AN: This was written for the first round of Build-A-Fic. The link to the new Gilmore Girls challenge site can be found on my profile. This, as are many of my fics, is a Trory. Thanks to K for the beta.
Title: Take My Breath Away
Word Count: 2,990
Characters: Rory Gilmore and Tristan Dugrey
Time Period: Not-to-far in the future—post Yale
Ickle Word: sparkleability (adj)- the ability of bling to shine and reflect refractive light
Quote:"Life is not determined by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of moments that take your breath away". – Unknown
Random Object: lamp post
Life is not determined by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of moments that take your breath away. – Unknown
She didn't know he'd set out for perfection. She had no way of foreseeing that the man who drove her insane with his spur of the moment plans and lack of details would have planned every last moment of the evening. She couldn't have known the guy who had to reschedule a missed exam because of the twenty-two shots they'd done collectively in celebration of the first birthday of hers they'd celebrated together as a couple would have planned a pre-dinner stroll through a park on the way to a romantic picnic followed by reservations for dessert at her favorite restaurant.
It's not that she didn't think he wasn't romantic. It was just that his sense of romance was more of the consuming and inconvenient variety. He had this look he would give her across the table at a fancy restaurant, which would inevitably land them in bed before their waiter would come back around to take their order.
In fact, they rarely ate on their dates; unless you call eating cold Chinese food directly out of a refrigerator at midnight fine dining.
She never made an issue out of their lack of planning. In fact, when it came to him, she had gotten used to it. Not that one can truly get used to the feeling of being swept away, but he had this power of near total distraction of her senses. She knew being distracted by him was far better and more satisfying than being focused without him.
Rory Gilmore's life was otherwise filled with structure and focus. That was the most ironic thing about the fight they'd just had.
She shivered as she leaned against the lamp post on the street corner and tightened the belt on her trench coat, as she went over the events of the night so far in her head. They'd had fights before, in the past year they'd been together, but nothing that felt this pronounced. Everything had just gotten blown so far out of proportion. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he'd been in Chicago the last two months, finishing up the last of his training for the new job he would start in Hartford the next week, that made this fight feel worse than the others. He'd wanted to give her a perfect night, and she felt blame for ruining it—despite the fact that she had no knowledge that she had the ability to ruin anything at the time.
More determined than ever, she pushed off and listened to the sound of her high heels hurrying along the paved sidewalks. Their apartments were a laughable three blocks apart—just far away to not officially be living together. At times she would go to find some book or another of hers, only to realize it was on a bookshelf in his living room, or find extra razors in the third drawer of her vanity that she had not bought. She wondered how many pink Daisies he had in his medicine cabinet. She never had to worry about not having a toothbrush or moisturizer when she would make an unscheduled sleep over, that was for sure. She was bound and determined to make this a sleep over kind of night, no matter how pissed off he'd sounded on the phone.
It was Nick that opened his door. Or at least, she was fairly sure his name was Nick. Tristan's friends only referred to one another by their last names, as if they only knew one another by reading the back of their football jerseys. She wasn't even sure he'd ever played football. She was positive of the name Drake, which is probably why she assumed the Nick part.
"Is Tristan here?" she smiled as sweetly as she could through clenched teeth.
"Dugrey, the little woman is here," Drake called out, as the loud sounds of a boxing match blared from the television and appropriate grunts could be heard from the round of men that were glued to Tristan's brand new plasma television, giving each hit a life-like quality in HDTV.
He sauntered up to the entry, with the crust of a piece of pizza in his hand. He took a tearing bite off the end and gave Drake a look of dismissal. He rolled his eyes and rejoined the cast of yuppies that enjoyed eating as other men were beaten to bloody pulps in front of them in high definition.
"I thought you had plans," she remarked, unable to hold it in.
"Plans change," he responded bitingly after he swallowed his mouthful of dough.
"Tristan," she huffed.
"Hey, Dugrey, doesn't this thing have picture in picture?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Cockfight on another channel?" she offered.
"I believe something came up," he ignored the crowd down the hall and focused on her, his blue eyes blazing.
"You were supposed to arrive tomorrow morning," she reminded him, none-too-gently.
"Excuse the fuck out of me for wanting to surprise my girlfriend," he raised an eyebrow and took another bite of crust.
She rolled her eyes. "Can we not be quite so melodramatic here? I don't even see why you're so upset."
"You don't?" he narrowed his eyes and leaned ever so slightly toward her, the elbow of his free arm coming to rest on the door frame. "You're saying if the tables had been turned, you wouldn't be upset at all?"
"I'm saying you can't make all these plans without my knowledge and then expect me to be able to drop everything at a moment's notice!"
He let out a laugh, but it wasn't one of amusement. It was of the strangled, hostile variety.
"Because rushing to Stars Hollow to hang out with Lane was so hard to reschedule?"
She crossed her arms, which made the stiff fabric of the coat scrape the skin of her bare stomach, reminding her of her goal in coming over here. She just had to remain calm and focused. "Lane had a crisis."
"She married a slacker musician and is saddled with two kids and an absent sex life. Lane is in a continual crisis," he shot back, making no bones about his feelings toward her best friend's husband.
"I can't believe I hurried back to Hartford as soon as I could," she shook her head and made a show of turning on the heel of her favorite pair of high heels—silver Manolo Blahniks.
"You shouldn't have gotten all dressed up—we've missed our reservations," he reached out for the tie of the belt that was so tightly secured at her waist.
She smacked his hand away and moved to retighten it. "You've got company, guess you'll never know what I had planned."
He leaned in further, so she could smell his aftershave. "Is it the little black dress with the straps?"
She shook her head and motioned to the loud shouts from his living room. "I came over to make up, but if you're too busy, I'll just take the knowledge of what's under the trench coat back to my own apartment," she met his eyes with purpose as she put emphasis on the word under.
His lips parted just enough to see a flash of white and his eyes sparkled with intrigue. He put two fingers into the large loops that held the belt to the coat and tugged slightly. "You want to make it up to me?"
"That was before I knew you had a full house."
"I missed you. Is it so wrong that I wanted to surprise you with a special night?"
"No," she breathed in, holding it as she thought for a moment. "I missed you, too."
"So, come inside and show me how much," he continued to pull the fabric loops, giving her little choice but to lean toward him or have them ripped off.
"What about those guys?" she nodded toward the still rowdy room.
"They're not going to miss me," he brushed the tip of her ear with his lips. "And I really wanna know what's under the coat."
"Not so fast, mister," she put a hand on his chest. "I'll follow you back to your room and show you the goods under one condition," she arched an eyebrow.
"Name it," he smirked.
"Tell me why you were so upset."
"I mean, I get that you made plans, and you missed me. But you normally could care less when things don't go according to plan," she focused on his eyes, the way they didn't quite meet hers, then noticing the way he pressed his lips together.
"You're right. I overreacted. Let's make up," he bent his head down, not as far as he normally had to thanks to the Manolos.
"Hold your horses," she put her finger to his lips, and he nipped at them. "You never give up so easily."
"I'm starting to think there's less than a little black dress under there. I'd give up quite a bit, if it means you're wearing that red teddy thing," he wiggled his eyebrows at her knowingly.
She shook her head in way of answering his most pressing question. Though as he pulled her against his body, she realized he was pressing another need into her quite literally. "You hate plans and reservations and big gestures."
"I only called you because you said you'd be home. It was supposed to appear to be spur of the moment and surprising."
"How many of your other surprises were evil masterminded plots?"
"I'm not giving up any more secrets until you take off that coat," he challenged.
She sighed and looked into the living room. Five guys were drinking beer and eating pizza, completely oblivious to the fact that she was about to head into the bedroom and let her boyfriend do unspeakable things to her.
"If I show you what's under the coat, you'll tell me why you got so pissed?" she reiterated.
He took two fingers and crossed two lines over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
"I don't want you to die," she took a step into the apartment.
"That's right. And a man that's been missing you for two long months is in danger of that," he spoke softly into her ear.
"Sounds serious," she breathed as he nearly dragged her down the short hallway into the master bedroom.
"Oh, but it is. Do you know what I've been thinking about every single night for the last two months?"
"What's under my trench coat?"
He laughed—a deep, throaty noise—that made her stomach tighten and her knees weaker. He kissed her, at last, and she clung to his shoulders as if in despair. He slid a hand up into her hair, knotting it into tangles as his fingers balled into a fist. Her head arched back and her mouth opened in kind. His other hand went to the simple knot she'd tied at her waist and tugged ever so slightly.
"Go sit on the bed," she managed, blinking to adjust to the darkness and to see his features in such close proximity. He was still holding her close, making it hard to remember what she'd set out to do.
A smile hooked one side of his mouth. "Bossy, much?"
"I just want you to get the full image," she kissed him hard, and he consented to her demands. He stripped off his shirt, tossing it to the floor without a further glance and sat on the edge of the bed, both eyes fixed on her.
She unthreaded one side of the belt from the knot and let the straps hang down at her sides. His eyes flitted from her hands to her face, as she smiled, testing his readiness. She noticed her hands were a little shaky as she gripped each khaki-colored front flap, sliding them apart to first show an inch between them of milky white skin from her neck down to her stomach. His eyes were no longer on hers, but shining even more—with a greater sparkleability, as her mother would say. The fabric crested her shoulders, baring her breasts to him now, and she paused just a moment before letting go of the coat and letting it slide down her back to meet the floor.
"Just Manolos?" he swallowed.
"Oh, and this," she gave the widest smile she could muster, hoping she wasn't blushing too much. It wasn't that she was embarrassed to be so brazen, or even overtly sexual with him—but the fact she's just showed up to an apartment full of guys wearing little more than her birthday suit wasn't characteristic of her, either.
"Is it my birthday, or something?" he managed, as she took a step closer to him.
"Not for a few more months," she assured him.
"You just," he seemed at a loss for words, but his hands were plenty chatty as he reached out and ran them up and down her legs, circling around her hips so he could better draw her closer and closer.
"I don't like fighting with you," she ran her hands through his hair.
He nodded and kissed her stomach, which was just at the right level for his speechless mouth. She sighed, contently, wanting to freeze the moment. It'd been too long without his touch. Gently, she used one knee to push his chest back until he was lying underneath her.
"I believe you were going to tell me why you were so upset," she kissed his neck, busying her hands with his zipper.
"Would you believe I can't remember?"
"No," she yanked at the fabric, as he raised his hips. They were well-practiced, though sorely denied. The time apart may have put them on edge, but it also made them hungrier and their movements swifter.
Once the pants were on the ground, forgotten with the rest of the world, he sat up and slid his hands up her back. He kissed her again and again, not wanting to talk anymore, but knowing he couldn't put it off much longer. She wrapped her legs around his waist, content only in the moment to feel his hips under hers, his arms around her. She broke the kiss, heady eyed, but insistent.
"I missed you, I wanted to see you," he kissed her cheek, then her neck. "I wanted to plan something you'd love," he kissed her again, this time making her head spin before he pulled back.
"Just seeing you was enough," she traced her fingers down over the chiseled muscles of his upper torso. "To touch you again. I hate being apart, even more than fighting with you."
He nodded. "Which is why I wanted to see you tonight. I didn't want to wait another second," he bit his lip.
She frowned at the look of nervousness that lined his features. She didn't know him to be uneasy about any topic or situation. She put one hand on his cheek. "What?"
"Move in here."
"Tristan," she blinked, feeling almost as if someone had stolen the air out of her lungs. "What?"
"This is stupid, this living three blocks apart thing. I've always thought so, but you were so insistent that we not rush into anything," he allowed for what might have been common sense at the time. "But I was ready the second I saw you in that line, finishing off one cup of coffee while ordering another."
"Press junkets are long days, I need the extra caffeine," she reminded him, as if he didn't remember every last detail of their 'second' first meeting. It was her first assignment out of college, and it was to cover the press meeting his father's company was having. He was still working for his father at the time, also his first job out of college, as he was figuring out what he really wanted to do.
"The whole time I was in Chicago, I've been thinking about it. It's been almost a year, that's not rushing it."
"If I live here, I can't show up in just a coat and high heels," she pointed out.
"You can greet me at the door just wearing Saran Wrap," he offered.
"You really want me living here?"
"I was going to spend the whole evening sweet talking you into it."
She knew if he'd made plans, then it wasn't just a spur of the moment decision based on the fact that she was naked. But the fact was she was very much naked, sitting on top of an equally naked him, and her body was reminding her that certain needs hadn't been properly met for two months.
"Saran Wrap it is," she rocked her hips forward, achieving both friction and momentum for him to roll her back onto the bed, and he kissed every inch of her body that became accessible to him as he worked his way down her torso, showing his excitement for this new phase in their lives. It'd been too long since so much attention had been paid to her body in such a variety of ways. He spent time to work up her already heated body into states of delirium, exacting tactile responses that only his body seemed able to bring out in her. She didn't care that his stupid friends were just a few rooms away as her head fell back behind the safely locked door, hitting the soft pillow as he buried his mouth between her legs.
This was as close to perfection as she'd ever been able to imagine, more so even, and worth every single fight they would ever have. As her breath became ragged, and then stopped altogether for a moment as her body unraveled and restarted with a jolt, she knew there were many unplanned, romantic nights ahead of them.