I can’t very well be seen in the same outfit twice, can I?”

“Hell no,” Haymitch says amiably, putting his free hand on her waist.

“I know that the people here have more important things on their minds,” Effie says as they slip into a waltz, “but still. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And so, for the first time in my life, I had to labor with my own two hands, and I must say, it wasn’t nearly as bad as—”

—you’ve all made it sound all these years. The sentence finishes itself in her head, but she catches it before it comes out of her mouth. She doubts anyone is listening to them; everyone seems swept up in their own merrymaking. But she knows better than to let those things slide anymore. Even in her thoughts.

“And?” Haymitch prods.

“And?” she says lightly.

“I assume the story doesn’t stop there. It was just getting good.”

“Yes, well.” She smiles. “A girl needs to preserve a little mystery.”

“Ooh. Mystery. I like that.”

She giggles, and he pulls her close. Dancing cheek to cheek, they’re not so different from any of the other couples swaying on the floor. In his arms, she almost feels at home here, almost feels like she might belong in the heart of this tired hopeful new world.

so i stayed in the darkness with you (The Hunger Games; Haymitch/Effie; Pt. 1)

dollsome — Sun, 22 Nov 2015 19:55:18 GMT

so i stayed in the darkness with you - The Hunger Games; Haymitch/Effie; 5,500 words; Part 1 of 2. Effie adjusts to life, and Haymitch, in District 13.

Here is the thing that no one considers:

Effie knows what it is to be afraid, even if everyone around her thinks she mustn’t have a clue. She has lived with fear every day of her life. It’s nothing like what the people of the Districts have faced. No blood, no empty bellies. No obvious reason to rise up. It’s a quiet fear, as constant as breathing. For a long while, she didn’t even know it was there. She only felt its sharp edges and didn’t know what to do with them. So she smiled bigger. Shone brighter. Listened to what the Capitol told her.

“You couldn’t have stayed,” Haymitch tells her on the worst day of her life.

She is sitting in the ugliest place she has ever seen, which—considering how many times she’s been to District 12—is saying something. This gray little room is apparently her new home in District 13. District 13, and all she has are the clothes she’s wearing and a foggy memory of Haymitch asking her to tear her eyes away from the Quarter Quell and have a drink with him.

‘You don’t have to watch this,’ he said, seeing how it tortured her to see her poor children endure those horrors, and she thought, How sweet. How kind of him, for once.

She should have known.

Her head is still cloudy, giving all of this the odd quality of an awful dream, but she knows it isn’t one. When she does have nightmares (and she does these days, even though she never used to), there’s more color to them. Not this hideous nothingness.

“You were already in too deep,” Haymitch says. She hates how composed he sounds. “There’s no way Snow would have left you alone.”

“So you’re saving me, is that it?” she hisses. “Am I supposed to say thank you? Fine! Very well! Thank you, Haymitch. Thank you for drugging me and bringing me to this ghastly hellhole, away from everyone I know and care about, away from all of my worldly possessions—”

“You don’t have family, you’ve told me that—”

“I have dozens of friends,” Effie shrieks, “from the most elite social circles, and they’ll be very concerned—”

“You don’t get it,” Haymitch snarls. He grabs her shoulders with strong, impatient hands and stares right into her eyes. She considers scratching hiseyes out. “You’re in this now. What was that you told us? We’re a team? Well, this is what it means to be part of the team. Sorry you didn’t get the chance to pack up all your pretty things, or give goodbye kisses to all your darling friends in the Capitol, but you’re alive, and you can help Katniss. She’s gonna need you. That’s what matters.”

Somewhere deep down, she begins to know that he’s right. It makes her furious.

“You kidnapped me,” she says angrily.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he taunts. “Maybe we should have left you there. At least then Peeta would have some company.”

Effie freezes. “What?”

“They got him,” Haymitch says, not bothering to soften the news one bit. “Snow’s got him, and the Capitol bombed 12 to bits. But please. Tell me more about your terrible problems.”

Effie thinks she might vomit.

“You’re a brute,” she says, tears springing to her eyes, and his fingers dig into her shoulders. She glares at him. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

For a second, he doesn’t listen to her, and she wonders what will happen, what he will do instead. Her breath catches in her throat. She can feel his on her face. Tinged with alcohol, of course.

Then he lets go of her abruptly, and she sways a little, dizzy without him.

“Great to have you on the team,” he sneers, striding toward the door.

She grabs the only thing in her reach—a plastic cup of water; she dimly recalls him pouring it for her as she first came to—and throws it, aiming for his head.

It misses and hits the wall beside him. At least he gets splashed. He swears and storms out, not looking back at her. As soon as the door slides shut, she bursts into tears.

There’s a gray jumpsuit on the foot of this bed (if you can call it a bed), waiting for her. Clearly someone expects her to wear that tepid atrocity. Looking at it, she sobs harder. If only she’d had some time to gather her things. If only she’d known. If only. If only.

(Peeta, Peeta, her poor boy.)

The next time she sees Haymitch, it’s after he’s returned from the rehabilitation facility and she’s begun working with Plutarch and Katniss. She feels much better; it’s good to have a purpose again, to feel like she’s doing something. Contributing something. Even if she’s doing it while confined to the dullest shade of gray imaginable. A burlap sack would have more couture potential, but she does her best.

After their meeting on how to solve the problem of Katniss’s hopelessness in front of the camera, Haymitch catches up with her in the corridor, greeting her with a low whistle.

“Well, look who’s back and full of good ideas,” she says, smiling.

“Right back at you,” he says. “Good work in there.”

“You too. You have very strong instincts for this sort of thing, whether or not you wish to admit it.”

“Well, I learned from the best,” he says pleasantly, then adds, “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Ugh.” She shudders theatrically. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, it’s good,” he protests.

“Good? Hmph. Hardly. I’ve done what I can, but even I’m not a miracle worker.”

“It’s interesting, then,” he amends with a grin. “I like the scarf.”

“It does have a certain understated flare, doesn’t it?” Effie agrees, preening.

“I always wondered what was going on under all those ruffles.”

“You’ve had more opportunities to find out than most,” she reminds him airily. She isn’t in the habit of referring to their past, but it’s so boringdown here that any opportunity to flirt will do.

“Yeah, well,” Haymitch says, “most of those memories are a little fuzzy.”

“What a pity for you,” Effie says blithely.

“You know,” he says, catching her hand and bringing her to a standstill, “my head’s much clearer these days.”

“Oh?” she says, holding back her smile.

“I’m paying all kinds of attention to all kinds of things.” He gives her a look that makes it very clear just what sorts of things. She feels a happy thrill run through her, for once without the irritation that usually accompanies these little slips in their professional relationship.

She supposes it’s not much of a professional relationship anymore. Strictly speaking.

And isn’t that an intriguing idea?

He keeps on staring, making open lechery inconveniently charming as always, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. She decides that she might as well give him a bit of a chase. Goodness knows they could all use some fun around here.

“Manners, Mr. Abernathy,” she teases, tapping his nose. Then she quickens her pace, slipping out of his grasp and leaving him behind.

She hears him chuckling. She puts a little spring in her step.

+

The Capitol bombs District 13, and Effie learns how it feels to fear for her own life. It’s not the bombing itself that frightens her the most, although that’s no picnic. It’s the evacuation.

It seems ridiculous that safety measures are the thing to scare her most of all, but for the first time she knows what it’s like to have the world fall into chaos around you and be trapped in it. Even when the riot broke out in District 11 during the Victory Tour, they had been behind closed doors, safe and away from the violence.

This time, she’s right in the heart of it.

People cry out and stumble around her as they hurry down the stairs, never mind that they’re all supposed to be proceeding with caution, in anorderly fashion, and she tries her best not to slow down; she knows that if she does, she’ll be run right over. Squashed like a bug. Like nothing. But the first bomb drops and the world trembles around her, the stairs rattling; the sprinklers go off, and she’s suddenly drenched and there’s so much screaming, so much agony. She trips, missing one of the steps, and stumbling knocks the breath out of her. She clings to the railing, half standing, while bodies dash by her, shoving into her without a bit of guilt. Someone’s elbow jams into her ribs, and she gasps. The world rushes on around her, too fast and cruel to have room for her; she feels dizzy and sick and suddenly very sure that this is what it was like. To be in the arena. To let the games begin. All of those children. Their names in her hands.

She cannot seem to move, and hates it. She has always tried to keep a cool head in a crisis.

This is it, this is it, she thinks, or maybe says out loud. It's over.

And then:

“You’re okay,” Haymitch says into her ear, putting his arm around her to guide her back up. “Just keep moving."

He holds onto her like that the rest of the way down. Finally, she is safe and sound, sitting on one of the horrible bunk beds, trying to catch her breath. It isn’t easy.

The whole room shakes, the bombs rumbling, dust falling from new-formed cracks in the ceiling like snow. The air is full of screams, peoples’ voices blending with the blaring alarms. She’s never been in the middle of something so horrible, never even imagined what it might be like. Haymitch keeps his arms around her. She can feel him shaking. The lights go out, plunging everything into darkness. One by one, the lanterns switch on in protest.

And then, at last—after what feels like hours, but can that be right?—everything goes still.

She can’t quite trust the stillness, not after the world erupting around them. Every single person seems too afraid to speak, as if it might bring the bombing back.

A stark silence drags on, punctured at last by children’s wails. Absurdly, she envies them their freedom to cry openly. She thinks of Katniss, somewhere in this darkness too; she closes her eyes, and swallows the lump in her throat.

It takes her a long while to notice Haymitch’s hand rubbing her back. She doesn’t feel quite inside her own body.

“That all they got?” he says sardonically.

She isn’t in the mood to joke.

“Living like this,” she gasps, “skittering around like vermin, hunted like animals, knowing that you there’s nothing to stop you from dying ingloriously at a second’s notice ...” She takes a deep breath, but can’t seem to find her composure. “I nearly got trampled to death, Haymitch. Trampled! How would that look on my headstone?”

“Do they usually put cause of death on a headstone?” he ponders.

Her voice quavers. “How do you keep going?”

“The hell if I know,” Haymitch says. “Why do you think I’ve been trying to drink myself to death all these years?”

“That’s not funny,” she says sharply.

“Wasn't joking,” he answers.

She feels a sting of sorrow. She has always known this about him. Still, it hurts to hear it, especially now.

She leans away from him, and he takes the hint and removes his hand from her back. They sit without speaking.

“Listen,” he says at last, sighing, “I’m sorry we brought you here. It wasn’t originally part of the plan. But I didn’t want to leave you to whatever fate they had in store for you.”

“You could have at least told me.”

“Ah ah ah. Strictly confidential information.”

“Well, I’m part of the team, aren’t I?” she says tauntingly.

He lets out a grim bark of a laugh. “Touché. Would you have come along if you had the choice?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, and doesn’t like the uncertainty left hanging in the air. She sits up taller. Stiff upper lip. “It’s just as well that I’m here. I expect I’d be faring even worse in the Capitol. Although at least I’d be doing it in style.”

He chuckles, patting her knee.

She thinks of Peeta—so pale and sickly in those terrible interviews, forced to tell those lies. She hates to imagine what he must be suffering right now because of it. It’s a good thing she wasn’t left behind. There’s no way she could have been so strong. So brave.

“I’m glad to help Katniss,” she says, “but now that we’ve sorted out the wardrobe and the propos—and they needed sorting out, don’t get me wrong—what’s the point in me being here? What can I possibly contribute? What’s the point of ...”

Any of it, she does not say.

Haymitch looks at her. She knows her desperation must be plain on her face.

“Like you said,” he says. “Style. District 13 is in need of some serious style.”

Once his words sink in, she shakes her head and smiles. He smiles back, seeming encouraged by her reaction.

“There’s no denying that,” she says. “These jumpsuits! Ugh. And don’t get me started on the president’s hair.”

“By all means,” he says, “get started. Although you might want to keep your voice down.”

“That gray!” she whispers, leaning closer to his ear. “So drab. So severe. When obviously a nice purple would suit her much better."

“If you ever tell Alma Coin that she needs purple hair,” Haymitch whispers back solemnly, “I want to be at that meeting.”

"Deal," she promises.

They sink into laughter, and for a second it’s easy to forget where they are, and why.

And then another child’s cry rises up, followed by the shhes of its parents. Their comforting seems to be futile; the poor thing keeps wailing.

Effie holds back a sigh, tears pricking her eyes.

She feels Haymitch’s gaze on her, and then his hand over hers.

“We’re nowhere near the end of this fight,” he says. “And Plutarch reached out to you because you’re the expert. Our girl’s going to need more coaching, more speeches. That’s your area.”

“Coaching she ignores. Speeches she doesn’t use.”

“That’s Katniss. Don’t take it personally.”

“I suppose,” Effie says, smiling weakly.

They sit in silence, listening to the child cry.

“How do you live like this, hmm?” he muses.

“Suggestions very much appreciated.” She tries to sound cavalier, but spoils the effect by sniffling.

“I guess ...” He bites his lip, thinking. “I guess you just have to choose to fight.”

“Well,” she says with a nervous huff of laughter, “I am not a fighter.”

“Are you kidding me?” He affectionately tugs on a lock of hair that’s slipped from her turban. “You’ve been fighting me all these years. Winning most of the time, too. What’s a war with the damn Capitol compared to that?"

He smiles at her, all of his usual mocking replaced with kindness, and she feels a rush of affection for him. The one thing she hasn’t lost.

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him, soft and sure. He freezes for a moment, surprised, and then wraps his arms around her, pulling her in.

It isn’t their first kiss by any means. They’ve worked together for a very long time, under very stressful circumstances, and there have been occasional lapses—drastic lapses—in professionalism, usually after Effie’s had too much wine. It hasn’t happened in years; she’d gotten more prudent and he’d gotten more drunk with every year that passed. But now she’s without her rules and he’s without his liquor, and perhaps that means they’re entering a new era.

“Thank you,” she says after they break apart, both a little breathless. She touches his cheek, his stubble tickling her palm. “That was a very sweet thing to say.”

“Uh,” he says, dazed, “sure. No problem.”

She smiles a little, liking this—the chance to fluster him for a change. He puts his arm around her, pulling her close. She rests her head on his shoulder, and they wait out the darkness together.

+

Part 2

rage, rage against the buying of the phone (Luke/Lorelai)

dollsome — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 20:10:52 GMT

rage, rage against the buying of the phone - Gilmore Girls; Luke/Lorelai; 2,000 words. In which Lorelai finally convinces Luke to get an iPhone, and banter ensues.

It comes as a surprise to exactly no one that Luke Danes is not a fan of the smart phone. To put it lightly.

This doesn’t stop Lorelai from talking him into getting one. After a long, hard road of needling, nagging, and (when all else fails) flagrant seduction.

When he grudgingly agrees after years of clinging to an ancient Samsung flip phone, it’s mostly because he figures it will be nice to text April, since she won’t stop talking about how it’s the best way to communicate and actual phone calls are ‘so 2005.’

(“... Whatever that means,” Luke says one evening after getting off the phone with April.

“It means you’re acting like you’re in the year 2005,” Lorelai says. “Come on, grandpa. You can’t really be that out of the slang loop. Basic much? So off point. Seriously weaksauce—”

“Please shut up,” says Luke.

“Uh, actually,” Lorelai says, with great academic loftiness, “I think what you meant to say is ‘bye, Felicia.’”

“Who’s Felicia?”

“Hopeless,” says Lorelai, shaking her head, and kisses him.)

When they pull up in front of the diner, back from the long and weary journey to the AT&T store at a Hartford shopping mall, Luke is looking a little dazed. For a man surrounded by the tranquil sunshine of a delicately snowy winter afternoon, he’s seriously gloomy.

“See?” Lorelai says from the passenger’s seat, holding the new phone out to Luke. “Don’t you feel better now that you’ve joined the modern age?”

Luke doesn’t take it. Just stares at it like he thinks it might bite him, or force him to finally understand what apps are. “It doesn’t flip.”

“We’re beyond the flip.”

“I liked the flip.”

“Now when I send you a text message more than a sentence long,” Lorelai persists, “it won’t divide itself up into six different messages and only send half of them. Just think of how much sense I’ll make.”

“It’s a cell phone, not Rosetta Stone for hyper-caffeinated rambling,” Luke deadpans.

Lorelai lets that one slide. She’s a woman on a mission. “Now when you send me a text message, it can say more than ‘OK.’ Two letters. ‘O-K.’ Every text message. I swear, I could tell you dog Paul Anka ate human Paul Anka, and that’s what you’d send back. ‘OK.’ Like, hey, Hemingway: try a big word for once.”

“What’s human Paul Anka doing in Stars Hollow?”

“Not the point here, buddy.” Luke stares at her expectantly. Lorelai caves. “And obviously, he heard about the legendary dog who bears his name and just had to meet him in person. With their powers combined, they become unstoppable. Pauls Anka. Anka Squared. Until dog Paul Anka, in an ill-fated twist, stumbles across some catnip from Babette and Morey’s next door and really goes to town on the stuff. I’m telling you, a real Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds situation. And, in his hallucinatory state, he mistakes human Paul Anka’s face for a head of fresh delicious broccoli, and—”

“Does catnip work on dogs?”

“Are you really fact-checking my hypothetical scenario?”

“Yeah, because that’s the weirdest thing going on in this conversation.”

“The point is: just think of the unstoppable, eloquent texter you’ll become once that pesky keypad isn’t holding you down. You already have the fingerless gloves. Way to predict a trend, by the way.”

“If I need to tell you something more than ‘ok,’ I’ll call you.”

“And be so 2005? I don’t think so. We have a reputation to uphold as Stars Hollow’s It Couple.”

“I’ll call you,” Luke insists. “If I can figure out how to call someone on there. Where the hell is the phone part?”

“Totally irrelevant,” says Lorelai. “But remember how much you hated the keypad? Now there’s no more keypad. Just pure touch screen goodness. Won’t that be nice?”

“I guess,” Luke grumbles.

“Not to mention,” Lorelai says grandly, “you are now but one swipe – one text – away from yours truly, 24/7. All Lorelai, all the time. A Lorelai lifeline, if you will.”

“I’m pretty sure the last – oh, I dunno, eight years – have already been all Lorelai, all the time,” Luke reminds her.

“Oh no no, my friend. It’s been mostly Lorelai, most of the time. but this–” She wiggles the phone. “This right here is true, unfettered access. A real ‘ain’t no party like a Lorelai party ‘cause a Lorelai party don’t stop’ situation.” She puts a hand to her heart and rhapsodizes in a manner downright Nicholas Sparksian, “You’ll always be with me.”

“I’m with you right now,” Luke points out, climbing out of the truck.

“But not always,” Lorelai says, getting out and following him around the frosty sidewalk. “Now when we’re at work, we can talk all day, stealthily, and no one will even know what slackers we’re being! That’s the beauty of the digital age.”

“I’m not texting you while I’m working,” Luke says sternly. “No cell phones in the diner, remember?”

“Nobody remembers, hon,” says Lorelai.

(Luke hasn’t taken down the ‘NO CELL PHONES’ sign, but nobody shows it any respect anymore. It is, at most, a quaint relic of a distant age.)

“Well, I do,” Luke says. “Think about it: I look at the dumb phone, I text you, I get distracted, the pan catches on fire on the stove, the diner burns down – probably with Kirk inside.”

Lorelai gasps. “I can’t believe you killed Kirk. The man has been nothing but good to you.” She makes a face. “Well, okay, also weird and feral and sometimes naked. But mostly good.”

“Oh, we’re not blaming this on me. I didn’t kill Kirk. This–” Luke points hatefully at the iPhone in Lorelai’s hand, “–killed Kirk.”

“Kirk is dead?” rasps Babette, coming down the sidewalk.

“Poor Lulu,” says Miss Patty ruefully alongside her. “I don’t know if she’ll have your single motherhood moxy, Lorelai.”

“It’s not right for a kid to never know his father,” Babette declares. “Even if his father is Kirk!”

“Kirk is not dead,” Luke huffs impatiently.

“Luke got an iPhone,” Lorelai explains. “Kirk being dead is just a hypothetical side effect of what will happen if he actually uses it, because Luke has decided to embrace his mantle of Stars Hollow’s Very Own Nostradamus today, apparently.”

“Oh my god!” Babette screeches. Miss Patty gasps theatrically.

“What??” Luke says, flinching.

“It’s just much more shocking news than Kirk being dead, that’s all,” Miss Patty explains.

“Really?” says Luke doubtfully. “Me buying a phone is more shocking than the death of Kirk?”

“Kirk does a lotta weird stuff,” Babette says. “Remember when he decided to be a performance artist and lived in a glass box overlooking the town and kept refusing to come down?”

“There’s no way that was safe,” Miss Patty says, and they both chuckle. “And what about the time he got that terrible cat?”

“Cat Kirk. Eesh! That wasn’t pretty. Or,” Babette says merrily, “the time he was almost murdered by the world’s largest pizza!”

“Those cheese burns,” Miss Patty says, shuddering.

“But this—!” Babette exclaims, waving her hand in Luke’s direction. “This is wild!”

“It’s just a phone,” Luke says. “It’s not a big deal. I’m probably not even gonna use it that much—”

“Oh, you say that now,” Miss Patty interjects. “But it's a slippery slope. You can find everything on the internet, honey.” She leans in and adds meaningfully, “Everything.”

“I’m not gonna ask what that means,” Luke says, grimacing.

“She means the sexy stuff!” Babette contributes.

“All right, move it inside,” Luke says, ushering them forward. Babette and Miss Patty step into the diner, laughing conspiratorially, and Luke and Lorelai follow them.

“This is already the worst day of my life,” Luke tells Lorelai as they head for the counter. “This thing is making people crazy.”

“You say that like they weren’t crazy already.”

Luke glares again at the phone in Lorelai’s hand. “Is there any scientific proof that these things don’t rot peoples’ brains?”

“Okay,” Lorelai says, “slow your roll, Debbie Downer. I don’t think you’re really comprehending the positive implications here: you can text me whenever you want. Constant access to each other. That’s fun, right?”

“I have constant access to you when I’m with you in person every day. I don’t need to talk to you through a stupid shiny overpriced square put together by people in China who make five cents a day. That’s sick! It’s all sick!” Luke waves a hand in the direction of the diner customers. “Have you ever noticed that nobody looks at each other anymore? You go out to dinner with somebody, you look at your phone. What, are you texting each other about the meal? ‘Subpar asparagus, Stan!’ I ask you: where does it end?”

“Who’s Stan?” Lorelai asks blankly.

“Who’s Felicia?” Luke counters.

“Really?” Lorelai says. “We’re still on that?”

“Stan is a victim of the digital age,” Luke snarls, ”that’s who Stan is.”

“Okay, okay. Destroying civilization, ruining that sparkling Downton Abbey-esque dinner conversation you’ve always been so big on, Mr. Socialite – all good points about the evils of our new smart phone overlords,” says Lorelai, “but have you considered: this way, you can send me eggplant emojis.”

It is – frankly, finally – too much for Luke. “Why would I send you eggplants? You won’t even eat eggplant. I made eggplant last week – you wouldn’t touch it! I had to give the leftovers to Liz and TJ, and TJ kept asking me why I didn’t make his scrambled. ‘Ha ha, get it, Luke? ‘Cause it’s an eggplant.’ And I didn’t just get to hear that little gem once. Oh no. He said it over and over, and Doula kept laughing because she’s at that age where the stuff TJ says is actually funny to her – it must be because her brain’s still growing, right? – and it just kept happening over and over. The punning, the laughing, the punning–”

“Sounds like a real Clockwork Orange situation,” Lorelai sympathizes.

“So what I really don’t get,” says Luke, ”is why eggplants are okay now.”

“It’s not that kind of eggplant, bucko,” says Lorelai.

“Oh, so now there are other kinds of eggplants? Robot eggplants, huh? Eggplant by Steve Jobs. Is that what we’ve come to?”

Lorelai slides Luke’s phone across the counter, then pulls her own out of her purse and types something into it. Luke’s phone ding!s happily.

Luke stares down at the screen.

“Ah,” Luke says.

“Yeah,” says Lorelai, with a devilish eyebrow waggle.

“I feel like someone should say ‘dirty’ right now,” Luke says, squinting down at the phone screen.

“Well, you know, I’m really trying to cut back. No one wants to be known for just the one catchphrase.”

“It’s no ‘bazinga,’ that’s for sure.”

“Okay, I know you’re joking, but rude.”

“Does Jackson know about this? He should know, right? As a vegetable guy, he should know.”

“Babe, every other person in the country knows about this.”

“So what’s the deal? Do you just send these eggplants to whoever? Is it all just sending weirdly sexual vegetables to your loved ones? Is that what people are doing on these things all the time?” Luke reaches a sudden, alarming epiphany: ”Is this how people do the Tinder? Is this Tindering?? Did you just Tinder me?”

“Oh, sweet, innocent Luke,” Lorelai says, leaning forward to pat his shoulder, “you have so much to learn.”

“I’m not learning any of this,” Luke says firmly. “I’m texting April, and I’m texting you – only when there’s no cooking going on – and that’s it.”

“But you haven’t seen the peach yet!” Lorelai protests.

“That’s it,” Luke reiterates.

Lorelai looks back down at her phone and starts swiping-’n-typing.

Ding!

Luke looks down at his screen. ”Oh, jeez.”

Lorelai cackles triumphantly.

“I told ya!” Babette calls from where she’s sitting by the window with Miss Patty. “The sexy stuff!”

“Never again,” says Luke sternly, pointing at Lorelai.

“Aw, it’s cute how you think that,” Lorelai replies, beaming.

The Best of It - Part 11 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Mon, 21 Sep 2015 03:26:15 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 11 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 3,700

Part 11: Exhaustion and Imaginary Mimosas

“So, Rory,” says Leslie Knope, who is also – Rory somehow knows beyond a doubt – Katie Couric. “How does it feel to be a big Lying McLiarpants?”

“Um,” Rory says, squinting into the blinding lights of the studio. Paris is supposed to be here. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Oh, you know. Liar liar pants on fire. The worst person ever, basically. How does it feel to know you have the integrity and the peacoat collection of Eagletonian scum?”

“It’s not that simple,” Rory protests. “I’m not lying, not exactly. I mean, yes, it started as a lie, but we had the best intentions. We really wanted to do something good for the world, and – and you try living in New England and not amassing a giant peacoat collection! That doesn’t make me an Eagletonian!”

“Aren’t your grandparents Richard and Emily Gilmore, a.k.a. the notorious founders of Eagleton?”

Rory glances off to the side of the room. Her grandparents are sitting there. In thrones. Wearing big, sparkly crowns. Richard is sleeping, while Emily regally waves at no one in particular. Lorelai sits in between them tossing popcorn into her mouth, tiara lopsided. She waves giddily at Rory.

“No one was supposed to know about that,” Rory mutters.

“Speaking of things no one’s supposed to know about,” Leslie Couric says, leaning in, “Rory, why haven’t you told Paris how you really feel?”

“I keep trying,” Rory says. “She won’t listen to me.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know! Because she’s Paris, because she’s crazy, because nothing can ever be easy with her—”

“Ah,” Leslie Couric says.

“What?” Rory says. The lights around them dim. “What?” Rory says again, as the room goes black. “Is—is this interview over? I’m not done—”

And then she’s sitting in the Chilton library, staring at Paris from across the room.

Paris is with Madeline and Louise, like always, but the two of them are busy braiding each other’s hair and babbling away in cheerful French. (Rory knows it’s French somehow, even though she can’t make out any of what they’re saying. She took French once. She should be able to understand. She’s forgetting how it feels to understand anything.) Paris slips away from them, wandering into the stacks, the blonde and navy blue bane of Rory’s life, tiny and raging, impossible to ignore, and so of course Rory follows her.

Paris doesn’t slow down. Books tumble from the shelves as she passes. Hell hath no fury, or something.

“Paris, where are you going?” Rory calls after her, dodging a lethal copy of Far From The Madding Crowd.

“Why do you care?” Paris demands.

“I care, okay?” Rory says, trying to raise her voice over the swirling storm of pages. She thinks the books might be crying. The library stretches on forever in front of her, and Paris is just getting farther and farther away, turning into a speck on the horizon. Rory’s feet are brick heavy and all she wants to do is run. “Of course I care; I’ve always cared. You know that. Just—slow down!”

“Liar,” Paris says, close again and finally turning to face her, her blonde hair whipping indignantly, the air around her full of light—

Rory jolts awake at a knock on her bedroom door.

“Paris?” she says, sitting up.

The door swings open, and there’s ... Luke. Which is, objectively, better than dream Paris going into a Galadriel-esque luminous rage. Or something.

Rory frowns, trying to remember the details of the dream. Whatever it was, it’s left her feeling all twisted up and guilty. And in need of some Parks & Rec.

“You’ve got visitors,” Luke says gruffly. Confused, Rory glances at the clock. Almost five.

Madeline and Louise duck past Luke into the room, fully dressed and fabulous.

Rory holds back a groan.

“Is this gonna become a normal occurrence?” Luke asks as they file by. “Weird people showing up in the middle of the night? I’m okay if it is. I just need a warning.”

“We were trying to figure out how to climb into your bedroom window, but we got caught. He swung an umbrella at us,” Madeline reports.

“Like it was nothing,” Louise says, eyeing Luke in a way that is deeply unacceptable to Rory’s mental health. “Like it was as light as a feather.”

Luke is starting to look mighty uncomfortable.

“Settle down, Queen Thirsty.” Paris barges in, sleep-rumpled and grumpy and glorious. “It’s an umbrella, not a barbell.”

“They can stay?” Luke asks, giving Rory a look that says ‘One word, and these weirdos are out of here.’

It’s mighty tempting.

“Yes,” Rory sighs. “They can stay.”

Luke nods and shuffles off. A really fast shuffle.

“Yum,” Louise says as soon as the door’s closed.

“Total lumberjack hottie,” says Madeline.

“Can you guys not?” Rory groans. “He’s my stepfather.”

“Exactly,” Madeline says. “No blood relation. It wouldn’t even be that weird if you hooked up with him.”

Rory is intensely tempted to bury her head in her pillow and pretend none of this is happening. “I’m just going to forget you ever said that.”

“How into your mom is he, exactly?” Louise asks, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“One hundred percent, so whatever you’re thinking, stop now please,” says Rory.

“No man is one hundred percent devoted to a woman,” Louise says. “There’s always a little wiggle room—”

“Oh, God,” Rory moans.

“Louise,” Paris barks. “Shut it down.”

“Fine,” Louise grumbles. “I guess I’ll just be one of those boring monogamous wives.”

“Cry me a river, Emma Bovary. Now, what the hell are you doing here?” Paris crosses her arms over her chest.

“Practicing,” Louise says. “The four of us are having breakfast together tomorrow morning—”

“You mean today,” Paris says.

“In like two hours,” Rory contributes miserably.

“All right, today at the Dragonfly, on camera. Nigel approached us and he thought it was a great idea.”

“Nigel approached you?” Paris says.

“Well,” Madeline says with an untroubled shrug, “he got tired of us approaching him.”

“We have to practice ... breakfast?” Rory says.

“We do if it’s going to be the breakfast so fascinating that it gets me and Madeline our own reality show,” says Louise.

“Ah,” says Rory.

“So that’s how it is, huh?” says Paris. “We don’t talk for like a decade and then you decide to come back here just to use us for fame?”

“Yep,” Madeline and Louise chirp in unison.

Paris considers this for a moment. “I can respect that,” she decides.

“So, um,” Rory says, “where’s Channing while you’re here ... rehearsing breakfast?”

“Michel is watching him,” Louise says. “God, I wish I could just take him home with me. He would be, like, the best manny.”

“Michel is babysitting? Voluntarily? Before five in the morning?” Rory decides not to share the fact that Michel’s only prior known stint in babysitting resulted in him rolling the baby under a bed. It just doesn’t seem helpful.

“I said I’d pay him two hundred bucks an hour, and he seemed down,” Louise says.

“Fancy that,” says Rory wryly, and hopes that Louise isn’t actually serious about this whole manny-Michel thing. Lorelai definitely won’t like losing the world’s prickliest concierge.

Poor Stars Hollow. She’s starting to wonder if it will ever recover from Hurricane Raris.

+

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting down at the kitchen table, sipping imaginary mimosas and memorizing their dialogue.

Yep. Dialogue.

It turns out that Madeline and Louise have written scripts that outline exactly how this special breakfast is going to go.

“I’m not saying ‘on fleek,’” Paris declares, throwing her script down.

“How else are you going to describe my eyebrows?” Louise asks impatiently.

“Drawn on?” Paris offers.

Madeline gasps.

Louise lifts her – okay, suspiciously perfect – eyebrows. “It wouldn’t hurt you to brush up on your inner urban dictionary, Grandma.”

“Every time somebody says ‘on fleek,’ a brain cell dies,” Paris says. “I can see where that might not be a big issue for you, Jackie Siegel, but as for me, I’ve come to really appreciate this whole being-fully-sentient thing, and—”

“I’d take the superiority down a notch,” Louise retorts. “There are plastic Halloween masks of your face. If you don’t believe me, check my Instagram. I posed next to some in a costume shop last year. Hashtag went-to-high-school-with-this-fierce-bitch.”

“You think I don’t know there are plastic masks of my face?” Paris demands. “I know there are plastic masks of my face. That was always going to be a side effect of me becoming a public figure too powerful to be ignored.”

“Your face was hanging right next to Donald Trump’s face,” Louise taunts. “So what, are you guys, like, buddies now?”

“That’s not even funny,” Paris scowls.

“He probably likes you,” Louise pushes. “You’re probably the only person in the public eye who calls people losers more often than he does.”

“DONALD TRUMP HATES ME, AND I WEAR HIS HATE LIKE A BADGE OF HONOR!” Paris bellows. “Do you want me to start a Twitter war with him? I’ll start a Twitter war with him right now! Rory, where’s my phone??”

“I’ll say ‘on fleek’,” Rory interjects loudly.

“Rory, no,” Paris says, like Rory just offered to let Paris have the last spot on a lifeboat off the Titanic.

“It’s two words,” Rory says. “I don’t care, Paris; I just want to go back to bed.”

“You’ll never work in this town again,” Paris warns.

“I don’t know,” Rory says. “Stars Hollow is pretty Team Rory.”

“In any town again!” Paris thunders.

“It’s just a dumb expression, Paris,” Rory says, pressing her hand lightly over Paris’s forearm. “It’s fine.”

Paris’s expression softens. Even in the midst of exhaustion and imaginary mimosas, Rory feels a flash of peace.

“See,” Louise says. “Rory knows how to keep with the times.”

It’s enough to pull Paris right out of peaceful mode.

“Rory knows how to be kind to idiots,” she snaps. “That’s never really been my strong suit.”

“Ice cold, Geller,” Louise says. “This documentary is really bringing out the darkness in you.”

Paris lets out a huffy sigh, but for once, she doesn’t argue.

Once the Rage of Paris isn’t crackling in the air anymore, all of the life seems to go out of the room. It’s all Rory can do not to fall asleep on the kitchen table.

“I can’t believe you guys aren’t loving this,” Madeline says. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I still wish we had thought of it.”

“It was a mistake,” Paris says. “Is that what you want to hear? It was a mistake. It was a mistake, okay? But Michele Bachmann set a fire of righteous fury in me, and now we’re burning Stars Hollow down. There. Are you happy?”

“Oh, come on,” Louise says, relaxing. She pats Paris’s shoulder. “It’s not all bad. Your hair looks, like, the best it ever has, and it’s all being captured on video.”

“My last haircut did cost three hundred dollars,” Paris admits.

“And you,” Louise says, turning to Rory, “you’ll have some great material for some legendary journalism expose.”

Rory gives her a doubtful look.

“She keeps worrying about journalistic integrity,” Paris says.

“Whatever,” Louise says. “Don’t. You can so make this work for you.”

“And besides,” Madeline says brightly, “one day your kids can watch this and be like, ‘Aw, our moms were so young and hot.’”

“What?” Rory and Paris say in unison.

“I don’t mean in like an Oedipal way,” Madeline says. “Don’t worry.”

“Not really the subject of the ‘what’ there, Mads,” Paris says flatly.

“Our ... kids?” Rory says, glancing at Paris. “Like, kids belonging to Paris and me ... together?”

“She’s exaggerating,” Louise explains. To Madeline, she adds, “As if these nerds would put their careers on hold for babies.”

“I guess you’re right,” Madeline agrees.

“But hey. At least it’s finally out in the open that Paris was pining for you hardcore from the second you showed up at Chilton,” Louise tells Rory. “I’m glad you guys talked about it and decided to use it to your advantage. Like, somebody needed to bring it up.”

Rory feels the whole world stop.

“All that repressed emotion,” Madeline says, oblivious. “I swear, it was giving me stress breakouts just witnessing it.”

“Do you remember that time you were supposed to go out with Josh Iverson that weekend, but you had to cancel because of the nasty blackhead explosion that came from Paris nonstop ranting about Rory and Tristan and how Rory had betrayed her and she should have known not to trust Podunk Barbie and blah blah blah?”

“Like I’ll ever forget,” Madeline says woefully. “Josh Iverson ...”

“I should have known you weren’t that into Tristan,” Louise says to Paris, like this is a normal conversation to have. “He was so not your type. All that rule breaking and hair gel. But Rory? Rory was infinitely your type.”

“It makes way more sense,” Madeline agrees.

At last, Rory looks at Paris.

Their eyes meet for a second.

Then, without a single word, Paris gets up and leaves. Rory hears the front door open and thud shut.

“Oops,” Louise says innocently. “You guys didn’t talk about that?”

“No,” Rory says, trying to stay patient. Trying not to just go all hulk Rory and smash-smash everything in the immediate vicinity. She can’t just destroy the kitchen. Now that Luke lives here, somebody actually uses this kitchen.

“Can you pretend we didn’t mention it?” Louise says airily.

“Probably not,” Rory says through gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” Madeline says, wincing. “For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a really cute couple.”

“I can see you growing old together with a bunch of cats,” Louise adds.

“Um, okay, that’s nice,” Rory says, dazed. “I really have to go after her now. Thanks for ... your help?”

“You’re welcome!” chirps Madeline.

+

Rory stumbles around the dark snowy yard in a pair of giant slippers with owl faces on them. Based on the size, she figures they must belong to Luke, and based on the fact that they were next to the door, he actually wears them – but that is a mystery to investigate another time. Right now, she has to find Paris.

She tracks a narrow set of footprints to the garage.

Bingo.

Paris is sitting in the corner on top of a chaise longue that Emily gave Mom and Luke in a seriously misguided Christmas gift situation.

“Paris?” Rory says tentatively, turning on the light.

“What’s the number one rule of Madeline and Louise?” Paris says numbly. She won’t look at Rory. Her feet are bare.

“I don’t know,” Rory says, keeping her voice gentle. “What?”

“Don’t listen to them. They’re idiots. Unless you want information on superior brands of bronzer. Then they’re legit.”

Rory bites her lip. “So you didn’t ...?”

Paris looks up, her face flushed and a little blotchy. Rory wonders for a minute if she was crying, and then decides to blame the cold. “You know me, Rory. Do you really think I would stand by and watch you date the masculine moron trio if I wanted to be with you?”

“You aren’t so much with the not going and getting what you want,” Rory admits, sitting on the edge of the chaise longue.

“Exactly,” says Paris. She sounds so sure, but she tenses up the second Rory gets closer to her.

Rory stares at a shelf of old board games across the garage. “If you did ... have those feelings back then ...”

“I didn’t,” Paris says shortly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Rory tries not to feel the sting of the words. What else did she expect?

(Not kissing. That’s for sure. Not falling into each other’s arms.)

All right, then.

That’s the end of that.

“Come on,” Rory says. She goes to touch Paris’s shoulder, and then catches herself, and just stands up instead. “Let’s go back inside and finish fake breakfast, okay? You’re right. They’re Madeline and Louise. They’ve never been very good at understanding you. This is no different than any of those other times at Chilton.”

But of course Paris doesn’t go for this extremely reasonable suggestion. Nope. Instead, she stays put. “So Jess is on a quest to lock it down with Alex, huh?”

“Oh,” Rory says, disoriented. “You heard that?”

“I don’t think she’s right for him.”

“Why? I think they’re a great couple.”

“She’s too chipper. It’ll never last.”

“I don’t know,” Rory says. “I think that’s what makes them work well together. They’re just different enough.”

Paris gives her an ‘I don’t believe you’ look. More of the you’re-secretly-pining-for-Jess accusations, then. Great.

Rory decides to shut that nonsense down once and for all. “That was probably the problem with Jess and me. I had such a hard time being honest with him sometimes because – I don’t know, because I was afraid he would think I was needy or something. We were both too quiet about the stuff that really needed to be talked about. But Alex seems like she doesn’t shy away from that kind of thing, and that’s good. That’s what Jess needs. That’s what’s going to keep them happy.” Rory gives her a slight smile. An I’m free, I’m yours kind of smile.

“Whatever,” Paris says sharply. “She’s a pale imitation Rory Gilmore and on some level, Jess knows it.”

... of course.

“Paris!” Rory exclaims, trying not to sink into the depths of being totally pissed off. “He does not. And how is Alex anything like me? That girl has definitely hiked a mountain! Voluntarily!”

Paris ignores her. “Why did he take her back here to propose then, huh? He must have heard that you were here. A week – that’s plenty of time to swap out the new girlfriend for the old true love. I wouldn’t have pegged Jess as a romcom schemer, but God, hats off to him. It’s like Nancy Meyers wrote it. Where’s Katherine Heigl?? Come out, Katie!” She hollers to the ceiling. “We’re onto you!”

“This is crazy,” Rory says, irritated. “You do realize that these ideas are crazy, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry.” Paris’s eyes are getting that steely glint that means doom to all around her. “He’s not proposing to her.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Don’t interfere!” Rory orders. “Paris, I mean it. If you try to do anything to mess this up for him, I will be really, really upset with you. Do you hear me? Just because we’re all caught up in this stupid lie doesn’t mean that we can screw up everybody else’s lives too.”

“So you’re just going to roll over and let him get away?” Paris demands, standing up abruptly. She crosses her arms, getting all up in Rory’s face.

“He already got away a long time ago!” Rory yells. “God, what am I going to have to do to convince you that I’m over it? I’d look really stupid with ‘I’M OVER IT’ tattooed on my forehead, but I’ll go there if I really need to! Kirk tried to become Stars Hollow’s resident tattoo artist a couple of years ago, so I guess I could always give him a call—”

“I know when you’re lying,” Paris says stubbornly, her eyes bright as she looks into Rory’s. “And I’m not going to let your stupid someday guy slip out of your grasp. You’re my best friend.”

“Paris—”

“You remember what you told me back when we were in D.C. that summer, and you were helping me get ready to go out with Jamie?”

Rory thinks back. She dimly remembers brushing Paris’s hair, and then getting shoved into the closet. Pretty standard adventures-with-Paris fare.

“You went on and on about how great it is to find the right person for you,” Paris says. “The person who complements you. Who gets you but who’s different enough to keep you on your toes. How exciting it is to have a relationship like that.”

“You remember that?” Rory says, surprised.

“There were practically hearts spilling out of your eyeballs while you were talking,” Paris says, her voice a little too brittle. “Believe me, I wish I could forget that, but no such luck.”

“Hearts were not spilling out of my eyeballs—”

“I figured out it was Jess you were talking about,” Paris interrupts. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not.” Rory’s stomach is suddenly filled with fretful butterflies. “Why? Who did you think I was talking about before?”

“Dean,” Paris says, after a pause. “Obviously.”

Oh God.

Oh God.

All of her memories of Paris – every one, right back to the earliest of the blue plaid nemesis adventures – threaten to twist around into something new.

“Paris—” Rory begins, with exactly no clue where she’s going to end.

“Dean, okay?” Paris says loudly, and turns away. “Dean. I thought it was Dean. Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean Deany McFarm Boy. And if you start talking about that steaming heap of bull that Madeline and Louise threw your way just now, I will sell you to Bill Maher, Rory, and if you think he’s got too much integrity to buy a human woman, you’re putting way too much faith in him—”

“Paris,” Rory says, reaching for her arm. “Can’t we just—”

“Knock, knock!” Nigel peeks into the garage, the camera crew hovering behind him. “Rise and shine, Raris! An early morning lovers’ rendezvous in the garage, hmm? Delightful!”

Paris looks at Rory, her eyes bright and blazing. She grabs Rory’s shoulders and pulls her in, kissing her hard. A Godfather kiss. A threat, or an unwanted promise, or something. It’s got none of the softness that Rory keeps stupidly hoping for.

“I’ve got your back,” Paris whispers in her ear before she pulls away. “Don’t worry.”

“Paris—” Rory protests fuzzily, but the cameras are rolling and the day is starting – too soon, way too soon – and Paris is gone before she can think of a single thing to say to make things right.

The Best Of It - Part 10 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Tue, 28 Jul 2015 22:14:31 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 10 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 3,860

Part 10: Of Jess News & Jeoparory

Rory decides to go over to Luke’s for some coffee while Paris and Alex are Mad Max-ing their way through the quaint streets of Stars Hollow. She’s not really in the mood to watch. She wishes she could say the same for the majority of the people in this town, but nope. An embarrassing amount of them have gathered in the streets, trying to look like they’re casually going about their business but really waiting to see the showdown.

Just great.

When she gets to Luke’s, she finds Jess sitting at a table, scribbling in a Moleskine. He looks seriously disgruntled. Probably because everyone in here is staring at him.

“Hey,” Rory says, slipping into the chair next to his.

“Hey,” Jess mutters back.

Rory is used to Luke’s being a nice little haven of caffeine and general yumminess, but not today. Every single person in here is staring at the two of them like they’re about to become duel widows.

It helps a little when Luke comes by and soundlessly sets two to-go cups of coffee on the table.

Jess starts, “You want to get—”

“As far away from everybody as possible?” Rory finishes. “Yes please.”

They grab their coffees and head for the door.

“Rory! Rory!” Kirk calls after her, in true paparazzi fashion. “Will you still love Paris once she’s got blood on her hands?”

“Oh, jeez,” Luke says, in true Luke fashion. “No interrogation in the diner, Kirk.”

“But we all agree that Paris is going to dominate,” Kirk says.

“I dunno!” Babette says. “I wouldn’t count out girl Jess! She’s scrappy!”

“They’re not going to physically fight each other,” Rory reminds everyone. “They’re just going on a walk. So really, this is all being very blown out of proportion—”

“But will you still love Paris once she’s got blood on her hands?” Kirk asks solemnly.

“Okay,” Rory says, “bye now.”

+

And that’s how she and Jess wind up on a relaxing little wander through Stars Hollow. (They make sure to steer clear of the gazebo, since Paris and Alex are currently hanging out in there with Nigel and the gang.) They talk about work and writing and – thank God – anything but the fact that Rory’s life has become a festival of deception and nonsense.

Eventually, without really meaning to, they find themselves at the old bridge. Place of picnic lunches and feelings confessions. Her heart aches in a funny, nostalgic way. Rory doesn’t usually feel old – she still hasn’t accomplished nearly enough – but standing on the bridge with Jess by her side, it feels like a hundred years since they were last back here. Everything about love seemed so hard and confusing back then.

Oh, young Rory, she thinks. How little you knew.

They sit down at the edge of the bridge for old times’ sake, even though it’s all frosty and freezing.

After a little bit of coffee sipping in pleasant silence, Jess says, “Guess what?”

“What?”

He reaches into his coat pocket, and out comes ...

A ring box.

“Jess!” Rory exclaims. “Oh my God!”

“It won’t be a big surprise or anything,” Jess says, staring sheepishly down into the icy water. “We’ve talked about it already. But I thought she might like the gesture. You wanna hear the worst part?”

“What?”

In a conspiratorial, cringey whisper, he says, “I thought I might do it at the Firelight Festival.”

“No way!” Rory says, delighted. “That is so cheesy!”

“Right? It’s bad. But, I dunno, when she first started working at the bookshop, we started up this whole thing where every time a customer was a pain in the ass, we’d joke about how we had to keep carrying the fire. From—”

“The Road,” Rory supplies.

“The Road,” Jess agrees with a little quirk of a smile.

“A very irreverent use of a very poignant line, by the way,” Rory scolds playfully.

“What can I say? We’re rebels. Anyway, it was kinda the first thing that made us get along, and so I just thought ... you know. Maybe it works, keeping with the whole fire theme.”

“It totally works,” Rory says.

“And it’s not like it’s gonna happen in front of people,” Jess says. “I just figured, if a quiet moment comes along ... although I guess that might not be too likely this weekend.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Everyone will be distracted by Paris and I publically performing the stupidest dance in Stars Hollow history,” Rory says. “And I don’t say that lightly. Stars Hollow made a Harlem Shake video.”

“No way,” Jess says, chuckling. “How have I not seen that?”

“I’ll send it to you,” Rory promises. “The worst part – or the best part, depending on your perspective – is Taylor trying to stop Jackson’s cousin Roon from performing some very lewd movements on the Pulaski statue. It kind of turned into Taylor performing very lewd movements on Roon by trying to pull him off of the statue, and suddenly there’s this chain of very lewd movements going on, and, well. Watching that in slow motion ... it sticks with you for a long, long time.”

“Sounds like a classic,” Jess says.

“Stars Hollow at its finest,” Rory agrees. “But I don’t know why I’m rambling about Taylor and lewd movements; this is so not the time.”

“Is there ever a time for that?”

“The point is, God, Jess, I’m so happy for you. For both of you.”

She hugs him tight. Maybe a little too tight.

“You okay?” Jess asks, giving her a little concerned frown.

“Yeah. Yeah, totally.” He eyes her doubtfully, and something about it makes her keep talking. “I just ... I guess I just wish I was ... in that place, you know? Not the marriage place, necessarily, but the place where you’re ... just ... sure.”

Well, that was a festival of word vomit.

“Hey,” Jess teases, “at least you’ve got Paris, right?”

For a second, bursting into tears seems like a seriously viable option. Then Rory puts on a smile. “Yep. Lucky me.”

“Could be worse. Could be the blonde dick at Yale. What ever happened to that guy?”

“Married with two very blonde little children whose existences are chronicled pretty much hourly on his wife’s Instagram. This morning, they had kale smoothies for breakfast.”

“Yeesh. Definitely dodged a bullet there.”

“I like to think so. Logan meant a lot to me, but I just couldn’t in good conscience give small children kale, you know?”

“Totally. Plus, Paris must be raking in the dough, right?” Jess speculates teasingly. “As far as sugar mommas go, she’s not bad.”

“No,” Rory agrees, trying to sound all casual and peppy. “She’s not bad at all, actually. She’s actually ... sort of completely wonderful, in her own weird unparalleled Paris Geller way, isn’t she?”

Jess furrows his eyebrows suspiciously.

He’s always been too smart for his own good.

“So,” Rory says brightly (and quickly, very quickly). “Let’s practice your proposal speech.”

“Uh, yeah, I wasn’t really planning on a speech. I was gonna just kind of wing it.”

“Come on! I’m a firm believer in practice-makes-perfect.”

“And I’m a firm believer in not being lame.”

“Nope, it’s too late for that. You’re going to propose at the Firelight Festival. You’re already as lame as it gets, mister.”

“I’m not practicing a speech. I’m not making a speech. Man of few words, remember?”

“But don’t you think this is a really fantastic opportunity to change that? At least quote her some romantic Morrissey song lyrics or something.”

“Oh yeah? Which romantic Morrissey song lyrics would those be, exactly?”

“‘To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.’ Duh.”

“Isn’t that a little bleak for a proposal?”

“And a reference to carrying the metaphorical fire that signifies the ability of the human soul to soldier on despite the world being reduced to a post-apocalyptic wasteland full of cannibalism isn’t?”

“Okay,” Jess concedes with a sigh. “Maybe I shouldn’t do it at the Firelight Festival.”

“No, you should definitely do it at the Firelight Festival,” Rory says, poking him affectionately in the arm. He grimaces. More seriously, she says, “It’s going to be perfect, Jess. I know it.”

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly, and slips the ring back into his pocket.

The conversation lulls away into more coffee drinking. Rory stares ahead of her and tries not to think about the fact that this is it. The last of the Rory Gilmore’s True Loves Brigade to officially slip away from her, once and for all. And really, it’s okay. It wasn’t meant to be in the long run, just like with Dean and Logan.

But there was always something a little special about Jess, or at least the possibility of Jess. He was the first guy who ever really shook up her life. He surprised her, and made her think, and saw her as more than just Stars Hollow’s resident do-no-wrong good girl.

There was only one other person Rory had ever had that feeling with. That you-keep-me-on-my-toes, you-drive-me-crazy, we-are-so-different-and-so-the-same feeling. And she’d never really stopped to actually think about whether that feeling meant anything. Because it couldn’t, right?

A very stupid lump forms in her throat. She takes a sip of coffee to drown it.

“Rory?” Jess says.

“Yeah?”

He bumps her shoulder with his. “She’d be lucky to have you.”

And maybe now should be the time to deny, deny, deny. But God, she’s so tired.

“Thanks, Jess,” Rory says, and rests her head on his shoulder.

+

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Jessica Mariano

[NOTE: throughout the course of this segment, Paris Geller stands in the background. Let the record show that much victorious smirking was involved.]

INTERVIEWER
So, for this round of Jeoparory—

PARIS
What the [expletive] did you just say?

INTERVIEWER
It’s a clever portmanteau of ‘Jeopardy’ and ‘Rory.’

PARIS
Is it, Nigel? Is it?

INTERVIEWER
Ahem. So, for this round of Rory Gilmore Jeopardy—

PARIS
Uninspired but less deserving of my barf.

INTERVIEWER
—I will be asking a series of questions to reveal just how well you know Stars Hollow’s resident darling!

JESS
Super.

[Let the record state that she does not really sound like she considers this to be super.]

INTERVIEWER
Jess, you’ll go first, and Paris will follow.

JESS
Super.

[Let the record state that things still do not seem to be truly super in her estimation.]

INTERVIEWER
First question. What is Rory Gilmore’s middle name?

JESS
Doesn’t have one.

INTERVIEWER
Incorrect.

JESS
Uh, okay, then. How about ... Elizabeth. That’s, like, 70% of the female population’s middle name, right? If not Elizabeth, then definitely Marie.

INTERVIEWER
Incorrect again, I’m afraid.

JESS
How about her mom’s name? Is it her mom’s name? They’re tight.

INTERVIEWER
No, her name is not ... Lorelai Lorelai.

JESS
Well, ya know. Whatever. Did Romeo know Juliet’s middle name? No way, bro.

INTERVIEWER
All right. Let’s try something else. When is Rory’s birthday?

JESS (shrugs)
It never really came up.

INTERVIEWER
That seems ... hard to believe, but all righty then. How about Rory’s favorite food? You must have seen her eat something.

JESS
... I don’t think so.

INTERVIEWER
Really? Never?

JESS
Nope.

INTERVIEWER
But didn’t you work at the diner where she came to eat multiple times every day?

JESS
... You know what, man, I’m gonna stop you right here. When Rory and I were going out, uh ... well, I was really into thinking about Donnie Darko that year. Everything else is just kind of a blur. You know how it is.

INTERVIEWER
I don’t know, as a matter of fact.

JESS
Not my problem, broseph.

***

INTERVIEW – Paris Geller

[NOTE: throughout the course of this segment, Jess Mariano stands in the background, reading a copy of A Clockwork Orange]

INTERVIEWER
Rory’s middle name?

PARIS
Leigh. L-e-i-g-h, not L-e-e. People mess that up all the time.

INTERVIEWER
Birthday?

PARIS
October 8. At 4:03 AM. I know because her mom calls her at that time every year to wax nostalgic about the joys of pushing her out of her hoo-ha. Cute, right?

INTERVIEWER
Er. Charming. Rory’s favorite food?

PARIS
Pot roast. Followed by literally everything, provided it doesn’t have much to do with leafy greens.

INTERVIEWER
Role model?

PARIS
Her mom. Christiane Amanpour. Adrienne Rich. PJ Harvey. Her grandmother, if she has to be in a situation that requires intimidating somebody. In the realm of fiction, Leslie Knope from Parks and Recreation in a big way. We’re talking smitten girl crush city. Do you know how many times I’ve had to hear about how Ben doesn’t deserve her?

INTERVIEWER
Girl crush, you say? Aren’t all her crushes girl crushes?

PARIS
Hey, Nige. Don’t blame me for falling into the trappings of compulsory heterosexuality. It’s all around us, seeping insidiously into the air we breathe. Like dust mites, and Jason Derulo songs.

INTERVIEWER
So sorry.

PARIS
Also, she has a weird thing for Mark Ruffalo. A boy crush, if you will. Don’t ask me. Maybe being outspokenly anti-fracking is the one attractive quality that a man can really possess, you know?

INTERVIEWER
Uh. What are Rory’s dreams and goals?

PARIS
To be a great journalist – to travel and cover amazing stories and to tell people about things that are really important. And to somehow make a film adaptation of Charlotte Bronte’s Villette happen. Which, personally, I think would be kind of a snoozer, but try telling her that.

INTERVIEWER
Indeed, indeed. Now. If Rory Gilmore went to Hogwarts—

PARIS
Ravenclaw. Come on, Nigel. What are you, new?

INTERVIEWER
All right, then! I have no choice but to declare Paris Geller the winner of Jeoparory.

PARIS
Ahem.

INTERVIEWER
... Rory Gilmore Jeopardy. Jess, any words?

JESS
Whatever. Winning is what the man wants us to want.

PARIS
Spoken like a true loser.

+

“You have to swear not to tell anyone.”

“Fine. I solemnly swear.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But I just told you I swore!” Lorelai says indignantly. “What do you want from me? A blood oath? Because I’ll do it, but Luke will be seriously grumpy if he has to scrub my bloodstains off the kitchen table, and I think you and I both know me well enough to know that I am just not going to be in the mood to clean up my own oath blood—”

“Fine! I’ll tell you if you shut up!” Rory interjects.

“Ha ha!” Lorelai says triumphantly.

“Jess is going to propose to Alex.”

Lorelai gasps.

“At the Firelight Festival.”

Lorelai double-gasps. “What? No way.”

“What do you mean, ‘no way’?”

“It’s just, Jess has never been very into, you know, commitment or affection or basic human decency.”

“Mom! That was a long time ago. He’s grown up into a really excellent human being and you know it.”

“Hey. Once you burn my daughter, you’re on my oh-no-no list for life.”

“Be that as it may, you can’t hate on your own step-nephew.”

“Oh, fine,” Lorelai grumbles. Brightening, she asks, “Can I at least speculate over exactly what degree of incest your relationship constitutes?”

“Zero incest. Zero.”

“You’ve totally made out with your step-cousin.”

“He wasn’t my step-cousin when it happened!”

“I think cousinhood is retroactive.”

“Oh my God. You’ve been talking to Madeline and Louise, haven’t you?”

“Please. Like I’ve had the chance. They’ve been glued to Michel since they got to the inn. He says he’s never wasting his time talking to anybody else ever again. Apparently, he’s found his people.”

“That’s heartwarming, I guess.”

“A trio hasn’t been so lethal since Regina, Gretchen, and Karen.”

The back door swings open.

“Hey,” Paris says. She isn’t covered in blood and bruises, and the cat mittens are still on her hands. Rory chooses to take this as a good sign.

“Hey!” Rory says. “How did it go? Did you and Alex get into a fistfight over me?”

“Settle down, Gilmore,” Paris says.

“Nuh uh,” Rory teases. “I was promised drama and I demand it.”

“So you want us to get in a fistfight over you?” Paris says quizzically.

“Kinda, yep,” chirps Rory.

Lorelai adds, “As someone who has been fist-fought over, I just have to say, no lady should settle for anything less.”

“Got it,” Rory says.

“And with those words of wisdom, I leave you,” Lorelai says, getting up from the table. “Sookie and I are going shopping.”

“Ooh! Shopping! Fun!” says Rory.

“Oh no. This is not fun shopping. I wish. This is preparing-for-the-apocalypse shopping.”

“The apocalypse? You don’t think that’s a little bit melodramatic?” Rory says.

Her grandparents are coming tomorrow for the opening of the Firelight Festival. Sure, Rory’s not wild about the idea of them – or anyone – bearing witness to the Dance of the Fire Fairies, but other than that, she thinks it might be nice to have them in Stars Hollow.

Shockingly, her mother does not share that opinion.

“Friday Night Dinner at my house? My parents? Here? Eating? Believe me, hon, ‘apocalypse’ is the polite term. My mother is going to expect things! Ridiculous, lofty, upstairs-at-Downton-Abbey things! Food that isn’t fresh out of a brightly colored box in the freezer, for one.”

“I’m sure Luke will cook something great. And you’ve always got Sookie for backup.”

“Well, what about these shoddy digs, huh? We own exactly zero percent of the stuffy, unnecessary kitchen frippery that my mother deems essential to a non-barbaric existence. For example: cloth napkins. Has there ever been a cloth napkin in this house?”

“The paper towels tear off into those little half sheets,” Rory points out. “That’s kind of like a napkin. And they have cute patterns on them.”

“Yes, Rory,” Lorelai says impatiently. “Let’s give my mother half of a paper towel and tell her it’s part of a place setting. That will definitely go over well. If my mother has even touched a paper towel before in her entire life, I’ll eat my hat.”

“You like all of your hats too much to eat them,” Rory reminds her.

“I’ll eat Luke’s hat,” Lorelai amends smoothly.

“You mean the hat that symbolizes your love? That hat?”

“That hat! That should tell you just how serious I am about the fact that Emily Gilmore has never even seen a paper towel up close, and receiving half of one and being told to use it as a napkin would make her drop dead on the spot.” Lorelai pauses. “Actually, upon further reflection, I’m warming up to this idea.”

“It’s not worth the potential risk of stroke,” Rory decides. “Grandma’s getting up there in age. Go buy your fancy napkins with Sookie.”

“Fine,” Lorelai sulks. “And I’m telling Mom you said that, by the way.”

“Mean!”

“Napkin shopping, Rory! Napkin shopping on a Thursday night. This is what my life has been reduced to.”

“Hey. At least you don’t have to perform a stupid dance in front of the entire town at the Firelight Festival tomorrow, with the full knowledge that someday soon, it will be accessible to anybody with a TV. Or, might as well face it, YouTube.”

“Did you sign onto this thing just to you can make all of my problems sound petty in comparison?” Lorelai demands. “Because it’s very annoying.”

“You know me.” Rory smiles angelically. “Annoying my mom is what I live for.”

“Like mother, like daughter. I can respect that. Catch you later, tiny dancers.” And with a wave, Lorelai is off to her napkin-shaped doom.

Paris has spent the whole conversation diving into the rest of the gluten free cookies that little Channing was so into yesterday. She breaks the last cookie in half and hands it across the table to Rory. “You two really aren’t sick of talking to each other yet?”

“Somehow we always find a way to banter on.”

“I don’t think I’ve exchanged that many words with my mother in at least five years.”

“Her loss,” Rory says. “Though to be fair, she is on the lam and all.”

“Whatever,” says Paris.

Rory nibbles on her cookie half. “So, what did you and Alex do if you weren’t beating each other bloody?”

“Nothing too intense. Nigel asked each of us questions about you. Your basic oral exam. Needless to say, I dominated.”

“Obviously,” Rory says, with some inexplicable blushing, and shoves the rest of the cookie into her mouth. “Um. What kind of questions?”

“Simple stuff. Favorite food, Hogwarts house, hopes and dreams, all that jazz. I did slip up briefly by calling Leslie Knope your girl crush instead of just your crush crush, but I talked my way out of it.”

“That’s good,” Rory says. “And hey, it’s not a girl crush. I just think she’s an inspiration for all women everywhere. Like, how often on TV do you see a woman who’s so smart and driven and dauntless, and blonde and tiny but still totally fierce and fearless when she needs to be, and funny and loyal and—”

“Please,” Paris interjects. “Every single time we watch an episode of that show together, all you talk about is how adorable Leslie is and how the only person who truly deserves her is Ann. Your feelings about Leslie Knope are like the gayest thing about you.”

Rory gives her the ol’ quizzical stare. “... Really?”

“Well, the gayest thing about you that I didn’t drag you into against your will,” Paris admits.

Rory sighs. “You didn’t drag me.”

“Oh really?” Paris says doubtfully.

“Well, okay, there was some dragging.”

“And kicking. And screaming.”

“No screaming. Maybe a little kicking. But the point is – I’m with you because I want to be, Paris. Like always.”

Okay, so Rory had meant that to sound a little more supportive friend and a little less ‘marry me!’. They’re supposed to be on pause. Rory’s the one who introduced the whole idea of the pause. And yet there’s something in her that just keeps wanting to press play.

Paris gives her that look again, that wondering hopeful look.

Rory’s hand inches just barely across the table, starting to reach.

“I have to pee,” Paris says, standing up. “When Nigel gets here, make sure to tell him how much you want to suck face with Amy Poehler.”

And with that, she zooms on out of the room.

“It’s not a girl crush!” Rory calls hopelessly after her.

No answer.

Although ... really ... what’s so bad if it is? At least it’s better than her middle school conviction that there was nobody dreamier than Shawn Hunter from Boy Meets World, with all that bad boy angst and distinctive hair and untapped literary potential. (Which, in retrospect, might explain a lot about her whole Era of Jess.)

Rory was totally right about all those things she said. Leslie Knope is fierce and driven and amazing and, at times, a very formidable force of nature considering the whole cute, blonde, petite thing, and–

“Aw man!” Rory realizes aloud, and lets herself slump face-down onto the table.

The Best Of It - Part 9 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Thu, 23 Jul 2015 00:46:29 GMT

Title: The Best Of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 9 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 2,100

Part 9: 50 Shades of Raris

“First,” says Madeline, “you have to tell us what we’re working with here.”

“We saw the Starbucks kissing pictures,” Louise begins. Channing tries to climb up her leg. She absently shoves him down.

“You did?” Rory says. She hands another cookie to poor little Channing. Paris gives her a bemused little smile. Paris has always been baffled by anyone’s ability to tolerate small children.

“Of course,” says Madeline. “We have the internet. But what we don’t know yet is just what kind of relationship you’re rocking here.”

“The good kind,” Paris says flatly.

“How so?” Madeline asks, with a level of interest that never made an appearance during any of their group projects back at Chilton.

“Loving? Secure? Full of trust? All that fun stuff?” Rory suggests.

“Boring, boring, boring,” Louise declares.

“You’re definitely going to have to do better than that,” Madeline agrees.

“Better than an ideal relationship?” Rory says skeptically.

“Duh,” says Madeline.

“You have to rebrand, baby,” says Louise. “People want dark. Destructive. Dangerous. Think 50 Shades of Grey.”

“I try not to,” Rory says. “Ever, actually.”

“Well, you’ve got to now, book snob,” says Louise. “If you want to stop an audience from wanting love triangle drama, then you’re only going to do it by having a relationship so full of drama that a third person isn’t required to shake things up.”

“But doesn’t that kind of defeat our whole point?” Rory has to ask.

“Your point?” Madeline says blankly.

“That loving, stable relationships are the same regardless of sexual orientation?”

“Yeah, that works for a five minute Macklemore song,” Madeline says. “But no one’s going to want to watch it for six episodes.”

“This opportunity is so wasted on you,” Louise says ruefully, shaking her head.

Paris takes a deep, ‘God give me strength’ kind of breath. “So what do we do?”

“First,” Louise says, “you send in the masterminds.”

She and Madeline fist bump daintily.

Rory and Paris look at each other. It is not the most optimistic of looks.

+

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Louise Grant-Gallagher and Madeline Lynn-Lee

INTERVIEWER
So nice to meet—

LOUISE
I’m Louise Grant-Gallagher.

MADELINE
And I’m Madeline Lynn-Lee.

LOUISE AND MADELINE (in unison)
And we’re your experts in all things fabulous.

INTERVIEWER
Well ... all right then!

LOUISE
Just because I’m a stay-at-home mom doesn’t mean I’m not a boss bitch.

INTERVIEWER
Um.

MADELINE
And I put the ‘trophy’ in ‘trophy wife.’

LOUISE
... You went with that? Really?

MADELINE
I guess it’s still a work in progress.

LOUISE
I just think it has some really insidious anti-feminist undertones, you know? Like, don’t objectify yourself.

MADELINE
You’re right. Damn it. I just thought, you know, calling myself a trophy would make me sound like a prize. Who doesn’t like prizes?

LOUISE
But don’t, like, strip yourself of your agency. And it’s not like trophy wife-ing is all you do; there’s the magazine and everything.

MADELINE
That’s true ...

LOUISE
Think of the little girls watching this who are going to totally idolize you.

MADELINE
Good point. (To Interviewer) Can we film that over?

INTERVIEW
Um. All of this is very nice, but I don’t quite understand what’s going on.

MADELINE
Oh, you know. Just in case you’re in need of some new programming once this little thing’s over.

LOUISE
We’re ceaselessly fascinating.

INTERVIEWER
I ... will keep that in mind! But for now, please do tell us: as their fellow students at Chilton, what it was like to bear witness to the beginning of Rory and Paris’s relationship? And did this Jess throw a wrench in their true, true love even back then?

LOUISE
First, you need to forget about Jess.

MADELINE
So irrelevant.

LOUISE
Once Rory and Paris first set eyes on each other, that was it. No one else could compete. The air around them felt electric.

MADELINE
They were so into each other that Rory knocked right into Paris and broke her history project, and Paris didn’t even care.

LOUISE
It was like nothing mattered anymore. Sure, Rory was small town trailer trash – or whatever you would call it. Lower middle class house trash? – and Paris was like the Elizabeth I of Chilton.

MADELINE
Total Romeo and Juliet situation.

LOUISE
But nothing could keep them apart. They had this whole pretending-to-hate-each-other thing on the surface—

MADELINE
Very old people from Star Wars.

LOUISE
—but everyone could tell that they were two seconds away from making out, like, all the time.

MADELINE
Once Paris brought her cousin as her date to a school dance to make Rory jealous.

LOUISE
And now that Jess is Rory’s step-cousin, it’s like Rory’s returning the favor. I promise you. This is all just one big sexual power play. It’s the Raris way. Keeping it in the family might be totally in style thanks to Game of Thrones, but no amount of cousin incest could be as smokin’ as those two bitches and their dark, twisty love.

MADELINE
(nods solemnly)

LOUISE
Do you want to hear about the time Paris almost impaled Rory with a fencing foil?

MADELINE
So hot.

INTERVIEWER
Oh my.

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Paris Geller and Rory Gilmore

RORY
Um. Yep.

PARIS
Pretty much.

INTERVIEWER
... Ah. Well, you see, I’m not sure that this is the tone that we want to set with this piece. It doesn’t seem entirely in tune with the right values. In fact, it’s a bit worrying to think of you as ... and I quote ... ‘two bitches with a dark twisty love.’

PARIS
They’re crazy.

INTERVIEWER
What?

PARIS
Madeline and Louise. They’re absurd. Bonkers. Cray cray. Deranged. Need I go on? ‘Cause I can do the whole alphabet.

RORY
Madeline and Louise, um, didn’t always see eye to eye with us. They were always had a little more ... enthusiasm for scandal than we did.

INTERVIEWER
That’s a relief to hear.

PARIS
Erratic. Full of it. Goo-for-brains. Hysterical. Idiotic.

RORY
Aw. Seeing old friends. Yay, right?

PARIS
Judgment-impaired. Kooky. Loony. Mental. Nutty.

RORY
Of unsound mind.

[The two exchange a high five.]

PARIS
Nice one.

RORY (nudges her)
Well, keep going, superstar.

PARIS
Let’s see. Pox-addled.

INTERVIEWER
Oh dear.

PARIS
Metaphorically. As far as I know.

+

Madeline and Louise aren’t too bothered by the fact that Nigel didn’t take to their 50 Shades of Raris spin on things.

“No one would really look at you two and think ‘sizzle’,” says Louise.

“But you’d be really good as someone’s embarrassing parents!” Madeline adds perkily.

“Thanks,” Paris says dryly.

Madeline and Louise (and little Channing) still settle down at the Dragonfly Inn, because apparently being this close to cameras isn’t an opportunity that can just be given up.

“All we have to do is look really hot and super interesting in the background,” Louise explains.

“Isn’t it hard to look hot while you’re, y’know, carrying a two year old?” asks Rory. From what she’s heard from Lane about parenthood, makeup is the first thing to go during a toddler’s reign of adorable terror.

“Not even,” says Louise. “I’m so embracing the MILF life. Believe you me: we’ll have our own show by the time this thing wraps up.”

“And it will be way more fun than this show,” Madeline says. “No offense.”

And so it’s back to love triangle land.

+

But to Rory’s surprise, it isn’t her that Nigel wants to follow around in the wake of Jess’s (well, “Jess”’s) return. Instead, he gleefully announces that Paris and Alex are going to be taking a walk around Stars Hollow, “just to get to know each other.”

“Translation: cat fight,” Paris says. She and Rory are hidden away in Rory’s room where Nigel can’t find them. Well, okay, he could find them pretty easily, but he hasn’t shown up yet.

Which means that Paris is taking the time to turn herself into a prize fighter. She pulls her hair into a severe ponytail, then bundles up in her winter coat and dons a pair of mittens like boxing gloves. A pair of mittens she’s borrowing from Rory. Babette knitted them as a birthday gift a few years back, and so, naturally, they have cats on them.

Still, Paris manages to make them look kind of badass. It’s very Million Dollar Baby of her.

“There’s not actually going to be a fight, is there?” Rory says, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

“There will be if Nigel can help it,” Paris says, and punches the air a few times.

“Nigel’s gone dark,” Rory says morosely.

“Nigel was always dark. It’s the nature of the reality TV beast. He just tried to distract us with his Ned Flanders-y appreciation for all things quaint and small towny.” Paris does what Rory guesses might be a few Krav Maga moves, although Rory is definitely not the best person to know for sure.

“Would you mess with this?” she asks critically, eyeing herself in the mirror above the dresser.

“Definitely not,” Rory says.

“Good,” Paris says. She grabs her phone. “One last step.”

She fiddles with her phone for a minute, and then some very swaggery music starts pouring out.

“Oh no,” Rory says, although maybe she’s secretly tickled.

Paris started the Get Psyched Pre-Victory Victory Dance tradition a few years ago, right before she went on Anderson Cooper 360 for the first time. Apparently, there is no better way to beat a case of CNN-induced nerves than by blasting some hip hop and dancing with all the ferocious intensity of a Viking warrior. Anderson found her so charming – and, in some ways, so reminiscent of his unlikely BFF Kathy Griffin – that he took her and Rory out to dinner afterwards. It will forever remain one of Rory’s Best Nights Ever.

Oh, for the sweet simple days of kickin’ it with Andy Coop.

Now, Paris shakes her head a few times, bouncing up and down like a boxer ready to get her pugilism on.

Then she erupts into: “ALL I DO IS WIN WIN WIN NO MATTER WHAT.”

“You are legitimately the weirdest person I have ever known in my whole life,” Rory declares. “And I know Kirk!”

“GOT MONEY ON MY MIND, I CAN NEVER GIVE IT UP—”

“And Taylor! And Michel! And Glenn! Remember Glenn? That guy was weird! He came out of the sea like primordial ooze!”

“AND EVERY TIME I STEP UP IN THE BUILDING, EVERYBODY’S HANDS GO UP—”

“Oh no. These hands are not going up—” Rory protests as Paris grabs her wrists.

“AND THEY STAY THERE,” Paris chants gutturally, waving Rory’s arms for her. “AND THEY STAY THERE – come on, Rory, sing it – AND THEY STAY THERE—”

“And they stay thereeeeeeee,” Rory monotones.

Paris lets go of one wrist, but only to point sternly at her. Well, as sternly as you can point in cat mittens. “Weak,” she says, leaving the rest of the song to go on without her.

“AND THEY STAY THEREEEE,” Rory tries again.

“Better,” Paris says, grabbing both of her wrists again. “But there’s still room for improvement. These peoples’ hands are not going down, Rory. Ever. That’s the extent of their fear and love for you. Channel it. Embrace it. Live it.”

“You are so crazy,” Rory insists, laughing as Paris drags her arms up.

“Oh, like you don’t love it,” Paris retorts, the corner of her mouth darting up.

“Fine,” Rory says, smiling, their hands tangled together, “you got me—”

“Rory! Paris!” comes Lorelai’s voice from the kitchen. “Jess and Albert are here, and those zany newshounds are right on their heels!”

Rory usually likes listening to her mother talk. If she didn’t, she definitely would have pulled a Lizzie Borden in childhood, because axe murder is in all likelihood the only way to shut Lorelai Gilmore up.

But right now, something fizzles and dies the second her mom speaks.

“Okay,” Paris calls back, pulling away. Rory’s heart suddenly drops down to her ballet flats. “So. Time to go. See you later.”

“Um,” Rory says. “Wait.”

Paris stops, although the suddenly gloomy look on her face suggests that she really didn’t want to.

“You, um, you’ve got a hair loose,” Rory says. Carefully, she reaches over and brushes the strands of blonde hair behind Paris’s ear.

Paris stares up at her, her eyes wide.

“Thanks,” she says then, in that blunt shut-it-down voice that shows up when Paris decides to reject all human emotion, and she rushes out.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Rory says faintly.

+

Note: The musical stylings in this chapter were inspired by Emma Stone's very mighty Lip Sync Battle performance. (Just in case you want to Pre-Victory Victory Dance along.)

The Best Of It - Part 8 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Wed, 27 May 2015 00:50:56 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 8 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 3,500

Part 8 - The Ballad of Jess and Albert

For a few days, it seems like Jess and Alex are actually going to succeed at the whole “downlow” thing. They hide out at Liz and T.J.’s, a place where the cameras have not yet gone. Rory hopes that Nigel never finds out about Liz and T.J., because there is no denying that they have quirky reality TV potential written all over them.

Meanwhile, it’s back to business in Raris Land. Thanks to some ungodly scheme of Paris’s, they’ve been dubbed the Queens of the Firelight Festival. The Firelight Festival has never had a queen before, let alone two, but that’s not stopping the town from taking the stupid idea and running with it.

It turns out that the Queen(s) of the Firelight Festival must participate in the ceremonial Dance of the Fire Fairies.

(“Ceremonial dance?” Rory repeated, aghast, when Paris dropped that lovely bit of news in her lap. “Why?”

“We have to take adorable to the next level if we want to do this right,” Paris told her. “This is how we win the Toddlers and Tiaras/Honey Boo Boo crowd. Believe me, Rory: once we snag that demographic, the war on bigotry will be half over.”

“You have seen me dance, right? There’s no way me dancing is going to contribute any progress to the world!”

“Don’t worry,” Paris said. “I’ve got moves enough for the both of us.”

“If you say so,” said Rory warily, remembering Paris and Doyle’s senior-year-at-Yale adventures in hip hop dancing. “And hey – what the heck is a fire fairy?”

“It doesn’t matter. It alliterates. That’s enough to charm most of the idiots in this country.”

“You are a heartwarming person, you know that?” said Rory.)

So now, for the fourth day in a row, they’re in the dance studio, practicing their latest foray into pure public humiliation. All of Miss Patty’s itty bitty pupils have been recruited to dance as the fire fairies. Mostly, it involves waving their arms a lot and going “OoOoOooOoo!”, for a reason Rory has not yet figured out, and probably never will. They’re dancing to “Fever” by Peggy Lee, despite the fact that it strikes Rory as a weirdly saucy ditty to have a bunch of kids dancing to. Miss Patty insists that it keeps with the burning-love theme.

Rory tries not to think about the fact that a few weeks ago she was well on her way to becoming a respected journalist.

She spins with all the grace of a drunk giraffe, clasps Paris’s hand, and then spins away again.

Fortunately, all of this is weird enough it doesn’t really allow her to dwell on touching Paris.

Not that she would dwell otherwise. Touching doesn’t matter when you’re on pause.

Rory ignores the tingling in her fingers and does a very stupid sashay step ... type ... thing.

And that’s when it all falls apart. Very possibly because the universe just cannot take Rory dancing anymore.

“Jess!” cries Doula, abandoning her own dance moves and waving happily.

Rory glances out at the street. Sure enough, Jess and Alex are hurrying toward Luke’s. They probably thought that they were safe, since Rory texted earlier to let Jess know that Nigel and his crew would be sticking to the dance studio.

Oh no oh no oh no.

“Um,” she says, “check this out, everybody!”

In a panic, she starts shimmying at Paris. Paris looks at her with what just might be disgust.

“I’m really feeling the chemistry right now!” Rory says desperately. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, honey,” says Miss Patty despairingly.

Shockingly, Rory’s sweet dance move does not manage to distract Nigel.

“Jess??” he exclaims, lighting up. “The Jess? Katy! Rick! Let’s go!”

He bounces out of the dance studio, a man on a mission. Katy and Rick slouch reluctantly after him.

“Rookie move, munchkin,” Paris snaps at Doula.

“How about let’s not berate the small child for saying hi to her brother,” Rory says, steering Paris away. She smiles as comfortingly as she can at Doula and says, “You’re doing so great, Doula! You’re the most wonderful fire fairy we’ve ever seen! Right, Paris?”

“Yeah, sure,” Paris says dispassionately.

“That’s not fair!” cries the girl standing next to Doula. “What about the rest of us?”

“Well – you’re good too,” Rory says, but it’s too late.

The room erupts into children wailing indignantly.

Miss Patty gives Rory a very unimpressed What did you expect? kind of look.

“Um,” Rory says. “Sorry! Gotta go!”

She and Paris book it out of the dance studio, leaving Miss Patty to deal with a swarm of whiny kids.

Poor Stars Hollow. Rory really needs to get every person in this town a really nice fruit basket when this is all over.

(Well, maybe Taylor’s will be just okay. He can have Granny Smith apples.)

When they burst into Luke’s, the camera crew is up at the counter, but Jess and Alex are nowhere to be seen.

“But I could have sworn I saw them come in here!” Nigel is exclaiming in distress.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Nigel,” Luke replies. “Nobody came in.”

“If we could just ... check around a little bit—” Nigel implores, peering in the direction of the storeroom.

“Nope,” says Luke.

“But if it’s in the name of epic documentary filmmaking, surely you—”

“Nope. Hey, uh, Rory, could you grab me some pickles?” says Luke pointedly.

“Sure, Luke!” Rory says, grabbing Paris’s arm and dragging her to the storeroom.

“She got to go in there!”

“Stepdaughters get special storeroom privileges,” says Luke.

“Well, drat,” says Nigel, but doesn’t dare to argue with that cardinal rule.

+

Sure enough, Alex and Jess are crouched in the corner of the storeroom, cozying up to some mustard. Jess looks mostly confused about how his life has devolved so swiftly into ridiculousness, which Rory can identify with. Alex is giggling into her fist.

“Did they follow us?” Jess asks.

“He’s right outside,” Rory reports. “You guys, I am so sorry. Luke is stalling him out there, but I’m not sure how long it will last.”

Alex stands up. “Okay. You know what? Let’s just do this and get it over with.”

“Are you serious?” says Rory.

“Seriously?” says Jess at the same time.

So at least she’s not alone.

“Totally,” says Alex. “No offense to your mom’s house, hon – my nostrils have really embraced the scent of patchouli – but I’m getting pretty tired of hiding out. Why not embrace a life of glorious deception?”

“Then who am I supposed to be?” Jess points out.

“You’re boy me, duh.” Alex snaps her fingers at him. “Come on, Mariano. Keep up.” She turns to Rory and Paris. “So tell me everything I need to know about being high school Jess.”

Rory opens her mouth to offer some deep advice along the lines of “Just be Aubrey Plaza”, but – surprise, surprise – Paris gets there first.

“You use a lot of gel to carefully muss your hair considering your whole thing is a super existential ‘too cool to care about anything’ mystique,” Paris says. “You’re more literate than the average bear, which makes you, like, such the total hottie, even if – let’s be real – physique-wise, you’ve got all the macho cred of a prepubescent Harry Potter. At least you’ve read Kerouac, right? You think exhibiting common courtesy toward your girlfriend on a consistent basis is a big chore; it keeps cramping your loner style. You smoke a lot, like the big bad rebel you are. Who cares about lung health when you can get your James Dean on? And you have no respect for lawn ornaments, which is apparently a big no-no in this town.”

“Hey!” says Jess, offended.

Paris folds her arms, giving him a stare of merciless realness.

“... That’s all pretty accurate,” Jess admits grumblingly.

“Wow, high school Jess sucks,” Alex says, smirking. To Rory, she says, “I am so sorry.”

“Oh, you know,” Rory says mercifully, shrugging. “He had his good moments.”

“Thank you,” Jess says, giving her one of those crooked little smiles of his.

Rory notices Paris glancing back and forth between them, her expression a little too neutral.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rory asks, shifting her attention quickly from Jess to Alex. “Because you don’t have to.”

“Please,” Alex says. “I was born for this moment.”

“Since when?” Jess demands.

“About five seconds ago,” Alex replies.

“That’s reassuring,” Jess mutters.

“Enough of your sass, boy me,” says Alex majestically. “Let’s do this.”

+

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Jessica Mariano & Male Companion (Albert)

LOCATION: Luke’s Diner

INTERVIEWER
Could this be the infamous Jessica Mariano?

JESS
Yeah. That’s me. ‘Sup.

[Let the record state that at this point, Jess’s male companion looks unaccountably offended.]

INTERVIEWER
What a thrill it is to meet you at last! I’ve heard quite a bit about you from the fine folks of Stars Hollow. Apparently you left quite a dent in Rory Gilmore’s heart.

JESS
Well, ya know. It’s like Kerouac says.

[A long pause.]

INTERVIEWER
... Yes?

JESS
... Um. I believe it goes ... “Bitches only drag you down. For me, I choose the open road, and whiskey, and a day’s honest pain.”

INTERVIEWER
Ah. And what is that ... that insightful quotation from, exactly?

JESS
Oh, you probably haven’t heard of it. It’s pretty obscure.

INTERVIEWER
Do tell!

[Another long pause.]

JESS
... A Night Without Armor.

INTERVIEWER
Hmm. Sounds vaguely familiar. I’ll have to look it up when I get the chance!

JESS
Yeah, don’t do that. Uh. Hey. This is my—person.

MALE COMPANION
Hey, I’m Al—

JESS
—bert. This here’s Albert. He’s my opposite sex lover.

MALE COMPANION (heretofore referred to as ‘ALBERT’)
... Yep. That’s me. Albert.

INTERVIEWER
A pleasure, Albert!

ALBERT
Sure is.

[Let the record state that Albert continues to look very uncomfortable. Perhaps he suffers from some physical ailment?]

INTERVIEWER
Do you know, you look just like an Albert.

ALBERT
Gee. Swell.

INTERVIEWER
Now, Jess, what brings you back to Stars Hollow? Did the national hype about Raris bring Rory Gilmore back into the forefront of your mind? Maybe ... remind you of what you’d lost?

JESS
Uh, nope. I just wanted to come back for the Firelight Festival. Not that I care about festivals. Festivals are all about the man, and the man can suck it. You know what I mean? The man can suck it hard.

INTERVIEWER
Oh my.

JESS
But I love ... firelight. It reminds me of lighters. And cigarettes. You know what I love? A good cigarette. Just smokin’. Mmmm.

INTERVIEWER
But your health!

JESS
Whatever, man.

INTERVIEWER
So would you say you’ve moved on from Rory to this young fellow?

JESS
Oh yeah. Totally.

INTERVIEWER
If you don’t mind my asking – did you find your interest in women waning as you grew up? Was Rory just a phase?

JESS
I don’t really believe in labels, yo. It’s just like ... whoever won’t be too up in my grill is good enough for me. Like, as long as I don’t have to call you every day, we’re cool. You dig?

ALBERT
Whoa. That’s a little cold.

JESS
But accurate, right?

ALBERT
You know, I think you’ve really grown since your days with Rory. Don’t you?

JESS (making a ‘so-so’ hand gesture)
Ehhh!

ALBERT
Cute.

INTERVIEWER
I presume you saw Rory Gilmore in the storeroom back there. Did any old sparks rekindle?

JESS
Nope.

INTERVIEWER
Are you sure?

JESS
Yep.

INTERVIEWER
Not even a little spark?

JESS
Not a one.

INTERVIEWER
Not yet.

JESS
Uh, my boyfriend’s right there, dude.

INTERVIEWER
I’m sorry, Albert. But I don’t think any of us can deny the adorable charisma of Rory Gilmore.

ALBERT
That’s fair.

JESS
I’m denying it right now.

INTERVIEWER
Well. We’ll see.

JESS
Listen, I’d love to have this fight with you, man, but The Smiths aren’t gonna listen to themselves, you dig?

ALBERT
[groans]

+

Paris and Rory are sitting against the wall in the storeroom, listening to the interview-shaped disaster that’s going on outside.

“This is bad,” Paris says. “Nigel is thirsty, Rory. Thirsty for drama. He’s trying to start a love triangle.”

“Well, he won’t,” Rory says. “Because there’s no love triangle.”

“You think that matters? Love triangles are the blood that beats through the veins of television, Rory. Grey’s Anatomy would have lasted, what, two episodes without them? I promise you, old Nige is going to do whatever he can to turn our beautiful love into geometric dramarama.”

“But isn’t this supposed to be an inspirational documentary about steadfast true love?”

“Rory, the man makes reality TV. He’s going to chase the drama. He can’t help it. He’s weak. The only thing we can do now is outwit him at his own game.”

“Aren’t we doing that already?” Rory says. “What with all the lying?”

“Kind of,” Paris says. “But this is going to turn into some next level business. We need to prepare ourselves.”

She pulls out her phone, and then does some frenzied swiping ‘n typing.

“Who are you writing to?” Rory asks.

“The experts,” says Paris ominously.

+

And so, not for the first time this week, some visitors appear in Stars Hollow in the dead of night.

This time, a very shiny, moonlight-drenched Audi pulls up into the driveway of the Gilmore-Danes house at around 10:30. Rory and Paris are waiting outside, bundled up and clutching mugs of hot cocoa in self preservation.

The car doors open, and out climb two people Rory hasn’t thought about in a long time.

“Oh my God,” says Rory. “So this is really happening.”

“It had to be done,” Paris replies grimly. “They’ll know better than most how to navigate the minefield of reality TV drama, and you know it.”

“Hi to you too, bitches!!!” says Madeline.

Louise gives them a scrunchy-fingered wave, then heaves a blonde toddler out of the back seat of the car.

“Ugh. My nanny’s got the flu,” she announces. “Can you believe it? Have you ever had to hang out with a kid all day?”

“Uh,” Rory says. “Not that I can remember.”

“Well, don’t,” Louise says crisply. “It’s such a drag. I mean, he’s cute and I love him and everything, but have you ever tried to have an actual conversation with a two year old? Boring.”

“Not enough opinions on the latest issue of Goop?” Paris says sardonically.

“Exactly,” says Louise, totally without irony.

“You guys made it here so fast!” Rory says. “I didn’t know you still lived around here.”

“Please. We don’t. Malibu, baby. But my husband has a private jet.” Madeline injects a whole lot of duh into that statement, like private jets are something that come along with all husbands. “I can’t believe it took you guys this long to contact us! We were about to come find you on our own, I swear. What is this hot mess you’ve gotten yourselves into?”

“Because we know you weren’t dating in high school,” Louise adds. “Chilton Era Paris would have been so much easier to deal with if she’d been getting some.”

“Wow,” Paris drawls sarcastically. “Remind me why we don’t hang out anymore.”

“This better not all be happening because of that spring break where we told you about making out to get stuff,” Louise says. “That was our thing first, and not to make threats or anything, but my husband is hella litigious.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. We – lied for justice,” Rory explains. “Or something.”

Honestly, at this point she doesn’t even know.

“Paris started a feud with Michelle Bachmann,” she adds, for context.

“The annoying little sister on Buffy?” Madeline says, frowning.

“Come on, Ivy League,” Paris snaps. “Get your head in the game.”

“Conservative homophobe politician,” Rory says.

“Ohhhh. So you’re doing it to make the world a better place.” Madeline smiles. “That is so typical Rory and Paris.”

“Mega inspirational,” says Louise. “And we’re totally here to help. As long as you put us in your show.”

Rory immediately does not like that idea. “I don’t know if we should let it get more complicated than it already is—”

“Oh, come on,” Madeline cajoles. “If you put us in, we’ll totally lend credence to the whole ‘Rory and Paris, soulmates since high school’ charade.”

“And if you don’t,” Louise says, “it would be really easy for us to slip up and tell the truth. You know. Accidentally.”

“Are you blackmailing us?” Rory says. She whirls around to face Paris. “Did you bring blackmailers to my house??”

“Don’t think of it as blackmail,” Madeline says. “Think of it as you giving us the opportunity to become the reality TV stars that we’ve always been destined to be.”

“It’s a possibility,” Paris says briskly. “It depends on how good your advice is.”

“Fair enough,” Louise says icily.

Louise’s son starts making some fussy noises. Rory knows how he feels.

“Hey! Knock it off, Channing. If you’re good, Mommy will give you a cookie.” Louise looks up at Rory. “Do you have cookies? I’ve only got kale chips, and he hates those. His palate is so basic, I swear. Gwyneth’s kids would never.”

“Um, yeah,” Rory says. “Come on in.”

As they head toward the house, Paris stares down at the little guy. “Please tell me that kid isn’t named after Channing Tatum.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Louise says solemnly.

+

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Jessica Mariano, Liz Danes & T.J.

LIZ
So, this is my daughter, Jess. Her full name is ... Jessula.

JESS
Or Jessica.

LIZ
Oh, that’s right. Jessica. Of course! Jessica. Because that makes sense. Well, I just fell in love with that name as soon as I thought of it. Jessica. Because it means ...

T.J.
“She who is a girl.”

LIZ
Yes! Yes, exactly. Isn’t that beautiful? It’s ...

T.J. (overlapping)
Vulcan.

LIZ (overlapping)
Hebrew.

T.J.
Yeah. What she said.

LIZ
“She who is a girl” in Hebrew. That sounds ... right. Right, honey?

JESS
Oh, yep. Super right.

T.J.
Because she is! A girl! I mean, look at ‘er!

JESS
Thanks, Teej.

T.J.
And since she is, and has always been, a girl, I gotta ask: why was she so grumpy about me wearin’ tights when I married Liz here? Girls love tights!

JESS
Girls don’t always love men in tights.

LIZ
Well now, that’s not true!

T.J.
Ooh.

[Let the record state that Liz and T.J. begin engaging in some unsettlingly flirtatious behavior.]

JESS
Yep, let’s shut that right down.

INTERVIEWER
Oh dear. Let’s. Speaking of friskiness! Are you happy to see Jess with Albert?

T.J.
Him? I don’t know about that guy. I don’t know if he’s good enough for my stepdaughter. She got standards, you know?

[Let the record state that for someone concerned about his stepchild’s welfare, T.J. seems to find this mysteriously hilarious.]

LIZ
Oh, stop! You’re so bad.

T.J.
Hell yeah.

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Luke Danes & Albert

ALBERT
This is my first time in Stars Hollow, but, uh. I can pretty confidently say that if I lived here, I’d jump off a bridge.

LUKE
Hell, I’d push you off the bridge.

ALBERT
Good times.

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Rory Gilmore

INTERVIEWER
How are you feeling about Jess being back in town?

RORY
Happy, I guess.

INTERVIEWER
Happy to have another chance with your long lost love?

RORY
No, happy because h—she’s happy, and doing well, and that makes me really glad. I always knew that she had so much potential that most people didn’t see, and it’s great to see her at such a good place in her life. We haven’t dated for a long time, and that’s for the best, but I’ll always consider us friends.

INTERVIEWER
And what about Albert?

RORY
Albert’s parents probably should have been more careful about naming him, but other than that, he’s a good guy.

INTERVIEWER
And you don’t feel any ... regrets?

RORY
Are you trying to start a love triangle?

INTERVIEWER
Are you trying to avoid the question?

RORY
No! No regrets. The thing I had with Jess, it’s in the past, and I’m just glad that we’re both doing well. Maybe I’m not where I thought I would be in high school, but—but I think I’m happy just where I am.

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF INTERVIEW SEGMENTS – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 5: “BLAST FROM THE PAST”

INTERVIEW – Paris Geller

INTERVIEWER
Would you say that you’re worried about the stability of your relationship with Rory, now that Jess is back in town?

[Let the record state that there is a long silence in which Geller does not respond to the question]

INTERVIEWER
Paris?

PARIS
What? Um. No.

INTERVIEWER
Are you sure?

PARIS
I know Rory. I know what she really wants.

The Best Of It - Part 7 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Mon, 25 May 2015 07:04:22 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 7 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 2,700

Part 7 – Oh, What A Night!

“Jess?” Rory gasps.

Jess gives her a sardonic wave. He looks just like the same old Jess, mostly, except for the fact that he's grown a beard. It's not too startling -- nowhere near an Iron & Wine situation -- but it makes him look like an actual grownup.

Oh God, they're all grownups. Shouldn't they be past the Stars Hollow shenanigans phase by now?

Apparently not.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, scrambling over to him.

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Enjoying this nice warm welcome.”

“We’ll have none of your lip, young man!” Taylor barks.

“Taylor!” Rory says. “Can you not?”

“Fine,” Taylor huffs. “But you’re on very thin ice, Mr. Mariano. None of us have forgotten Pierpont.”

“Who’s Pierpont?” asks ... someone. Clearly someone way out of the Stars Hollow loop.

For the first time, Rory registers that Jess isn’t alone. There’s a woman around his age sitting next to him. She’s got her long brown hair in a side braid that would make even Katniss jealous, and she’s wearing a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a puffy vest with such effortless lazy poise that it kind of feels like she just stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog. She looks vaguely familiar, and it takes Rory a second to place her.

Alex. Jess’s girlfriend.

It would be a lie to say Rory hasn’t done the tiniest bit of discreet Facebook stalking over the past few years. Usually after a fair amount of wine.

“I may or may not have stolen a garden gnome,” Jess mutters to her.

“Wow,” Alex says. “I am feeling ... sort of embarrassed to love you right now, frankly.”

“Careful, Bonnie,” Taylor says sternly, waving a finger at her. “Being flippant about Pierpont may be the last thing you ever do.”

“Did you just threaten to kill me?” she asks. “And ... call me Bonnie?”

“Of ‘and Clyde’ fame,” Taylor says impatiently. “Come now. Certainly even today’s young ruffians can pick up on that pop culture reference.”

“But did you threaten to kill me, though?” she persists, with a little mischievous twinkle.

Taylor grumbles gibberish for a few indignant seconds, then finally gives up and sits down next to Miss Patty.

“Um,” Rory says, turning to the crowd. “Thanks so much for letting me know, everybody, but I think I can take it from here.”

“You sure, sugar?” Babette asks. “We’re here for you! We’ll scare him straight! Won’t we scare him straight, Morey?”

“Sure will,” Morey says pleasantly.

“Please,” Rory implores. “Go home. Get some rest.”

Everybody agrees – some more willingly than others – and they all start shuffling sleepily out of the dance hall. Lane waves goodbye. Rory waves back.

“We stand with Pierpont!” Taylor thunders before Miss Patty steers him outside.

Then, blessedly, there is silence.

“Wow.” Alex pokes Jess in the side. “I didn’t know you were quite so notorious.”

“Well, we don’t get a whole lot of notorious here,” Rory says. “Honestly, when it comes to Stars Hollow controversies, Pierpont getting stolen is only trumped by the time a second town troubadour showed up.”

“Well yeah,” Alex says, unfazed. “This town is clearly only big enough for one troubadour.”

“Rory, this is Alex,” Jess says. “Alex, Rory.”

“Alex! I’ve heard of you.” Rory hopes that her tone projects a hearty sense of But I’ve totally never seen your Facebook page before. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“You too,” Alex says, beaming. “I’ve been wanting to come here for like ever, but Jess so wasn’t into the idea.”

“Imagine that,” Rory says, smiling at Jess. He smirks back with good humor.

“But I was Facebook chatting with Liz and she mentioned the Firelight Festival was coming up, and it just sounded so cheesy – but, like, good cheesy – that I knew now was the time.”

“So you’re here for the Firelight Festival,” Rory says. She can’t quite resist giving Jess a Look at that news.

“Don’t rub it in,” says Jess.

“Anyway, I didn’t realize we’d be taken hostage within like five seconds of arriving,” Alex continues happily. “So already this is pretty much the most exciting vacation I’ve ever had.”

Rory cringes. “About that – I am so sorry.”

“Yeah, what the hell’s going on?” Jess says. “They just kept saying ‘He’ll ruin this for Rory’ over and over. Good to see that the public opinion of me has really evolved.”

“You haven’t heard about ... the thing?” Rory asks tentatively.

“What thing?” Jess says.

“Me and Paris?”

“You guys still hang out?”

“Um,” Rory says. “You could say that. So you really don’t know?”

“Know ... ?” Jess says blankly.

“About Paris and Rory’s Modern Stars Hollow Family?”

Jess kind of looks like the words just punched him in the stomach. “What ... is that?”

“You haven’t been around the internet in awhile, huh?” Rory guesses.

“We were out at her parents’ cabin for a couple weeks,” he explains. “It’s sorta off the grid.”

“How Thoreauvian,” Rory says weakly.

“I like to think he would have been proud.”

“You were probably more Thoreauvian than Thoreau, even! Since he had his aunt bringing him lunch all the time, that big cheater, and you've got the beard and everything—”

“Rory,” Jess interrupts. He probably remembers Rory’s ability to go off on a serious Transcendentalists tangent. “You gonna tell me what Paris and Rory’s Stars Hollow Modern Family is?”

“Paris and Rory’s Modern Stars Hollow Family,” Rory corrects.

“Oh yeah,” Jess says mock-seriously. “’Cause that’s much better.”

Rory takes a deep breath, then tells the whole terrible tale.

Well, not all of it. She leaves out all the stuff about confusing emotions. Jess has never been very good with confusing emotions. At least not when they’re Rory’s.

“... and so,” Rory concludes, “I’m guessing there was a bit of a town panic when you showed up, because we kind of told the documentary crew that you were a girl.”

“So that’s probably why Kirk offered to put makeup on me,” Jess discerns.

“I mean, maybe,” Rory says. “You never know with Kirk.”

“May I just say: that might be the best story I’ve ever heard,” Alex says.

At least someone is happy.

Still, to be polite, Rory says, “I’m so, so sorry. It sounds like you guys had a really nice week planned, and you showed up in the middle of all this craziness, and now odds are you’re going to get sucked right into it—”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll stay on the downlow,” Jess says.

“There’s not much of a downlow in Stars Hollow,” Rory says. “Unless you want to hide in Luke’s apartment all week, you’re probably going to run into the cameras.”

“Don’t worry,” Jess says. “We’re sneaky.”

“I’m just—I’m so happy right now,” Alex says, waving her hand in front of her face like a giddy beauty pageant winner. “This is the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. Or around me, at least.”

“Shut up,” Jess says. Rory can see the corners of his mouth twitching.

“If this is your way of asking me if I want to move to Stars Hollow with you and spend every day of our lives ensconced in this madness,” Alex continues, going into more of a Melodramatic Southern Belle thing, “my answer is yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

“Yeesh,” Jess says. “Now I’m embarrassed to love you.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a shit,” Alex says merrily.

+

And so finally, at 2:30 in the morning after quite possibly the most exhausting day since the Stars Hollow Dance Marathon of 2002, Rory steps out of the dance studio to walk home.

(Jess and Alex decide to sleep in their car, which is very old school Jewel of them.)

After about ten steps, her phone rings. The sound makes her jump, all shrill against the quiet.

She looks at who’s calling, then picks up. “Paris?”

“I’m sorry. I freaked out. I do that.”

Paris sounds like she’s come down out of Hulk mode, thank God. It’s an impressive recovery time, too; if that conversation had happened in high school, Paris probably would have shunned her for at least three months.

“You do,” Rory agrees. “It’s kind of your thing.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Paris, no. Of course not.” Rory is just going to blame exhaustion for the fact that she feels a sudden lump in her throat. “I’m just glad you called.”

“Good. Let’s—let’s talk, okay?”

“I would like that,” Rory says truthfully. But she knows she’s got to come clean about the latest twist in their little saga. It’s the right thing to do. “Um, I should probably tell you – well, you’ll never guess who’s here!”

“Is it Bill Maher? I swear to God, he thinks I’m joking when I tell him I know Krav Maga. It’s like he’s addicted to me spilling his tears.”

“Nope, not Bill.”

“This time,” Paris mutters darkly.

“It’s Jess, actually!” Rory cringes at how perky she sounds.

“Oh,” says Paris. Suddenly she doesn’t sound ready to tear Bill Maher to pieces.

“And his girlfriend, Alex!” Rory adds quickly. “He brought her here to meet the family. Isn’t that nice?”

“Yeah,” Paris says, sounding as tired as Rory feels. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

“I thought so,” Rory says.

Silence.

“I’ll talk to you when I get home, okay?” Rory says.

“Yeah,” Paris says, and hangs up.

It’s official. This day has had more unnecessary drama than Bates and Anna on Downton Abbey.

“Stupid day,” Rory mumbles.

+

When Rory gets home, she finds Paris lying on the couch, tucked up in a blanket and looking very small. Usually, when Paris is up and in action, it’s easy for Rory to forget how tiny she is. It is hard to feel taller than Paris Geller even when you have a few inches on her.

Right now, Rory feels taller.

“Do you hate her?” Paris asks without looking up.

“Who?” Rory says, playing dumb.

“You know who.”

Rory bites back a super hip Voldemort reference. “Why would I hate her? She’s really nice, and surprisingly pro-shenanigans. And she can seriously hold her own against Taylor. I think you’d be impressed.”

“This is the same girl whose Facebook page you obsessively study every time you get tipsy and emotional, yes?”

“Not every time,” Rory protests. “Maybe once or twice.”

Paris finally looks up at her. And it is not a look of ‘I support you, friend!’. Just pure and utter ‘You’re full of crap, Gilmore’ skepticism.

“Okay, three times!” Rory admits. “At the most!” (Maybe four.) “Can we not talk about that? I thought we were going to talk about ... you know. Us.”

“I figured The Emo Kid That Got Away trumped whatever relationship drama we’ve got going on.”

“Well, he doesn’t. Jess was my high school boyfriend. And not even my most serious high school boyfriend! It’s been, what, ten years? I promise, I’m over it.”

“You sure?” Paris says, eyeing her doubtfully.

“Yes,” Rory says, eyeing her sincerely. Or, well, trying. It is really hard to eye someone sincerely and look convincing!

Paris doesn’t look convinced, that’s for sure. “Because I know how you feel about him.”

“You mean fondly nostalgic but otherwise completely over it?”

“Oh, come on, Rory. Everyone knows he’s that guy for you.”

“What guy?” Rory demands.

Paris sighs impatiently. “That guy that you always kind of hope in the back of your head will be there waiting for you when you’re finally ready to settle down and do this love thing for real.”

Rory decides to tackle the most pressing issue first. “Do this love thing for real? What is that, like, a bad romantic comedy title?”

“Is there such thing as a good romantic comedy?”

“Bridget Jones’s Diary is solid and you know it,” Rory says stubbornly. “And also, Jess is not my someday guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Paris challenges.

“Yeah!”

“Since when?”

“Since pretty much always! Dean was my someday guy. And that someday’d a long time ago.”

“Please. Farm Boy was never a serious contender in the Game of Rory and you know it.”

“What are you talking about? I was hung up on Farm Bo– Dean way longer than I’ve ever been hung up on Jess!”

Paris takes a deep breath. Within the length of that breath, Rory realizes exactly what’s going to come out of her mouth next.

Sure enough:

“You danced with Jess at your mom’s wedding, and you thought something was going to happen, and there was a moment where you thought he might kiss you, and then instead he told you that he was seeing someone else, and you were so bummed out about it that I watched the entirety of The Six Wives Of King Henry VIII with you during what was frankly one of the most depressing wallowing weekends in history. That’s not a thing that a person just forgets, Rory.”

“I know,” Rory says, resisting the urge to cringe.

“To this day I wonder, ‘Why King Henry VIII? Why?’” Paris laments.

“Sometimes it’s just nice to be reminded that there are other ladies out there who’ve had it worse than you in the romance department!” Rory says defensively.

“Say what you want about Catherine of Aragon, but at least her boo didn’t skip town without telling her.”

“I mean, he kind of did. If you replace ‘town’ with ‘their marriage’ or ‘Catholicism’.”

“You seem really eager to talk about the fabulous foibles of Henry VIII when you should be talking about Jess,” Paris says accusingly.

“You brought it up!”

“And you glomped right onto it, didn’t you?” Paris picks up a throw pillow and squeezes it so hard Rory fears for its fluffy pillow life. “Anything that’ll change the subject from Mr. Kerouac’s Number One Fan.”

“Paris, my mom and Luke got married three years ago. I’m over it now. I swear.”

Paris stares at her for a long time. “If you’re sure,” she says at last.

“I’m sure,” Rory says firmly. “Yes, there might have been a quick little bittersweet twinge at seeing him with someone else, but that’s just how it is with exes, isn’t it? Anyway, he and Alex seem really happy and I’m ... I’m just happy he’s happy.”

Paris doesn’t say anything. Instead, she nods slightly and then curls back up into a little couch ball of sadness.

Rory sits down on the other side of the couch. It’s such a relief to finally get a break from standing that she almost passes out.

“Now, let’s talk about you and me,” she says instead, because a promise is a promise, even if at this point she feels like death by exhaustion and social awkwardness may be a very real possibility for her.

Paris stares at her for a long time. Then she says, very lightly, “Nah.”

“Nah?” This will probably be it, then. The moment when Rory Gilmore’s head explodes.

“I think you were right earlier. Let’s just get through the next week, okay? It’s going to be hard enough dealing with Nigel and the Camera Bunch without any extra drama. So let’s just, I don’t know, put the big serious talk on pause.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right,” Rory says. Despite the fact that it’s a seriously anti-climactic development, she can’t help but feel sort of wonderful about it. A way out of the weird, at last.

She snuggles down deeper into the couch, pulling her legs up from the floor so she can shift into something that kind of resembles a restful position. Her feet brush Paris’s legs. Paris twists slightly, and then they aren’t touching anymore.

“You’re not really going to write a fanfiction about us, are you?” Rory says through a yawn, the words stumbling into each other.

“Probably not,” Paris says drowsily. “I’ve got a life. Vitasackvillebest can win this round.”

“Good,” Rory says, closing her eyes. “Thank you.”

A nice, sleepy silence takes over. Paris’s leg presses against Rory’s foot again. Rory smiles a little without meaning to.

“What are the odds that Jess’s girlfriend is going to have to pretend to be girl Jess?” Paris asks groggily.

“So high that I’m trying not to think about it,” says Rory.

“Awesome,” Paris deadpans.

“Sweet dreams,” Rory sighs.

The Best Of It - Part 6 (Rory/Paris)

dollsome — Fri, 08 May 2015 04:13:19 GMT

Title: The Best of It
Pairing: Rory/Paris, ft. the Stars Hollow ensemble
Chapter: 6 (Previous chapters here)
Word Count: 3,900

It's a miracleeeee! I am ashamed to admit that I have watched the entire series of Gilmore Girls like one and a half times since I last updated, desperately seeking inspiration, and then the thing that finally got me writing was watching like ten minutes of Alexis Bledel’s fine fluffy masterpiece, Post Grad.

Inspiration works in mysterious ways!

Part 6: The End Of The (Classroom) Affair

They’ve been kissing for just long enough that all the strangeness has dwindled away. No more Wow, we’ve been friends who don’t kiss for over a decade and that makes this super awkward. No more But weren’t we just pretending to be gay in the great ceaseless battle against bigotry and Bachmanns? Not even any We probably shouldn’t be doing this in a random high school classroom. Heck, not even any But really, what is the likelihood that this carpet has been steam-cleaned in the last year? Or ever?

Well, maybe a little bit of that last one.

But mostly, it’s just Paris, here and now, her mouth against Rory’s, her hands strong and sure but more gentle than Rory expected. (Not that Rory expected anything. She definitely never expected this. At least not in any conscious area of her brain.) Paris usually gives really aggressive and surprising hugs. The idea of her being gentle – being gentle for Rory’s sake – well, God, it’s hard not to like that.

And then there’s the sound of a key in the lock.

“Someone’s coming!” Rory gasps, yanking Paris’s hand out from under her shirt and sitting up.

Paris frowns. “Do you refer to yourself in the lofty third person when you climax? Because I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“What? I – no!” Rory runs her hands furiously through her hair, trying to make it look less like it has known the tussling of passion. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Oh,” Paris says, “that,” and scrambles up.

“And why would I be ... doing that ... anyway? We haven’t even done anything besides kiss.”

“And feel around a little,” Paris adds fairly.

“And feel around a little,” Rory acknowledges impatiently. “But – just a little!”

“I don’t know. Maybe kissing really does it for you.”

“It doesn’t do that much!”

“It did for fanfic Rory.”

“I am not fanfic Rory!!”

The door swings open.

At least at this point, she and Paris are standing nonchalantly in the middle of the classroom. Somehow, Rory just knows that they look like the two most conspicuous weirdos in the history of earth.

The invader is a middle aged woman with curly dark hair who, remarkably, doesn’t immediately start hitting them with her purse.

“Mrs. Martinez?” Rory guesses.

“Yeees,” poor Mrs. M answers with the sort of smile you’d smile at potential murderers. “Are you ... the custodians—” Then recognition lights her face. “Paris Geller? Oh, I heard you were here tonight! I just love you. I watch that YouTube clip of you making Bill Maher cry whenever I’m having a down day.” She grins at Rory. “Oh, and you must be the missus.”

“Yeah!” Rory says. “Yep, that’s me. You’re probably, um, wondering what we’re doing in your classroom. You see, I’ve always been a great lover of books, and ... looking at books wherever I go—”

“Oh, you don’t have to explain to me what you were doing,” Mrs. Martinez says cheerily. “I know how hard it can be to get some private time with your sweetie. Especially when you’ve got cameras following you around all the time.”

“Oh, we weren’t—”

“Not to mention that high schoolers doing Shakespeare is only tolerable for so long,” she adds. “I teach it for a living. I know that better than most.”

Paris steps forward. “Thanks ...?”

“Julia,” supplies Mrs. M, kind of giddily.

“Julia,” Paris says. “You did us a solid.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Mrs. M says. Then, with a kind of desperate awe, she asks, “Can I get your autograph??”

+

Once they’re back out in the hallway, it’s like coming out of a trance. Suddenly, everything that has existed in a sort of terrifying but weirdly delicious haze for the past few days loses its glow.

What just happened??

“That was so humiliating,” Rory whispers. Her cheeks are so warm that her face might actually start melting. “What were we thinking?”

What she means is ‘why did we think it was a good idea to get snuggly in a random high school classroom? We are grown adults! We went to Yale!’, but as soon as it’s out of her mouth she realizes that those nuances don’t necessarily come through.

Sure enough, Paris gets that stricken, stony look that only comes out when her feelings are really hurt.

“Oh, Paris, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know,” Paris interrupts. “What were we thinking, right?”

Rory opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, they turn a corner and there’s Nigel and the camera crew waiting for them.

Which means it’s showtime.

+

FULL TRANSCRIPTS OF DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE – PARIS & RORY’S MODERN STARS HOLLOW FAMILY - EPISODE 4: “STARS HOLLOW-CROSSED LOVERS”

LOCATION: April Nardini’s High School Production of Romeo and Juliet – Lobby Outside Auditorium

[Let the record state that RORY GILMORE and PARIS GELLER both look rather disheveled and out of breath]

INTERVIEWER
Ladies! There you are! Where on earth did you disappear off to?

RORY
Oh. I was just – feeling sick, and Paris came to check up on me.

PARIS
You’re lucky you weren’t there, Nigel. It got grim.

RORY
Thanks.

PARIS
Vomit everywhere.

RORY
I wouldn’t say everywhere—

PARIS
I’m lucky she didn’t puke in my hair.

RORY
Paris!

PARIS
She does that.

INTERVIEWER
Yeesh.

PARIS
You might as well call her the Great Barfmaster.

RORY
Can this interview be over now?

+

It turns out that Nigel isn’t only the world’s chipperest documentarian; he’s also a major germophobe. Hanging around The Great Barfmaster clearly isn’t on his to-do list, so he and the camera crew call it a night and head back to the Dragonfly.

It’s a relief. Tonight has been too weird. Rory’s not sure she has the strength to live the Paris and Rory’s Modern Stars Hollow Family lie at the moment. Especially since it’s suddenly become really hard to tell just how much lie they’re dealing with here.

She tries to remember why she thought this was a good idea. What in the world could have made her forget how easy it is to accidentally punch Paris right in the soul and then spend at least a month as her sworn worst enemy? Keeping Paris around as a best friend has always been hard enough.

And sure, yes, all right, the kissing part was good. The closeness and the eagerness and the breathlessness, all good. And sure, yes, all right, there’s a part of Rory that still kind of wants to ... you know ... investigate that a little more. Live the fantasy, even if it’s definitely not a fantasy she ever would have cooked up on her own without Paris dragging her into it.

But the fact remains. Rory Gilmore? Not really a risk taker by nature, if she can possibly help it. And when the thing she might lose is her friendship with Paris? It’s one of those risks that just isn’t worth it.

Like a really short haircut that might turn out cute but might also make you look like an adult pretending to be Ramona Quimby.

Or something.

Her similes aren’t entirely on point tonight.

+

Once they get home, it’s pretty late. Rory tries to catch Paris’s eye when they step into the house, but Paris is staunchly avoiding her. And it’s not like they can just have a deep heart-to-heart conversation with her mom and Luke here.

Rory is what some would call a mommy’s girl, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean she wants Lorelai to have a front row seat to the awkward ‘So, what does it mean that we almost did the dirty on the floor of a high school classroom?’ convo that she and Paris are doomed to.

Poor Luke would probably faint or something.

“Are you blushing?” Lorelai asks, squinting at Rory as they head into the living room.

“She was barfing,” Paris says bluntly. “She’s probably feverish.”

Lorelai presses the back of her hand to Rory’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot to me.”

“Excuse me, is anyone else in this room entitled to a medical opinion?” Paris demands.

“Uh, is your name Tai, by any chance? Because that was way harsh.”

“Sorry Lorelai,” Paris says, with that contrite-yet-impatient vibe that she gets whenever she remembers she should probably be nice to her fellow humans. “I just—get worried. About germs. And contagions. They’re a real threat, people. Being casual about vomit? Might just be the last thing you do.”

“That’s nice,” Luke says bleakly.

“That’s facts, Captain Flannel!” Paris barks.

Rory decides it’s time to put a stop to this. “I’m fine. I’m just ... tired. I’m gonna head to bed and sleep it off, okay?” She turns to Paris, striving for super casual. “Unless ... you wanted to talk, or—”

“And have an all access pass to your vomit germs?” Paris says bluntly. “No thanks.”

“Fine,” Rory says, frustrated.

She doesn’t stop walking until she’s in her room with the door shut safely behind her. Once it’s closed, she leans against it and closes her eyes. She’s feeling distinctly jittery. Maybe Paris was right. Maybe she is feverish. And there is a part of her that’s pretty sure she’s going to barf.

“Listen, self,” she says. To herself. Which, okay, maybe isn’t her sanest moment. “You are going to put your pajamas on, you are going to get into bed, and you are going to chill. If Paris doesn’t want to talk, then you don’t have to talk. You tried.”

It’s the closest thing she has to an organized plan right now, and Rory Gilmore is a great believer in the organized plan.

+

Unfortunately, even in the most organized of plans, there are factors that aren’t accounted for. And tonight, it’s Lorelai Gilmore.

Rory is in bed, staring determinedly at page 110 of Wolf Hall.

Lorelai peeks into the room and ... starts winking really exaggeratedly.

“Really?” Rory says, groaning.

“What?” Lorelai asks innocently. “This is my goodnight face.”

“Well, your goodnight face is creepy.”

“I think someone’s a little lonely out there,” Lorelai adds, nodding toward the living room. Then she starts winking again.

“You’re crazy,” Rory declares.

“You are crazy,” Luke contributes as he shuffles by.

“You don’t even know what I’m doing,” Lorelai protests, offended.

“Don’t need to. Crazy’s your default.”

“Okay: rude.”

“Thanks for the support, Luke!” Rory calls.

“Sure thing. ‘Night, Rory.”

Lorelai scowls exaggeratedly, then returns to the subject at hand. “I’m just saying. Paris is out there coloring farm animals with the ferocity of Khal Drogo. Go to her.”

“I don’t think she wants to talk to me,” Rory says, hugging a pillow against her chest.

Lorelai slips into the room and shuts the door behind her. “Yeesh. That bad, huh?”

“Shhh!” Rory orders.

Lorelai points to the closed door.

Rory grimaces. “Yeah, well. Still.”

“Tough night?”

“I so don’t want to get into it.”

“Aw. That’s okay, hon.” Lorelai sits at the foot of Rory’s bed.

Rory sighs. “How did you know that you and Luke could make it as a couple? Like, really make it, and not just wreck everything about your friendship?”

“Well, to be fair, we did do that for a highly depressing little while.”

“Oh yeah,” Rory says glumly.

“But I don’t think you ever really know, babe. You just have to be ready to be there for each other, and be open and honest about what you’re really feeling, and then you just have to jump.”

“I hate jumping.”

“Oh, come on. Did you or did you not beg me to buy you a trampoline for like five years?”

“And you never got me one. It’s turned me into a warped and bitter jumping hater.”

“Fortunately, warped and bitter sounds just like Paris’s type.”

“Mom!” Rory smacks her lightly with a pillow.

“I’m just saying! You gotta talk it out, kid. That’s the only way.”

“I’m gonna hold this advice against you the next time you have a fight with Grandma,” Rory threatens.

“Uh, I’m not trying to be Grandma’s girlfriend,” Lorelai retorts. “Totally not the same.”

“It’s an important relationship in your life,” Rory says. “It’s a little the same.”

“When did this conversation become about attacking Mommy?”

“All conversations should be, I think,” Rory says faux-thoughtfully.

At this point, Lorelai makes her graceful exit. But not before mouthing ‘TALK TO HER!’ with exactly no subtlety.

Rory sighs.

+

When Rory goes out into the living room, Paris is sitting on the couch coloring aggressively by lamplight. It’s very Blue’s Clues meets Byronic hero.

“Hiya,” says Rory.

“Oh,” Paris says, freezing. “Rory. I didn’t see you there.”

“Well,” Rory says, “there I was. Am. Here.”

“Yes,” says Paris.

Well, this bodes well for a future of sparkling and witty banter.

Rory nears the couch. Cautiously. It’s creepier, somehow, to see Paris channeling all her emotions into coloring than it would be to see her pacing the house and roaring a lot like a romantically confused tiger. “So, uh. Whatcha coloring?”

“Baby goats.”

“Baby goats,” Rory says. “Cool.”

“It’s a party,” says Paris flatly.

Rory sits down on the arm of the couch, and feels some irrational Frodo level bravery for doing it. “Do you ... want to talk about ...”

“Nope,” Paris says.

“Paris, come on—”

Then there’s the sound of big, tromping footsteps, and her mom and Luke come into the living room. Well, it’s more like Lorelai shoves Luke into the living room.

“Hey, so uh,” Luke says, “we have to spend the night at the apartment over the diner. You know. Work related emergency.” He shrugs the world’s most unconvincing shrug.

“We have to wake up early,” Lorelai says. “With the ... pies.”

“Yeah,” Luke says helplessly. “They’re ... early pies.”

“Diva pies, if you ask me,” says Lorelai. “Pies that have gotten their way one too many times. But what can you do, right? It’s not like you can fight pies.”

“No sir,” says Luke.

“You two will be fine on your own tonight, right? Right, okay, great. Byeeeee!” And with that, Lorelai drags Luke out the front door.

Rory is torn between feeling incredibly thankful and wanting to chase after them, yelling, Wait, come back!

In the wake of their totally weird absence, the house goes quiet.

Like, quiet-quiet.

Really quiet.

“I think your mom wants us to get it on,” Paris says at last.

“She’s supportive in that way,” Rory agrees meekly.

“Well, you can tell her it’s not necessary,” Paris continues after a moment. “We’ve moved past it. I definitely found out most of what I need to know to write a convincing piece of internet smut, so ...”

Rory groans impatiently. “Paris, when I said ‘what were we thinking?’, I just meant that the timing and location weren’t ideal. I mean, that’s not us, is it? Maybe it's you a little bit, but I’m just not that kind of person. Jeopardizing over ten years of friendship just so we can have some random, seriously ill-advised hookup – we’re smarter than that. Not that I’m saying we shouldn’t ... shouldn’t be together like that someday. I just think we really need to consider all of the potential repercussions.” She brightens. “Maybe we could—”

“If you say ‘make a pro/con list’, I’m shoving this crayon down your throat,” Paris interrupts. “And forest green doesn’t go down smooth.”

“What’s wrong with pro/con lists in a situation like this?” Rory urges. “You love to plan just as much as I do. More so, even! I’ve never created one of those creepy complex information walls usually only found in the lairs of serial killers, and you totally have. And do you remember the whiteboards you put all around the apartment during our senior year at Yale? Those whiteboards were so terrifying M. Night Shyamalan wishes he had thought of them. They would have breathed some serious new life into his career.”

It’s like Paris isn’t even listening to her. “Being crazy – it’s not you, huh?”

“I think you know it’s not,” Rory says.

Paris takes a deep breath. “Your first time was with a married guy. You skipped school to follow an emo kid around New York City. You stole a boat and went to jail. You dropped out of Yale. You hooked up with Logan Huntzberger at your grandparents’ vow renewal. Also, you let him and a bunch of gorilla faced yuppies kidnap you and drag you out into the woods.”

“That was a lot quainter than you made it sound,” Rory says defensively. “They had evening gowns.”

“You stole cornstarch!” Paris accuses, waving a finger.

“That was a really long time ago,” Rory protests. “And it was under very innocent circumstances—”

“The good people of Stars Hollow need their cornstarch, Rory!” Paris thunders.

“Hey!” Rory says, annoyance bubbling up. “Why has this turned into the Everything Rory Gilmore Ever Did Wrong parade? I just want to talk about what happened—”

“You do crazy things,” Paris says. “You might not want to admit it. You might like that Upstanding Citizen Rory Gilmore persona too much to ever admit who you really are. But you’ve taken a lot of stupid risks in your day, Gilmore. Usually for some idiot guy. But the second that one of them involves me, it’s Spring Break 2004 and ‘Ew, a girl kissed me!’ all over again.”

“Paris, that is not what’s going on here! I said ‘ew’ because that wasn’t a real kiss! And I’m the one who kissed you first this time, remember?”

“And yet before things went too far, you were all too happy to shut it down.”

“So we were just supposed to keep hooking up in front of poor Mrs. Martinez? You should want better for her, Paris! She let you autograph her iPhone! Those things are expensive!”

“I’m just saying don’t worry about it,” Paris says stonily. “I don’t expect anything from you. Once all of this is over, it will be friendship as usual. Hell, maybe we can stage a breakup in the last episode. Sure, it will give the right wing yet more reason to feel high and mighty about the sanctity of the myth that is traditional marriage, but boy, do those TV viewers love the drama. Look out, Kardashians.”

“I’m just saying that this is the kind of thing that we need to think about,” Rory says, striving to stay calm instead of shouting her head off like a crazy person. “If it didn’t work out, and it messed up our friendship, it would make me really sad. Wouldn’t it make you sad?”

“Well, it’s nice to know my friendship means so much to you,” Paris says, in a way that sounds more like Why don’t you go jump in a lake of fire?.

“It does,” Rory says, even though she wouldn’t entirely hate that lake of fire right now if it meant getting out of this conversation. “Paris, this is so new. I never even thought about anything like this before until this whole thing started, and I know you didn’t either. Shouldn’t we just ... take our time? And make sure to prioritize being friends over everything else?”

Paris flips the coloring book page and starts assaulting some new barnyard cartoons. Under her breath, she mutters, “Just gals being pals. The no homo homies.”

“I just don’t think we need to make this situation any more complicated than it is right now,” Rory continues, frustration all a-crackle inside of her. “We’re already lying to the American public. I’m in deep, deep denial about what this is going to do to my journalistic integrity. Which is, you know, make it go poof! But whenever that thought comes into my brain, I just think about cotton candy and puppies and Mallory Ortberg instead so that I don’t keel over and die immediately.”

“Whatever. You’re Nellie Bly. This is your undercover-in-a-madhouse adventure. You’ll put some brilliant spin on it just like you always do.”

Normally a Nellie Bly comparison would warm the cockles of Rory’s heart, but this conversation is too exhausting for even Nellie-induced happiness.

“I just want us to do this carefully,” she says wearily.

“No,” Paris says. “You just want to slow things down.”

“And you just want to ... hook up as soon as possible? Like ... like a friends with benefits-y fling? I don’t think I could have a fling with you, Paris.”

“Big surprise,” Paris mutters. She slams her coloring book shut, snatches up her box of crayons, and storms out of the room.

Rory stares after her helplessly.

“What?” she whispers to nobody.

Maybe Paris really does just want to get it on for the sake of fanfiction. Maybe Rory misread this whole thing in a feat of idiocy so stunning that Adam Sandler could star in the hypothetical film adaptation.

Most of the time, she feels like she knows Paris really well. Like she understands her in a way no one else does, even. But then there are times like these where the girl is just a big Broadchurchy heap of twisty-turny inscrutable mystery.

The doorbell rings.

Something else to think about! Thank God.

Rory sprints to it like it’s the Poptart delivery man.

(Which, how cool would it be if those existed? She needs to imagine some beauty into the world right now.)

To her surprise, Lane is standing there. Lane’s not usually super into leaving the house after 8 PM these days. Mommy hours, and all that.

“Hey Rory,” she says. “How’s it goin’?”

“Oh, you know,” says Rory. “Saw some Shakespeare. Accidentally made out with Paris in a classroom. Scared a teacher. Made Paris hate me forever for approximately the five hundredth time since we met.”

“So, uh, this is probably the perfect time for a really weird distraction?” Lane says hopefully.

Rory sighs. “Sure. Hit me.”

“There’s kind of ... a hostage situation.”

“A what?” Rory says blankly.

“Basically exactly what I said,” says Lane.

Well. That’s interesting.

“Paris!” Rory calls. “I’m going out, okay?”

No answer.

Well, fine.

Rory slips into her coat and scarf and follows Lane down the driveway.

“Brace yourself,” Lane advises.

“Why don’t you just tell me who the hostage is?” Rory asks.

“Honestly, I kind of crave the drama,” Lane admits.

“Fair enough,” says Rory.

+

Ten minutes later, she is standing in Miss Patty’s studio. So is half of Stars Hollow. And they’re all rushing up to her.

“He just showed up, sugar, and we knew we couldn’t let him blow your cover!” says Babette. “A miscreant like him – there’s no way he can be trusted with this charade!”

“He certainly cannot!” Taylor huffs. “In fact, I don’t know why we didn’t just send him scampering off in the opposite direction the second he crossed the town line.”

“We can’t just kick people out of the town, Taylor,” Miss Patty says placatingly. In an undertone, she adds, “No matter how much they deserve it.”

“I offered to have Lulu do his makeup,” Kirk informs Rory. “He said no. But there’s no way anyone’s going to buy that he’s a lady.”

Rory pushes her way through the Stars Hollow masses and finally makes it to the front of the dance studio.

And there, sitting next to the podium and looking about as enchanted with Stars Hollow as he’s ever been, is:

“Jess?” Rory gasps.

Alternative Baking 101 (and Advanced Emotional Concealment) [Jeff/Annie, Part 2/2]

dollsome — Mon, 30 Mar 2015 22:21:43 GMT

Alternative Baking 101 (and Advanced Emotional Concealment) - Community ; Jeff/Annie ; 2,800 words ; Part 2 of 2. In which Annie grapples with the Jeff of it all, and Greendale grapples with achieving any level of normalcy.

2. Daylight

The next morning, Annie goes out into the kitchen to find a magical cupcake wonderland. All of the mangled abominations of cupcakes are gone, replaced by dozens of perfect frosted cupcakes. They even have the little multicolored star-shaped sprinkles that Annie picked out.

“Holy Julie and Julia,” she whispers wonderingly.

“He did it,” Abed says, awed (and very probably in-character as ... well, someone). “That magnificent son of a bitch made cupcakes.”

Britta sneaks one and bites into it.

“Britta!” Annie scolds, swatting her hand. “Those are for the bake sale!”

“Yeesh! Sorry!” Britta scowls at her.

“... are they disgusting?” Annie hates herself for asking, but she can’t quite help it.

Britta chews thoughtfully, then pronounces, “Jeff officially has three skills: perfectly disheveling his hair and pretending he just woke up like that, refusing to talk about his deep-seated daddy issues, and making gluten-free cupcakes.”

“Yay!” Annie claps her hands together; Abed and Britta join her. “Where is Jeff? Did he go home?”

Britta shakes her head grimly, then nods toward the living room couch.

Abed says, “We didn’t want to wake him just yet.”

Annie goes over to the couch. Jeff – or, to be more accurate, the leftover shell of what used to be Jeff – is stretched out on it. He’s dusted over with a layer of flour and frosting, and he’s got Abed’s I EAT BLORGONS FOR BREAKFAST apron tucked around him like the world’s saddest blanket. Annie just knows that he would be upset about the fact that his hair is really a mess, rather than carefully arranged to look like an attractive version of one.

It’s not Jeff Winger’s handsomest moment ever. Technically, she recognizes this.

Still, her heart does a fond little flip-flop at the sight of him.

“Wow,” Britta says, staring down at Jeff. “That is bleak.”

“It’s not his best look,” Abed says, “but it is his worst.”

“You guys!” Annie scolds.

Jeff groans and rolls from his side to his back. A string of drool oozes from his mouth to the couch cushion.

Abed and Britta grimace.

“And that has had his mitts on both of us,” Britta marvels grimly to Annie. “If that doesn’t make you believe the patriarchy’s all around us, seeping its filth into everything, then I don’t know what will.”

“Britta, be nice!” Annie orders.

“No way. That’s what the patriarchy wants.”

“Annie is blind to the full extent of Jeff’s outer hideousness because what matters to her is what’s in his heart,” Abed explains. “Which is to say, her.”

Annie freezes. “What?”

“He did it for you,” Abed says.

“He’d do anything for any of us,” Annie insists, her face peskily warm.

“That’s true,” Abed says, “but when it’s the rest of us, he usually only does it after he’s sulked a lot. You’re special.”

Annie looks down at Jeff.

“Far be it from me to recommend sex with Jeff,” Britta says gently, “but Annie, he’s totally stupid in love with you.”

“He is not,” Annie insists, Britta’s words sending a little dart of feeling through her.

Jeff groans and opens his eyes.

“Morninggg!” Annie says too brightly, beaming (and hoping that he didn’t hear any of that ... that crazy talk).

He smiles back groggily, looking happy to see her.

Aww.

Then he registers Britta and Abed behind her and reverts to typical Jeff mode. “What are you weirdos looking at?”

“Do yourself a favor,” Abed says. “Just jump into the shower. Don’t look into the mirror first. Trust me on this one.”

Jeff gives Annie and Britta a ‘what is this bozo talking about?’ look.

“It might not be the worst plan ever,” Annie says tactfully.

“You look like a bakery made you its bitch,” Britta says, less tactfully.

Jeff glares at them, then gets up and goes into the bathroom. The door slams shut behind him.

Annie, Britta, and Abed wait.

Then it comes: “AAAAAAAUGHHHHHH!”

“He looked,” Abed deduces.

“People should listen to us more,” Britta says. “We know what we’re talking about.” She grins way too knowingly at Annie. “Wink wink, nudge nudge—”

“Ugh,” Annie says, flouncing away from the madness.

She seeks solace in the kitchen, resting her elbows on the counter and staring down at the cupcakes. The sprinkles are so evenly distributed. She smiles to herself, admiring the tiny stars.

Jeff comes out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, looking – well, maybe not 100% on the Jeff Winger Handsomeness Scale, but at least a solid 78%. Annie has never been quite so okay with a C+ before.

He throws the I EAT BLORGONS FOR BREAKFAST apron at Abed, then puts on his sunglasses with flourish.

“Let’s do this,” he growls.

Annie feels a little thrill.

+

And so the Greendale Four(merly Seven) march proudly through the community college parking lot, each carrying a tray of magnificent cupcakes. Their victory march continues all the way to the quad ...

And then, well.

If life had a soundtrack, this would be the moment for the record scratch noise.

“... What is this?” Annie says, baffled.

“Greendale’s First Annual Fake Sale!” the Dean announces with great aplomb.

Sure enough, the banner draped proudly across the building boasts those very words.

The quad is covered in folding tables manned by different students, and on those tables is what Annie’s brain can only classify as heaps of distinctly non-edible old junk.

She glances around wildly. Removable mustaches. A peg leg. (A peg leg??) Handbags that say ‘COOCH’ on them instead of ‘COACH.’

“OFFENSIVE,” Britta thunders, pointing at the handbag table. “Why do you even have those, Star Burns?”

“I don’t judge your life,” Star Burns shoots back.

“Oh,” Annie says faintly, feeling that special kind of dizziness that accompanies unexpected failure. “Oh no.”

Jeff puts his hand lightly against the small of her back.

“Chang was right,” Abed mutters, aghast.

(Because, all right, yes: approximately twenty four hours ago, Chang burst into the study room and announced, “Greendale Fake Sale. Tomorrow. Be there or be GAAAAAYEEEEE.”

“That catchphrase has gotten really old,” Jeff said. “Like, Pierce levels of old, and Pierce is basically dead from old. And masturbation.”

Annie, Britta, and Abed all winced.

“Sorry,” Jeff said, wincing too. “It felt wrong as soon as I said it. We miss you, buddy,” he added to the ceiling.

“Chang, I think you mean ‘bake sale,’” Annie said delicately.

“Oh yeah?” Chang sneered. “What makes you think that, muchacha?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Jeff said, “maybe the fact that there’s no such thing as a fake sale.”

“I said what I said,” Chang declared. “Haters to the left. PEACE.” And with that, he sauntered on out.

“So Greendale’s having a bake sale,” Frankie discerned. “How ... normal. We must really be making a difference.”

Annie beamed, victorious.)

Now Annie feels like she might collapse in on herself. “What about the bake sale?”

“What’s a bake sale?” the Dean asks blankly.

Annie glances at Jeff, who looks more or less like she feels.

“Bo-ring!” the Dean finishes, tittering. “That’s what a bake sale is!”

“Yeah,” Jeff deadpans. “Who wants to eat delicious baked goods when they can buy stuff pretending to be other stuff?”

“Exactly!” the Dean says gleefully. “You so get me.”

Jeff shakes off the Dean’s appreciative arm stroke and looks at Annie. She shrugs helplessly.

“In all honesty,” the Dean adds in a confidential whisper, “I just had so many old wigs to get rid of. This felt like the right move.”

Sure enough, the Dean’s folding table is like one big fake hair extravaganza.

“Awesome,” Jeff says flatly.

“Can I interest you in a—”

“No,” Jeff says. “And for the record, it’s pretty hypocritical that you have a Cruella de Vil wig, considering that whole dalmatian thing that you seem to think you’re subtle about.”

“Darkness lurks in all of us, Jeffrey,” the Dean intones.

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees sharply. “Especially those of us who stayed up all night making cupcakes for a fake sale.”

“Mmmkay then; you kids have fun!” the Dean says, picking up on the less-than-happy vibes, and scampers off.

“I suppose we might as well ... enjoy the Fake Sale,” Britta says, wrinkling her nose.

“Oooh,” Abed says, “peg legs.”

The two of them take off to explore. Annie is about to follow them – maybe walking around will help to dispel her general sense of woe – but then Jeff sighs, and it makes her hang back. He leans against the folding table where they set their situationally inappropriate cupcakes down.

“I’m sorry,” Annie says, sinking down next to him.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s ours ... for not listening to Chang.” He cringes. “Okay, that felt wrong to say.”

“But seriously.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “You worked so hard, and I wish it could have been for something.”

“It was for you.” He gives her a small, lopsided smile. “That’s something, right?”

She becomes suddenly aware of her fingertips resting against him. “Jeff ...”

But then she glances at Abed and Britta across the quad, and both of them are looking at her with faces that are way too knowingly smug. Abed even does that weird eyebrow wriggling thing.

She stammers out, “It’s—it’s just a shame to waste all those cupcakes.”

“Annie. You really think these people are going to turn their backs on cupcakes?”

“But they’re gluten-free,” Annie reminds him wistfully.

And then Annie can practically see the lightbulb go off over Jeff’s head.

“Hey, Greendale!” he calls, standing up and going into full Jeff Winger Speech Stance. “You want fake? Oh, I’ll give you fake. These cupcakes are masquerading as the real deal. You bite into one of these bad boys, you’ll be convinced that what you’re experiencing is a classic, good old fashioned white-flour-induced mouthgasm. But these cupcakes ... are entirely ... gluten free.”

“Oh yeah?” squawks Garrett indignantly. “Prove it.”

“Two bucks,” Jeff says.

And just like that, Greendale students are swarming around their table, waving dollar bills at Jeff like he’s a fancy stripper.

Jeff grins and mutters in Annie’s ear, “And that’s how you do that.”

Annie beams at him, proud.

+

The cupcakes turn out to be pretty popular. Even more popular than the basket full of plastic snakes (which seems like a given, but you never know at Greendale).

After the first rush of cupcake buyers dies down, Jeff leans over and mutters to Annie, “Hey. What do you say we take a break?”

“Why can’t we come?” Britta asks. Annie can’t help but notice that she sounds like she already knows the answer.

“Because you gave up like a bunch of babies when the cupcake going got hard,” Jeff says.

“That’s fair,” Abed says.

“Got hard?” snorts Chang, appearing from basically nowhere. “GAYYYYYYEEEEE!”

Jeff rolls his eyes and flees the scene, gesturing for Annie to follow him. They don’t stop until they’re in the secluded smaller courtyard. Jeff sits at a picnic table and pats the bench beside him. Annie takes a seat. Once she has, Jeff pulls two cupcakes out from behind his back with a magician’s flourish.

“Milady,” he says grandly, holding one out to her.

She laughs and takes it. “Milord.”

For a second, his expression seems to shift, turning serious and almost sad. It makes her breath catch in her throat.

She’s about to ask what’s wrong, but then it passes, and he looks like normal Jeff again.

Maybe it’s just cupcake-induced sleep deprivation.

She takes a bite of the cupcake. Britta wasn’t wrong. “Jeff! These are amazing.”

“Well, I am amazing,” he says fairly. “What choice did my cupcakes have but to live in my image? Especially once you got out of there and stopped interfering with my process.”

“Ha ha ha,” Annie says sarcastically, smacking his chest.

He chuckles, pleased.

“I’m proud of you,” she declares.

“For making cupcakes?”

“For not giving up. And ... for making the selfless choice for a friend.” She trips slightly over the word ‘friend,’ her thoughts drawn inconveniently back to what Abed said.

“Yeah, well.” Jeff shrugs. “All this time at Greendale has really changed me. For the worse, by the way,” he adds, knocking his shoulder lightly against hers. He smiles at her, that smile he pulls out whenever he knows he’s annoying her and totally delights in that fact.

What a dork.

“Has it?” Annie retorts knowingly. “Or has it just helped you stop worrying about being cool all the time and become more ... you?”

“More me how?”

“More willing to show that you care about us. That you’ve got a good heart in there somewhere.”

“Hey.” He points at her. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to accuse me of having a heart.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be so sweet,” Annie teases.

She doesn’t mean for it to come out quite so flirty. Flirting and googly eyes and holding hands on wacky Greendale adventures ... aren’t they supposed to be past that by now?

(She looks down at the bench so she doesn’t have to deal with his face. Traces the ‘VICKIE RULEZ’ indentation etched into the wood.)

She’s grown up a lot in the past few years, but apparently not enough to want to be past it.

She’s not sure if she’ll ever want to be past it. Not if it means losing that thing that’s always crackled between them. Keeping them on their toes. Making them better.

And so she looks up, expecting Jeff to be staring awkwardly into the distance too.

He’s not. He’s looking right at her.

Britta’s words echo in her head. He’s totally stupid in love with you.

Right now, it’s not so hard to believe at all.

Annie leans forward, ever so slightly. Jeff does too. The distance between them starts to feel ... not so distant.

Then the PA system crackles to life. The Dean’s voice pours out. “Attention, Greendale: the fake snakes are real! I repeat, THE FAKE SNAKES ARE REAL!!!!”

Annie jumps, surprised.

“Snakes on a campus,” Abed intones, rushing over.

“Don’t hurt them!” Britta cries, trailing after him. “Snakes are people too! No – snakes are better than people! Has a snake ever started a war???”

“Everybody just needs to remain calm,” Frankie says, last in line. “There’s no reason to panic. There are more of us than there are of them, and humans are smarter than snakes.”

“How dare you!” Britta snarls at Frankie. “Humanist!”

“That’s not what ‘humanist’ means,” says Frankie.

“Spoken like a true human,” Britta sneers.

The three of them scamper off to misadventure.

“I guess we should go deal with that ... situation,” Jeff says, staring after them.

“Just another day at Greendale,” Annie says, laughing weakly.

Now would be the time to get up and move.

Both of them keep sitting still.

“Jeff?” Annie says.

“Yeah?” Jeff says, turning to face her.

Annie decides, all at once, to follow her heart.

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him, swift and sure. He nearly topples off the bench in surprise.

She wrenches him back up.

“Are you okay??” she asks, laughing.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, dazed. He furrows his eyebrows. “... Are you?”

“Why?”

“Annie. You just kissed me.”

“Yes.”

“Deliberately.”

“Yes.”

“And we’re not debating anyone, and it’s not an end-of-the-school-year dance with a bunch of emotionally manipulative fairy lights in the trees.”

“I know.”

“And—and this is what you want?” He looks at her unsurely. It’s so un-Jeff Winger. Or, to be more accurate, it’s so the Jeff Winger that he tries so hard not to let anyone see.

“Well, yeah,” she says warmly. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“It’s just—and don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m fully aware that I’m God’s gift to most women—don’t you think you can do better? You’ve grown up into a really spectacular person.”

She shrugs, smiling at him. “So have you.”

After a moment, he smiles back, and leans in to kiss her.

“Get a room, ya yuppie cupcake peddlers!” shouts Leonard, waddling by.

“Shut up, Leonard!” Jeff retorts. “You ...”

But for once, he’s got nothing. He just stares at Annie, dazed and admiring, like nothing matters quite as much as she does. Not even hurling insults at his geriatric nemesis.

Which is, okay, pretty romantic.

By Greendale standards, at least.

“Sucker,” scoffs Leonard, and shuffles along.

“Can you pretend that you didn’t just witness me getting owned by a one hundred and fifty year old man?” Jeff asks her.

“I think I can manage to forget, just this once,” Annie replies playfully.

“Thanks. Now, where were we?” Jeff teases, and pulls her close.

+

The snakes do infiltrate the picnic table ten minutes later, which forces the kissing to a halt for a little while.

It’s not a total disaster. In fact, they rise to the snake-wrangling occasion pretty admirably.

After all, Jeff Winger and Annie Edison have always made an incredible team.

The End

Alternative Baking 101 (and Advanced Emotional Concealment) [Jeff/Annie, Part 1/2]

dollsome — Fri, 27 Mar 2015 18:38:08 GMT

Between rewatching season three and being very excited about the existence of season six, I got a little overwhelmed by my own Jeff/Annie emotions -- ergo my first Community fic in a long, long while!

Alternative Baking 101 (and Advanced Emotional Concealment) - Community ; Jeff/Annie ; 2,000 words ; Part 1 of 2. In which Annie grapples with making gluten-free cupcakes for the Greendale bake sale, and Jeff grapples with the Annie of it all.

1. Late Night

“What are you doing?” Annie demands at 1:42 in the morning. She and Jeff are standing in the kitchen of her apartment. They’re also the last men standing, so to speak. Abed and Britta passed out on the couch about an hour ago, and Frankie bowed out at 10, spouting some excuse about not feeling comfortable hanging out with Greendale students and faculty off campus in the late night hours, lest things get inappropriate.

(“What, do you think that once 10:30 hits, this just becomes a massive orgy?” Jeff scoffed.

Frankie stayed quiet. That kind of quiet that meant ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

“Well ... it won’t!” Jeff said indignantly. “This is a strictly platonic task force.”

“Except for how Jeff and Britta used to hook up,” Abed said. So helpfully. “And Jeff and Annie used to kiss on pretty random occasions.”

“Yeah,” Frankie said, “I’m going to go now.”

“Seriously, Frankie,” Britta said. “Don’t worry about it. Before you start panicking about getting inducted into the Jeff Winger Harem, let me lay down some truth facts for you about this guy’s prowess: it will in no way lastingly affect your relationship. Jeff and I are still totally platonic. Or. Well. Is there a word that’s like platonic, but it’s specifically used for sex so underwhelming that once you stop having it, you literally forget their junk exists and start seeing them as someone who’s flat and smooth as a Ken doll down there?”

“... No,” Frankie said.

“Oh. Well. Platonic works, then!” Britta spun around and jabbed a finger in Jeff’s direction. “And how dare you call us your harem? WE ARE NOT DEFINED BY YOUR PENIS.”

“You said harem!” Jeff pointed out.

“Well, you implied it,” said Britta haughtily, “with your penis. Which I no longer acknowledge.”

Frankie took that as a cue to get the hell out. Jeff couldn’t really blame her. He glanced at Annie. She was in the kitchen, frowning at a recipe on her phone and – as far as he could tell – ignoring them.

Or was she ignoring them a little too carefully?

“For the record,” he said, turning around to face Abed, “I am not bad at sex. It’s called lack of chemistry, and just happens sometimes. Especially when one of the people doing it—” Jeff shot a significant look Britta’s way. “—is ridiculous and, oh yeah, crazy.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Abed asked. “Frankie’s gone, so if you’re interested in her—”

“I’m not interested in her.”

“—saying that now won’t do anything to fix your sexual credibility in her eyes. And you don’t need to convince me. I don’t think of you in that way, so it doesn’t matter to me if you’re bad in bed.”

“Not bad,” Britta says, “just. You know. Meh!”

“Unless,” Abed said, raising an epiphany finger, “you wanted someone else to overhear you clearing your name, like An—”

“LET’S MAKE SOME CUPCAKES,” Jeff roared.)

So now here they are almost four hours later, making some cupcakes.

Actually, let’s rephrase that: getting their asses kicked by cupcakes.

Gluten-free cupcakes, to be exact.

Annie, being Annie, refuses to give up. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun and streaked with flour. The streaked-with-flour look must be really in right now for beautiful overachievers, because her face and clothes are covered in it too. The sight of her KISS THE COOK! apron has, at this point, become tinged with existential despair. Jeff will never think about kissing cooks again without jumping right to: But what does it really matter, because everything’s futile and we’re all going to die someday.

Jeff guesses he must not look much better. They’ve been fighting this battle for so long he almost can’t remember what it’s like on the outside. The only difference is that his apron says I EAT BLORGONS FOR BREAKFAST. (Thanks, Abed.)

“I said,” Annie reiterates, swooping over to where he’s commandeered her laptop, “what are you doing??”

“I’m buying a ticket,” Jeff says, glancing up from the screen, “for Shirley to fly here and bake us something.”

“Jeff, the bake sale starts in seven hours! Shirley isn’t going to make it in time. And also,” she adds belatedly, “she has a life and a family and a job and a grumpy detective and she can’t just put all that on hold to walk us through something that any self-respecting adult woman with two brain cells should be able to do.”

(The speech is pretty much word-for-word what Shirley threw at them hours ago before she logged off of Skype to go to bed. Ergo the pesky appeal to traditional gender roles.)

“Or,” Annie adds, before Jeff can lawyer his way into that loophole, “adult man!”

“Well, you already rejected my buy-something-from-the-store-and-put-it-on-a-plate idea—”

“That would be cheating!”

“Annie. You can’t cheat at a BAKE SALE.”

“No. I can’t. I have too much integrity. Unlike Jeff Winger, who cheats at EVERYTHING!”

“I still don’t know what xanthan gum is,” Jeff snarls, snatching the bottle of mystery powder off the counter, “but I am going to throw it IN YOUR DUMB PRETTY FACE!”

“It’s a thickening agent!” Annie cries, her eyes flashing angrily as she comes closer to him in a full-on Edison rage. “God, you’re so—”

“SHUT IT, HOOLIGANS!” Britta shouts, then drops her head back onto Abed’s shoulder with a snore.

Jeff and Annie glare at each other in furious silence. Then Annie snatches the xanthan gum out of Jeff’s hand, her fingers brushing his. Like fingers do, when one person takes something from another person.

Jeff is starting to enter that stage of tired when he’s extra aware of everything around him.

It is a really inconvenient time to be around Annie.

“What I want to know,” he says, sighing, “is why you had to offer to bring the gluten-free cupcakes.”

“If Greendale is going to be taken seriously as a legitimate school, then we have to be considerate of peoples’ dietary needs!”

“Are you kidding? Those people will eat anything. I once saw Leonard cover a bowl of old shoelaces in ketchup and call it spaghetti.”

“You’re just making these up at this point, aren’t you?” Annie says discerningly, folding her arms.

Damn it, Jeff thinks.

“The point is,” he moves on smoothly, “why bother going above and beyond when there’s no one there to appreciate it?”

“We have to be the change we want to see in the world,” she says earnestly.

“And far be it from me to argue with that bumper sticker,” Jeff says, “but why, exactly, do you want to see a world where cupcakes taste less like fluffy cakey goodness and more like drowning slowly in quicksand throat-first?”

“It’s possible to make a good gluten-free cupcake,” Annie says, her voice starting to go frantic. “It must be possible. Shirley’s done it!”

“Shirley is some kind of culinary sorceress. The rest of us need to face the fact that we’re meek, pathetic mortals who need gluten to prosper.”

They stare around the kitchen. At this point, almost every surface is covered in rejected cupcakes. Burnt cupcakes. Deformed cupcakes. Cupcakes that just plain taste like filthy garbage.

“Oh, fine,” Annie concedes, frowning. “Just get something at the store in the morning. Make sure you don’t leave any labels on. If we’re going to be big fat lying cheaters, we might as well do it right.”

She looks so defeated.

... Aw, crap.

“Get some sleep,” Jeff says, the words rising up unbidden from the stupid Annie-shaped tumor in his heart. “I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” Annie says wearily.

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll bake something edible.”

The glumness falls off of her face, replaced by a look that he likes way better. She looks around the kitchen of cupcakey failure. “Jeff ...”

“I mean it. You’ve worked hard enough on this. You work harder than anybody else to make the pit of crazy that is Greendale an actual place worth being. So ... just let me pick up the slack for a little while.”

“Really?” Annie says, all dazed and hopeful.

“Would I ever lie?” he teases.

She smiles brilliantly. Even with the flour streaks and the circles under her eyes, she’s just about as beautiful as it gets. Suddenly, her apron seems to be rocking some really good advice.

(Maybe not suddenly. Maybe it’s a thought that’s been bugging him for awhile now. You know what’s a waste of time? his brain keeps telling him lately, no matter how often he orders it to shut the hell up. Not kissing Annie.)

She comes in close and stands on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his cheek. He closes his eyes without meaning to.

“Thanks, Jeff,” she says softly.

“Um,” he says, “sure.”

She pulls away, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and for a second he wonders if she’s thinking what he’s—

But then she pats his shoulder, a more affectionate version of her usual swatting-the-crap-out-of-him routine.

“’Night,” she says, lips curving in a sleepy little smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “’Night,” and watches her walk away.

+

He spends about an hour devouring cooking blogs with sickeningly cutesy gluten-themed names. (Gluten-Free: Yippie! Barf.) By the end of his research period, there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to start a rival blog and just call it Hey, Gluten: Screw You.

But he does figure it out eventually. The key is blending different types of flours, rather than trying to use just one. And what brings it all together is—damn it—xanthan gum. He isn’t proud that he knows that, but hey. At least Shirley will be.

(At least Annie will be.

Or. You know. Whatever.)

When he finally finishes up at four in the morning, he has four dozen vanilla cupcakes, frosted and covered in sprinkles. He tries one and doesn’t want to cry out for the sweet release of death’s embrace; in fact, it’s pretty damn good.

And here’s one thing he will never understand: why hard work doesn’t always feel like the worst thing ever anymore. Technically, he shouldn’t be proud that he lost a whole night’s sleep making dumb cupcakes for yet another dumb Greendale event. And yet.

He finishes eating the cupcake and throws the wrapper away. The fact that it takes him about five minutes to master the art of putting something in the garbage can under the sink makes him realize that he’s probably not in the best shape to drive home right now.

Which means sleeping here.

Briefly, he thinks about passing out on the other side of Annie’s bed, but his common sense shuts that idea down pretty quick. She’s been through enough tonight, courtesy of the fact that something called xanthan gum exists. The last thing she needs is to wake up and find some middle aged weirdo she used to have a crush on curled up next to her (no matter how dashingly handsome he is). Maybe once upon a time waking up in bed with him would have been Annie approved – and Jeff definitely isn’t going to wander down that mental path – but the fact is that that was a long time ago. Annie is older and wiser now. Probably too wise to waste her time on a guy who’s taken like seven years to ‘fess up to what he actually feels about her.

And even then, only in his own head, and only when he’s too sleep-deprived to muster up his usual levels of hardcore denial.

He sighs and goes over to the couch, shoving Abed over so he can claim a tiny sliver of sofa for himself.

“Unresolved sexual cupcakes,” Abed mumbles in his sleep.

“You’re telling me,” Jeff mutters grimly, and passes out.

all her wishes (Selfie, Henry/Eliza)

dollsome — Thu, 12 Feb 2015 22:03:26 GMT

all her wishes - Selfie ; Henry/Eliza ; 1,500 words. Henry and Eliza spend Valentine's Day together. In a totally platonic fashion, of course (not).

Disclaimer: I have no idea what the likelihood is of Eliza never having heard of P&P, but let's roll with it!

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both: by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance.
(Pride & Prejudice)

+

Eliza knows she should feel pathetic. It’s Valentine’s Day and she’s totally single. Which, not necessarily a bad thing, but she’s also totally not taking advantage of her single-and-ready-to-mingle-and-tingle state by going out and hooking up with some desperate hot dudes. She’s just hanging out on her couch with the big weirdo who has somehow become her best friend. And even worse, he keeps trying to convince her that watching some old British documentary (or something) called Pride & Prejudice is the best way to spend the night.

It has Colin Firth on the cover, which tells Eliza everything she needs to know. Colin Firth is for old ladies. And Henry, apparently.

“No offense, Henry,” she says, “but I am so not in the mood to watch something about Colin Firth being a racist in a ruffly collar.”

“No,” Henry says. “No, that isn’t remotely the plot.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a love story. And a biting yet sprightly social commentary.”

“Boooooooooo,” says Eliza.

“With a bright and intelligent protagonist who happens to share your name.”

“His name is Eliza?” Eliza wrinkles her nose and stares down at the DVD cover.

“No, not him—” Henry sighs. “All right. Some other time, then.”

He’s willing to give up, and that fact alone makes something go ‘oh, fine, what the hell’ in Eliza’s soul.

“No, let’s watch it,” she says.

Henry’s face lights up.

“I’m drinking this the whole time, though,” Eliza adds, grabbing the bottle of wine that Henry brought over with him. Alongside a box of chocolates and some flowers, which he insisted were purely friendly flowers.

(“I also got some for Charlie,” Henry had said, to break up the awkward pause that came out to play after Eliza took the flowers.

“You did?”

“Well, no. But only because he’s my assistant and not my friend. If we hung out on more of a ... friendship level, though? Charlie would have gotten some flowers. Flowers of friendship.”

“Good to know,” Eliza said.)

Eliza stares at the flowers, which she put in a vase on the kitchen counter. She still can’t really picture Henry buying Charlie a dozen red roses under any circumstance. Although, okay, if that did happen, it would be hilarious.

“A glass of wine sounds nice, actually,” Henry says.

“No, this is mine,” Eliza says, hugging the bottle. “You can get your own.”

She shares anyway, though. In the name of, like, friendship and stuff.

+

It turns out Colin Firth Is Not A Ruffly Shirted Racist is like eight hundred billion hours long. Eliza doesn’t even have live tweeting to distract her from it, because she so doesn’t want her followers to know that this is how she’s spending Valentine’s Day.

Well, that and it would distract her from the TV – and, more importantly, Henry watching it. Every time the snooty British people do something extra snooty, he chuckles in this conspiratorial way, like he thinks that he is part of their clique and he’s totally going to be invited to tea at Mr. Bingley’s next Tuesday.

Which, by the way, what is the big effin’ deal about Mr. Bingley?? He’s not all that. These people need to chill. It’s the sort of observation that she would totally live tweet.

But. Well. Watching Henry is honestly more fun than letting people bask in her snarky fabulousness via Twitter.

And that’s weird.

She gets it.

Sometimes she feels like she doesn’t even know who she is anymore. Other times, she wonders if maybe it’s more that she’s finally figuring it out. Either way, it’s a scary feeling. But not necessarily scary-bad.

Unlike this Miss Bingley chick’s hair.

Ugh.

Eliza takes a big gulp of pinot to deal with that one.

+

They take a break after a few episodes.

(“What? No!” Eliza hollered at the end of the first one. “Why does this have episodes?”

“Because you can’t possibly expect an adaptation to remain faithful to all the brilliant minutia of the novel if it’s constrained to two hours.”

“There’s a novel?”

“You’re joking.”

“You’re not gonna make me read the book too, are you? Henry. I am not reading the book. You hear me? Henry. I need you to acknowledge that you heard me. NO BOOK.”)

When Henry goes to make some popcorn, Eliza stares down at the red box that’s been resting on the floor next to her all night. Henry hasn’t noticed it yet.

Might as well, Dooley.

“Hey, uh.” When Henry sits down next to her, she shoves the box inelegantly at him. “I got you these.”

He looks all genuinely touched. The loser. “You didn’t have to get me a gift.”

“Pssht. They’re not a gift.” She watches as he pulls the lid off. “It’s just—you mentioned your feet have been getting cold at night lately, because you’re an old man—”

“I am not an old man—”

“—and so I saw them and I thought, ‘Well, better get them for Henry and his old man feet, because I know how he feels about wearing socks to bed.’”

“You have to let your feet breathe,” Henry says severely. “It’s a basic tenet of podiatric health—”

“So keep these by your bed, and your stupid toes won’t get cold when you get up to go to the bathroom or whatever,” Eliza interrupts.

Henry looks down at the pair of slippers. They’re just boring old slippers. Gray with that nice white fluffy stuff on the inside. Not a big deal.

“Thank you, Eliza,” he says, looking at her like she just gave him, like, all his hopes and dreams. Or a labradoodle.

I love you, Eliza thinks. Then she wants to kick something. It’s not really a surprise, though. These moments pretty much happen on the regular nowadays.

She’s sick of feeling that feeling so hard and then just tucking it away.

So this time, she doesn’t. She just ... feels it.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

“What?” he asks, looking up from the slippers and really noticing the look on her face.

“Okay,” she says, not quite meaning to. “So, uh, I really wanna kiss you right now. But the last time I tried to make this happen, you kinda crushed my heart into a billion pieces and I don’t really remember it, but I’m pretty sure I sang Sia sad. Like, it was sad, Henry. People cried. Probably. Well, I cried. And I think I might have danced up on Larry, which, yikes—”

“I accept,” Henry interrupts.

She gapes. “What?”

“Your invitation. I accept it.” He clears his throat. And leans closer. “Consider this ... my RSVP.”

Eliza stares at him for a long time. He is so close all of a sudden. Kissably close. Her heart feels like it’s going to blow up faster than Jupiter Ascending on Tumblr.

Then she bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she gasps.

“What?” Henry frowns.

“That’s what you’re gonna say? That. We have had this massive sexual tension hovering around us for the past ever, driving us straight up Britney-circa-2007 cray, and then when the moment is finally happening, you say ... you say that?” She laughs again. This weird, waily laughter. She literally cannot stop.

“I thought it was good,” Henry says, a little dazedly. “I stand by it.” He moves closer again. “Eliza, I—”

“Just hold up a sec,” she says, lunging desperately for her phone. It’s like running and hiding. But quicker. “I have to Tweet this.”

“You do not have to Tweet this—”

“Please. I so do. I want to remember this moment forever. And share it with literally everyone I’ve ever met. And everyone I haven’t met.”

“You really shouldn’t—”

“And Taylor Swift probably thought she had Most Popular V-Day 2015 Tweet in the bag with that thing about throwing a super cute lesbian cat wedding for Meredith Grey and Olivia Benson.”

“What?—”

“Hah! Not this time, Tay Tay—”

“Eliza—”

It’s kind of hard to type with her hands shaking, but damn it, she is gonna make this happen. “‘First kiss fail: I accept ... your invita’—”

And then Henry clasps her wrist.

His fingers are gentle against her skin, but determined too. She looks up from the comforting glow of the screen, and there he is. Just looking at her, like ... like no hashtag could ever capture. Like no words could ever capture. Like she’s everything.

It works, Eliza decides. Because he’s sorta everything, too.

And so maybe it’s okay to just see what happens.

“Fail?” he asks, his voice low and pretty freakin’ dreamy.

“Well, maybe not total fail,” Eliza admits, trying to sound annoyed. It mostly comes out breathless.

And then someone moves forward, or maybe both of them do, and finally, finally, finally he’s kissing her.

She drops her phone and it lands with a thud on the floor. And it’s kind of like, screw that little robot machine. For the first time, she couldn’t care less.

party girls don't get hurt (Penelope/Claude)

dollsome — Wed, 17 Dec 2014 23:04:29 GMT

evewithanapple requested some Reign femslash over on Tumblr, which reminded me yet again that I am astoundingly femslash-otp-devoid for a show this full of wondrous women. So I went with a random crack pairing that occurred to me awhile ago; I can’t help but find it full of delightful potential. :)

This doesn't delve into the most recent Catherine and Claude storyline developments, because I have no idea what to do with that business, y'all.

party girls don’t get hurt - Reign ; Penelope/Claude ; 2,600 words. Penelope, back at French Court as a lady of Catherine’s Flying Squad, is appointed a most unglamorous task: keeping Princess Claude in line.

Honestly, Penelope likes being a member of Catherine’s Flying Squad. It involves fabulous dresses and wine and trickery and sex (sometimes even with decent-looking men who have some clue what they’re doing), and Penelope likes all of these things much better than slaving away in the damn scullery. It’s just the sort of better life she always wanted, the sort her parents always said would never come to her. You’re lucky, they’d say, to work in the palace at all, and they’d laugh at her grand dreams of more. Well, she’d be the one laughing now, if they were still alive to see it. She’ll never admit it, but she’s grateful to Queen Catherine, fearsome though that woman is.

So when Catherine comes to her with a new task, she’s excited. She’s careful not to show it, though. “Who am I seducing this time, then?” she asks nonchalantly.

“No seduction this time.” Catherine smiles slightly. “I’ve a very special assignment in mind for you.”

Penelope feels a spark of excitement.

+

... which is immediately snuffed out when she discovers just what her new assignment is.

“A chaperone?” says Princess Claude, aghast, when Penelope reports to her chambers. “And one of my mother’s fancy whores, no less? No thank you.”

“You’re quite the fancy whore yourself, if the stories are true,” Penelope retorts.

Claude gasps, affronted. “Excuse you. You are speaking to a princess!”

“I don’t much care,” Penelope says, and then throws in a prim, “Your Highness.”

Claude glowers.

Penelope curtseys, deliberately loose and gaudy. She can pull off a proper graceful curtsey now, after months of training, and talk like a fine lady too, but she’ll not be wasting such skills on this little twit.

So in a way, this new servitude’s quite liberating, even if it is the most frustrating assignment Penelope's ever gotten. She's not a nanny. Penelope only looks out for one person, and that's herself.

But she knows that when girls like her say no to Catherine, they don't stick around for long. And Penelope's not about to give up all her new pretty things. Her new pretty life.

+

Penelope’s been told to ‘make the princess behave by any means necessary.’

If that means stealing the attention of any man who Claude flirts with, well – making her angry’s just a bonus, now isn’t it?

A rather dashing courtier is pretending (badly) not to stare at Penelope’s breasts, and doesn’t seem to notice Claude’s hand on his arm even though two minutes ago he was all caught up in her.

Penelope meets the princess’s eyes and gives her a tiny, triumphant smirk.

“My spinsterish companion and I must be going now,” Claude says abruptly, grabbing Penelope and dragging her out into the corridor. Even once they’re safely removed from the room, she doesn’t move her fingers. Instead, she digs them harder into Penelope’s arm. “You can’t imagine he actually preferred you to me!”

“Seemed like he did,” Penelope says.

“You walk around all smug,” Claude snarls, “but you’re just a little urchin who’s deluded herself into thinking she matters. I asked around about you, you know, and you were just a kitchen wench until you won that ridiculous Bean Queen title and my father paid attention to you for five minutes. You act like some great seductress, but you’re just a little filthy commoner in a nice dress that my mother bought you. I bet I’ve had more lovers than you.”

Penelope cocks her head. “You sure about that, Princess?”

Claude lifts her chin defiantly. “Kitchen rats don’t count.”

“I never had much of a taste for kitchen rats. You know who I did like? The late King of France.” Penelope puts a nostalgic smile on. “I tied him up in all manner of nasty ways. He went positively wild for it. I could get him to beg like a dog. The most powerful man in France, chosen by God, and I could have torn him to bits and made him like it.”

Claude scowls, disgusted.

“Just think. I was almost your stepmother once.” Penelope gives her a saccharine smile. Then she reaches for Claude’s hand, still locked around her arm, and lifts each of her fingers one by one.

Claude seems a little shaken; for once, all the spite goes out of her, and she just looks at Penelope, blank and bested.

It’s very satisfying, that.

“He only liked you because he was stark raving mad,” Claude recovers at last. She sneers. “In fact, I’m quite sure that’s the only way anyone could ever like you.”

“You like me a little bit,” Penelope teases. Perhaps not so nicely. “Go on. Admit it.”

Claude glares at her, then turns and stomps off like the little royal brat she is. Penelope laughs.

+

“If you’re so worldly,” Claude says a few days later, standing at the looking glass as her maidservant helps her dress (these people ... the most powerful in all the land, and yet they’re like babies; can’t even put their own clothes on), “have you ever been with a girl?”

Penelope shrugs from where she sits on the end of the bed. “A few times. Women have secrets worth stealing, too. Though they’re usually better at keeping them. You have to work harder. Fun challenge, though.”

“What was it like?” Claude asks curiously.

“So you haven’t?”

“Not yet.”

“But you plan to.”

Claude meets her own eyes in the looking glass, determined. “I plan to do whatever will make my mother furious.”

“Who do you think sent me to those women? I don’t think your mum’s as easily shocked as you think. You know what you should do?” Penelope adds. “Behave yourself. That’ll really shock her.”

The maidservant giggles. Then she realizes what she’s doing and inhales the giggle in a gasp.

“Never,” Claude says, surly, then turns to swat at the poor girl.

+

A few evenings later, they’re milling about with a bunch of courtiers; it’s turned into an impromptu concert, fine ladies showing off their (supposed) musical skills, and Penelope has already heard enough of the harpsichord to want to bash her head against the wall. She may rank among them now—in a way, at least—but that doesn’t change the fact that rich people are ridiculous.

Catherine makes her way into the room, accompanied by a bevy of ladies in waiting. As soon as Claude spots her, she stiffens.

“Oh, Mother!” she trills as soon as Catherine’s come over. Penelope’s got a bad feeling about this. “Have I thanked you yet for giving me Penelope? She and I get up to all kinds of fun together.” Claude very pointedly plants a hand on Penelope’s thigh.

Catherine rolls her eyes. “Following Lady Kenna’s example and sleeping your way through the family, are you?” she asks Penelope.

Penelope gives the queen mother a smile meant to convey the same message as a very rude hand gesture.

Claude drapes an arm over Penelope’s shoulders and uses her free hand to play with locks of Penelope’s dark hair. Catherine tut tuts and sweeps away, apparently deciding the spectacle’s not worth her attention. Penelope wishes everyone else in the room would follow suit. They don’t. Even the bloody harpsichord’s gone silent.

“Everyone’s watching,” Penelope says furiously from between gritted teeth.

“Good,” says Claude.

+

The second they step into the princess’s chambers, Penelope grabs Claude’s shoulders and pushes her against the wall, kissing her hard and long. Revenge is sweet.

When she pulls away, Claude is bright pink and breathless.

“Don’t make promises you’re not willing to keep,” Penelope orders.

“I ... I ...” Claude stammers.

“And think twice,” Penelope says coldly, “before messing with me.”

She turns and leaves the room with a bit of a spring in her step, half-wishing she could have stuck around to see the struck-dumb look on the princess’s face. But Penelope is good at knowing when to stop and leave them wanting more. It’s the reason she didn’t wind up just another dead whore in King Henry’s bed.

+

Princess Nightmare behaves herself for awhile after that.

Wonder of wonders, she’s even content to stay in her room one night; she reads for a bit, some romantic drivel. Penelope knows how to read now, but she doesn’t much enjoy it. Why read about made-up people doing things when you could just do them yourself? Penelope works on her embroidery instead. It still feels like a big fat waste of time—at least mending socks serves a purpose; what’s the point in putting flowers on fabric?—but she’s getting good at it.

After about a half hour of quiet, Claude asks, “Have you ever been in love?” She doesn’t look up from the book.

“No. Love’s never interested me,” Penelope answers truthfully. “I’d rather be on my own; a husband would only want me to take care of him, and there’s no way I’m doing that. You?”

To her surprise, Claude looks so melancholy at the question that Penelope almost feels bad for asking it.

“What’s going on in that, then?” Penelope points at the book, grasping for a distraction.

“It’s about a girl who falls in love with—with the wrong man. And so she has to trick him in order to convince him to be with her. He finds out and he’s ... displeased.”

“How displeased?”

“He tries to kill her. To avoid his wrath, she gets turned into a myrrh tree.”

Penelope snorts. “Sounds stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s beautiful. And so sad.”

“Whatever you say,” Penelope replies, and goes back to embroidering.

“There’s a part about another girl,” Claude continues. “She tries to convince the man she loves that her love is good and true and ... and they should be together, but he won’t hear of it. He breaks her heart. And she wanders the world, weeping and mad, until she dies and turns into a spring.”

Penelope has to laugh at that one. “Who in the world came up with this load of dung?”

“Ovid,” Claude says, in a voice that makes it clear that’s supposed to mean something.

Penelope stares at her.

“You are a philistine, aren’t you?” Claude says snootily.

“If you say so. But at least I’m not weeping over tree-girls.”

“I’m not weeping,” Claude says angrily. “You’re dismissed.”

“No I’m not. I’m supposed to remain with you during your every waking hour.”

“Well, I’m going to bed. So get out.”

Penelope knows that she ought to fight it, but the idea of leaving is too fine to resist. She’s got a headache coming on, no doubt caused by too much time with annoying royals.

“Very well,” she says, and goes, leaving Little Miss Whiny to weep over her odd fairytales.

+

It’s a mistake.

Penelope discovers that when she comes to Claude’s room the next morning to find it empty, the bed not slept in.

“Oh, bugger,” Penelope mutters.

Fortunately, she’s spared hunting for the princess. She’s just about to set off when the door busts open and Claude stumbles in, smelling so sharply of wine that Penelope feels dizzy by proxy.

“He won’t even speak to me,” she raves, staggering over to her vanity. “He’s being such a boar. It’s that wife of his—she claims to love him, but she won’t even let him speak to his own sister. I know that it’s her doing! That little—”

“You mean King Francis?”

“Bash!” Claude cries, hurling a hairbrush across the room.

“You really should use that,” Penelope says. “Your hair looks awful.”

Claude ignores her. “He’s the only one who knows what it’s like. To be a part of this family, and still endure my mother’s hatred. She would do anything for any of her other children, but never me. At least he knew what it was like—to do nothing, just be born, and have to face my mother’s ire for it. We used to get along so well. But ever since I came back ...” She sinks down onto the floor, her skirts rustling. Her face is tear-streaked and miserable when she lifts her eyes to Penelope. She looks so young. “I’m nothing more than a burden to him. To any of them.”

“You’re the one making yourself into a burden,” Penelope points out. “Scratch that: a downright terror.”

“Well, why shouldn’t they suffer? I have.” Claude sniffles loudly. “And I promise you, if I was a well-behaved lady, no one in this damned castle would look at me twice. At least this way ...”

But she abandons whatever she meant to say, and starts crying harder.

Oh, Lord.

Penelope has never been any good at comforting people.

She contemplates just walking out and leaving the princess to her stupid self-made misery, but something keeps her tethered.

So instead, she crosses the room to Claude and puts an awkward hand on her shoulder. “I’m just saying. Sometimes it’s wise to pick your battles. That’s what I did, and my life’s got much better.”

“You were mistress to the king. Now you’re just another one of my mother’s overdressed skanks.” She shakes Penelope’s hand off. “You’ve fallen. You had one good thing, and you couldn’t even keep it.”

Penelope thinks back to her time with Henry, and part of her wants to laugh at anyone calling it a good thing. The other part of her doesn’t feel like laughing a bit.

“You weren’t here,” she says. “You didn’t see what he was like. If people crossed him, he’d turn on them in a second. Torture them. Squash them like bugs. It’s like he couldn’t even see the life in people. But I kept with it, because what other choice did I have?”

Claude has gone quiet with interest.

“But then your mother, she gave me a choice. And I was smart enough to stop worrying about my pride and take it. Maybe if you just stopped fighting everyone around you all the time, you could find some peace, too.”

Claude is quiet for a long time. Then she snifflingly declares, “You talk far too much sense for a whore.”

“And you’re a right little bitch,” Penelope replies, unbothered. “Now get into bed and sleep this off, will you?”

“I could have you executed for saying that,” Claude points out, flopping as Penelope hoists her up.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Penelope, pulling back the blankets with one hand and then dumping her into bed.

“You’re the only one who stays with me,” Claude says woozily. “And it’s just because my mother forces you. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Some days I like you a little bit. That has to count for something, hmm?”

“Shut up,” Claude orders, waving a hand dazedly. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment. “You’re a good kisser, you know.”

Penelope shrugs, smiling. “It’s part of my job.”

“Am I a good kisser?” she asks, the words blurring together.

“A boring one, really. You just stood there.”

“Because you caught me off guard!”

“I’m just being honest.”

“I am—I am an astounding kisser—I’ve ruined lives with my kissing—and you’ll—you’ll get to find out soon enough. I promise you that.”

“Do you?” Penelope is a little intrigued in spite of herself.

“Absolutely,” Claude says, and then passes out dead asleep.

Snoring and everything.

“Idiot,” Penelope says.

Still, she takes the time to carefully pull the covers up to the princess’s chin. There can't be much harm, she figures, in looking out for someone else every once in awhile.

and in my heart there stirs a quiet pain (Bash/Mary)

dollsome — Mon, 15 Dec 2014 00:39:13 GMT

Conde and his Bash 2.0 Mary-pining antics have only succeeded in making me extremely nostalgic for Original Flavor Bash! And so I decided to bust out some season two Bash/Mary interaction my damn self. Come onnnn, show writers. Follow suit. You know you want to! (Why don't they want to??)

Content warning: this takes place after 2x10, and there is some vague discussion of rape.

and in my heart there stirs a quiet pain (for unremembered lads) - Reign ; Bash/Mary (past romance, present friendship), slight Francis/Mary and Henry/Catherine ; 2,800 words. After reading Conde's letter, Mary's thoughts are pulled to someone else entirely, and she decides to mend old wounds.

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)

And maybe, just maybe
I'll come home
(Ben Howard, "Promise")

+

It isn’t Conde Mary thinks of after she reads his letter. It’s Bash.

She can’t help it. The plague brought with it the threat of ghosts, the whispers said, and in a way Conde has been that. He stands at her side, loyal and dark, ready to do whatever she might ask of him. There are worse ways to be haunted.

+

These days, Mary tries very hard to pretend that Bash is only Francis’s brother—a man she thinks kindly of in a general way, but has no particular interest in. Most of the time it’s easy. Bash has Kenna now, and against all odds they seem to have found true happiness. Kenna glows when she speaks of him. (Kenna has never once alluded to the fact that her husband was once almost Mary’s husband – an odd thing, considering Kenna has never had much restraint in conversation.)

These days, Mary and Bash speak when they must—talking about affairs of state, mostly. Mary makes sure to always be pleasant but direct. She never lets herself catch his gaze too long, or think Once you swore to love me over all else. To live for me and only me. I thought I knew then what I was giving up, but I had no idea. They never stand particularly close. They exchange polite smiles, but don’t laugh.

No one would ever guess that they’d been engaged once. In love once, or at least the start of something like it.

+

Maybe she has been encouraging Conde’s interest without meaning to. Maybe it’s because in some way, she misses Bash at her side but knows she can never ask him to stand by her again. Not after breaking his heart the way she did. Not after he stood at her marriage bed, pain on his face, and she chose to look away.

She has left her marriage bed now. She sits alone in the bed she slept in back when she was not a wife, and she clutches Conde’s letter in her fingers. It’s such a light, fragile thing to hold so much weight. A kiss of flame, and it would be gone.

When she dreams, she still sees the flames licking the dark sky. She is glad of what she did, but something in her has died of doing it. She doesn’t know quite who she is anymore.

And so she keeps her eyes open again. She looks at his words. In love with a queen.

She could call it a second chance. Not one she will take, of course. She is so tired of love, and she hates the thought of anyone’s hands on her. Her heart has been so full of love for Francis—overflowing with it, bleeding of it—that she feels certain she can be nothing but empty without him. There is a certain peace in emptiness.

But looking at the words, she feels young again. Her memory pulls her back, to the point where she can almost feel the crisp autumn air and her sliced palm stinging with the pain of a fresh wound. Bash’s fingers are gentle and sure as they wrap a handkerchief around her hand. His promise is simple: to be hers. To be her family. To let that matter most. She is just a girl and he is just a boy, not the king of anything.

She knows it would have been harder than it seemed on that day in that field. Bash hadn’t been raised to rule, and surely would have fumbled terribly. (Never mind that Francis has fumbled plenty terribly himself.) The shadow of Francis would have always lurked in Mary’s heart. Bash would have deserved better, deserved more, and Mary would have always known it, and the guilt would have worn at her. Would have wrenched them apart in time, in spite of all her good intentions.

She knows these things.

But just for now, she closes her eyes and lets herself be that young girl in a field, cherished. Nursing a broken heart, yes, but healing. Standing on the brink of some new, sweet, unanticipated life. The girl who leaned in and kissed him first, claiming happiness where she could find it.

Her eyes drift down to the letter again.

After a moment, she folds it carefully in half and sets it aside.

+

“Would you like to know a thing about marriage?” Catherine says the next evening. She must be a little drunk. She hasn’t had much wine since she joined Mary in her chambers half an hour ago, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t imbibing before the visit. Mary has watched Catherine’s wine intake increase considerably since the coronation.

Mary looks up.

“About my marriage,” Catherine clarifies.

“All right,” Mary says hesitantly.

“I always loved Henry. A day never went by where I didn’t love him. I don’t know that I knew it at the time. I hated him too, after all, and hatred is easier to notice than love, especially as you grow older. But after he died ... watching him die ... those are the sort of moments where everything else ceases to matter. And with him gone, I was so lost. I thought I would never get the chance to—” She glances across the room. There’s nothing to see there, besides the fireplace, but her gaze fixes on it with an odd intensity. Maybe she’s more than a little drunk. “He’s my husband, and I do love him, and I know now that I was wrong to bury it away all those years.”

“Maybe you should eat something,” Mary says. “I’m a bit hungry myself. I’ll call for the servants; we’ll have a nice quiet supper here—”

Catherine ignores her. “I never did tell Henry what happened to me. It happened before we were married, and the match would have been over in a second if word had gotten out. So I always kept that secret very carefully, until—well, until I told you, in fact.” She still stares at the fireplace – not down into the fire, but some inches above the mantle. “Now you know.”

It’s peculiar phrasing, considering Mary has known for over a year. “Catherine ...”

“When we were first married ... when y—when he touched me, I would always flinch away, and he didn’t understand why. He thought I didn’t care for him.” Her voice wavers slightly. Mary feels a stab of panic at the idea of Catherine crying in front of her. Mary has faith in her own ability to handle many things, but not that. “He and I were very alike, in a way; we both became crueler when we were afraid. It wasn’t until it was too late that he told me, and I ... well, nothing could be done about it by then. Things were too bad, at that point, and there was no going back. I thought,” she finishes, “that we would never reconcile. Isn’t that sad?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Mary demands softly.

Catherine shifts her gaze to Mary. “I know you don’t want to be around Francis right now, Mary. I understand that it’s a hard time, and his presence only makes it harder. But don’t write him off for good. If any part of you still loves him, trust that. Listen to it. And when you’re ready, don’t hesitate to open your heart again.”

Mary looks down at her folded hands. “I don’t know if I ...”

“I am trying to save you,” Catherine interrupts, “from becoming me.” Her tone is harder now. More the sound that Mary is used to. “Make no mistake, dear. You’re well on your way down that path. And I want better for my son, and better for you.”

“I’ll speak to him again when I’m ready.” If I’m ever ready.

“That’s all I ask.” Catherine settles back into her chair, languid again. “When you let these things go on too long, you reach a point where there’s no turning back. Hearts can harden for good. And then the only second chances you can find will be in miracles.”

Catherine’s gaze drifts across the room again. She smiles slightly, as if she’s picturing some beloved thing there.

Maybe Mary isn’t the only one who finds it easier, these days, to live in memories and what-might-have-beens. The present hasn’t been easy for Catherine either, with Claude so unaccountably ill.

Mary doesn’t doubt that Catherine’s advice is wise, but she knows she cannot follow it. Not yet.

At least not with Francis.

+

Early in the morning, Bash likes to go out walking or riding in the forest when he can. Kenna says that it keeps him from going mad devoting the rest of his time to courtly duties.

And so the morning after her strange talk with Catherine, Mary takes a chance. Snow is gently falling outside. Fresh air is a soothing prospect. She bundles up in a thick cloak and furs and ventures out, letting her guards know that she is off to find the king’s brother and they needn’t worry.

It surprises her how relieved she feels, stepping out into the snow and new daylight.

After it happened, she thought she would never want to step outside—would never want to go anywhere again, always looking over her shoulder in fear. But she feels curiously free this morning. Rooms are worse than open spaces. At least outside, there’s ample space to run.

Her timing is good. She’s been walking no more than ten minutes when Bash emerges on horseback from the trees. She waves, inspiring him to quicken his pace.

“Mary,” he says urgently, and descends from the horse to stand beside her. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Mary says, petting the horse absently; she’s glad for the distraction. “I just felt like a bit of exercise.”

“Ah,” Bash says. His brow furrows in slight confusion.

“And I ... I hoped I might cross your path.”

“You did? Why?” Bash’s tone makes it clear just how strange her behavior seems. He must hear it too; he hastily adds, “Not that I’m not pleased to see you—”

“No, I understand,” Mary interrupts. “We haven’t been particularly social lately, the two of us.”

“No,” Bash agrees.

“May I walk with you?”

“Of course.”

They walk on in awkward quiet. Mary casts around for something, anything, to say, and finally heeds Catherine’s advice and settles on the truth.

“I’ve been thinking of you lately. Things have been so hard, I just ... can’t help but think back to ... to when we were younger. It makes me miss the way things were. I know we haven’t spoken freely in ages, and I understand why. But I hope that we’re still friends.”

She looks over at him just in time to catch the look of surprise on his face before he hides it. “I am always on your side, Mary. Much has changed, but never that.”

It isn’t quite the same thing as friendship, but Mary doesn’t want to push the matter. “Thank you.”

“You needn’t thank me.”

“Oh,” Mary says, rather stupidly.

The awkward silence continues. It’s agony. Mary curses herself for taking advice from a drunk Catherine who was locked in a staring contest with the wall.

At last, Bash has mercy on the both of them. “What’s brought this on?” he asks.

“Promise you won’t tell?”

Bash looks wary.

“It’s nowhere near as serious as regicide,” Mary assures him. “But ... but I would prefer if you didn’t tell Francis.”

She expects for a moment that he will refuse. His loyalty to Francis is so strong.

“I promise,” he says at last.

Mary takes a breath. “Conde has ... expressed feelings for me.”

Bash smiles slightly. “I suspected he might.”

“Oh, you did?” Mary asks, heartened by his good humor.

“I walked that particular road myself. I can recognize all the symptoms in another.”

Mary laughs a little.

“What will you do?” Bash asks.

“Tell him that I’m flattered but it cannot be pursued. He’s a charming man, and a good one, but I don’t especially wish to join his legion of married lovers.”

“Even though you’ve parted from Francis.”

Hearing the words sends a little pinprick of pain to her heart. She inhales sharply without meaning to. “Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll let him down gently,” Bash says.

Perhaps he means nothing by the words, but she can’t help it. “Bash, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For how terribly I ended our engagement. It was all so fast, and I worried for you afterwards but didn’t want to force myself back into your life to tell you so. It seemed too cruel. And I understand if you’ll never be able to think of me as a friend again. But I want you to know that—that I consider myself your friend, even if it’s from afar, and if you ever have need of me—”

“Mary, it’s all right,” Bash interjects.

“Is it?” Mary says doubtfully.

“It didn’t feel all right for a very long time,” he admits. “But I never would have wed Kenna if it weren’t for everything else that happened, and being with her ... it’s made it all worth it. It was a hard journey, yes, but one I don’t regret.”

“Good,” Mary says, relieved.

The silence resumes, but it’s more pleasant this time.

“She’s crazy about you,” Mary says then, smiling a little.

“Well, who couldn’t be?” Cheekily, he adds, “Present company excluded, of course.”

Mary elbows him in the side, and he laughs.

“I’m glad you two found happiness when it seemed so impossible,” Mary says. “It’s the sort of thing that gives others hope.”

She looks up into the white sky, gazing at the snowfall. It reminds her of feathers.

“Mary?”

“What?”

“Don’t lose hope just yet.”

She shifts her gaze down to her feet. “I love him. I’ll always love him, but I don’t see how I’ll ever make it past this.” She feels tears beginning to prick her eyes and blinks stubbornly. Forcing her voice steady, she asks, “Did he tell you what happened?”

Bash sighs. “No. Only that the attackers made it too far into the castle for anyone’s comfort. But ... but between his reaction and Kenna’s, I think I might have figured it out on my own.”

She looks over at him. There’s pain in his eyes.

“I tracked them down and killed them for what they did. The man who—” She swallows. “I burned him alive.”

“Good,” Bash says darkly. “He deserved a thousand times worse.”

“You don’t think badly of me for taking matters into my own hands, rather than waiting for Francis to avenge me?”

“I think you’re strong, and remarkable. And I’m proud of you. But I know what such actions can do. If it haunts you ... taking a life is difficult, but sometimes—”

“No,” Mary interrupts. “This was easy.”

“I understand,” Bash says readily. “Mary, it was justice.”

“I know.”

“And you must know Francis won’t think less of you for it.”

Mary lets out a quavering laugh. “Please, don’t speak of Francis right now. I’m glad you two have grown so close again, truly, but ....”

“But what you need is the company of a friend,” Bash discerns. “Not your husband’s brother.”

Mary nods.

Bash gives her a small, kind smile. “Then consider me your friend.”

Gladness fills her. She can’t remember the last time she felt so light. “I’ve missed you, Bash.”

“We see each other every day,” Bash points out.

“And we’ve spoken more to each other in this conversation than we had in the past six months at least!”

“Good point.” He chuckles. “Well, I’ve missed you too, Mary.”

The horse neighs, and they both laugh.

“I believe we have his approval,” Bash says.

“Maybe we can take walks together more often,” Mary suggests. “Not every morning. I understand better than most how necessary time alone can be. But just ... once in awhile, to make sure we don’t drift apart again.”

“I would like that,” Bash says, smiling.

Mary smiles back, and they continue home to the castle.

+

At least she has regained one thing she thought she’d lost for good.

Who knows what others might follow?

some call love a curse (Lola/Narcisse)

dollsome — Sat, 13 Dec 2014 22:31:47 GMT

some call love a curse - Reign ; Lola/Narcisse ; 2,200 words. Lola and Narcisse meet again. (Set after 2x10 - "Mercy.")

Content warning: this story includes some brief discussion of rape.

+++

It is a cold, sharp day; stepping outside, Lola understands why the Protestant prisoners thought they might die of it. Still, it’s better than being inside the castle, where the air is heavy with fear and sorrow.

At least out here, the world seems vaster. It’s easier to feel that there is an escape from the cage of court.

Mary is back in her own rooms now, and Lola hasn’t seen Francis visit once. She, Kenna, and Greer have tried to be there often, but Mary seems uneasy with them. Earlier Catherine came in, looking a little dazed—even she must be shaken by the attack and the chaos that followed. Mary dismissed Lola and Greer and Kenna, preferring her mother-in-law’s company. Things have certainly changed in the last year. Maybe even Catherine has done a bit of growing up.

And so now Lola has the afternoon free, and no idea what to do with herself.

She tells herself that a walk to the lake will make her feel better. Of course, walking to the ends of the earth couldn’t fix things, not now, but it’s a comfort to pretend. To have some sense of purpose.

But as soon as she starts walking, she knows that no amount of fresh air will clear her head. She can’t stop thinking of Mary—the horrible pain lurking behind her eyes and the careful strength in her voice.

It’s a threat that hangs over every woman alive, every day, but somehow Lola can’t quite believe that it dug its claws into Mary and turned real. Mary had evaded such things more than once before, as if guardian angels were always there to steer her out of harm’s way at the last moment.

There was the last time that the castle was invaded: Catherine saved them all then.

And once, there was Colin. Colin, who would have raped Mary too. Lola was so busy loving him that she blamed Mary for his death, and did not stop to consider what a hideous thing he had nearly done. How young and love-blinded she was. She likes to think she is older and wiser now, but she’s still made so many mistakes since.

Sometimes it feels like she’s hurt Mary so badly that she doesn’t deserve any more chances. And still Mary has faith in her.

She is determined, at last, to become a woman worthy of her queen. A woman worthy of her friend.

She only wishes it hadn’t taken this.

She walks quickly, the snow crunching under her feet; the cold stings inside her with each breath, a sharp feeling not quite like a headache.

When she reaches the lake, she stops, her heart pounding. She looks out at the frozen stretch of it and remembers ice skating with Mary and Greer and Kenna and Aylee when they were small. It always made her so giddy with happiness. None of them ever had any fear of falling back then; they reckoned themselves invincible, as long as they stayed together.

She doesn’t quite notice she’s begun to cry until she feels the tears hot on her cheeks. She doesn’t bother to brush them away.

She wonders if Aylee is looking down on them now. She hopes so. Aylee was always closest to Mary, and loved her so much; maybe her soul will bring Mary’s some peace. Lola draws in a shaky breath.

Behind her, a man clears his throat.

Lola knows at once who it is.

She wipes her cheeks, then turns.

He looks as finely dressed as ever, the golden curlicues on his teal cloak glinting in the pearly light. But he looks haggard, too; his face is bruised and thinner, and his eyes are a little dead.

Despite everything, Lola feels a surge of sympathy for him.

“Surprised to see me?” Narcisse asks. His voice lacks its usual sinister charm. A good thing; she feels much less inclined to punch his smug face. But it still chills her to see him brought down so low.

“I am.”

He says nothing for once. Just gazes at her with an expression she cannot quite read. He looks so weary. It would be easier if he were raging.

“You’ve been crying,” he says at last.

She draws a steadying breath. “It’s been a hard week.”

“Indeed,” he says.

She wonders just what he’s been through since she saw him last. When she asked, Francis only said that Narcisse was taken care of for the time being. She had clung to that ‘for the time being,’ that tiny indicator that he still lived, at least.

And now here he is, looking soundly humbled.

She decides there’s no point in dancing around things. “I had to tell him where to find you. And I don’t regret it.”

He grimaces. “Because you are Francis’s, first and foremost.”

“Because I love Mary! She’s my queen and my friend, and I will always choose her first. I’ve made choices that hurt her in the past, and I don’t intend to do it ever again.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she worries that she’s said too much—that Narcisse will be able to find the truth of what happened to Mary in her words. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything.

“You owe me no explanation,” is all he says. “I understand loyalty.”

“Do you? And where does yours lie?”

“With France.” His expression sours. “And its king.”

Everything has shifted, then. Francis has made it clear that he won’t be controlled any longer. Good.

“I’m glad he let you live,” Lola admits as he comes to stand by her side. “I was afraid he wouldn’t.”

“As was I,” he says dryly. “Was it you, then, who planted the idea in his head?”

“I told him you might be of better use to him alive.”

“So I have you to thank for making me the king’s new puppet.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t earned this. You were playing a dangerous game and you lost.”

“Did I?”

She knows he is not a good man—the farthest thing from it—and still she lets him disappoint her. Annoyance surges through her. “If you intend to scheme against them still, I swear I’ll never speak to you again. Francis and Mary have suffered enough.”

“I only meant,” he says, his eyes on her, “that perhaps I have my eye on a different prize now. One that I never could have anticipated.”

A shiver runs through her. She wishes she could blame the cold.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she orders harshly. “We’re past all that. Too much has happened. Too many people have been hurt. And if you ever say anything to me about baths again,” she adds, “I swear to God I’ll bash your skull in and enjoy it.”

To her surprise, he laughs at that—not one of his smarmy knowing laughs, but a truer sound. The delight on his face is downright boyish, and makes her like him more than she wants to. He is forever making her like him more than she wants to.

“You think I’m not serious?” Lola says—sternly, because otherwise she might be too tempted to laugh with him.

“Oh, I believe you are.” After a moment, he adds, grimmer, “And so am I.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spent a week chained up in the dungeon. I thought I would rot there, courtesy of our gracious rulers, just like my son did. And as the hours and the hunger and the cold and the pain wore on me, the only solace I found was in thinking of you.”

She folds her arms, uncomfortable. “You keep saying that.”

“Yes, well.” He looks to the ground, and sounds almost shy. “I keep thinking of you.”

Damn him.

“I cannot be with you.” She strains to keep her voice steady. “You’re an enemy to the people who mean everything to me. To my child.”

“I know what it is to lose a child. I would never wish it upon you.”

“But you would wish it upon Francis. I know I will always be a means to an end for you, no matter what sweet things you say. How can I not be? I’m the mother of the king’s firstborn. What you desire from me is the influence you’d gain from our marriage. I’m not a fool; I know that.”

“Who said anything about marriage?”

She scowls. “So you just wish to make me notorious.”

“You’re already notorious. A discrete arrangement between us would change nothing.”

She wishes she could argue there, but he’s right. That doesn’t mean she will consider the idea of them being lovers. (At least, not in front of him.) Coldly, she says, “I will never trust you.”

He lets out a frustrated huff of breath; it mists in the air around his mouth. “What if I swear henceforth to be an ally to the crown?”

“Your words mean nothing to me. It’s only your actions that matter.”

“And if my actions prove me to be a virtuous servant? What then?”

“Believe me, I haven’t got my hopes up.”

“As you recall, Lola, I do love a challenge.” He smiles at her, an inconveniently inviting smile—but it’s cut short by a cough. His time in the dungeons has clearly left him ill.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out here. You’re unwell. Go inside. Sit by the fire, and drink some tea, and rest, and—”

He stares down at her hand. “And?”

She pulls her fingers back. “And don’t burden yourself with thoughts of what will never be.”

He lifts his gaze again, meeting hers with real tenderness.

For a moment, she abandons the necessary distance between them and touches his cheek. Her hands are gloved. His eyes still flutter closed at her touch. At once, she knows she could get drunk on it: watching him savor her touch. Her thoughts wander to that journal again.

“Am I the only one,” he asks softly, “who feels that burden’s weight?”

“No,” she confesses.

Their faces have grown close. It would be very easy to kiss him.

But nothing good is ever easy these days. She must remember that. “It doesn’t matter.”

She pulls away from him. He seems a little dazed at the moment’s sudden end.

Before he can say anything, she turns to the most unromantic of subjects. “I know you were flirting with Princess Claude before Francis locked you up.” He raises an eyebrow at her. In explanation, she adds, “It’s the sort of news that travels fast.”

“And you can’t guess why I would do such a thing?”

“You aren’t really using a girl half your age to make me jealous. Surely even you aren’t that ... that pitifully conniving.”

“Depends.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is it working?”

“Leave her be. She’s a child.”

“I assure you, she’s plenty grown up, and on her way to being a more formidable hellion than even her mother.”

“I don’t know about that,” Lola says, doubtful. She can’t imagine anyone more formidable than Catherine.

“Princess Claude is petty and cunning and, yes, enticing. Her company can be ... very entertaining in small doses. But how could she hold a candle to you, after our time together? Now that I’ve had the chance to know you, how could a petulant royal compare?”

“Oh really?” Lola laughs shortly. “What am I, that puts her to shame so?”

She expects something smart and at least vaguely lewd.

Instead, his expression softens.

“A rare jewel,” he says.

She remembers the conversation from which those words came. The first time they spoke truthfully to one another, and she saw a man beneath the monster.

It touches her heart. She hides that at once. “Go inside, Lord Narcisse. There’s no sense in staying out here. You’ll only make yourself worse.”

He holds her gaze a long time. She lifts her chin, and makes sure not to give an inch.

“Very well,” he says at last. “Good day, Lady Lola.”

She turns her attention back to the lake, knowing he’d like it far too well if she watched him go. She listens to his footsteps get quieter, until at last she can hear nothing at all.

+

And yet she cannot quite shake him.

Once she’s returned inside, she pays a visit to the baby. The nursery is warm and cozy, and her heart swells to meet her son’s sweet eyes.

She thinks of Narcisse, cold and sick and alone. Forever in danger, now, of losing all he has.

She summons her maid. “Make certain Lord Narcisse has a fire in his chambers, and hot tea and broth.”

“Of course, my lady. Shall I tell him it was you who gave the order?”

Lola teeters, for a moment, on the brink of deciding.

“Yes,” she says at last.

Her maid curtseys and moves to go.

Just before the girl slips out the door, Lola adds, “Tell him I hope he will be relieved of his affliction soon.”

Her maid nods.

Lola waits until she’s gone, then sighs.

"Lord give me strength," she murmurs.

Some small weak part of her almost hopes the prayer will go unanswered.

you (not so) sexy thing (Henry/Eliza)

dollsome — Sat, 25 Oct 2014 04:16:33 GMT

Thank you to firthgal for the freakin' delightful prompt over at the Halloween Comment Ficathon: "Henry tries his damnedest to convince Eliza that Halloween is not about who wears the most sexually provocative costume."

you (not so) sexy thing - Selfie ; Henry/Eliza ; 1,000 words. Henry and Eliza go shopping for Halloween costumes. It goes about as well as you'd think.

+

It’s probably a good thing that Henry decided to tag along Halloween shopping. Even if he is acting like a total buzzkill.

After last year’s whole Sexy Despicable Me Minion situation, Eliza has decided she might need some guidance in the Halloween department. And if there’s one thing Henry’s good for, it’s Shutting. It. Down.

“What—what is this? Sexy Witch Wanda...” His jaw drops in horror. “Is that supposed to be Hermione?”

“Sexy Hermione,” Eliza says, all duh. It’s like he’s never actually heard of Halloween before.

“Well, maybe someone should tell them that smart is sexy,” Henry says in that grumpy old man voice of his. “And that Hermione’s appeal comes from her tireless determination to use her intelligence for the greater good, no matter the risk.”

Eliza wrinkles her nose. “Age inappropriate much?”

“Actually, considering the fact that the first book was set in 1991, Hermione would be well into her thirties now, and a perfectly viable candidate for someone of my age bracket were she not already happily settled with Ron—oh, never mind,” he finishes grumpily, finally noticing that Eliza has total wtf-face.

But, like, in kind of a good way.

“You’re such the super nerd,” she declares. “You’re like if Wikipedia escaped the internet.”

“So, like an encyclopedia,” Henry says.

“Hmm?” Eliza says vaguely, considering a Sexy Bee costume.

Henry notices. “Sexy Bee,” he says despairingly.

“Whatevs, don’t judge. Pollination is way sexual. Sexy Bee makes sense.”

“Objectively, yes, I suppose you could make that argument, but I still don’t understand why that would motivate a grown woman to abandon all of her dignity and pretend to be a sexualized insect. Why is it so impossible for a woman to find a Halloween costume that celebrates intelligence and resourcefulness—”

“Sexy Book,” Eliza says, pointing at another costume.

“Oh, God,” Henry says, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Eliza smirks to herself. Then she spots it. Ooh!

“What do you think?” she asks Henry, pointing at another costume.

He frowns at the package. “Sexy coat rack? What does that even mean?”

“I dunno. But coat racks are way skinny, and it never hurts to drop the word ‘rack’ to get some attention. Oh yeah. I could definitely rock this.”

“Eliza,” Henry says slowly. “You are literally contemplating imitating an object that exists solely for the convenience of others.”

“Isn’t that what you want me to do? Be more hospitable and stuff?”

“Not at the cost of your own humanity. What if somebody hangs a coat on you?”

“They’d better not. Being a good sexy coat rack is all about showing some skin.”

Henry sighs. “Of course it is.”

Eliza frowns at the costume package in her hands. She guesses it is kind of a stretch.

She never used to think twice about this kind of stuff.

Or maybe it’s more like: she used to think twice sometimes, sure, but there was never someone standing next to her to do the whole Bad idea, girl thing.

Not that Henry would ever actually say ‘Bad idea, girl.’ Like, Eliza wishes.

“Sexy Keurig?” Eliza suggests, pulling another costume off the rack at random.

“What? Eliza, no.” Henry takes the costume, his fingers brushing hers, and hangs it back up. Then he clasps her hands in his, which is such weird old timey gentleman behavior, but kind of nice too. “Haven’t you ever just wanted a Halloween costume that was all about ... about fun, and wonder, and being whoever you want to be?”

“Well ...” Eliza considers despite herself.

+

On the night before Halloween, Henry invites Eliza over for a non-sexy costume party. The guest list goes:

1. Her

And that’s it.

It’s basically the most boring e-vite she’s ever gotten. She deletes it right away, just in case her email ever gets hacked. It would be way too embarrassing to have that get out. But she’s still kind of looking forward to it. Even though he’s like the grumpiest dude on earth, Henry is easy to hang out with in a way that no one else is. It’s like he’s so boring that it’s okay for her to just be boring when she’s with him.

Eliza dresses up like a kangaroo. When she was a kid, she always thought they were awesome. In fact, she still thinks they’re pretty fab. Like, good luck misplacing your phone when you have a pouch built into your body. It’s a shame kangaroos aren’t into cell phones. They are basically living the dream without even knowing it.

Henry is dressed as Professor Dumbledore. He has robes and a pointy hat and a beard and everything.

“Kangaroo,” he says, bowing gallantly at her after he opens the front door. “Very nice.”

“Gandalf,” Eliza says, to bug him, and tugs on his beard. “Weird.”

“You know I’m Dumbledore,” Henry says.

“Yeah, I know,” Eliza surrenders.

They settle down on the couch with popcorn and candy and flip through channels until they find Hocus Pocus.

“I’m being Sexy Witch Wanda when I go out, though,” Eliza says during a commercial break. She doesn’t want Henry to get too smug over his victory. She casually rests her feet on the coffee table.

Henry gently knocks his ankle against hers until she gets her feet off the table. “Don’t do that to Hermione. Please at least be Sexy Tree.”

“Deal,” Eliza says after a moment’s contemplation.

“Or, hey,” Henry says slyly, “what about ... Sexy Hashtag.”

Eliza frowns. “How would you even do that?”

“I don’t know! I thought you would like it.”

“Why?”

“Because you harbor a fondness for hashtags. Some might call you addicted. You say the word ‘hashtag’ aloud at least five times a day. Yesterday you actually said ‘hashtag hashtag.’ It was insane. Hashtagception.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Eliza huffs. “But how do you wear a hashtag?”

“Says the girl who didn’t for a moment question ‘sexy coat rack.’”

“I suppose it could be kind of cute,” Eliza says generously.

Henry grins, pleased with himself.

It makes him look a little bit Sexy Henry. Even with the Dumbledore beard.

Not that she would ever, like, let that thought out of her brain.

There are some things, Eliza’s learning, that a girl should just keep to herself.

A VERY OCTOBER COMMENT FICATHON (2014)

dollsome — Sun, 19 Oct 2014 00:30:56 GMT

I first busted out this comment ficathon a few years ago, and decided to break it out again this year. I miss the days of tiny lj fanfics! Come join this nostalgia party, my friends.

"I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."

an eerie, halloweenish, &/or generally autumnal
comment ficathon

LET'S DO THIS
1. All fandoms welcome
2. Prompts should be somehow related to autumn or Halloween; 'tis the season!
3. One prompt per comment; prompts should be formatted along the general lines of '[fandom] - [pairing/character] - [prompt]'
4. When you've filled a prompt, leave a link to it in the filled prompts comment thread
5. Include a title, if the title muses are being cooperative :) (LJ gave us the subject lines back, y'all! How can we but take advantage of that happy fact?)
6. Share!

a radiant darkness upon us (Tyrion/Sansa; Part 4)

dollsome — Tue, 14 Oct 2014 23:36:13 GMT

a radiant darkness upon us - Game of Thrones ; Tyrion/Sansa, Sansa + Shae, Tyrion/Shae ; Part 4 - 2,900 words. In the days before Joffrey's wedding to Margaery, Sansa and Tyrion's marriage grows more complicated.

Part 4

Sansa sits at her dressing table, absently stringing the necklace between her hands. She doesn’t want to put it down just yet: she’s still enjoying the comfort that came from the encounter. Ser Dontos may not be very dashing or handsome, but no one ever is in real life. At least he saw something worth admiring in her.

The door opens. Tyrion announces, “I’m only in here for a change of clothes. Then I’ll be out of your way.”

“It’s your room, my lord,” Sansa replies crisply, and does not turn to look at him.

“Our room.”

Sansa doesn’t reply.

“Sansa,” Tyrion says as he rifles through the wardrobe. His voice is so casual that Sansa knows it must be something important. “How would you feel about a bit of travel after the wedding?”

Leaving the Red Keep seems as unfathomable as flying. “To where?”

“I’m considering asking my father if you and I might go to Casterly Rock.”

She feels suddenly disoriented with hope. To leave this place—to really leave, even if it is only to go to another place overrun by Lannisters—to leave Joffrey behind—

“Isn’t it too dangerous to travel?” she asks, careful not to sound excited.

“It is dangerous, yes,” Tyrion admits. “But it’s dangerous here, too.”

She can’t help it: she turns and looks at him. He meets her gaze, and his eyes are warm.

He listened. He listened yesterday and he’s changing things.

“Will Lord Tywin let you go?” Sansa asks, trying not to let her gladness show too openly.

“He wants an heir in the North. If I tell him that Casterly Rock is more conducive to romance than a place where you’ve lived in constant agony as Joffrey’s prisoner, I think he might just see the light.”

Nervousness darts through her. Does he really mean—?

“It’s the excuse he will listen to,” Tyrion adds, reading her face. “That’s all. I have no intention of breaking the promise I made on our wedding night.”

She calms. “All right.”

“Good.”

He gives her a kind little smile, and she can’t quite help but smile back.

He is doing what a husband should. Protecting her. Keeping her safe.

But as soon as she thinks the word ‘husband,’ she feels like a fool. He isn’t hers, not properly. He never has been. How could he ever even consider her his true wife for a moment, when Shae has held his heart for so long?

Not that Sansa wants to be a true wife to him. She doesn’t. But there’s something that burns indignantly inside her, knowing that she never even had the chance.

Lightly, she asks, “Will Shae come?”

“Do you want her to?”

“Do you?” Sansa asks, not looking at him.

He’s quiet for a moment too long. “I want your happiness.”

“Do you think she would want to come?”

“I know she likes to be by your side.”

“Or yours,” Sansa can’t resist muttering.

Tyrion chuckles darkly. “I think she’s quite sick of me. But you, Lady Sansa, have a certain inexhaustible charm.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, trying not to let his words sink in. “I suppose she’ll come if she wants to.”

“Yes,” Tyrion agrees. “Let’s leave the choice up to her, shall we?”

Sansa nods.

Tyrion gives her a slight smile, the corner of his mouth curving in a way that Sansa has come to find oddly handsome. Once she never would have imagined she could find anything handsome about him, but she supposes that must be part of getting to know someone. You begin to see all the little truths of them that are missed at first glance. She smiles back thoughtlessly, them remembers that she’s supposed to be angry with him.

She doesn’t know why she can’t just remain cold; it would make things so much easier. But he is trying, really trying to take care of her, and if there’s one thing her mother taught her, it’s that a husband and wife shouldn’t quarrel on the important things. They must stand together.

So maybe it isn’t weak and foolish of her to want to forgive him. Maybe it’s simply what’s best.

“Where did you get that necklace?” Tyrion asks, approaching her. He seems eager to keep talking, now that the ice has melted between them.

Sansa’s heart leaps. Smoothly, she lies, “I’ve always had it. My mother gave it to me when I was little.”

She doesn’t quite know why she holds back the truth. It’s a silly thing to lie about, but she doesn’t want the gift spoiled. She knows it was stupid of her to wander outside alone, to let a strange drunken man talk to her. It could have been so much worse than it turned out to be. It could have been Joffrey. If she tells, Tyrion will worry whether she can take care of herself, and Sansa doesn’t think she could bear being more caged than she already is.

She would like to keep this one small sweet thing to herself.

“I’ve never seen it before.” Tyrion reaches out with one fingertip to poke one of the necklace’s gemstones.

“I didn’t want to wear it here,” Sansa invents. “I didn’t ... I didn’t think it was fashionable enough. I thought the other fine ladies might laugh at me. But now that she’s dead ... I don’t care so much about fitting in anymore.”

She feels a pang of guilt, using her mother to lie. But she knows that Tyrion won’t question it.

Sure enough—

“Vastly overrated stuff, fitting in,” he remarks wryly.

“You’re too wise to worry about things like that.”

“On the contrary. If I had the choice, Sansa, I believe I would jump at it in an instant. To be just like everyone else, to have someone look right through you without a second thought ... My gods, what a treat it would be, to be thought wholly unexceptional.”

“Oh, but it isn’t a treat,” Sansa protests without thinking. “It’s exhausting, to always have to seem like there’s nothing interesting about you. Not that I’m interesting, but—it’s difficult to keep all of your thoughts inside all the time. I know people have always been cruel to you, and that’s awful and unfair. But at least you get to say what you think.” Boldly, she says, “Sometimes I wish I could.”

“I wish you could, too. Though I admire your restraint. More restraint would do me good, no doubt. Once we’re away,” he adds, “there will be less restraint. Still some, of course—polite society demands it, and I’m not ready to turn wildling just yet—but less. We can begin anew. Say what we mean. Get to know each other for who we really are.”

Sansa smiles. “You mean you think I’m more than just a silly girl?”

“Depends. Do you think I’m more than a funny—and, alas, too-often-inebriated—dwarf?”

“Of course I do.”

“And of course I do, too.” He clasps her hand, quite gallant. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Lady Sansa, away from all this mayhem and misery.”

“And I you, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa says, inclining her head. For once, it’s fun to play at courtliness.

They stare at one another, faces lit with smiles. It’s the sort of moment where a proper married couple might share a kiss.

As soon as Sansa thinks it, she wishes she hadn’t. Her cheeks begin to burn.

Tyrion looks into her eyes a second longer, then drops his gaze to the floor.

“But first,” he says rather hastily, and lets go of her hand, “we have the wedding of the century to attend, and we shall have to keep our masks firmly in place.”

“To nod and smile at everything Joffrey does,” Sansa says wearily. Her fingertips tingle.

“To refrain from dumping our wine over his head,” Tyrion says woefully, “when it’s so plentiful, and his golden locks just asking for it.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Sansa suggests, “as long as we have each other’s company.”

“Lady wife,” Tyrion replies gladly, “it will be the saving grace of the day.”

+

Sansa wonders if Shae will come to dress her for supper. She was here this morning, and Sansa allowed her to help with getting dressed; Sansa didn’t want to look like a mess visiting Lady Margaery. It was excruciating, the room heavy with awkward silence as Shae swept around, dealing with buttons and laces and then weaving Sansa’s hair into plaits. Sansa felt the stupidest urge to cry the whole time; once, she would have been happy and comfortable to have Shae fluttering around her, helping. She would have liked the chance to talk to her. And now it was all ruined. She couldn’t bear to meet Shae’s eyes in the mirror, even though she wanted desperately to know if Shae felt just as awful as she did.

So really, Sansa can’t blame her for disappearing.

Sansa would disappear too, if she had the choice.

She considers the gowns in her wardrobe, wondering how sloppy she’ll look if she tries to dress herself. She mustn’t look sloppy: she’s to eat with the Lannisters, a feast celebrating the wedding on the morrow, and Joffrey will take anything less than impeccable beauty as a personal slight.

It seems grotesque, to do so much celebrating over a poor girl getting bound to a monster for life. If she were Margaery, she would go mad from it.

Sansa sighs and goes to the looking glass instead. Her hair could use restyling. She makes a face at herself in the mirror, then reaches for Ser Dontos’ necklace and puts it on.

She is tilting her head, considering how the necklace looks, when the door opens and Shae comes in.

“There you are,” Sansa says, relieved in spite of everything. “I can’t be late, or Joffrey—”

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Shae interrupts, her voice low and determined.

“What?” Sansa asks stupidly.

“I made the arrangements already.” Shae glances around the room. “Start planning now. Take what you must, but not too much.”

“Why?”

“Because you will become much less attached to your pretty things when they are slowing us down.”

“No. Not that,” Sansa says, frustrated. “Why would we leave?”

“What do you mean, why?” Shae says impatiently. “Joffrey. These people. You do not need to live like this anymore.”

“But I can’t just go.” The idea is so unfathomable that Sansa almost laughs.

And yet Shae carries on like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “You’ll be fine.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Shae puts her hands on her hips. “Well then, what did you mean?”

“The wedding is tomorrow,” Sansa says blankly.

“And you really want to stick around for Joffrey’s happy day? That means so much to you?”

“Margaery will want me there.”

Shae scoffs. “Margaery Tyrell can take care of herself. I promise, Sansa, she is not relying on you.”

Sansa feels a sick, flopping feeling in her stomach. Surely there’s something real in her friendship with Margaery – not everything, no, but at least some flicker of true caring. But Shae seems to think that there’s no way Margaery could ever really care about Sansa, or find comfort and strength in her friendship, and there is no denying that Shae’s clever. Much cleverer than Sansa. She knows just how to see right into the truth of things.

“I can’t just—they’ll find us,” Sansa protests weakly.

“No they won’t. I’m good at hiding.”

“I can’t just run away with you. Tyrion, he’s taking me to Casterly Rock after the wedding, he promised—”

“And you think you’ll be safe there in that pit of Lannisters? Tyrion is Master of Coin. You won’t be able to stay away forever.”

“But it will at least be a start.”

Shae comes forward and grips Sansa’s shoulders. Sansa flinches at the familiar touch of her hands, but doesn’t move away. “It’s all right to be afraid,” Shae says, her dark eyes fixed on Sansa’s. “But I swear I will keep you safe. And we have money. We can be comfortable, if that is what you’re worried about.”

Sansa feels as if she’s been dropped into deep water and can’t fight her way to the surface; all the breath threatens to leave her lungs. “No,” she manages.

Annoyance darts across Shae’s face. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. I can’t just run away with you!”

“Why not?”

Shae asks it so simply, as if she can’t fathom why Sansa wouldn’t trust her—even after always telling her not to.

Shae, who has tricked her from the moment they met.

“Because you lied to me!” Sansa cries. Shae glares at her—a glare that means Do not let them hear you, and Sansa lowers her voice. “All this time, you’ve lied to me, every single day! I’m not an idiot, I’m not going to just trust you—”

“What, you think I have some big plan to hurt you?” Shae demands, anger creeping onto her face. “You think I would ever let you get hurt?”

“I don’t know anymore!” Sansa wants to say more, but can’t. She wants to say that now she can’t stop thinking of Shae taking stories back to Tyrion about Sansa: Sansa at her most pathetic and stupid. Sansa crying herself to sleep, or not understanding why the poor would try to hurt her, or not knowing why the sheets should have been bloodied after her wedding night. Maybe Shae told Tyrion all of those things, and together they laughed at what a child Sansa was, what a small little idiot. And meanwhile Sansa has been here, blind, loving the both of them. Trusting the both of them, even though she knows she shouldn’t trust anyone at all.

“I don’t know,” she says again, and hates how weak she sounds.

Shae moves one hand from Sansa’s shoulder to touch her cheek. “I would not let you. I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you. I would rather die than cause you harm, you hear me?”

Sansa finds herself blinking back tears; it makes her furious, more than anything. She swallows the lump in her throat. “How can you even stand me, after I married him? I took him away from you—”

Shae’s expression turns solemn, sad, and she pulls her hand away from Sansa’s face. It tells Sansa all she needs to know. It’s true. Shae and Tyrion were in love, really in love, and Sansa’s the one who ruined it. Who destroyed their lives. Who destroyed Shae’s life.

“That was not your choice,” Shae says, the words careful and steady.

And of course it’s true—Sansa didn’t choose to marry Tyrion; she never would have.

But now she thinks of Tyrion holding her hand. That hint of a kiss in the air around them.

“And if I did choose him?” she asks, a little breathless.

“Fine. Choose him. Take him. I don’t want him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Shae grips her shoulders again, hard. “Sansa, you mean more to me than any man. Even him.”

It’s a beautiful promise. The kind that a mother would make. For a moment, Sansa wants so badly to listen and accept it as the truth.

But of course she can’t.

“I don’t—I can never believe you. Let go of me!” Sansa tries to shake her off.

Shae’s eyes fall on the necklace. She touches the chain. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s mine, it—it was my mother’s—”

“It is not. I know every piece of jewelry you have. This was not here before.”

“It was too—”

“Where did you get this, Sansa?” Shae demands. “Who gave it to you?”

“It’s none of your business! What answer do you want? Maybe Tyrion gave it to me, and he just didn’t want you to know. Did you ever think of that?”

“Did he give it to you?”

Sansa can’t quite bring herself to commit to that lie. She stays quiet, glaring at Shae.

“Fine,” Shae says bluntly. “Keep your secrets. But we are going tomorrow, whether you want to or not. We are getting away from this place.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Sansa cries, even though it makes her sound like a petulant child.

“Well, that is too bad, because I am telling you what to do.”

“You can’t!”

“Oh, can’t I? Why not?”

Something inside Sansa snaps.

“I am a highborn lady, a daughter of Winterfell! A Lannister’s wife. What are you?” Sansa stands taller, glaring down at Shae. Usually she thinks of her mother when she wants to be strong, but now her thoughts turn to Queen Cersei. Coldly, she says, “You’re a servant. A whore. You don’t get to talk back to me.”

In the wake of what she’s said, the very silence seems to catch fire.

Sansa watches the hurt break over Shae’s face, as raw and dreadful as the sickness Sansa suddenly feels inside. Shae’s dark eyes are so vulnerable for a moment that Sansa thinks she might cry.

But then Shae lifts her chin higher, and turns and storms from the room. The door slams behind her, harsh and sudden as a slap.

It’s only once Shae has gone that Sansa realizes she’s shaking. She lets herself sink down onto the floor and breathes in and out, feeling sick and foul and cruel.

They’ve made me a Lannister, she thought once. She thinks it again, here and now, and the thought is like winter in her veins, turning her hard and cold.

The Element of Surprise (Henry/Catherine)

dollsome — Fri, 26 Sep 2014 00:55:52 GMT

If I had not written this, I would not be me.

Honestly, friends, there’s a part of me that thinks this story is what happened, and another part of me that is totally just like, ‘Yeah, they totally got it on in order to celebrate their successful effort at rebranding manslaughter as suicide. What about that is not normal married couple behavior? Date night, baby!’

I guess we’ll never know for sure. Isn’t it splendid??

For those of you who haven’t seen the scene yet, you can watch it on YouTube in this compilation of deleted scenes featuring Catherine; it’s at around the 2:00 mark.

The Element of Surprise - Reign ; Henry/Catherine ; 1,300 words. Why, exactly, was Catherine hanging out naked in Henry’s bed in the deleted scene from “Dirty Laundry”?

As soon as they return to his chambers, Henry wastes no time in collapsing on top of his bed. The promise of sleep is welcome. He’s had a relentless headache for days now, and nothing about tonight soothed that affliction. Not only does his head hurt worse than ever, but now it’s filled with a host of disturbing new memories starring a dead duchess and his diabolical mastermind of a wife. It’s hard to say which woman made for more unsettling company.

“Get up.”

Scratch that. The duchess had been far more agreeable. Even after the window incident.

“No,” Henry says, voice muffled by pillows.

“We’re not finished yet.”

“What else could we possibly need to do?”

“They’ve surely found her by now. What we need is something that absolves us of involvement entirely. An alibi.”

“The King of France is above suspicion.”

“Really? Because the King of France did toss the woman out the window. Or were your nether regions acting of their own accord? Is the rest of you perfectly innocent?”

Henry briefly considers pointing out that he is the king and answers to no one. That she nearly died at his hands once and he’d be all too happy to finish the job. Then he gives up. In this matter and this matter alone, it’s best to defer to Catherine’s judgment. He twists around until he’s resting on his back, facing her. “What should we do?”

Catherine is already pacing back and forth. “We simply need to prove that we’ve been otherwise occupied tonight. Something that will absolve us of any suspicion.”

“And what do you suggest?”

There’s a sudden swell of sound outside. The duchess has been found, then, and the news is spreading like a pestilence.

Catherine swears under her breath. Then, louder: “Get up. Get undressed.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” She begins attacking the fastenings of her gown with frightening speed. “Now. Move.”

It takes Henry a moment to realize what she’s getting at. “And you really think anyone will believe that we’d share a bed voluntarily these days?”

“You’re underestimating the element of surprise. They won’t dare to question what we’re up to. If you can make people uncomfortable, Henry, they’ll be far less likely to give you trouble. I have no doubt that’s how you’ve collected so many young lovers over the years.”

Henry scowls, but sets to work on the laces of his shirt.

“You’ll need to act as if you’ve just had a night of violent lovemaking. Can you do that? And by violent,” Catherine adds lightly, “I don’t mean accidentally homicidal. I mean ardent. I know you have trouble with that distinction.”

“Ha ha,” Henry says bitterly.

“Can you fool them?” Catherine demands, stripped to her shift now. “Because—”

Henry takes off his shirt and tosses it across the room. She stares at him for a too-long moment.

Well, well, well. Despite everything, he does enjoy that.

“Oh, never mind,” she says then. “Pretend to be asleep. Or is that too much for you to handle?”

“I don’t need to suffer this kind of abuse,” Henry mutters.

“Henry, I assure you, you’ve earned every bit of it.”

She throws the blanket over him. And then pulls it up around his neck. That seems excessive.

“How are we to convince them of all this violent lovemaking when I’m swaddled like an infant?” he complains.

“I’ll convince them. Close your eyes.”

He does.

At first.

Then he takes a peek.

Catherine sits beside him in bed – naked now, which rouses his interest in spite of everything. She’s pulling pins from her hair with a speed both alarming and intriguing. Once she’s removed them all, she runs her fingers through her hair, mussing it vigorously. He never knew that the simple act of a woman taking her hair down could be so arousing.

Well. Maybe the past has given him reason to suspect as much, and this just confirms it.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Good,” Henry says dimly.

She puts a finger beneath his chin, impatiently steering his gaze northward. “I meant my hair. Is it convincing?”

“It lacks authenticity,” Henry says after a moment. His fingers suddenly itch to touch her hair. To touch her anything, really. He’s not feeling picky.

Catherine shrugs. “Well, it will have to do.”

“Unless—” Henry begins, the beginning of a truly wise proposition, when he’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside their door.

“Shhh! Get down,” Catherine orders, pushing him down into the mattress with more strength than any woman should possess.

Henry’s not left much choice.

The door creaks open, and in come their visitors. “Your Majesty.”

Henry keeps his eyes firmly shut.

To his surprise, Catherine moves beside him sleepily.

The envoy continues, “I have grave news about the Duchess of Bohemia.”

Catherine rests against Henry. Languidly, she says, “Poor dear. The king does not have much stamina, I’m afraid.” She caresses his cheek with far too much flourish. Henry very determinedly keeps his eyes shut. It’s a challenge. He would like to see the look on the man’s face. “Apparently I’ve exhausted him over the last few hours. So what were you saying about the Duchess of Bohemia?”

There’s a long and awkward pause before the envoy answers. “I’ll give you and the king time to wake and—um—dress. Then we can discuss the matter.”

“Thank you. We won’t be long.”

There is the awkward shuffle of footsteps, and then the sound of the door closing.

Catherine pulls away from him at once. "There. All done."

Henry opens his eyes. “I have plenty of stamina.”

Catherine sighs impatiently, gathering her clothes from the floor. “Yes, by all means, let’s focus on that.”

“You’re so determined to undermine my reputation in that department. Why?” He watches as she slips into her shift. “Are you trying to get me all to yourself?”

Catherine smiles saccharinely. “Please. I learned long ago that there’s no greater lost cause.” Her face turns serious. “Now let’s get to work.”

Henry nods, but doesn’t hurry to obey. He quite likes being caught up in the sight of her. It makes him feel young again in a way nothing else quite does.

Catherine doesn’t seem to share the feeling. She glares at him; when it gets her nothing, she announces, “Actually, I’ll change in my room. I could use a dress without the stench of my husband’s dead whore all over it.”

Henry considers what she said earlier. The element of surprise. And so instead of snapping back at her, he chuckles lightly at the remark. (He would admire her wit if it wasn’t so often aimed at him.)

It works. Catherine’s eyes brighten with surprise, and she gives him a slight, pleased smile. He wonders if she’s aware that she’s doing it.

“Hurry up,” she orders, pressing a hand to his chest as she brushes past him. “We’re not out of the woods just yet.”

“But we will be. I have faith in your abilities.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, “to have such a wife?”

He admits, “On rare occasions, I almost think so.”

“What gallantry. Excuse me while I swoon.” She smirks at him, her gaze lingering a little long. Before she opens the door, she says, “Get ready.”

He doesn’t realize until after she’s gone that she was referring to all this ghastly duchess business.

The room seems to devour him without her, in some odd way; the shadows are too dark, the candlelight too bright. The fire crackling in the grate is too loud. More like some beast’s roar than a fire should be. And there is a dreadful hint of cold in the air; he looks around the room and discovers that the window still hangs open.

Someone really should close it.

But not him, not now. He is reacquainted with his headache. For awhile, he had almost forgotten it. Now that Catherine is gone, it overtakes him in full force. He almost wonders whether he should fear it, this angry thing in his skull.

He massages his temples idly. No matter. If his wife is the cure to his ills, well—he knows where to find her.

Perhaps, at long last, she might let him.

He smiles to himself at the thought.

I knew my weakness (Henry/Catherine)

dollsome — Thu, 04 Sep 2014 23:56:41 GMT

This is written for a prompt I received long, long ago from notevenaproperword on Tumblr: “Henry/Catherine; in our bedroom after the war.”

I wrote most of this months ago, and was randomly moved to come back and finish it up today. And I must admit, I had a jolly good time of it! I’m going to miss Henry and this atrociously glorious marriage so much in season two.

This is set sometime after “Toy Soldiers,” so Penelope is newly gone and Francis is off waging a tiny war in the forests of exotic Canada. Er. Calais?

I knew my weakness - Reign ; Henry/Catherine ; 1,700 words. Henry is mostly the sum of his rages these days, but there are the quiet moments. Too few and far between to be worth much, but they do happen.

But oh, my heart was flawed
I knew my weakness
So hold my hand
Consign me not to darkness.
(Mumford & Sons, “Broken Crown”)

Henry is mostly the sum of his rages these days, but there are the quiet moments. Too few and far between to be worth much, but they do happen.

She wakes one morning to find him sitting at the foot of her bed, still dressed in his sleeping clothes.

Her heart stops for a moment; being afraid of him has become as natural and needed as breathing is. But when he looks at her, his eyes are earnest and almost childlike. Guileless.

One of his gentler moods, then. Catherine wonders wearily how long this one will last.

“Henry.” She keeps her voice soft and kind. She is so tired, so damnably tired. Having Francis away in battle makes each day more exhausting than the last. Anything she can do to spare herself Henry’s ravings about England and Mary and God is worth the effort. And so she plays the gentle wife. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. It amazes me that you can, frankly.” He shrugs, that strange new gleam in his eyes. “Then again, women are fragile creatures. Prone to being weak and weary.”

“Certainly,” she says dryly. “What’s kept you awake?”

“Francis.” His eyes wide and excited, he scrambles up the bed to rest beside her. She makes sure not to flinch as he draws nearer. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Francis?” She is careful. She knows her husband well enough to suspect where his mind will wander, now that he is so concerned with God. He hasn’t forgotten one of his earliest sins. Catherine is sure of that.

He never told her the cause of his brother’s death, but it was obvious. Henry had come to her with a sudden insatiable curiosity about poisons mere days before that tennis match. In those days, she was glad to answer his questions. Once upon a time, they had quite cherished each other’s company.

“Our son,” Henry continues. Catherine sighs to herself, relieved. Henry rests his head upon the pillow beside her, free and loose as a child. “Can you believe it, Catherine? Our son. Do you remember the day he was born?”

She laughs shortly. “I’m not likely to forget it.”

“So small—but I knew. I knew he had the potential to be great even then. God, how proud I was of him. And you,” he adds fairly, brushing his fingers across her cheek. “All of those years, and nothing. The waiting. And then, at last a child—and not just that. A son. I loved you on that day.”

She bites her tongue. Sarcasm won’t do.

Henry waxes on. “And now he’s a leader, a conqueror, chosen by God—just like his father. What a legacy he shall inherit.” He grins to himself, his eyes still bright, his thoughts on fire. “Yes, England will be mine. And then ...”

He goes quiet.

“And then what?” Catherine prompts.

“And then,” he says, the blaze gone from him, “I think I’ll rest at last.”

Hope flits through her. Maybe, at last, he’ll acknowledge how unwell he is. “Oh?” she says carefully.

“It isn’t easy. With the headaches.” He inhales, a sharp breath that makes her wonder for a moment if he might cry. “Some days I think I would rather smash in my own skull than endure it a second longer. But I endure.” He meets her eyes again, forcing strength into the words. “I endure, Catherine, because I must. Do you understand?”

She smiles wistfully. “Better than most.”

Henry frowns, thoughtful. She has come to recognize that look—his mind is wandering— and sure enough: “What about the little ones?”

“The children?”

“Yes. Do you know, I almost never see them. Are they any good?”

“I have no complaints.”

“Yes, but you always think the world of them. What I require is an objective opinion, not this mewling womanly nonsense.”

She reminds herself for perhaps the ten thousandth time in her life that striking him would solve nothing in the long run.

“Though in truth, that is the one good thing about you,” he adds fairly. “You do love your children fiercely. You’d do anything for them, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d be a fool not to, after all it took to get them.” After what it cost us, she does not add. They don’t admit what they’ve lost to each other. There are certain rules to this marriage, and that’s the first.

Henry makes a small, pensive noise. “I suppose they shall serve their purpose, the little ones. And I’d like to see them. I think they would appreciate a visit from their father. From their king.”

“Yes,” Catherine says dimly, and vows to die before letting that happen. Her little ones have been through enough, with Clarissa all those months ago. They don’t deserve to suffer the company all of their family’s monsters. “Of course.”

“But Francis—oh, it comforts me to think of what he will accomplish after I am gone.”

“Many years from now.” Catherine takes his hand.

She means it as a polite gesture—God forbid anyone ever suggest a king isn’t immortal—but it isn’t taken that way. At once she can feel in the air that she’s made a mistake.

Henry’s grip tightens around her fingers, his face angry. “Don’t.”

She wonders idly if he will snap her bones. Calmly as she can, she asks, “What?”

“Don’t lie to me. Do you think me a fool? Do you think I don’t know what’s happening?” He flings her hand away and clasps his own together, as if he’s begging for mercy from some cruel entity, some heartless and unreachable thing.

“Henry—”

“It worsens each day. My thoughts—they overtake me, and there is clarity sometimes, such brilliant clarity, but it never stays, never lasts. And always this pain—how can a man think, or breathe?” He is all but gasping now. His hands have gone from being clutched in prayer to gripping his skull, as if he means to tear the headache out himself.

The sight is so pathetic it makes even her heart hurt; worry gets the best of her. “Henry, if you would just see the physician—”

“This cannot be fixed by a physician! The hand of God is in this.”

She knows better than to argue with that.

After a moment, she places a hand on his shoulder very lightly. The touch seems to take the ire out of him.

He leans back against the bed frame, his torment plain on his face. “And—and that demon girl Penelope leading me astray, casting me out of His light. Leading me away from you. Kenna, Diane, a hundred others. They are always, always there to lead me away from you.” Staring at her fixedly, almost hungrily, he asks, “Was that my sin? Catherine, have I failed you so utterly?”

There aren’t enough yeses in the world to answer that question to her liking.

Still, Catherine takes his hands firmly in hers. She knows that he isn’t strong enough to stand the truth from her. Not anymore. So she tells the lie slowly and carefully, looking right into his eyes. “Of course not.”

He stares desperately at her for a moment longer.

Then the fear goes out of him; it seems he must have found the answer he was seeking in her gaze. He relaxes, resting against her shoulder.

“Very well,” he says.

She waits for him to go. Surely he must have some other castle inhabitants to terrorize. But he remains steadfastly at her side.

“I’ll only close my eyes for a moment, my dear,” he murmurs after a time. “Just a moment. My head—”

Catherine lifts a hand to stroke his short hair. Just because she is out of practice at wifely affection doesn’t mean she’s entirely lost her knack for the art. “Rest now,” she orders gently.

“Yes,” he agrees, the words heavy with sleep. “Yes. That’s better.”

She closes her eyes too, and listens to his breathing grow even and deep. She hopes for a moment, foolishly, that his breathing might stop out of sheer good luck—here, on this quiet still morning, in the bed that they ought to have shared—and save her from what she must do. There are measures she knows she will have to take if his sickness does not beat her to it.

But his heart beats obstinately on, his breath on her collarbone, and really it’s very typical. Her husband has never made things easy for her.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. Not at all a king in this moment—just a tired man, getting older. Her Henry. She’s grown so used to hating him, and yet the thought of a life without him brings her surprisingly little joy.

Then again, joy has never been one of her foremost priorities, and now is certainly no exception. Everything they have built will crumble if she isn’t careful. There is no place in this court, in this country, for a mad king.

She presses a kiss to the top of his head, then considers the pillow beside her for a moment before dismissing the idea. (She is stronger than she looks but not strong enough to win in a tussle against him, and he would surely wake and struggle.)

A moment’s peace has given itself to her. She might as well take it.

Henry burrows his head deeper against her shoulder and murmurs something she can’t quite make out.

“Shh,” she soothes. She wraps an arm around him and draws him a little closer, and for once he does not fight her.

keep your head up, my love (Adama/Roslin)

dollsome — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 18:36:29 GMT

I am currently swept up in a great BSG rewatch, and there was no Roslin/Adama reunion scene after the New Caprica arc, and I’m sorry, THAT’S JUST OBSCENELY CRUEL. I could only assume that Adama shaved his angst mustache off at the end because he had plans to court his lady proper. And so I had to scribble this for my own peace of mind. Reunite, you slow burning secret lovers! Reunite and admit you want to kiss each other’s faces! (Or at least take a small step in that direction.)

Title from “Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers.

keep your head up, my love - Battlestar Galactica ; Adama/Roslin ; 1,200 words. Roslin and Adama reunite after her return from New Caprica. Set after "Exodus: Part 2."

+

There’s no grand public reunion—which is for the best. Laura doesn’t always trust her own poise where Bill Adama is concerned, and she wants very badly to be a source of strength for her people right now. To show them that they can’t be easily broken. Weeping sentimentally in the admiral’s arms probably wouldn’t project exactly the right image.

Not that she would really do it. But the thought is tempting.

She stays on the Colonial One and waits for him, certain that he’ll show up soon. Tory is gone for now; Laura insisted that she get something to eat and some rest. It wasn’t entirely altruistic. Since the return, Laura’s been craving a moment to herself. A few seconds of peace. She settles into the chair behind the desk, then folds her arms and rests her head on top of them, closing her eyes.

It’s strange to be in this chair again. As if no time has passed at all, and nothing has been lost.

And speaking of.

She feels his presence before she sees him; there’s the light scuffle of footsteps, and the sudden comfortable awareness that she isn’t alone. For a moment, she keeps her head down and simply basks in knowing that, in this moment, she has something to look forward to.

At last, she lifts her head and opens her eyes. There he is, looking at her with such tenderness. She had almost forgotten how he did that. His expression hardens a bit when he realizes that she’s looking back, but that’s to be expected. They’ve (almost) always been a little formal with each other. It’s what comes of having a friendship so rooted in professionalism.

Professionalism and occasional fits of the giggles.

It’s such a relief to see him.

“Sorry to interrupt your nap,” he says, stepping closer.

“Not napping,” she answers, running her fingers through her hair, suddenly afflicted with a very juvenile sense of How do I look? Which is, of course, entirely ridiculous. “Just ...”

He waits.

“Frakking exhausted,” she finishes, laughing a little.

“That seems to be going around,” he observes wryly.

“Please, have a seat,” she says, and wonders too late if she ought to have hugged him.

He obliges her, settling down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk like he has countless times before.

For a moment, they just look at each other gladly.

It feels, in an odd way, like touching: for an ill-advised second she imagines running her hands over his worn and handsome face, making sure that he is here and real. That it isn’t just more tired hope, or a thought she uses to lull herself to sleep at night. She wonders how he might touch her. Recalls the dimming memory of his fingertips against her cheek.

The staring goes on longer than staring necessarily should.

“Something’s different,” she teases, breaking the silence.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh?”

“No more mustache. You shaved.”

“The admiral has to look sharp. It boosts morale.”

“It certainly does,” she says. The words have a flirtatious lilt that is (she is fairly certain) completely accidental. He lifts his eyebrows, but looks amused more than anything.

Gods, it makes her glad. Here she is, with him again. They’ll laugh together again. Giggling in the hallways like children, leaving a wake of torn note cards and broken pencils—that wasn’t their last bit of happiness on Galactica. Life stretches ahead of them. Difficult, yes, but full of possibility too.

“Oh, it’s good to see you, Bill,” she sighs. She gets up and rushes around the desk, wrapping her arms around him. The embrace relaxes her down to her bones, a welcome reprieve from the tension that’s become instinctual over these past few months.

“You too,” he says, his lips brushing her hair. She buries her face in his shoulder and basks in the steady feeling of his arms around her, the familiar scent of him. She hadn’t even noticed before that she knew what Bill Adama smelled like, but now, gods, she’s so aware of it. It feels like being home, really home, at long last.

“I missed you,” she murmurs, and there is the slightest accidental hitch in her breath. She hadn’t meant to do that. It would be very easy to fall apart in each other’s arms, but it would be a shame, too, after their established tradition of keeping each other strong. She pulls away and smiles at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I promise I won’t cry all over you.”

“I think we’ve all earned a good cry,” he replies. His thumb gently swipes her cheek, as if he’s brushing away an imaginary tear.

“Or a drink,” she proposes.

“That works too,” he agrees easily.

She begins to rummage around the cabin, in search of something—she has no doubt that Gaius Baltar kept the ship well stocked with booze, if not basic human decency—and eventually unearths an unopened bottle of ambrosia and two glasses.

They settle down beside each other in the passenger’s seats. She’s pleased not to have the desk between them. There’s been more than enough distance.

They chat idly for awhile as they drink. She asks after Lee and Dualla, and isn’t terribly surprised when Bill seems quietly baffled by the developments there. (“He got a little ...” “A little what?” “Puffy,” Bill admits delicately, making her laugh so loud that she’s glad he’s the only bystander.) She tells him about teaching, bringing out all her best anecdotes about incorrigible children. For a little while, they’re able to pretend that they’re old friends catching up after time apart.

But that can only last so long. As the bottle gets emptier, conversation takes a turn for the melancholy. They talk about Saul Tigh, back without his eye, without Ellen, and wandering around so hopelessly lost. About Kara Thrace, whose usual sparkle has dimmed.

Then Bill begins to tread on dangerous ground. “The election. If I hadn’t talked you out of it—”

“No,” she says firmly. “No, we’re not doing that.” She pauses to sip from her glass. “What’s done is done.”

He nods grimly. It goes silent, save for the faint hum of the lights.

“I hated thinking of you down there,” he says after a time, staring down into the bright green contents of his glass. “All of you. But ...”

“Me especially?” she says. She meant to joke. It doesn’t come out like a joke.

He looks up at her and takes her hand. His thumb strokes her palm. “Yeah.”

“I wish you’d gotten to visit more often before the occupation,” she muses, lulled toward happier thoughts. “That night—that was fun.”

He chuckles softly. “Yes, it was.”

“A little starlight,” she says, playful. “A bit of a buzz, a charming bedfellow ...”

“I can’t think of a better way to spend an evening,” he says. “Although this comes close.”

She smiles, and with their free hands they clink their glasses together. Something about the ringing noise of it strikes her hard. It’s easy to celebrate the dawn of a new age. But they’ll have to build it, too. And that is never, never easy.

“It’s back to work for the two of us, isn’t it?” she says after a moment.

“Tomorrow,” he replies. She’s thankful for that.

“Well then, Admiral Adama.” She considers the light, all-too-welcome press of his knee against hers. She thinks she might be a little drunk. “What’s on the agenda for tonight?”

He smiles at her. “You tell me.”

(you are) the girl that i've been dreaming of (Amy/Karma)

dollsome — Wed, 25 Jun 2014 01:35:31 GMT

Me? Actually answering a fic prompt?? It is some kind of miracle, friends!

This is for anoel's prompt from the line-of-dialogue fic meme, Amy/Karma + "Are you flirting with me?" I meant for it to be much shorter, but as is my curse, it spiraled into chattiness!

(you are) the girl that i've been dreaming of - Faking It ; Amy/Karma ; 1,500 words. In which Karma is acting weird, and Amy realizes why.

+++

“You smell, like, really good today,” Karma says.

They’re snuggled up on Amy’s bed getting ready for a Don’t Trust The B In Apartment 23 Netflix marathon. It’s the sort of thing that couldn’t have happened six months ago, when everything was awful and they tiptoed around each other like strangers and Amy spent all of her time listening to Bon Iver and wanting to forget her whole life. Then one day, Karma finally lost it and shouted, ‘Look, we both screwed up, and we both screwed Liam Booker, but I will actually die if we’re not best friends anymore, so fuck this awkward bullshit! Fuck it right in its dumb face!’ Amy’s mom came in during that last part, which wasn’t stellar, but ever since then it’s been better.

So now, it feels pretty much normal to be like this—curled up together having sleepover number seven billion.

(The fact that Karma’s wearing a cutesy little pink nightgown instead of a tanktop and sweats is a little weird, but whatever. Karma’s figuring herself out. If that means sleeping like I Dream of Jeannie, go for it.)

Amy will always feel all warm and fuzzy and hearts-in-her-eyes over Karma, at least in some corner of her heart, but it’s time to put that heart corner to rest. Move on. Karma even offered to help her with her online dating profile. Maybe now Amy will actually be able to take a profile picture that doesn’t make her look weirdly like Andy Samberg in a wig.

So instead of reading like twelve different hopeful meanings into what Karma said, Amy just replies, “Oh, the power of daily showering” and shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

Karma grabs a lock of Amy’s hair and twines it around her finger, then leans in and inhales. “Mmm! Is that new shampoo?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. Well—” Karma tugs on Amy’s hair, but not hard enough to hurt. “It’s good shampoo.”

“Thanks, weirdo,” Amy says, and goes to press play. She’s ready to get her Van der Beek on.

But Karma apparently isn’t, because she starts—running her fingertip over Amy’s neck. Oookay. “And your skin is so soft today. Like, that right there is a good neck.”

“Are you planning to murder me and make a coat out of my remains?” Amy feels obligated to ask.

“What?” Karma pulls her hand away fast. “No. Why?”

“You’re just acting a little Cruella de Hannibal.” Amy shrugs. “That’s all.”

Karma stares at her for just a little too long, eyes bright and determined in that familiar troubling Karma way, and then says, “And you’re good enough to eat.”

Um, what?

“Are you high?”

“No!” Karma exclaims, looking suddenly really miserable.

Amy knows that look. “Are you ... gonna throw up?”

“I’m fine. Just – let me sit a minute, okay?”

“What’s wrong? Stomach flu? Or hey,” Amy adds with a lame-on-purpose chuckle, “maybe you’re pregnant.”

Karma rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, from all that sex I’m never having again with Liam Booker.”

“You haven’t even eaten half of that yet,” Amy observes, gesturing to Karma’s carton of ice cream, “and you can usually eat like a carton and a half of ice cream no problem. It’s one of your most awesome qualities.”

“It’s not the ice cream,” Karma mumbles.

After so many years, Amy is good at going into default nursing mode. A little comprehensive list pops up in her brain, ‘Things That Make Karma Hurl,’ and she scrolls past asparagus (this is definitely a No Asparagus kind of party) and remembers—

Cute boys.

Interacting with cute boys makes Karma nervous-vomit.

Not that there are any cute boys around, unless you count the Beek, and they’re like ten years too young to be susceptible to that Dawson’s Creek spell.

So that means that the only ... cute ... person around is ...

“Wait,” Amy says, “were you flirting with me?”

Karma lets out a huge, frustrated sigh and hits Amy with a pillow. “Oh my God, yes, finally! I thought I was going to have to throw my underwear at you or something.”

“You’ve done that before,” Amy reminds her, wrinkling her nose at the memory. This is the easiest thing to focus on. “It was in no way flirty.”

“Well, you called Justin Bieber the King of the Buttheads. I had to punish you.”

Amy gives her a Look.

Annoyed, Karma says, “Obviously, you were right. But there’s no way I could have known that in 2010! None of us could have!”

“Um,” Amy says, and points at herself with both hands.

She’s kinda going for a laugh with that one—Make Stupid Hand Signs And Talk About Bieber is seriously the only mode she can manage in this must-be-a-dream moment—but instead, Karma’s face falls.

It instantly feels like a serial killer is trying to make a coat out of Amy’s soul.

Quietly, Karma asks, “Do you not like me anymore?”

“What?” Amy says blankly.

“I just told you I was flirting with you, and you’re being smug about Justin Bieber. If you still liked me, we’d be—kissing by now, wouldn’t we?”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

Amy’s heart threatens to bust right out of her chest and flee to Canada to avoid the sheer overwhelmingness of this moment. “Because—because everything! Why would you say that? Why are you even flirting? Is it time for Hester High’s gay Brangelina to make their comeback? 22 Karmy Street?”

“Weak joke,” Karma says, pointing accusatorily at her. “And no. I—I’ve had a lot of time to think, you know. And I just realized—I never want to not be with you.”

“That doesn’t mean you should be my girlfriend,” Amy says impatiently. “I’ve been doing a lot of research, okay? I watched Kissing Jessica Stein. I know how that goes.”

Karma ignores her. “I love you. You’re, like, written on the inside of my brain. And I love that. I love knowing everything about you.”

“That’s being best friends.”

“Okay,” Karma says, heaving a heavy sigh. “I didn’t want to have to say this, for reasons of major awkwardness, but you’ve left me no choice: I had a sexy dream about you. There were tongues. That’s not just being best friends!”

Amy orders herself not to get distracted by that truth bomb. Even though it is seriously tempting. After all, let no one forget: “You had a sexy dream about Kermit the Frog!”

“You swore never to mention that!” Karma says furiously, hitting her with the pillow again.

“Yeah, well! Desperate times, bro!”

“And I know it’s weird and I know it’s not fair,” Karma continues, hugging the pillow to her chest. “But if anyone else ever dates you? I’m going to hate that bitch. No offense.”

“Hey! Don’t call my future girlfriend a bitch.”

“I think I just called myself a bitch,” Karma says, unbearable levels of sincere. “If—if you’ll have me.”

How is this happening?

How is this actually happening?

“God, Karma, I don’t know.” Amy rests her face in one hand. “I know you. You get fixated on these ideas sometimes and you don’t always think it through all the way and believe me, I can’t take going through this again—”

“I thought,” Karma interrupts. “I thought this one through.”

Amy looks up at her. “Since when?”

Karma bites her lip. “Since about two weeks after your mom’s wedding.”

“That long?” Now Amy’s in the mood to hit her with the pillow. Serious pillow justice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did. It almost ruined our friendship.”

“Well, yeah,” Karma says. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

“But you knew! You knew I was crazy about you. Why would you be scared to tell me?”

“I wanted to be sure,” Karma says, hugging the pillow tighter to her chest. “About how I felt. I really didn’t want to do anything that would hurt you, Amy. But then you started talking about online dating profiles, and that cute girl you met last time, and it just made me want to jump off a roof, and I thought—well, that probably means something.”

The best Amy can come up with, in this truly surreal moment, is, “So you tried to seduce me by dressing up like Princess Bubblegum?”

Karma sighs and looks down at herself. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” Amy confesses, a little grumpily. “You look amazing.”

Karma beams. “So do you.”

That one’s a little hard to believe. “My shorts have little cows on them.”

“I know,” Karma says, “Why is that hot?”

Amy scoffs. “I dunno, maybe my body’s too mootilicious for you—”

And that’s when Karma kisses her, putting a fortunate end to a super terrible pun. It feels a little like a dream, but Karma’s mouth is there against hers, warm and real, and for the first time in six months Amy lets herself really admit just how much she’s missed kissing her.

Entirely without meaning to, Amy sighs, “Wow.”

Karma smiles bright. “I know.”