DISCLAIMER: All I want for Christmas is Paris...uh, no, ewww. not you Ms. Hilton. If I wanted genital herpes I'd have called you, now shoo, go make another sex tape or awful album or whatever a useless heiress like you does! As I was trying to say, all I want for Christmas is Paris Gellar and Rory together. In my way however is Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone and Warner Bros. Television, so looks like that wish won't come true. Doesn't mean I can't do it here in fic though (maniacal grin).
SPOILERS: This takes place the day after my modified I Can't Get Started, where Rory won the dance marathon with Paris, and Jess and Dean were nowhere to be found.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: It took me three months to write this, and I apologize for making you all wait, because some real life things (aka the boss at work putting the kibosh on extra-curricular writing) got in my way, so now I have to write overnights and during the day with distractions. I'm starting to deal though, so hopefully chapter ten will come out a little faster than this one.
THANKS: The usual thanks to Raven and Cinn for taking time out of their busy schedules to beta this for me. Thanks to Brian and The Raven (who wrote a great Lily Rush/Lorelai Cold Case/GG crossover I highly recommend, just look for it under her name in the GG section of RotS) for their email encouragement, and those at GGSlash who keep begging me for an update.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top
By Nate

Chapter Nine
And Then Paris Kissed Me...

I was feeling as high as a cloud as Paris and I slid in the backseat of her Jaguar, with Miss Patty being our personal chauffeur for the short ride between the high school's baseball diamond and my home a ½ mile from the town center. Paris was somewhat coherent as she buckled her seatbelt, but as soon as that task was done, her head was against the window and she seemed to be out like a light quickly for the ten-minute drive home. I could tell just by looking at her that the dance marathon took a lot of her, and beforehand as we waited for Miss Patty, she had leaned against me, so I had kept her steady for most of the next fifteen minutes between the last dance and that point.
 
Miss Patty started the luxury car's engine, and after a delay of a few minutes as we navigated the gummed up works of the parking lot with the rest of those leaving the school, we were on the road, leaving my worn eyes to try to gauge the slumbering girl to my left.
 
Paris was relaxed, the dim light of the upcoming dawn casting a soft glow on her face, her lips out and puckered, tempting me so much. Her legs were crossed together, and though her positioning was far from what could be called sexy, it was definitely very serene. I was glad to see her in such a human state, and I smiled as I looked at my compatriot and Miss Patty turned the car onto Town Square Circle.
 
I stayed like that for the next few minutes, contemplating what my invitation to Paris to spend time at my house post-dance entailed. There was a feeling on my end when I made the invitation that there was a plan B floating around Paris' brain somewhere about how she would get home, and though I don't know what that might have been, I'm pleased that my words and seductive actions talked her out of it. Now, the weekend was truly ours; I could catch her off-guard, unprepared to deal with a Sunday in my presence, and get even closer to confession. The best thing about what I was planning in my head from 5:30am on was that I had home-field advantage. The usual distractions and any interference were out of play, for I had the house to myself for at least the next thirteen hours. No one was about to stop by to congratulate, nor was Mom anywhere to be found to give me any second thoughts about my feelings for Paris.
 
Maybe it would end with confession, or maybe not. All I knew then was that I couldn't screw it up. Those ideas floating in my head to seduce Paris would put anything Tristan DuGrey ever planned for the both of us and the rest of his little black book to shame.
 
I looked at her in sleep as I told Miss Patty how excited I was that Kirk had been finally knocked from the top rung and that I won. I couldn't gauge her reaction since she was driving, but she was already gushing about how excited Mom would be to see that trophy in her own house and how I had won it, "I'm sure she'll be very proud of you dear," she said to me. It was more a conversation to fill the silence (Paris' stereo system was too complicated for Miss Patty to figure out and I had very novice experience working it around), and to keep my mind off the fact so much tanned skin along the neckline of Paris' dress was in my eyesight with her unable to call me on my lustful staring. Of course finding out that the backseat of her XJ8 had more than enough room to accommodate two bodies laying down on the leather bench was causing my daydreams to drift towards a more sexual way than I was used to. I could visualize the picture of myself above Paris on the seat clear as day, causing a blush to flare up my face as I looked at her. The conversation with Miss Patty was tiring and sort of white noise over those sexual thoughts of mine, helping cool down my body from the effects of twenty-four hour close dancing with the girl next to me.
 
Patty went on and on about Kirk's streak and I kept the conversation up lightly through the circle and towards Peach Lane as I felt my eyes start to lose the battle to keep awake. My body felt tight in the formerly loose dress that I had worn to lure Paris in. Twenty-four hours of close contact with her had rearranged my hormones, and though I was wearing something smooth beneath the red fabric, the strapless bra was digging against my side and probably leaving quite the red welt beneath. I had my long coat on beneath the dress since the temperature was chilly outside and Patty didn't turn on the heat, but it wasn't very long before the conversation was fading out and Paris was waking up again after the car hit the bump between the smoothly paved Peach Street and the older and thin asphalt path that was the road to my house, Cherry Lane.
 
We were both tired and about on par with a Resident Evil zombie wanting brains in our lack of enthusiasm as we got out of the car after Miss Patty pulled up into the gravel drive, and I helped Paris with her overnight bag and the trophy. Patty seemed to eye us both with a look of 'I know something you don't Rory', but I wasn't about to ask her about this sense she had right in front of Paris. I don't know, but Patty's look as we both got out of the car just unnerved me.
 
She said goodbye to both of us, and I waved back as Par mumbled out a tired "Bye!" as she stepped out of those high heels that irked her through the evening, and slipped into an old worn pair of running shoes, sitting on the bumper as she put them on and somehow maneuvered her emergency bag beneath her free arm and held onto it for dear life. I guess I was right from my earlier observation; this girl is prepared for almost every situation that can be thrown at her while she drives.
 
Then we both took a side of the marathon trophy and lifted it out of the trunk, balancing ourselves carefully as I did my best to dodge the chunks of gravel in the driveway until we found the grass and the walkway up to the porch. Paris wasn't complaining about having to help out with the effort, and even with that bag in her arm, got the door open so that we could both work the four-foot edifice of our victory through the front door.
 
I looked at Paris, and she seemed ready to trip on her ankles; she was that worn down.
 
"Where do you want me to put this?" she asked me, "I can help you bring it upstairs--"
 
"No, no, don't even think of it," I told her as I bent down and had her follow my cue to set the trophy down in the front hall. "You've done so much already, all I wanted to do is get this thing in the house. I'll worry about it in a bit; Mom's going to be really shocked when she sees where I put this." I already had the picture in my head of Lorelai bringing her luggage upstairs after I told her my weekend was fine, and then finding that one thing she coveted in her bedroom. I could hear the happy scream and her asking me whether there were hidden cameras in the headboard and all those other things she'd say when she found out I won the competition.
 
The trophy was mine and Paris', that's all that mattered. But there was a much more important and critical plan spinning in my head this morning; which was to prove to Paris that I needed her as more than a friend, or a dance partner. My mind was already spinning with thoughts of how to pull this all off when she asked me where her weary head could rest.
 
Also, the nagging question of her sleepwear was still in the air. As much as I wouldn't have minded her sleeping in her dress, I could see a red mark along the back of her neck where the halter was when I looked at her in the car, so she wouldn't have slept comfortably in it at all. The inner vixen in me also was really, really hoping that she'd refuse my request to bring her something of my mom's to wear, but the odds of her sleeping nude in my house were pretty slim. Paris is a modest girl to begin with from the way she dresses, so I wouldn't expect her to not be the same when it came to sleepwear. I told her to lie on the couch and that I'd bring up the trophy while I looked for something to wear for her, and I asked what she'd prefer.
 
She thought for a moment as she flopped down on the sofa, then gave me an answer. "Whatever, a shirt and some shorts, I usually like to sleep in something cool and billowy." Paris smiled, and I told her that I knew Lorelai had something like that. I made a joke about her past history of borrowing clothes from me, but in a light way. She didn't overreact about it thankfully, and after talking to her for a bit, figured she might want to do a little relaxing.
 
After watching her get a little comfy in the couch, I grabbed the trophy from the front hall, went upstairs and into my mom's room, setting the trophy down near the door and looking for something in her dresser that would fit Paris just fine. There was a debate going on through my mind about what I wanted her to sleep in; you really can't do sexy with shorts and an undefined shirt, but I'd be trying to do my best to counterbalance 'unknowingly sexy' with 'practical'. My brain might have been exhausted from doing nothing for 24 hours but go over Fred Astaire's footsteps, yet it still had enough charged juice to figure out how I'd try to draw Paris out of her protective shell and hopefully, into my arms. I couldn't bottle everything back up again; like a moth to a flame I wanted to know for sure if she thought the same of me as I was her.
 
It took me a few moments, but after a little crude matching up and mental picture comparing, I came up with a loose pair of black shorts and a blue flannel shirt as the perfect combination for Paris to sleep in. It would be comfortable to her, and at the same time bare just a smidge more skin than she usually cared to. It seemed like the perfect outfit, and before I could spend too much time letting myself wallow in thoughts of her, I folded the clothes together and closed the dresser drawers, trying to figure out my next move.
 
I tossed Paris her clothes over the railing as I walked down the stairs, but didn't warn her fast enough as the articles hit her in the side of her face.
 
"Rory, please, more warning next time," she admonished, turning around and then smiling at me. "You should know by now I've always been the first casualty in dodgeball since I can't pay attention in that game enough to save my life."
 
"Just keeping you on your toes Gellar," I let her know. She laughed, and I was able to glance once again at that serene smile she seems to only bring out in my presence. Then she placed the clothes down on her lap and looked at the shorts and flannel shirt, making sure they'd be up to her standards. Something I was expecting, I told myself; no matter how plain she might seem, Paris is still of a rich pedigree so she expects that in her pajamas.
 
She looked at my mom's clothes one more time, and then relieved me by telling me that they'd do just fine. "Nothing I'd be embarrassed to run out in if the house caught fire," she let me know, thus bringing that dark, wry sense of humor she has to the forefront.
 
"Where is the bathroom so I can change out of this?" she asked, pointing to her dress, still on her like a second skin and causing my mouth to water.
 
"Other side of the kitchen," I let her know, and pointed out the way, as I tried to keep my hormones in check. As she got up after thanking me for finding her last-minute PJs to wear and made her way past me in the middle of the living room, I found my eyes involuntarily drawing towards her slender back. In another situation, say with Lane or even Madeline, it would've been just a quick glance, then my attention wandering back to another subject.
 
With Paris though, any unexpected opportunity for staring, I ended up taking. Her hair was down to the middle of her back, which left at least the lower 2/3 of it and the naked skin over it exposed to me. I licked my lips as a flash came into my mind of her undressing in the bathroom; the tie in the back of her neck holding it against her dress unfurling in front of my mind image down as the black material fell into a heap at her ankles. However, my eyes were much higher than the heap and leapt right back towards the middle of her torso.
 
I then realized that I was letting a golden opportunity slip right through my fingers, unnoticed. Paris was going to change into those bedclothes, and there I'd be on the other side of the bathroom door, unable to get another close and intimate opportunity to look at this girl I had an insatiable crush on.
 
Where was this take-charge side of me these last two years? I mused to myself, wondering why I had never even dared think this way at all with Dean. I had never seen him more than shirtless, nor took advantage of any opportunity that was offered to disrobe him. I keep thinking about Dean and I through our relationship, and not once did I see lust enter the equation between us. He always thought I was pretty or beautiful, while I thought he was handsome. There has never been a thought of jumping him or having erotic thoughts of him floating around my mind, and that sense of I want him never was in play. Not just because of my mom, but the pheromonal connection wasn't there. He was a guy, and liked me. The more I think about it, the more it's clear that I went into that whole thing totally unprepared and hoping for a spark that never came, like the only reason I was attracted to him was that he was this odd groupie who hung around me all the time and thought of me as more than 'that quiet girl with a new paperback in tow everyday'.
 
With Paris though, it's like my sex senses got a power boost. I look at her, even in close study, and I just want to set my hand down somewhere on her and have any kind of contact, be it sexual or non-sexual. I stood in that living room, prepared to head to my room to change in my own pajamas, when again, my mind has another flash. This time though, it's reverse angle, with Paris' fingers trailing down my spinal column as she helps to unzip my dress. Those fingers, calloused from a pencil grip every weekday and the 75 wpm clatter of each of her fingertips against the keyboard at her Franklin desk, run against my middle, and I can feel it already.
 
My mind relays the fact it took me at least five minutes to maneuver my way into the dress yesterday morning, three of those spent unsuccessfully gripping the zipper and getting it up from my butt, then turning it around so I could zip it up in the front without much of a problem. Finally, I used that last minute to maneuver the zipper side from the front to back it so it's the correct way and I don't look like I'm about ten years removed from the Kris Kross 'wearing clothes backwards' fad that never made sense to anyone. So now if I tried to take it off, I'd tear the fragile fabric if I just lifted it over my head, and my sore body would grimace in pain if I tried to unzip myself.
 
That left me one more choice; help on the zipper from a second party.
 
Guess who happened to be the only person in the room who could help me unzip?
 
I smirked inside; This is going to be quite fun, my inner dialogue told me. Then it also told me that I should stop saying 'quite' in my head, because it sounded odd.
 
My mind somewhat distracted, I called out Paris to stop and help me unzip, explaining exactly why her help would be much appreciated. Those thoughts of helping her out with her own halter knot mixed in with my plea, and I ended up having my voice softer than intended. I was trying to be careful about not leading on too much with my feelings, and I was a little timid that she was starting to catch on to my feelings for her.
 
Still, whatever the tone of my voice, it ended up working.
 
"Uh, alright, I guess," she said, kind of nervous. "I could use a helping hand myself with my dress knot; that is if you don't mind. You don't have to and I can probably get it myself--"
 
Before she could ramble more, I responded that I could do it with a enthusiastic tone I usually left for an aced test or won game at a carnival. Paris didn't seem to notice this sudden jubilation thankfully, and before I knew it, I had turned around and stood with my back to her.
 
Suddenly, I felt then like I was layered for a trip back up Mt. Everest, and that I needed that dress off and soon. Her thumb and forefinger gripped the metal pull on the slider, seemingly a little shaky. A light touch of the tip of one of her nails, and I was lost in delirium.
 
I looked straight ahead towards the fireplace, trying to find a focal point to distract me from the feelings being aroused from Paris' simple brush of her fingers against my back. Just unzipping, just unzipping, honestly. Nothing sexual to be taken out of this...
 
At that point her left hand braced my shoulder, and it became more than unzipping to me. Just that one touch alone sent a colony of butterflies through my stomach, because I knew that right there, she'd figure out for sure I was wearing a strapless bra. I brought the hair along my back up to the front, and relaxed my body to hasten the zipping process further.
 
My concentration was at first focused on the shaded front window, looking at the dull beige shade and light yellow curtains shielding the window from the view of anyone who happened by. I found all my senses tightening up as Paris' hand moved down the middle of my spinal column, not fast and swift, instead, she took her time.
 
I could hear her exhalations waver a bit as I felt cool air sweep up the skin bared, and bit my lip to keep any sudden noises stifled and my feelings unsaid. Down and down Paris worked, as I felt the dress loosen up quite a bit in the front with each new portion of slack. My mind spun with a thought of turning around and shrugging off the dress, a sudden move to catch her off guard and see if my intuition of things was correct.
 
Thankfully, just her unzipping my dress was erotic. The moment felt like, along with the room surrounding me, with the dim light coming from that cursed monkey lamp (which I edit out of any dreams and fantasies I might have; animal lamps don't exactly scream sexy atmosphere) and her warm breath against the back of my neck, it was a romantic air in that room. She was close, but not too close; enough to tell me this is a sample and that if I want more she'll have to know about it. Paris' soft orchid perfume was behind me and wafted between each side of my neck and into my nostrils, making me want to turn around...
 
She reached the middle of my back, exposing my bra. She's come close to seeing this much of my skin exposed but had never ventured any lower. Paris paused, and for a short bit I feel her smoothing the zipper line from the nape down to the bra line, her curved index finger and thumb running along both sides of the zipper and across my skin.
 
"Just so the zipper doesn't snag," was the reasoning she gives me; that has to be a lamer excuse than 'I need to wash my hair tonight so I can't go out with you'. Zippers are rigid, never fail, and there's not a lot of material along the track to make it snag. No matter though, for my eyes shut and I feel a warm sensation run from my stomach and up to my cheeks. She unzipped beyond the bottom of my bra and continued, and I feel even more exposed than I ever have before. I feel as if my legs are going to topple in on themselves at the first opportunity and figure out that standing while unzipped wasn't the way to go. Her left hand moves down to the middle of my back and rests against it, rubbing it like she's trying to reassure me.
 
What are you doing to me Par? I told myself, as with each inch, I feel like I never wanted to leave this spot and wished the zipper was longer than the three feet plus length it actually was. I did end up gasping out a moan I thought was undetectable; Paris had found one of those sensitive spots where I couldn't help but react somehow. I hoped she didn't detect it, and thankfully she didn't.
 
My eyes stayed shut as she reached the dip of the small, where she continued to torture me with her feather-light touches and raspy breathing. Her hand was getting ever closer to that line not even Dean had crossed in our dancing, and my only thoughts weren't innocent by far. My heartbeat thumped in my chest, and I stood still and took a slow glance down my body. Looking down at myself vertically, Paris was again doing the same thing her damned perfect fingernails did Tuesday morning. In twenty-four hours of activity, I never felt modest about my small chest. Now I hoped that when I turned to help her out she wouldn't notice each of my hardened nipples peeking up through three layers of thin foam, cream cotton, and red rayon. My body was flushing, and as her slow unzipping seemed to reach my pantyline, it felt so tight and wound up I had to somehow not only even my breathing, but find the inside of each of my palms interesting, for I wanted to hook one or both my pointer fingers along the side of my hem, and slowly slide one of those hands up the skirt of the dress.
 
I felt so alluring, and Paris didn't know it at all. For all she knew she was either unzipping my dress and not thinking anything more than platonically about it, or she was trying to send me to an early grave with her torture. I didn't expect this at all and Paris was playing with an entire box of matches with the way her fingers stayed within that stubborn 2" width along my spine. My body tried to remain still, try not to show how much her touch was affecting me. Still my hands trembled and my heart was pounding, with my legs feeling like they'd give out.
 
That was nothing compared to when she reached the near end and stopped for a moment right at the waistband of my underwear. I had expected her to continue, for Paris doesn't do anything half-heartedly. When took her hand off the zipper abruptly, I felt jarred suddenly. I could feel her stare, and somehow I thought I'd heard her thoughts spinning around. My mind was projecting a thought in her voice; This is too much too fast, I better reel back.
 
I didn't though; I wanted her to finish and have something to remember me by. I groaned, and my eyes slitted as I tried to communicate she had my permission. For this may have been my seduction, but I still had things to gauge. If she finished and closed in those last four inches to the stop of the zipper, that would give me a huge clue to her intentions.
 
If she didn't though, I would back off my advances, that simple. Just like if I had told Dean to stop massaging because I wasn't ready.
 
There was no need to fret though, for my groan of 'you aren't done Par' was enough to tell her to continue. I felt her hand brush up against my rear and finish the job, wallowing in that seemingly accidental touch and feeling shudders of pleasure up my spine. Her fingers lingered for quite a bit and then she started up from the crouch she was in to travel down my body, the fingernails of one of her hands gliding effortlessly up my middle slowly, seemingly for an eternity. The hair along my arms stood on end and I involuntarily exhaled a deep breath as they departed from my body.
 
Now I know why the art of the tease is of such importance in the charged and more sexual type of literature. I've read so many scenes in so many years from so many books of seduction and the after effects, up to and including sex. At first when I got access to some of those books when I moved to junior high, being a curious red-blooded twelve year-old girl, I paged right to the sexual parts and read the scenes. However, they've never really had the effect on me a nice slow tease can do, and I started paying much more attention to the scenes before the actions, because the flirting did so much more for me than the actual activity. The shirt coming off, the brushing of the hair, maybe a hand running along the side of a woman as her lover feels her up through her slip; it's something you need in order to write a great American novel. Sex is all well and good, but in the end, it's just the dessert to end a great meal. Without the appetizer of the flirting and that main course of seduction, you're starved for much more than you actually got.
 
I let myself relax for a bit to calm so that when I turned around, Paris wouldn't see my beyond flustered and aroused state and think that something was up for me. It took a few spins of my mind around the 'never in a million years' portion to cleanse out what I was feeling. Yeah, seducing Dean in front of my mom as she watched really helped settle me down.
 
I had her walk towards a hassock in the room to try to keep her steady, then sit her down on it so I could undo her knot in the back. My mind immediately reasoned that since she had a knot in a backless halter dress rather than a long zipper, thing would be a lot less charged in this part of the changing, and leagues easier.
 
What I didn't expect was that Paris studied her knot instruction in Girl Scouts a little too closely. I heard her say 'thank you' and sigh happily as I brought her hair up to her front and undid her first loose knots, and then find myself in an odd roadblock situation.
 
I looked at the nape of her neck, trying to trace how I could undo the second and much tighter bind, which was forming a bundle of deep red-colored skin where it came together. My eyes appraised it, however the tomato-onion pattern made trying to find the end and beginning a muddled mess. I tugged it hard, hoping to entice the entire thing loose. It didn't budge in any way.
 
I worked a fingernail to where I thought I'd find the beginning. It still strained to come apart and I was finding it to be stubborn. Pulling only seemed to make it worse, and working my finger between Paris' neck and the knot seemed not to do much at all except aggravate her when I tugged and found her body fall towards me from it. Sure, of course I relished this opportunity of my fingers against a very sensitive spot on the back of her neck, but that knot just didn't want to come apart. I complained about her tight knot; and I could've sworn that her dress would stay on with that first knot she made before leaving Hartford.
 
"My apologies Gilmore," she droned. "I felt like I was going to fall out of this if I didn't add another knot, so I made another one and tied it tighter than usual." A reasonable response, but words wouldn't get her out of that dress any faster.
 
I continued to try to work her dress open, to no avail for at least five minutes. I could feel her body start to overheat, and my eyes weigh with sleep. I had to get this done pretty quick, otherwise we'd both be finding ourselves sleeping in positions that make my kitchen table chair sleep before the Shakespeare exam look like a luxurious shiatsu massage.
 
Working it wasn't doing anything, and nails in the knot weren't either. I was about ready to stop and give up from the frustration of not getting it out. For a moment, I gritted my teeth, mad that I couldn't do this one simple thing I promised to Paris. My plan to give Paris seductive touching was down the Bemis and would end up failing.
 
My teeth were together, and I looked at that knot, when my mind melded a connection with those two simple things. My teeth; that knot. A very tight knot that wasn't coming apart, and my teeth, which had much more grip and power than I'd ever have in my hands.
 
Hmm...I pondered this to myself, looking at Paris' very bare back and trying to cloud out any uncouth thoughts of her, and then at the knot. It seemed to make sense that when all else fails, you use your teeth, be it in opening a drink bottle or ripping open a rather tough bag of snack chips. It was far from ladylike and using teeth to work something open was always meant as a last resort.
 
I was at my wit's end here though. The knot wasn't coming apart, and feeling around for the beginning slack of it, then tugging it open with my teeth seemed like a good solution, and an even better idea.
 
That's when the emergency alert in my mind went off.
 
Lorelai Leigh, don't forget whose knot that is!! Oh yeah, it was Paris' dress. And her back. And her neck.
 
Yes, I was seriously considering biting the back of the neck of the girl I was lusting for, and licking my lips like I was about to gnaw into a tender rack of ribs.
 
Now if this was the old me, in the days of Dean, I would've stopped right there and told Paris to undo her own dress, because I wouldn't do that. It could be taken as dirty and sexual and she'd overreact, I just would know it. She could wriggle out of the dress I'm sure and I'd be off the hook.
 
But this is me almost six days removed from the end of my heterosexuality. I was no longer the doting girlfriend of one Dean Forrester; I'm the newly gay Rory, trying to show Paris that I'd rather she not end up with a dullard trust fund boy from Glastonbury to warm her up at night. To her, she might have a stuck halter dress. But to me, that black cotton tasted like sweet opportunity.
 
I looked at her tanned neck, saying a silent prayer that she would think this was all innocent. It was better not to tell her plan B before I bit in, lest she freak out. The element of surprise would ease her mind, so I went in and softly nipped at where the knot could be undone.
 
Already I felt as if I'd lose control, because my breath rushed from my mouth. I started working the loop and it started to loosen a bit; my intuition was right. Temptation was high to suckle the area around the halter and bring my tongue against her skin. I wanted to so much, but for the sake of Paris and my own thoughts, I relented. She could feel the rush of my breath against her skin and I could see her shake a little. My plan was working; she was becoming lost to the world around her.
 
The knot was finally starting to cooperate, and I worked the wettened fabric with my fingers to unloosen it, taking my mouth away for a bit. Still needed a little bit more slack, so I went in again to try and bite in at the knot.

That second time wasn't a charm though, for instead of biting cloth, I got a small patch of skin right between my choppers. The bite wasn't that hard, but still enough to make her moan just a smidge, then...
 
"Ror! Ow!" She yelped in a high tone of voice as I bit down, not as rough as I expected. She actually seemed a little calm about it, and her voice seemed to be a little wavering. Still, she didn't move, just reeled back for a couple seconds to reach back and rub down my bite mark, then slid back into her previous sitting position. I took this as an 'OK' sign and finished doing my best to unknot her dress.
 
My mini-bite was distracting however; my mind was trying to stir me into thinking that it was a way of asserting ownership of Paris' heart, no matter that it was accidental. The remnants of her perfume, sprayed along her neck were also getting into me, for it was certain I couldn't avoid it with the inches between my nose and her skin. The lingering smell of her shampoo, along with that orchid scent sprayed along her neck, I was finding my blood stirred from the intimate contact with her. Geeze, not now, what if she turns around, is what was in my mind in order to scold myself from letting the sweet mixture of her favorite scents and the natural smell of her skin disrupt bloodflow. No matter that I wanted much more of this, did I ever need more it. I wanted to do a lot more than unknot Paris, but I had to stick to plan. Either I did it slowly or I would end up scaring her or having to back off because I edged against a comfort zone and she'd start to realize I wasn't doing this accidentally, or being this close to gauge the knot.
 
My mouth and hands worked to make it release, and after a couple of minutes, I had worked the stubborn one open enough to unfurl it, and was finally left with just that one pithy tie she did early last morning. I apologized to her for what I had to do, and she was a little shaken, but thankful that I had done what I had to do to help her out of her dress.
 
The last knot was the absolute easiest, and within ten seconds, Paris was free from the dress, as I threw the thin cords over to her front so she could head off to the bathroom and let the dress slide off the rest of the way. Before then though, I saw that both sides of her back, especially where the dress was over, were red from the imprints of the fabric edging. I wanted her to relax and make her descent into dreamland easier, so I massaged her back softly, along her shoulders, rubbing in and out from the tip of her shoulder blades back to the nape of her neck. Paris seemed to sigh, and this sort of belated thank you for her warming me up on Tuesday was well-deserved by her after a tough dance marathon win, not to mention how much she's made the breakup with Dean that much more soothing.
 
Dean would never do these things to spoil me, because he never wants to push himself further. He takes the minimum classes in high school and after encouraging him to take more English classes last year, only to find more auto/mechanical lessons on his schedule after only a few days, I pretty much gave up on the idea of 'first love forever' right then and there. He was a good first love, but my wildest fairy tale dreams never consisted of I, as the unhappily married Rory Forrester, having his grimy self sit on the couch and whine about cars and the people who ask him to fix them until kingdom come. How could I be happy when the only guy in my future was not only someone I didn't love, but who didn't mind that his old TV isn't not only not ready for cable, much less color? If he's not going to strive for a goal and let me help him, screw it. I didn't need Dean before I went to Chilton, and I certainly don't need him now.

I looked at Paris after I finished and before she went into the bathroom to change into the pajamas, and though a little tired, she was still smiling at me, happy that things between us were far from strained. God, I liked being the pursuer of her feelings, because it's so much more satisfying knowing that it was I who was doing this to her.
 
I watched Paris go into the bathroom, then headed to my room and shut my door, desperately wanting out of the unzipped dress and the lingerie beneath. Things certainly couldn't get any better; Paris was sleeping in my house, and I was getting steeled to tell her that I thought of her as more as a friend. Looks like an occasion for the purple sheep pajamas, I thought to myself as I straightened my hair in the mirror and prepared to retrieve that pajama shirt and the matching bottoms from my dresser.
 
"Hold on," I whispered to myself, thinking aloud. "That might be all fine and good for a regular sleepover, but you have Paris in that bathroom probably thinking about how wonderful those lips on her neck were."
 
I was in my bedroom, almost completely naked but a fresh pair of undies, and about to play into that cute image I was trying to shrug off so I could show Par that I could do more than look demure. She had also seen me in regular PJs already, and they didn't do much to flatter my figure or tease. On top of that, the entire plan was to repeat her sleeping in my bed like she did a few weeks ago, but with some kerosene thrown on the fire. I'd barely feel her in bed if I wore purple flannel, and that would silently scream to her that maybe I'm not interested, that this is friendly and our undressing wasn't meant to be anything but normal.
 
Trouble was, I wanted her. My body definitely showed that too, what with my breasts looking even more sexually alluring to me by the day with each new look in the mirror. They were aroused from the unzipping, and when I rubbed my stomach, then along the bottom, I felt like moaning from my self-contact, shutting my eyes and imagining that Paris had brought her touch from the small of my back and then around. I also felt a very nagging itch between the trunk of my legs from all those steps during the dance, along with the feelings I had of her. I ran a hand along the cotton of my panties, and though it wasn't wet, I still felt very sensitive down there because I almost wanted to get off when her hands were along my back. If she was a slow dresser, I would've given myself a quick frig, but there wasn't time to consider. Also in this case, giving myself pleasure could backfire and actually have kept me awake if I had, so waiting to release my tension was the best thing to do.
 
"You have to play into that," I told myself, "think of that in the way you dress." Those thoughts brought me back to Tuesday and the sprinklers, along with laundry day forcing me to improvise quick. My uniform preparation slipped that day, and though I expected it to be a disaster, the sprinklers and lack of underclothes ended with one of the most sexually satisfying days I'd ever had, and finally getting the weight off my back that was Dean. I smiled, recalling those hovering brown eyes Paris gave me as she slid her backpack onto her shoulder, turned around, and found her fellow classmate with her own shirt held in that girl's hands, her mood going from angry and pissed off down to wanting some friendly bonding, and that girl wearing a tank top that left very little to the imagination.
 
She loved it, and I loved that attention so much, along with the dirty ideas I formed. That scene you occasionally see in a bad sex drama of the woman looking over herself in the mirror and confidently stating to herself that 'I'd do me'? That was me in the Chilton darkroom at lunch, begging for Paris to get me off as my hands got to really know how alluring a girl I could really be.
 
I want her to want me, was the line in my head. Then that Cheap Trick tune played in my head, which thankfully I decided not to sing into my hairbrush as that would only make Paris question my mental state. I found myself thinking that a ribbed white top in the top drawer of my vanity with very thin spaghetti straps that I usually reserve for a 100° day when I'd rather be naked would be the perfect top for seduction. I took it out, and slipped it on, expecting it to look out of place on my body for an early November morning as sleepwear.
 
It was far from the case, and only convinced me further that I should occasionally stray from my usual wardrobe. Not only did it flatter me very well, but it was just as warm as if I would've worn the lamb PJs. I looked pretty nice, and Paris would definitely think the same was what I thought.
 
I considered going bottomless and just sleeping in that and my panties, but again, I want to seduce her, not rush things too fast; her mind could overheat. I took a pair of blue scrub pants from my drawer I usually match up with an oversized t-shirt. It did a little to elongate my legs and make them longer, but not really too much; I meant it to be a red herring to show I might be spicing myself up a smidge, but that I still try and dress conservatively.
 
With another quick look at myself, I determined that it was time to get out there and ramp up my flirting, for I still had a few things in mind to make my intentions known. "She ain't gonna know what hit her," I told myself with confidence into the mirror, as I heard her come out of the bathroom and walk back into the living room.
 
"It's time." One more look in the mirror, and it was time to go into action. I waited a few beats, then opened up my door and readied myself for the sight of Paris Gellar in something that though dowdy, was still infinitely much more alluring and sexy to wear than a frumpy nightgown that made her look like she was carrying septuplets instead of a junior in high school looking to get important life connections from a secret society.
 
I came out and saw Paris preparing for bed as if she was the inconvenient guest she may have been in February, but certainly wasn't this morning. I know she loathed sleeping on the couch and kept hearing about it days after that night she impromptly swept into my house to ask me for help, and ended up staying the night. She slept in her regular clothes, yes, so she was a bit uncomfy. Still, she's used to sleeping on a $2,000 mattress every night so it was a shock to her system to sleep on a piece of furniture she wasn't used to.
 
This was a sleepover after all in the rawest sense of the word; she just wasn't some far off relative from Kansas who I offered the couch to out of obligation. This was a girl who was quickly becoming my best friend, and maybe if I played my cards right, my future lover. My body was already overcharged beyond belief, and I yearned for her close to me, for Paris' presence around me was keeping me single-handedly grounded.
 
No way was I going to just say goodnight and walk back to my room; I had to take action. So I swept into the room, and before she could get comfy enough to not justify moving from the couch, I took the blanket right from her hand and told her that I wouldn't allow her to sleep on the cursed couch. I looked her down sternly and also let her know not to bother heading upstairs to Mom's room because she wouldn't ever allow someone else to sleep in her bed (though I don't know for sure).
 
This was a side that I was unfamiliar with myself, taking charge of the situation and though with some numbing, pretty much demanded Paris sleep with me in my bed. I tossed the colorful afghan onto the chair and just looked at Paris, lost in her thoughts and pretty much shaken by what I did.
 
I liked it though, being the one who was in control for once. Paris always had the upper hand, and through these last few months I had to get the permission, silent or said, to rub her back in class, help her out with the date with Jamie in Washington, and asking her to be my dance partner. Most everything was her reaction to my action.
 
Here though, she had absolutely no choice. I wasn't going to let her sleepy self out of this house, nor would I allow her to stay up so long she'd eventually nod off on the couch and fall asleep in a sitting position. It was my bed, my house, my rules. I wouldn't push if she said no to sleeping in my bed, but I conveyed with my emotions and face that I'd be gravely disappointed if she turned down another wonderful bonding opportunity.
 
With the way she looked in my mom's clothes though, I was praying she'd say yes to my invitation. She was lying there on that couch, her feet barely reaching the other side of the sofa because of her short stature, and I wished right then and there I could telegraph that picture in my mind to a printer. Paris just has this classical and timeless beauty about her, from her long legs and up to her beautiful and anger-worn face. When she's pissed I can't help but think that beneath those rolled eyes, gritted teeth and furrowed forehead, there's a soft girl in there, yearning to be loved but never finding the right one to share those feelings with. When I look at her, I don't just see that enraged girl with a superhuman interest in her academic studies; I see Paris, the hopeless romantic, going from Marie Curie trying to discover with her husband more of the properties of radioactive materials, to just another girl who has a heart waiting to be filled.
 
Two years later I still can't get out of my mind her look at Tristan as he tried to flirt his agenda into her; that nervous look and the loss of words as she sunk from 5'3" to 3'5" in the space of thirty seconds against her locker. Why Tristan would be more interested in me, or Summer is still a mystery to me. Paris revered him, and I still hear those sad words, where she called herself a loser and undeserving of my help the day after the date, comparing herself to a charity case.
 
She never has been that to me, not for one minute. Her life might be sad and her skills in high society unused, but she's just another girl competing to be #1, just like I am. Thing is, Paris should be more than that; she should be respected, revered, and given all the attention she deserves so much. She's far from perfect and even-keeled, but despite that, I love her for it.
 
That nervous little Jewish girl has found her way into my heart, and for that I had to show her just how much. It was time for the next phase of the plan after about a minute of pondering and a little bit of "Well, should I?" and "But the bed--", when she let me know, though with some hesitation that she'd take my invitation of sharing a bed.
 
YES! THANK YOU! I cried out in my mind, and with her eyes seeming to take the same direction as mine (in that she was staring at me in a rather unnerving way), she got up from the couch, and I felt another bout of yawning coming on. I stretched myself out, and she seemed to stop in her tracks, for even with shut eyes, I couldn't hear her move towards the bedroom. I could sense her eyes on me, moving up from my face and down to the middle of my body, where I felt cool air against my belly.
 
It wouldn't be wrong to say she was on edge, but she was nervous a little as I went around the bottom floor of the house and locked every window and door in sight, the better to reassure her that I could understand her nervous look towards the usually unlocked door before we moved towards the kitchen.
 
I was pretty much on pins and needles as she came into my room, feeling like I had to lighten the mood. Being a little dominant was putting her senses on red alert, and I had to help calm her way into slumber because her mind had to be filled with thoughts of failing tests left and right Monday due to the dance.
 
She was on an edge, seeming distracted by the unfamiliar atmosphere that was my room to her. She had been in there before, but not like this; in a mood for study or at six in the morning where her mind wasn't on the atmosphere and furnishings.
 
Paris wasn't comfortable; she was scared to come in, feeling like she was a needless distraction to what should be a time to recuperate with sleep rather than a socialization opportunity. She looked at me, then immediately darted her gaze to the floor below moments later.
 
The best way to warm her up was to compliment how she looked, which I loved. I stopped her in the door frame and told her she was looking lovely.
 
"I do?" she questioned. "I wouldn't normally sleep in this stuff."
 
"It's a nice change," I assured her, "you look wonderful Paris, honestly. The shirt is nice and loose, and the shorts fit you well."
 
"I guess I do." She seemed flustered, yet went on, her gaze shared by me and the carpeting as she eased herself from the threshold of my door and into the bedroom. "I don't look as nice as you though, that top looks like it fits like a glove."
 
Nothing to be taken sexually, was the instant analysis from my mind as I brushed off the compliment. After finding some more words, Paris continued on, and well, let's say that Dean had never been as complimentary about my clothing as Paris was a few hours ago.
 
"I mean it Gilmore, you're like a perfect fashion plate, anything you buy, it fits well, especially that top. I mean obviously I could never pull off that look since I have a surplus of...breastage." She smiled shyly, and it took all I had to hold off a laugh at the expense of a fellow NHS'er using that last word. "You can do shy and elusive so well; you don't have much in your financial coffers, yet you stretch your wardrobe so well. When you put together that outfit I dated Tristan in, your attention to detail was certainly amazing. I could never spend a million dollars and look as simply cute as you would in a tank and scrubs. How do you do it Rory, I mean..."
 
Yep, she was nervous alright. Her hands darted around her body and she seemed to try to throw attention towards me that was unneeded. Her eyes weren't looking into mine and her face seemed to flush a deep red. That's what I like about catching Paris suddenly with these compliments; her plainness and modesty make her use a defensive mechanism to try to bounce off the praise and throw it back the other way.

She continued on, listing a laundry list of my attributes, trying to think of any way to keep my attention away from her as a pesky guest and keep it on me. "I don't get how you manage to stay so slim and svelte either, because I eat light and filling, yet I still end up with a new pound at least a month. Then there's you, looking all slim and trim as you eat anything you want, and make me feel so cursed. Sure my chest is memorable, but what else is there really on me that some person could say would turn their head?"
 
Here she was commenting on my tummy, which though sounding academic and dry, was enough to send a chill up through me. She had looked at me in some way carnally through that hour, I could tell that with her nervous voicing on the subject. Again Paris was fretting and winding herself up nervously, and here I was, with my eyes on her legs.
 
They look so smooth, I was thinking to myself. How would they feel though? I was starting to be curious; not only did I need to settle Paris into bed; there was an urgent need to put my hand in the tiger cage, and see what would happen if I ventured physical touching above the usually friendly line I was maintaining. I had another reason beyond personal gratification to test things out; the track of her rant suggested that before long, suffrage, anorexia, and Calvin Klein underwear models and their heroin chic look of the mid 90s would end up being brought up, things would become ugly and I'd have to defend every size three and under woman in the world. I'm afraid to say that I wasn't exactly in the mood for that.
 
I had to calm her down, and touching her seemed to be the only thing in mind. So when she finally settled down enough, I blurted out that as a girl, I envied her legs.
 
At first this seemed to surprise her, and that avalanche of negative body image given to her by her mother again came to the forefront. Paris denied my compliment and tried to shrug it off immediately, trying to blunt it under more blame for what she thinks is a cursed body.
 
What I wanted to say was that she was voluptuous, but I went for a calming move, an attempt to reassure her and slowly ease my way in. I sat her down on the bed and made the point of using my eyes to convey what my words were also doing. Paris wasn't going to squirm out of this one, and I made sure to let her know that her legs were a very important feature on her.
 
I set my hand down on her knee; nothing freaky to be taken out of it instead of trying to make her understand. My palm rested against her cap and I intentionally stopped speaking in order to gauge what her reflexes might be if I started inching it up her thigh. Thing is a day of bottled up sexual tension does a lot to you and screws with your usual thought processes, and I was hardly thinking chastely. My look communicated it all to her, that I wanted more to tell her she had a great set of gams. I rubbed up and down the middle of her leg, trying to make it look friendly. I was all on edge, trying to keep myself in control, and it took me but a few moments but to recall that I was in the same boat just a few days ago in the front seat of her car on the way home. Talk about karma, for her touch which edged mere inches from where no one has dared was now being returned by me in kind.
 
My nails scraped against the thick skin as I shifted my hand up a little, trying to find any kind of sign of hair on her legs. Even with the best razor that Target offered, I've been still stuck with slight stubble on my legs (another reason for the hosiery at school before I ditched them), and thinking of how Paris' simple beauty somehow resulted in her having a smooth sheen. I commented on this, and she seemed not to have any words about the topic. Her eyes followed my hands, and her mouth was kind of tight, as if she did feel something from my touch. Not calling her on it, I moved my hand higher up her right thigh. My heart beat even faster, and I felt like I was really having some guts, feeling up my peer superior like this! Paris permitted this, and it puzzled me that she would let me be this daring.
 
I dug in my touch a little, basking in the newfound knowledge that she was smooth as silk, not a root to be found at all. My mind wasn't under control, and before I knew it I was telling Paris in no uncertain terms that I was shocked at her smoothness. Thankfully she was starting to have a sense of ease come to her, and with a little laugh at how I was acting, told me that it had been a freshman year perk she had gotten one day, and liked so much that she couldn't bear not to be bare. It was sort of natural for her to take up some kind of beauty treatment, I have to admit. Madeline and Louise, despite her many denials are influences on her style, and though she doesn't take to their hair and makeup regimens, she takes care of herself just as well otherwise. I enjoyed hearing her tell me about how a spa perk became as natural as brushing her teeth, and had to admire whomever helps her out with this job. Whoever does this for her, she must really trust since the waxer seemed to have gone pretty high.
 
That thought was where I almost lost my bearings. I was almost quiet as my imagination took the inopportune time to ponder that exact question of how high did she go. Freaked me out in the least; at the most, that thought was turning me on as I directed my vision so my eyes to Paris would look as if they were staring innocently at her legs, but around the periphery, the focus was on her lamp. I had this flash of her and I together in that bed, sliding my hand higher until I feel that lace fringe where my hands should be far away from. I bit down on the flesh in my mouth so I wouldn't let an erotic noise out, feeling myself tighten at the mere mention within of how she was...how do I put this within a vague term...patterned, trimmed, stripped?
 
Not that I've tried it myself mind you, well, too much. Once you hear about it though, you can't help but think how it might be, or how it might feel. Feeling up her legs then, it was only natural for my thought track to drift towards the dirty side, and I admit I've had dreams where I thought of how au naturel she was, as I dreamed of kissing down from her neck, down to her belly, until I find my eyes where a sliver of silk usually would be, which in this image, isn't there. I've never focused on what was below her abdomen in real life since her wardrobe is built to minimize sexual interest from anyone, but the dreams, and now the reality that she's damned smooth, would it really surprise me to see nothing but a thin blonde line down if we ever got to the point of sexual intimacy, much less finding our feelings reciprocated?
 
For a moment, I was having second thoughts of choosing the flannel and shorts for her; with an oversized t-shirt I'd have had a good excuse to trail higher and attribute my wayward fingers to an accident if they ended up high enough towards the inner portion of that thigh. I scratched a little deeper, hearing her sort of inhale sharply, but not so much she was reeling back. I kept my gaze locked, that vixenish imagination of mine running away with all these thoughts of taking the simple touch from a bookworm's inquiry, to a lover's wanting for more. I couldn't help it; looking at Paris out of her element, it was something that was causing the feelings for her I had kept inside to start leeching out slowly. The flushed heat I felt in my cheeks was giving me a clue that I needed to reel back from the edge a bit.
 
You're blushing, I reminded myself, better stop before she notices. Leave it to me to take what should be a soothing kind of motion and misdirect it into something dirty like that. How can I think of her like that all the time and feel absolutely little guilt because I think about how good her legs feel, but want to bring that hand up higher than where I had it.
 
Because she's beautiful, is what I simply thought in response. Nothing less than that, Paris is the perfect girl for me. She might be a little unbalanced, and yes, very kooky at times, but that just adds to the package of what makes her that one girl I have my eye on. Her arms, her legs, her eyes, hell her everything. I want to know her in and out, but to do that I have to be slow and cautious, and at that moment, just imagining her the way I did, it kept me riled up, yet the slow burn of the seduction kept me grounded.
 
I wish in my mind that I could've done a little more flirting with her at ease with me, however, that wasn't to be with the clock reading 6:40am, and her body ready to start resting her up against her will. No doubt about it that both of us were tired and sore, and the healing powers of sleep were needed far more than any kind of sexual gratification my worn mind was begging for.
 
I told her this and let go of her leg, causing her to freeze up for a bit so I could set the alarm to a proper must-wake-up time. She seemed to pause and act desperate for my touch again after I asked when she had to be back home.
 
After a bit of a pause, Paris let me know she had a lot of time to get home, and that her mother, per usual was putting her own needs far from that of Paris'. It saddens me that she might have to call some jet-setting card counter her future stepfather because Sharon regards her in the same way as one of Emily's maids. For God's sake, she's Paris' mother! I can never understand how a woman like her could win custody of her when she hasn't made any kind of contribution to her daughter's life in the time I've known her. It hurts me to hear Paris talk of her this way, yet she's not at fault. She's done almost every damned thing she can possibly do to win her mother's love, and it's never going to happen. It's Sharon's fault that Paris has to yearn for attention, and then become defensive about a close friendship, lest it ruin a delicate college connection no one but her cares about.
 
For now however I'm only thinking of things as they are; her mother is her own person and I have to respect what she thinks about me, whatever that might be. I can't do much about the future, this I know; I can only guide my present.
 
I see that it hurts her to talk about her mother, so I distract her into a conversation about Mr. Mercurio and his predictable tendencies. Nothing's a surprise with him and we both rant on about how his class would never change. If it wasn't for our lucky seating assignments Paris and I might have long ago told our counselors to fuck the English seal on our diplomas and study-halled the remainder of the semester. We crawled into bed together, her taking the left towards an exterior wall, and I using my eminent domain to sleep on the right near my heating vent.
 
Not that she needs to be close to the register; I'll be keeping her warm! There went my inner vixen again, running around and causing general chaos to my brain before I fell asleep. I made sure to keep my body as close to the edge of the mattress as possible so we didn't end up bumping into each other a lot in sleep. Though I was going to try to keep this chaste, the occasional Paris hand brush or soft puff of breath against the nape of my neck would be far from an annoying side effect. Just the fact she was in the same bed, safe and warm, ready to fall asleep was of enough comfort to me, even if I never said a word of the feelings I had for her.
 
After turning off the lamp for her, I asked her if she needed anything else, and told me she was fine as I took one last look at her before sleep overtook me in the dimmed light of the bedroom, with the sunrise barely peeking over the skies of Connecticut.
 
If nothing else, all that we had gone through over the last five days proved that there was a very strong friendship under that banter and arguing that we shared, and have won an endurance contest with nothing but our hearts and a heap of prayers and luck. I'm lucky to have you Par, I let her know, unsaid as her sleepy brown eyes penetrated my gaze one last time as she settled her side of the covers against her, and the pillow she was using against her head. You're the most I need, and you're my drive to be the best. If it wasn't for you and your pushiness these last two years I'd still be stuck in that high school I loathed going to before Chilton, and far off Harvard's radar. I wouldn't be able to make my mother and grandparents proud of me for winning the impossible contest without you in my arms. Forget about me letting you go anytime soon Par; this time I'm going to be the buggy little pest eager to pick something with you, the tables are turned. Thing is I'm not looking for a fight; it's your love that I want. Hopefully I get to say something today about it, but if I don't, you will know eventually. The only thing I can really do now is pray that you feel the same with me.
 
After that, it took but a couple minutes for me to fall into REM, and into some of the most restful sleep I've ever experienced. It felt slow and meandering, like my worn synapses had been plugged into the outlet and were recharging, I could really feel it in my dreams. They were of Paris, and the two of them were far from nightmares. One of them a fairy-tale like dream of her being my Princess Charming, dislodging the poisoned apple from my throat with her kiss as somehow I tied our past Shakespeare project with the storyline of Snow White. Funny, I always pictured myself as more of a Goldilocks honestly, especially if the bears happened to leave behind a cache of caffeine. Which then leads to Mama and Papa Bear being Mom and Luke, Baby Bear as Kirk, and my feeling like someone snuck some LSD into my Sleepytime Tea. Just don't ask, my dreamworld is odd enough as it is having to think of Kirk whining about someone sitting in his chair while he wears bear ears, much less him as my biological brother!
 
The second dream was a little more rooted in reality than the first; another one of those future moments images where we're sitting in a Harvard library and comparing notes, as both of us know we'd rather be doing something else back in our dorm room. My hands are on the book, but my eyes were elsewhere, staring at Paris from across the table and how a complicated essay on Prussia was vexing her. It was just...quiet and contemplative, at least at first. Towards the end, she noticed my staring and called me on it, as I failed to explain away the fact that her low-cut shirt was exposing a surplus of skin along her clavicle. Then after asking me why I'd want a study night when my mind was clearly on something else, she told me to gather my things and that we were on our way to the dorm for a romantic movie night. In the sense there was a romantic movie on our TV screen yes; however, we weren't watching it at all.
 
I guess this is what happens when you tire of being taken to Wonderland or the English countryside of Pride and Prejudiced as you grow up; the dreams become a lot more real, and so much more expressive of how you feel about your life. It felt nice to dream of something besides books or hopelessness with Dean, and to have the girl next to me who I have them about made those mirages so much more thoughtful and vivid.
 
I finally settled into a deep sleep after awhile, dreamless and quiet. The small space and Paris' body heat helped lull me off, and I couldn't help but feel much more comfortable than I usually was. Her soothing breathing near my ear, that occasional mumbling in her sleep about assignments, her hands against my stomach, her left leg below mine...
 
There was a sudden jolt as I felt something against my waist, and then something heavy against my back, and suddenly, I was sort of awake, but not much awake since I was only in the fourth hour of rest. I looked at my alarm clock, reading 11:04am, and thought for a moment that I'd overslept again. I was in my regular Sunday state of mind, and thought that it was funny Mom hadn't woken me to get to the Inn by 11:30 for my usual Sunday job; helping out in the dining room, checking some room book math and licking and stamping envelopes in lieu of Michel's day off. It didn't give me much money, but it was enough for me to eat healthy in the ala carte line for every lunch at the very least, plus I didn't have to pay taxes on it.
 
I opened my eyes to my surroundings, the drawn shades and darkened room around my bed, with Colonel Clucker standing sentry at my bedroom door. It felt sort of odd to me. Shouldn't I be more spread out and sleeping on my right side? I thought to myself, wondering why I was sleeping in a way I wasn't used to. My mind traveled back to that feeling against my waist and against my back, which felt so unfamiliar to me.

Still a little sleep-woozy, I brought my hand down from above the covers, and then beneath it, curious as to the feeling. I brought it beneath, running it down my side and against my breast, until I reached where the weight was.
 
That's when all of those pictures from Saturday came back to mind, and all that Paris and I had done. My fingertips touched that flannel, and everything came back to me.
 
My breathing suddenly picked up pace, and my eyes shut as I found out that without the limits of friendliness and angry tension surrounding us, Paris was acting adventurous. I could feel her lips against the back of my neck. Just a little bit, she was far from kissing me since I heard her breathing as if she was asleep; and she probably was too. I couldn't hear a noise from her at all as her arm rested against my belly as if she was trying to cuddle up.
 
I was in shock about how close she was to me in that bed, even though I shouldn't have been surprised because of how small my bed is with two sleepers. What I was in was the most awkward of positions you could ever get into with another person.
 
Paris, I thought, is spooning against me. She's right against my body, what on earth do I do? I was spinning because of how, despite the fact I wasn't looking towards her, compromising it must've looked. I woke up once with Dean next to me on the mats of Miss Patty's, but he was far from looking like we had just had a passionate dalliance. This was a lot different though.
 
It was just supposed to be close sleeping, and I didn't think anything more than the occasional touch would happen while we slept in the same bed. But I was in a spoon; one I couldn't get budge out of in any way, much less move. Her warm body was surrounding me on three sides, with her arm wrapped lightly across me. I could hear her breaths in my ear, and feel her exhalations against its outer shell.
 
I could also take in her scent, the mix of her orchid fragrance, the lilting aroma of her shampoo, which somehow seemed to be a seasonal scent, a mix of butterscotch and vanilla. Her body near mine was reassuring, and though the position she was in was compromising, I was too stuck, mentally and physically, to dare wake her up and ask her to move. What Paris didn't know in her sleep, wouldn't hurt her, was my reasoning. I was still feeling pretty tired and felt a few hours of sleep yet I could handle, and Paris spooning into me was helping me do it. Her bared legs were right against mine, warm and smooth, just as I had thought hours before. The flannel she wore was comfy against my skin, and her soft sleep was like a rhythm, soothing me with her soft sounds and occasional deep-throated stirring.
 
There wasn't any way to turn around without waking her, nor did I want to ruin this mental picture for myself. If she awoke this way and discovered her proximity to me, it would be for her to decode; she'd take offense if she realized I was the one waking her. Paris was like a heated blanket, a special treat to be enjoyed only on the coldest of days, a special feeling you want over and over again.
 
I wanted that. So, keeping as still as I could, I pushed up one of my shirt straps before it fell, looked over at my stuffed rooster, and counting in my head to myself by hundreds, decided there wasn't any reason to wake up at 11:15am. There was plenty of time for my plan of coercion to take root, and to feel Paris' blonde tresses against my back shoulder, it was enough, along with the tight and comfy sleeping arrangement to fall back into the land of Nod by 11:30am, just in time for my dreams of her to begin anew.

It was quarter after one when I awoke again, the sun bright in my window and in my gaze, so bright as to turn the darkness I usually see in my closed eyes into a dark red, forcing me awake despite my wish to use every minute I could possibly spend in bed until I could not sleep a minute more. My biology is a stubborn jackass however; never had I woken up at a time after two in the afternoon on a Sunday since by now I'd be heavily buried in either school or inn work, same as I had been every week since I was in third grade. Try as I might I couldn't force myself to sleep again, and with Paris tossing towards the other side and sliding out of her spoon I think an hour before, I only had a tenuous connection to her soothing sleep energy, not falling into the deep slumber I'd rather share, much less a nap. Reluctantly, at 1:20pm I started working myself out of the bed slowly, waking up reluctantly.
 
I didn't dare disturb Paris, not only out of fear about how she'd get up, but how this was probably the best sleep she had on a weekend for years. I know Paris, she's probably sacrificed many a lazy Saturday or Sunday for charity, extracurricular activities, synagological commitments, study meetings, and probably just days having to put up with her mother as she's dragged off to Talbot's or another dud of a clothing store against her will to receive more of that 'non-datable' attire that made her look homely and dull. She didn't have to be up or anywhere for the day, and she deserved the rest for all the hours and hard work she put in to prepare for the dance marathon.
 
My eyes took in her sleeping form, eyes closed, her head resting against two pillows, with her long mane of hair spread all over the fluffy item. The flannel shirt's sleeves were pushed up a bit from the cuffs, with her shorts riding up those legs I had lusted for hours before. In sleep, Paris looks so unaffected, natural, and plain beautiful. This state was where she could be herself, dream her own dreams, and never have to worry that her slumber would receive a failing grade. She smiles in her sleep, and I hear her mumble something I can't make out with the pillow in the way of her mouth; not that it was important to understand, since it was said in sleep and not with a lucid, conscious mind.
 
Just seeing her that way, resting, her brain in its proverbial charger, it makes her look lovely. Her smirk kills me each time I see it, and it's always a positive sign to see one place where her worries are washed away and she dreams of nothing but the best-case scenario. When I'd watch her sleep in Washington, her sleeping face was always a barometer of how the day would go. The deep frown meant she was worried about the itinerary; that would mean delays, cancellations, and being stood up by our House rep at his Capitol office. A smile always meant we were both going to have a great day filled with discovery, inspiration, and ideas to make the whole trip an experience not to forget and give us an extra credit head start on our progress reports.
 
The world would be well this afternoon; her smile was soft and caring, and I would be able to share it all with her. With one more look just to make sure her sleep was deep, I slipped out of the scrub pajama pants I wore to bed, and exchanged those with a tight pair of jeans especially bought for an occasion like this. Lane calls those blue pants 'The Jeans of Woo', while my mother goes with the more obvious and probably edited 'Do Me Jeans'. I had usually worn them around Dean when I wanted to clue him in at an event such as the town hayride or Valentine's Day, where I intended to warm up his libido by begging him with my words that kissing wasn't going to be the extent that I wanted to love him, that I wanted him to feel me up.
 
Sad thing for him is that he never did it; the most we ever did on February 14th was that he offered me an 85% discounted dented Cupid cake at the end of the Taylor's market business day, along with one of those grating audio greeting cards that played a love song with the equivalent of a $3 mini-keyboard circa 1990. He also gave me three roses, but yes, again on the discount, again the runts of the floral bunch, with bright spots on the petals. The romance of last year and the three month anniversary had disappeared, to be replaced with what seemed the Yankee Redneck equivalent of a romantic night out.
 
And no, I do not use that term as a compliment; joining the school hockey team isn't advancing your social status by any means if you're doing it for fun, and not a college scholarship to Colgate at the very least.
 
The more I think about it, the more I dread thinking of our past more and more. I was whipped by his charms, and with his handsomeness, thus my selling of all my J.R.R. Tolkien novels at Black, White, and Red All Over because his constant viewing of the first Lord of the Rings DVD as a 'date flick' became so grating as to turn me off from not only an entire trilogy of literature, but an entire genre at that. I'm only now realizing why both Tristan and Jess both loathed him; he was never enough to measure up to the pride my town had in me. Both of those boys challenged me somewhat, while Dean was safe and dependable, qualities that might be fine for the cocoonish existence I led in Stars Hollow, up until I went to Chilton.
 
Paris has an extended view of the world that I find myself drawing closer to each time I see her. I look at her as I pick up some of my texts and notebooks from my desks to have a quiet Sunday study session by myself, and think that with all that's been in our way, including the rivalry we shared, I'm lucky to know her for who she is, and not what she has to be. I give her a last smile as I slowly tiptoe my way out of my bedroom and past the loud creak in the threshold that's woken me whenever Mom steps on it accidentally when she checked in on me before she went to bed when I was younger. My hands loaded with books and mind with memories, I left Paris to sleep until she can't, and shut the door quietly, and head into the living room to wring all that dance stuff out of my head, and replace that information in my short-term memory with dull Russian novel facts that would definitely have no use in my life in the future.
 
I settled down on the couch and got to work, opening up the laptop and refreshing my mind with notes from a few subjects I thought I was getting rusty on. I tried my best to keep my mind on all things academic, burying my head in the textbook and even going as far as torturing myself through a particularly boring War and Peace chapter to take my mind off things, and Paris. Stop it, I tried to goad in my head, you're acting like someone else entirely, this is isn't you. You're supposed to be cramming to get into Harvard, you have to keep your mind off that girl! She's your competition, the one you have to beat, and to do that you must study your heart out, right now! So I went back to the texts and the notes, trying to get that extra edge on the girl sleeping in my room.
 
Trouble was, Paris might be my competition, but she was also the one plaguing my thoughts, I couldn't just up and drop her, or remain unaffected about the day that was passing. I was still spinning and head over heels infatuated with her, more at that point than I ever had before. She was forbidden to me, and we were never supposed to ever get to this point. Paris Gellar was supposed to be my life-long enemy and pain in the ass! What the hell happened to bring me to that point?
 
Five minutes later and a look in the back of the RN notebook gave me a reminder of why in the space of just five days, I went from thinking of Paris as a girl that I'd never have, to a woman that I needed to know if she was the way I was or not. Those four pages, scribbled in Dixon Ticonderoga #2 graphite gave me a glimpse into my psyche from October 3rd and on from there. A thin grey column on the left of many reasons to go with my gut, and then on the right, almost nothing. Six reasons that were excuses, ways that the old Rory wrote down in order to justify to herself that her idea of a lover wasn't blonde and brown-eyed, and didn't have a certain part. Only one made sense, the rejection I would feel for years if she said no, or worse; called me those same names Francie had used as an all-encompassing label for members of RTS, and then left in a huff of finality.
 
There was no doubt that I was gay; I knew that in my mind, and in my heart, that my best friendships may be with guys, but one girl, I long for her to give me more than a hand on the shoulder and reassuring words. Being married to a man I didn't love was where I didn't want to end up. At the same time, I didn't want to get involved with a woman that I didn't share a spark with either.
 
My scribbled handwriting, the notations along the margins, the paper skinned to within a very thin macro-inch with each erasure after a badly written pro or taken care of con, it was like a love letter in Excel spreadsheet form. Reason upon reason to kiss Paris and hope for more than that, at the end of column A sat the final solution, a declaration that would tell whoever read this that my goal was for Paris to realize that I saw more in what we had than just fiery banter; that within those fighting words was something more, a yearning to know her as more than a study buddy.
 
I wrote down a few more pros to complete the last page of the list in the back of the notebook, easily finding enough things about yesterday to finish off the list. After I finished adjusting a few of the past pros to fit more with my current opinions, I took one last look at the entire list, determined to make sure that without a doubt, I wanted this to happen; to tell Paris today that I find her attractive as more than a friend. The true purpose of a pro-con list is to tell you if you're making the right decision.
 
I didn't even need to get past the first page; just a mere flash of one of my Russian Novels massages, and a replay of that almost-kiss last night moments after she admitted she had fallen out of love with Tristan, is all that it took to help me make that final decision.
 
"She's going to know today," I told myself with so much confidence that I could match her stone-cold determination at every debate and quiz bowl we had participated in through the years. "I'm not going to let Paris leave this house until I tell her that I'm gay, and I feel a hard attraction to her. If it works out, great. But if it doesn't..." I looked down at myself, and thought of how she had been looking at me lately. There was still a chance this pull was one-sided on my part. Then again, she hasn't eyed up one guy at all since Tristan took off for North Carolina, unless those eyes were giving dirty looks to the ever-felonious Duncan and Bowman, who were both still attending Chilton due to large endowments by their individual fathers as 'apology gifts'.
 
Finally there was the matter that her sleep talking "Oh Rory, baby!" cry from that summer night in Washington still echoed through my brain 24/7. At the very least, she's had a sexual dream about me at minimum. That left figuring out if my body was her wonderland in slumber.
 
Uggh, John Mayer, out of my head, now! Why does Mom have to play that CD in the Jeep all the time?
 
Those doubts I had would have to remain, for now I had to build my case to show I wanted her, not just trying to clue her in. After finishing up refreshing on my notes, I stacked all my textbooks in one pile on top of my computer, and then spread the notebooks throughout the coffee table. She wouldn't look at the texts; Paris usually goes right for the notes. I put the notes she was going for first right in front, then her more dreaded subjects along the back, making sure that the Russian Novels book, and in turn my confessions, had a wide berth towards the right back corner. So she wouldn't miss that last hint, I slid the clip of a pen cap I had broken off between the first page in the back and the spiral, an unnoticeable bookmark that with her tired and groggy condition, she wouldn't think of seeing among the morass of metal wire and loose-leaf. I was smart enough to figure her frustration with the class, along with the lack of notes I made in the first place would probably keep her perturbed. When she gets frustrated she throws things sometimes, and a notebook wouldn't be an exception. So if she didn't look at the entire notebook the first time and find out that way, when she threw the book back down, it would open to the pro and con list.
 
The next step was to try to make her feel even more at home and comfortable here, and like a true guest. I thought back to a few weeks ago in my bed, when she had explained what she usually did when she awoke on a Sunday morning.
 
"I usually have Fran call out to this little sub place on Main that delivers," she explained to me. "I order the turkey; it's healthy enough and the way this place makes it, a very good sandwich, especially with those Sun Chips they sell along with it. The butler usually brings in the papers and I try to read them cover to cover, the Times and the Courant and if I'm in a good mood, add on the Boston Globe and the Herald for the 'cah-menahs' view, and the Providence Journal if it's one of those weeks when news breaks seemingly hourly. After I finish lunch, I get to work and study until my eyes blur."
 
"Heart through her stomach and reading habits," I told myself, counting through the remaining $20 of mad money Mom left me for the trip and comparing the prices on Joe's menu to make sure I had enough. My food and hers would come to $10 with a coupon from out of the Gazette that took $5 off a $15 order, and the papers were $6 together. Add $4 for the delivery driver's tip, I just had enough for everything.
 
"Anything will help right now," I said as I found the phone (how did it end up near the TV cabinet? I swear I hooked it on the charger before I left yesterday!) and dialed the #4 in memory, Joe's. Since it was mid third quarter for the Pats game, Joe was appreciative that someone would order something besides a Grande pizza or nine-foot Red October sandwich for a game party. I gave him my usual order of a medium works pizza and some cheese bread, then Paris' sub and chips choice, finishing out the order with a bottle of Coke and a cup of wintergreen tea (he uses the same supplier as Luke's so he gets the same kind of teas and other beverages).
 
"That's going to be $10.57 Rory, anything else?"
 
"Joe, could you do me a favor and have Brian stop at the newsstand and pick up the New York Times and the Courant please? I promise I'll pay him back and more when he gets here."
 
"Sure, anything for one of my favorite customers," he said to me. "Do you know when your ma is getting back, the guys here miss her orders and they're getting a little worried."
 
"Lorelai's getting back from Nashville tonight," I let him know. "I'll make sure to let her know you miss her buddy." We chatted a little bit more, and then he let me know it would be thirty minutes before they'd deliver.
 
I hung up with Joe shortly after that, and I spent the thirty minutes waiting for the food quietly doing the few dishes I used since Wednesday and remaking Mom's bed with the comforter and blankets I used to practice my dancing above in the living room. My mind was still completely on Paris, and I was wondering when she'd finally wake up and come out of my bedroom, along with what would be on her mind. Would she even realize that she spooned into me while she slept, and call me on all these signals I was sending her way? I was hoping for the best-case scenario; that she wouldn't wake up and I could sneak up to Mom's room and get the surprise ready, hopeful she'd stumble onto my pro and con list and find her curiosity piqued from it.
 
Half an hour later, Brian the delivery driver knocked on the door, indeed holding my pizza, Paris' sandwich and side of chips, and those two large Sunday papers in his hands. I gave him the twenty Mom left, along with a five that I planned to use for marathon refreshments but never had a chance to since Luke offered free coffee and Andrew free cold bottles of water. That, and Paris paid for most of the food for me, sort of chivalrous in retrospect but really not that much of a big deal.
 
After I ate a little bit of pizza and bread as I checked in on the football game's score and highlights, then put the leftovers in the fridge, it took me five minutes to set Paris up a place at the kitchen table. I piled the newspapers to her right on the edge, and then set out a plate with the sub unwrapped, chips opened up on the plate, in the bag, and the tea to her right. I wanted to make Paris at home and cozy as possible before things started going down, and remaining neutral seemed to be a good course of action.
 
I know in the end I'll score points with her though; showing I know her Sunday habit, even late, is an important step in letting her know I will pay attention, no matter how dreary and routine the item might be. That's what got me into trouble with Dean; I thought he was into books and music like I was at the beginning of the relationship, but it only took one viewing of Battlebots and the location of an extensive FHM collection in his bedroom when he wasn't looking that nosiree, that boy wasn't having a naughty dream of Clara Barton personally dressing his wounds.
 
But that was young and stupid Rory who was with Dean, for I'm now older and wiser, stewing in my mind over the last few months about how to approach the moment I let Paris know how I think of her. I took one last look at the kitchen table, and then out into the living room, where that blue spiral held the secret no one ever thought I, Lorelai Leigh Gilmore would ever have. The butterflies took effect in my stomach, and as I walked past the couch and onto the stairs, I knew the next time I hit that lower landing, Paris would never look at me the same way again.
 
I had finished dropping my hints; now every gesture and hint that was floating around the first floor of my house was ready to spring upon Paris to let her know that someone out there did love her. Please God, I prayed to myself silently, make this work. I'm not sure if you'd ever accept us, but if you make me feel these things for Paris, how can this be wrong? Those small doubts were setting in, and as I slipped into Mom's bedroom, shut the door, slid onto her bed and fell asleep for a short nap before I could make everything clear for her, I could only hope that Paris wouldn't turn her feelings around on me after finding out I was orientated towards her.
 
I did know one thing before I closed my eyes and let light sleep overtake me. It might not be the best decision, but it would in the end, be better to tell Paris everything, than keep my feelings for her hushed until death. That was the coward's way out, to not hurt or arouse a feeling in their subject. Our friendship was formed on conflict, and to not challenge one another was to say 'I don't care for you anymore, for I can spar better with someone else'.
 
There's never going to be another Paris Gellar though. This meant that for today, whether I liked it or not, it was up to me to prove without reasonable doubt that I felt we were meant to be more than friends.
 
"Zero hour," I made it clear to myself as I fell asleep atop my mom's bed. I was going to either lose the best friend I had made in more in a decade, or else find myself with one of the most loyal and hard-driven girls in all of the Tri-State as my new lover.

That friends line was going to be crossed and blurred out, even if it took tears and raw and untamed emotions to erase it forever from our collective memories.

I awoke again about 3:40pm, the hour long nap helping pass otherwise idle time that would have found me struggling to find something to do if I didn't decide to catch a few more Z's. I stretched my body out on the bed, feeling quite hot and wound up from these uncertain feelings and my nervousness at hoping Paris' finding out was more utter shock than disgusted revulsion. A part of me thought that Paris found the list, did not share those feelings, and was preparing to make my life hell again. I heard her voice in my mind, talking about me. "What a bookish dyke Gilmore is," she says in her voice, in my mind, to Louise. "Seriously Grant, are you surprised with the way she talked about Plath and Parker that she wished they were alive today? No wonder she never took to DuGrey, she wanted to munch on that oven-cooked mistress of prose!" Even in my worst nightmares, Paris' sarcasm is always sharp and on-target, which makes me fear what vile she has stored up if she wouldn't take well to the news.
 
Maybe she still doesn't know, my mind nagged. Impossible, because Paris would eventually wake, eat, and soak in my notes even harder than SpongeBob at a fraternity kegger with a beer-filled swimming pool. Routine was her companion and eventually nag her up, the less time she has for it, the worse she feels about it.

I grabbed a bottle of cherry Tums sitting on my mother's vanity and shook two out, dissolving them in my mouth to kill the patch of acid that was settling in my throat. I wasn't even downstairs and my heart felt like it was beating at sextet speed, my entire blood supply flowing through my entire system in less than a minute. I pushed my tank top down a little, feeling cold and a little more exposed than usual from the peek of my belly below the hemline.
 
You don't have to do this, my conscience reminded me one more time. There's still time to take back your preference for girls over boys and meet all of your expectations for life. Paris will always be there, as a friend, and nothing has to change.
 
I looked down at my hands, shaky as I shut the bedroom door and prepared for anything she has to say. I could take back everything, no questions asked. Paris still had no clear picture of what I felt with her, so there would be no risk in not telling her.
 
One more thought in my head before I went downstairs though, and it was about exactly that, no risk. It was also about expectations. The expected; the dictionary definition meaning the planned in advance, what would happen in probability. I was expected to be Chilton's valedictorian, the girl with a perfect 4.000 grade point average, with a few extra credit tenths thrown in for good measure. I expected to attend Harvard, the school I lust for like I do Paris. I expected to be the big-time journalist, the next Amanpour. That someday when I hit 50 and tired of traveling, I expected to be anchoring the evening news, like Walter Cronkite and Dan Rather before me, every weekday evening at 6:30pm from that building on West 57th. I was expected to bring glamour to Stars Hollow, make everyone I ever knew proud to associate to me, expected to work hard and never follow a second opinion my heart tried to use to overrule how I really felt.
 
I had many expectations of me. My whole life seemed to already be planned out for me, the Day-Timers up to October of 2084 lurking somewhere in a closet somewhere and already filled out with events, probably up to my death.
 
And that was the problem; I've expected myself into a corner where happiness is an extra-curricular activity. I fell for Dean when I was sixteen, right on schedule for a Hollywood movie. Found myself in a nutty love triangle a year later, again, Amy Heckerling couldn't have written a better time for that to happen. My life was planned, scheduled out and already in front of me, and already I was exceeding all my goals, but I was also dreading expectations.
 
Where would expectations ever get me? Where I wanted, of course, but if I kept following them to the letter, probably to a life with no excitement, or a thrill of what's coming up next. I don't want the expected, I just want to live my life the way I like.
 
Paris is a risk. A huge risk to my being, my façade, the way people look at my life. They've always seen the happy daughter and friend to all and the community, I'm living a fucking Norman Rockwell painting! No one could ever imagine that I, the brunette and blue-eyed wonder of their village, would ever think this way, of liking a girl like I do.
 
You know what though? I couldn't care less what anyone thought of what I was about to do. So I'm gay, big deal! It doesn't change my grades, or anyone's perception of me before I started having these feelings. Paris, no matter how many times in the past two years I wanted to think otherwise, is one of the most important people in my life.
 
"And I've fallen for her," I mouthed silently as to myself, with a smile on my face. I didn't let myself become bogged down in negative thoughts as I slowly made my way down the stairs, my fingers crossed and my heart swooning, hoping that the end result of the day wouldn't be an outright rejection, and not only that, a disassociation away from me because of how I felt for her.
 
I took in the surroundings of the living room, seeing that she wasn't there. The textbooks remained in place, but the notebooks had been moved somewhat. I headed towards the table and tried to find if she had taken the Russian Novels notes, or read them.
 
I pointed my finger and counted to myself how many notebooks were left behind. One, two, three, four, five, six...should be seven, let's count again. Seven, six, five, four, three, two...
 
No seven or one, and no Paris in the room. My eyes widened, trying to find the blue book, but it wasn't there on the table, it was gone. I started to get a little excited and hopeful that things were going according to my plans.
 
Just in case though, I checked the front door and out the window to make sure Paris was still in Stars Hollow, not running away from what was in that notebook. The door was still locked, and her car was still sitting on the gravel drive in front of the house. Since she hadn't called out my name when I came downstairs from the kitchen, that left one place in the house where she and the notebook could possibly be.
 
She had to be in my bedroom, no question. I steeled myself to any inquisition she might have about my feelings, and headed towards the kitchen, calling out her name to see if she was still up. I walked into the room, and at her place at the table, the plate was full of crumbs, the bags thrown out and the papers looking like they had been read. At least she wolfed her food down, I thought to myself, after eggless egg sandwiches anything seems like a four-course Thanksgiving dinner.
 
I heard silence from my bedroom, so again I called out her name. A little bit of non-response, but before I thought she left through the back door, she came out of my bedroom, looking just as adorable as she did before we went to bed. Her hair was a bit messy and eyes a little dimmed, but she was up and alert.
 
Although, she seemed to look as if she was a little bit in shock.
 
"Uhh, hello Gilmore." She looked down at the floor and at her feet, and I noticed the blue RN notebook being held loosely in her right hand by the spiral. She wasn't pale-faced shocked, but just in shock. If she found out anything, she wasn't saying anything about it because her face seemed unreadable. A cool tension was in the air, but it wasn't a tight tension, more easygoing and dull.
 
Her voice wavered as she handed me back the notebook and tried to spark up a conversation after I greeted her in return. "I suppose you'd want this back, these being your notes and all."
 
"Did you get what you wanted out of them?"
 
Paris seemed silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer. I used my finger to run down the spine where the pen cap had been stuck in to mark the pro/con list place. She gave me this funny smile, one I had never noticed before. "They helped."
 
She had to have read, I thought, since she was giving me this solid stare that was seemed like a rake of my form. She kind of seemed to flush, telling me she liked my notes, but not saying much besides that. I tried to read her emotions like a book, which wasn't helping; she was a clean slate, even face, even eyes, and an even non-signaling smile.
 
"I don't mind helping you out Par," I said, trying to keep her from monosyllabic speaking, "after all, important to keep us 1-2 gradewise, right?"
 
Paris nodded back, all the while knuckling a fist together nervously and using her fingernails to scrape dead skin from her palm. "You know it. Thanks a lot for lunch, I don't know how you remembered my routine so well."
 
"You're a guest, I'm here to serve." I smiled at her, trying to keep her at ease, but nothing seemed to work, Paris was speaking cautiously and slowly, not trying to arouse any suspicion. "As for the food, I was once the town Chutes and Ladders champion, I'd kick everyone's butt. Don't need that knowledge anymore, so I replaced it with your Sunday lunch choice." Yeah, my humor was tip-top today. I then told her about what I did when I got up and then called for the food, then after eating headed upstairs for another nap.
 
"I was starving and ready to raid the cupboards once I woke up, good perception Ror." She yawned and grabbed the half-full bag of chips off the table, munching on them as we sat down across from each other, and after prodding a bit to get her out of a three-words-a-sentence slump, engaged her in what turned out to be a fine conversation about the dance.
 
"My back still hurts from all that standing, I can't feel my feet, and I swear I don't remember the lyrics to any song unless it was from before 1949," she let me know. "I mean I woke up with a constant loop of Company B pounding in my head. That won't be good if I keep waking up with it pounding my head tomorrow morning." I thought she was doing a little bitching about the dance, but a signal, where she held up her hand before I could speak, gave me some relief. "Still, I haven't had that much fun since Spelling Bee week down in DC in '98, in competition that is."
 
"In competition?" I was confused a little by what seemed like a clarification, but she smiled back at me.
 
"Tell me you didn't forget the Bangles at the Pastorelli," Her memory was still clear about that night even a little less than two years later. "Remember, I really liked that band, Madeline and Louise caught at that beer bash, your drill sergeant mom embarrassing them in front of those not-so-hot guys? I still mean it when I say that was the most fun I ever had in one night, before last night of course."
 
"I'm shocked you still remember that, didn't we drag you there kicking and screaming?" I joked, laughing at the remembrance of Paris as we all tried to talk her into it.
 
She rolled her eyes up a little, munching on a chip and talking with her mouth somewhat full. "You're just lucky we still scored an A on that project. But I'm glad you did invite me to come, I'd love to do that again one of these days."
 
"Yeah, once we both can stand for more than three minutes without feeling like our shins are spears digging into our feet. I can't even keep myself up for two minutes before I feel fatigued from the pain. Thank God you're driving home and not walking." We both laughed as she recalled some more of the day before.
 
"I swear, that clock had to be so slow, like at about two when Lane came by to talk to us, I already thought it was 5:30, and then I looked at the readout, and just cringed because it was only two." She shook her head. "I didn't want to say anything and embarrass you, but it felt like hours upon hours since that gym lets in no daylight at all."
 
"It's just a whole other world when you dance," I said wistfully. "Time is infinite, you're one of a few participating and you're always fighting for your marathoning life out there."
 
"Or with Kirk and Carrie," she reminded.
 
"Think she's filing a lawsuit against the poor guy? Carrie thought she had a slam dunk, and crap, she got beat by two girls you're more likely to see at quiz bowl than Red Carpet Bowl." I asked her a question with honesty. "If they had pulled off that move Par, you think we would've taken the contest with more time?"
 
She seriously pondered the question for a moment, and while she did, her eyes seemed to wander down a bit. The table was high enough to go just above my belly, and the tank I wore was pretty obvious. Her foot brushed up against my ankle, bringing me out of my thoughts for just a moment as those bare toes hovered against the lower portion of my leg. I felt myself flush a little, but didn't feel very aroused from it because of the in-depth examination of the marathon.
 
"Honestly?" She brought her eyes up. "I think by 5:55 one of us would've found their energy supply at the F-line and fainted, either you or I. We really got a lucky break from Kirk's slip, because my feet were hurting, you were taking longer to keep up with me, and you saw me when the trophy was presented, I was right at the cusp of sleeping."
 
"You're not regretting staying now?" I nagged, deciding again to get some sweet revenge, and stretch my right foot against her shin. I saw an obvious dirty look directed my way, but I played coy and innocent as I took the offending extremity back.
 
"No Aunt Rory, I'm glad you forced me to stay behind," she said with a voice laced with sarcasm. "I got a victory and a nice brush up for my brain when we get back on Monday. Just one thing."
 
"What's that?"
 
"You feed me a fake egg salad sandwich again and I'll throttle ya into the next week, got it?" She laughed, and I again brushed me toes against her shin, this time she didn't notice.
 
"I'll remind Mrs. Kim that to not use to fruit of the earth and replacing it with a ConAgra chemically-created product could be a possible original sin." We just kept talking for awhile, her seemingly in a wonderful mood from her long sleep, and I was still on top of the world from so many highs, not to mention the blatant looks I was directing her way. Paris really did look quite fetching in that shirt, and with the slumber fog long gone from six in the morning, I could take her in through the natural daylight, what little there was left, of how she looked. Her tanned skin contrasted with the blue plaid, with two buttons down undone, leaving my mouth watering with all those possibilities of seeing much more of her.
 
Even not having the view of those legs I coveted so because of the table, the whole outfit was enchanting. It was something that wasn't her, but yet, it was my own private fantasy to get her into these bedclothes; she made herself look cute, and dare I say it, a little butch-ish? Not that I would outright ever call her the 'b' word; she was still girly (she might deny it but she still likes those Care Bears I'm sure) and loathed sports and drinking unless it was a fine wine or well mixed bar drink. Her music tastes wavers between classical and modern, and she watches very little television unless it's something like Cosmos or Jazz or anything that was a limited PBS series/Ken Burns production once.
 
I don't feel like giving both of us a 'man/woman in the relationship' label so fast anyways since we're two smart girls, it doesn't matter. In the first place, my mental bed picture of her through the girls locker room and my staring is of her wearing fine lingerie, I doubt I'd ever find her in a JogBra and boring briefs. From talking to Mads and Louise in the past, their descriptions had always been of Par being girly herself. Plus the crush on Tristan? She was definitely trying to use every damned feminine wile she could to convince him 'Hey, hello? Yoo-hoo, I have big boobs, long hair and sexy legs too if you'd look under this potato sack of a blazer, just what you're looking for DuGrey, not to mention an IQ and WPM rate through the roof! I'm a woman too, what do I have to do, go Britney here?!' It still makes me mad at the guy; I was really trying to help her come out of her shell with the setup, and he didn't bite. In hindsight though, it helped things a lot; I got to know the real Paris while he fruitlessly tried to get into more than my good graces, and now he's scrubbing the concrete floor of a dorm in Tarheel country with a worn-out Oral-B.
 
I felt good, and Paris did too as we kept talking on and on for the next half-hour at the kitchen table. The notebook holding my secret was in-between the both of us like Jim Lehrer, keeping our conversation even and not as emotional as it had been lately. I continued to play innocent tease with her all throughout as she went on about peppermint tea (I tell you, Luke hooks more people on certain drinks than any multi-national cola company could ever do), and would look at me as her eyes appraised my breasts, sitting braless and sort of peeking against the white cotton. I'd fake a non-chalant look, yet on the inside I was really wishing she could make me come telepathically from her hovering stare; it was taking all I had to not notice, not slip a hand beneath the waist of my jeans, and not to blatantly dip down, stretch across the table and give her doey browns a downshot of that small cleavage I had, along with some nipple teasing. Tempted yes, but it was about the tease, not having her throw the chair off to the side, tip the table over, rush across and envelope me in a torrid kiss of passion and heavy lust, as she immediately goes for the ass...
 
What, you think my dreamworld is all fluffy Paris moments and sensual lovemaking here? I read the occasional bodice-busting erotic romance and have sort of a thing for 'take me now'-style sex. The occasional rough play keeps things heated up, I'm sure of it.
 
Back to where I was though. We talked for a little bit more at the table, and I really could feel things start to tighten up between us. We were both uneasy, wanting to bring up more, but both afraid. The distance, though not overwhelming, made me feel faraway and distant, unable to gauge or bring up the notebook. We both would look at it; I could tell she did see something within. The tension was palpable, and I wanted to tell her just how I felt.
 
Thing is, it was Paris' decision, not mine. It would be too easy, and then too jarring to bring up the confession myself, she had to say something about it.
 
We had to both be comfortable; the kitchen wasn't the place to do it at all. After she finished her last Sun Chip, we packed up and moved to the living room to talk more. I couldn't help but notice though that she had brought the notebook along with her. Again I didn't say anything, and after a bit of settling in, me on the couch and her sitting in the chair, we were right back in our talking groove.

Right away, she was looking at me with that mooning stare, making me nervous in my laying position. I was looking towards her in a position where she could easily seduce me.
 
Leave it to her to give me a nice jar though, back into the reality of what my life was before the sprinklers, the massage, and all that's happened this week.
 
"You know, Winter Formal's coming up next month. Biggest event of the semester, it's going to be interesting getting everything all ready to go," she mused.
 
"Is it already a month? Time sure is flying by this year," I told her. "One minute I'm sharing a dorm with you in Washington, the next it's November and the first snow is approaching."
 
"I was just curious Rory," she asked with a smirk, "anyone in mind for a date December 7th yet?"
 
That certainly brought me out of the girl-crush funk I was in. I told her I wasn't even thinking of anyone besides her, much less a guy seeing as I was five days removed from ending what I had with Dean. She kept pressing, and I let her know in no uncertain terms was any Chiltonian male getting the time of day from me. What I didn't add to that sentence; Not that I'm looking for a man of course, or anyone else except for you.
 
Still, Paris pushed on, mentioning Brad. Not my perfect ideal for a boyfriend, heh, which I let her know, while at the same time giving her the hint that Madeline has a hidden thing for the meek boy.
 
I got another hint of her interest in me when she said she didn't notice Madeline and Brad having a thing going on. The only time they associated closely was at lunch hour, and Paris, the perceptive girl she is, would have definitely noticed. Trouble was, she had a big case of amnesia when it came to that, not even knowing about those two. Looks like the lunch hour hinting is working well, I thought to myself, declaring victory on that front. I was distracting enough to take her out of the lunch gossip circle, that counts for something, doesn't it?
 
Next, she mentioned Dave, who I had been talking to her about for the last two weeks whenever I mentioned Lane. She thought I might have good chemistry with him just from my description of how he was and that I seemed to match better with him than Dean or Jess. It was an easy call to make, since I didn't see Dave anytime except for when the band practiced in the garage, plus I wasn't about to interfere with his wooing of Lane. He's doing very well with that, and once again, I'm not interested.
 
Damn it Paris, tell me something already!! She was driving me nuts with all this talk of boys and dates and dances; maybe it might go well if I just busted the conversation wide open and yelled out that I had homosexual tendencies towards her! It was infuriating to have to hear her talk about guys because really, I've only ever noticed two boys as more than friends. One is history, one is just a boy-friend. I didn't care about guys, I cared about her.
 
"You're sure?" she asked again, as if my long answer the first time didn't bring the point across. I nodded my head no again, taking time to eye up the dark and exposed skin along the line of the opened collar of the flannel shirt to try to send more signals her way.
 
Damn, she looked so good. If only she wasn't trying to push my buttons then, the way she sat in that chair brought out the animal in me. More denials though of what I felt for guys, and trying to keep my confession silent so that awkwardness wouldn't ensue. I kept my thoughts even and non-sexual, trying to keep the conversation warm.
 
This wasn't me anymore, Rory the girl who thought of guys. I wanted to tell her how I felt about her, that no boy made my mind spin like she could, that her challenging demeanor, which would be taken as intimidation by others, instead was a turn-on and another reason to be more than her friend. I just sat there, wondering if the clock would strike seven and I'd still be there as she gathers her things and leaves, still holding in that eight word sentence I'd rehearsed since Wednesday afternoon. 'I'm a lesbian Paris, and I like you.' Blunt, and to the point.
 
But it was still the wrong place and the wrong time to say that. I knew it, so I had to hold out and wait to bring those words to the forefront.
 
Thankfully the opportunity came sooner than later.
 
After joking about Dave's wooing of Lane via religion to satisfy Mrs. Kim, she turned serious, and brought up that topic I thought ended last night. Tristan was back in the picture, but this time as an example of what happens when you fall out of love. I nodded as I told her I remembered that part of the night.
 
She then brought up Jamie, the date in Washington that turned out to be a dud. She asked me if I remembered that. Of course I did, I was in the closet thinking of you as you came back to the dorm and relieved the stress of going out with that bore, in turn turned on from that and relieving my own stress.
 
Paris interrupted my real answer to that question, telling me she was about to explain why it didn't work out with Jamie. My ears piqued up, and my eyes were focused on her 100%.
 
"Please, move over, I want to be next to you." Her voice was firm and unwavering. I couldn't turn down the opportunity to comfort a friend because she was also sounding grave and serious at the same time. I got out of my reclining position, and gave her a bit of blanket as she huddled close to me on the sofa.
 
"There's sort of a reason those things didn't end up working out in the end," she said, and that brought my mind to so many situations far away from her admitting her liking of me. It could be anything, bad or good. Disease names, excuses, academic fraud, they all spun around in my head as she seemed to pause for a bit.
 
Then the dreaded 'P' word came up in my mind, the word that brought me into the world, my mother into Stars Hollow, and a 16 year strain between her, Emily and Richard. She had never been specific about saying if she slept with Jamie before she got back; that self session might not have been about me after all.
 
Paris, pregnant? My mind spun with the possibility she might be confiding in me about that. It would make sense, she's Hartford society and tops in her class, just like Lorelai was at Hillside in 1984. It was also almost three months since the trip, perfect timing for her to detect a change in her body and eating habits and then use an EPT stick to confirm if everything's been shifting because of that. I don't know her cycle, nor do I care to, but with her privacy, she'd probably kept a good front hiding the fact she wasn't having her period.
 
She let me know to keep things in complete confidence, not a good sign with her. She seemed scared and timid, and my mind was now losing hope that she shared an interest in me. Her eyes seemed sad, and that brought the pregnant/gay/diseased reasoning ratio I built in my head to even 33% figures. She can't have a baby with that boring guy! I cried out in my mind. Worse, Sharon's gonna fucking kill her before she can even have it, and all that talk about disappointment this and that! Grandma would accept one day, but Sharon? She wouldn't even give Paris a defense before she ruined her own daughter's life forever.
 
Her stare was dead serious. "What's wrong hon?" I told her, shaky with my voice. I never called her hon before, and it seemed to be something reassuring at the moment.
 
She told me that only Fran knew; this was definitely something that was about to be earth-shattering. She thought it might be a repulsive enough confide that I might reel back and ask her to leave.
 
I prayed silently that it wasn't a baby, because the girl in front of me had a very bright future ahead of her that could be ruined by a lame one-night stand. I did immediately put anything aside that I'd think bad of her for it. She's my friend despite, I'd support her if anything awful ever befell her, and it would be Judas-like to turn my back on a young mother when I was the product of one myself.
 
She tried to get it out, but words seem to fail Paris. I wasn't going to let her get out of this without telling me, and I made a move that could either be taken as flirty or concerned. Hovering over her in an almost-hug, trying to calm her down and help her form the words, I was her friend. She was scared, I knew that, because her body felt tight against mine. I wanted her to just say the words.
 
Again, she relented, trying to shy out. I had to get serious with her.
 
"Paris," I took her hand in mine; my sexual feelings were the last thing on my mind. "I won't tell anyone, cross my heart, now say something to me. What's wrong?"
 
"I, I can't, it's nothing," she mumbled shakily. I told her again it was OK, just spit it out.
 
"Really, it's nothing." Paris was now on the cusp of some serious breaking down. "Just something small, I can take care of it myself, just don't worry about it."
 
I had to, it was my job as her best friend. Knowing damned well that I could be opening up a huge can of worms, angst, and friendship strain, I went with my gut. I told her I didn't care, and about how I thought she was three months into pregnancy.
 
She stilled beneath me, and widened her eyes so much I saw more white than dark brown showing in her sockets. Her mouth opened in shock, and before I knew it...
 
...my theory was thank God, dead wrong.
 
"WHAT?!" She was seriously incensed by my accusation, and almost made me deaf in the process. "Rory, fuck no, I'm not pregnant, and Jamie doesn't have my virginity, I'm still safety-sealed, the most he got at the end of the night was a blown kiss, that's it! Why the hell would I bed that bore of a guy, I dated him your encouragement and because he thought it was a date when I didn't want to date him! I wouldn't have fucked him even if he offered me a million dollars in a suitcase and I can say with 100% certainty he's not making a love connection with me ever again!"
 
I breathed a huge sigh of relief! Now it was 50/50 she was either gay or had a form of cancer. "Sorry, sorry," I quickly begged for her forgiveness. "You said it was serious and I just think the first thing that comes to mind and it seemed like baby, three months, perfect timing--"
 
"Rory, calm down," she soothed sternly. "I'm on the pill, and I'm of the 'love before the first time' mindset, I'm not going to pop into bed with the first warm hard cock pointed my way, I promise you. I'm sexless, but I'm safe, you can relax. I understand it may have come off like I was about to say I'm knocked up, and I'm sorry about that."
 
"It's OK," I told her, and then thanked God aloud that Paris wasn't carrying a love child. I again asked what she was hiding, calming her down with a soothing rub of her hand, thinking with the baby rumor out of the way, she might just tell me without complications.
 
She shut her eyes, and breathed in deep, trying to find those reserves to tell. She was still too scared, too hidden, going back into the iron bitchiness that kept me out before.
 
"Never mind," she said. "Please, just back off, you really wouldn't understand. Once you hear what I have to say you're going to stop being benevolent and finally hate me just like I wish you did the first time we met. I just can't, it's too close to my heart and nothing you'd ever understand."
 
Just as I thought, she was falling back into her shell, the one her mother custom made in order to keep her from feeling or confiding in anyone. It made me not only sad, but pissed at Paris, despite what I felt for her. She sees me as sheltered from real life, was what I was thinking. I was basically being told that the way I thought of things was unlike her way of thinking. She was bitter poor little rich girl, and I was happy small town girl with nothing ever bad befalling my being. She looked at Lorelai and I, and saw nothing but happiness, that my life is sunshine.
 
I hated to make a scene, hated to give her a reality check on my past and why exactly I ever lightened her doorstep with my presence (reverse of darkness). But I had to shake some sense into her and let her know that whatever problem she faced here, it was probably very light compared to what I had gone through in my short time living.
 
I had never gone off on someone like I had before; I usually was a happy person, content with everything and brushing off anything bad. But things got to me over the years, things I was too afraid to vent out with Lane or even my mom. Certainly not Grandma or Grandpa. I don't know what led up to it, if it was the stress of holding in my coming out, that we were in the house with Lorelai nowhere to be found, that I found enough trust with Paris to just go off on her and tell her that yes, I understood her one small wrenching confession perfectly.
 
Try finding your first house to be an 8x8 cube on the campus of the town's inn as your mother prays her meager salary will keep you alive and that you don't catch the measles or head lice from that one dirty kid in class and kill the monthly budget for the next three months. Think about yourself trying to explain to your good friend Sandra, who you befriended in ballet class that you didn't live in a house, but a building downtown above the bookstore in cramped quarters, and that your room used to be a food pantry. Then imagine the month you lose eight of the friends, which include Sandra you've kept since kindergarten and except for loyal Lane, because some uppity Republican bitch of a sex ed teacher tells you that your 27 year-old mother, whom the town admires as a role model for all the citizens, was a fucking whore for not doing the right thing and aborting you or putting you on the adoption market when she was sweet sixteen, and that you're not to be admired for having a great brain that you sweep seventh grade with all A's. You end up with a table alone at lunch after that point, a CD walkman your only companion. "Just ignore them," the principal tells you, as you have to hear the tasteless jokes about how you should be knocked up even earlier by an 8th grader, 'just to keep that family consistent'. You can't ignore it, because it's your past, something you have to live with for the rest of your life, and the school won't stop it because they're too nice or stupid to do anything about this sick teasing!
 
Then bring yourself into the bitter and competitive high school environment, where those same misinformed hicks get right back to work through your freshman year. They come up with worse names, and you find yourself still getting all A+ grades, but after your mother goes upstairs to bed, looking at that Chilton application, crying your eyes out and hoping the Headmaster accepts you, and soon. You already know you'll hit the same teasing once you get into Chilton, but at least they have zero tolerance for that behavior. You wish, and wish, and wish, and then when you finally get in, your mother doesn't have enough to pay for the tuition, so she has to rebuild her relationship, a strained one, with your grandparents to get that money.
 
That was me, telling Paris my life wasn't all rosy and perfect. She thinks 'you'll never catch up, you'll never beat me' or 'I'll make this school a living hell for you' made me quake? I've heard so much worse than that, and even on the first day with her, she was still nicer than any other girl I met in the last five years. I basically was letting seven years of anger, piss and vitriol out at her, hoping she wouldn't find me less attractive with my confession.
 
"I don't have paternal grandparents Paris; they regard me as nothing but a 'humiliation'." I air-quoted that slur with bitterness. "A hu-mill-i-a-tion! Yes, imagine that, I'm an embarrassment to every fucking Hayden in Hartford except my own father, they don't care about me. You think I love that? It makes me just makes me want to...you know, God, I can't say it, but you know it's not pretty. Some groups in Chilton still hate me, no matter what, and the girls are no exception, they think I steal their thunder when I'm just being quiet and studying, and keeping the passed notes to myself so that their notice they'll be blowing some guy in the closet during free period won't ever see the light of day."
 
Paris stayed silent, listening to me, not commenting; I would've slugged myself by now for my candidness. But I saw it in her face; she understood that in the end I'm frustrated myself with life sometimes. I have things go wrong, and thou