Fic: La Vie en Rose, RoryTristan (GG)
Dec. 13th, 2003 02:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubykatewritingTITLE: La Vie en Rose
AUTHOR: rubykate
PAIRING: RoryTristan
RATING: R
SUMMARY: It is in this half-life, between dusk and dawn, where all can be given up to dreams, that he allows himself to remember. AU future fic.
DISCLAIMER: All characters are the creations of others. I am only borrowing them. No harm intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following is directly inspired by Hito’s Roman Holiday, a brilliant piece I’m reluctant to categorize as fanfic.
DEDICATIONS: The honors go to Green Eve, who provided a truly amazing beta and helped me find the voice I was looking for. This fic would not be what you read today if not for her. Also, to both Betsy and kimlockt, for telling me this was great, even in its infancy.
-
The sky is a tumultuous mix. Blue to the west, glaring brightly down. To the east, a storm is moving in from the Atlantic, thick and heavy, pushing inland with aching slowness. Streaks of lightning crawl along the underside of the soot-colored clouds, spreading like silver cracks. Everything is illuminated briefly in quick flashes, then darkness returns, followed immediately by terrible, rumbling thunder. A weatherman advises the immediate viewing area to stay indoors; flash flood warnings scroll by at the bottom of the TV screens located in nearly every corner of the café. He feels a vague sense of worry, remnants leftover from childhood fears of thunderstorms, but doesn’t let it go beyond that; he has enough worries at the moment.
Strangely enough, it is the first day she seems happy, as if she only finds peace on the stormy days. But he knows she has always loved thunderstorms. She would press against him, whispering away his fears, until all he could think about was she and how she smelled up close. How he wanted to crawl inside her and live there in the warmth of her body. It seems so long ago. Now, he watches from a distance as a slight smile turns up the corners of her mouth, her eyes unfocused, with that glow of inward contemplation. Is she thinking about him, remembering the same memories?
Taking a sip of his tea, he grimaces at its bitterness (third day in a row, he should give up) and leans against the table. It is one of those tall tables favored by coffee shops, stopping a little above his waist. The hard edge digs into his left elbow, causing it to throb even worse than the incoming storm, and he stretches his arm forward along the faux wood finish, straightening it out as much as he can. Any kind of weather change wreaks havoc on his body, his myriad old wounds pulsing with the rise or fall in barometric pressure.
The lights brighten inside the café and fracture along the length of her hair as she turns to stare out the window. Thunder growls, making the pane shudder; her mirror-perfect reflection shimmers beautifully. But she is too busy studying the sky to notice.
He has watched her for a week now, but he can’t bring himself to go to her. Truthfully, he wouldn’t know where to start, what to say. (Where does one begin after nine years?) But it is more than that; the uncertainty stops him. Years in the service have taught him to predict the outcome of every situation, to plan each maneuver, know all possible variables involved and plan four steps ahead in the event the shit literally hit the fan. And this is the problem. This, whatever this may be, is a gaping unknown before him. It’s not as if the military ever took her into account when they taught strategy.
People are starting to leave, a flurry of coats and bags, trickling past him. He loses sight of her more than once. A sudden, irrational panic arches through him each time, afraid she will give him the slip. Drift out of his life and disappear, prove herself more dream than reality. Logically, he knows he could locate her in a matter of hours (he knows her routine and she never strays), but now that he’s found her again...
He nearly sags with relief when his eyes finally find the frail outline of her back. Then he feels the now-familiar wrench in his gut at the sight. It isn’t immediately noticeable (she wears her clothes much looser than she used to), but she is thinner, much thinner. The first day he followed her in, she signaled the waiter, fingers waving for his attention; her sleeve slid down, bunching in folds at her shoulder. He felt his breath rush out of him at the sight of that long, bony arm. Gone was the lush form from her youth that filled out her face and body. He misses her curves. He used to be able to trace them by memory, knew every right place.
She stands suddenly and gathers up her books, tucking them away in her bag. This is the first time she’s left this early, and he surmises it’s due to the weather. He waits a moment before he straightens away from the table and shrugs on his light jacket. Tossing a few bills on the table, he meanders towards the front, pausing by the bookcase where they’ve stacked books about coffee and useless trivia. (Who really reads this stuff? he wonders, rolling his eyes as he grabs one to flip through it. And all for only 15 bucks a pop.)
He keeps her in his peripheral vision, watching. Always watching. Paris used to tease him about it. “DuGrey, if I had a dime...” she would mutter. And he would reply, grinning, “I know. Rich, very rich.”
He’s a bit surprised by her abrupt departure. Usually, she wastes the better part of two hours every morning, sipping up to four cups of coffee as she reads a book or grades papers, or writes in a leather bound journal. She seems to find more in this tiny, out-of-the-way café than any other place. She appears listless when she is anywhere else, a downward slant to her mouth, as she goes through the motions of living.
He follows her outside, a full minute after the door closes behind her. She is oblivious to him as she hurries down the sidewalk, struggling to open her umbrella as she walks. It opens finally as the heavens let loose above and pours down their soggy offerings to the city below. Fat drops of rain splash against the shiny black fabric of the umbrella, roll down to the edges in long streams of water. It looks to be expensive, the handle heavy and ornate. Rory would never buy such extravagance herself. Most likely a gift from Emily. Even for an everyday item like an umbrella, only the best would do.
Her messenger-style bag bounces against her hip, its age evident in the worn green denim, the frayed strap that crosses her back. A second before it happens, he thinks, that bag is going to break one of these days. The strap severs silently and the bag falls to the pavement, spilling the contents all over the wet sidewalk. She lets out a curse and drops to her knees, careless of her faded jeans, scrambling to catch the multitude of pens as they roll away. Her books and notebooks, including a stack of graded papers, are getting soaked. He hesitates, then takes the last few steps and kneels beside her. “Here, let me help,” he offers and she stills instantly, fingers grazing the cover of her journal. The leather is soaked, both from the pavement and the rain, but she does not pick it up.
Her eyes, up close, suck the air from his lungs. They are painful and huge in her face. She is still so beautiful, but her features are drawn, the bones pushing up against the skin, and he can’t help himself. He has to touch her. She starts when his hand curves along the side of her head, but she does nothing, only stares at him.
“Rory,” he sighs and he leans into her, his forehead touching hers. He closes his eyes as rain slips over them, around them. They are soaked in a matter of minutes. Neither seems to notice.
“Tristan,” she says simply, her voice small and worn down.
-
He loved the way her pale face used to flush when they sneaked alcohol. They would sip it from crystal snifters downstairs in her grandparents’ sitting room, feet propped up on the coffee table, laughingly toasting their boldness. Her tongue would grow more illicit in proportion to how much she drank. The “hooch,” as she affectionately called it, was nearly as old as they were, and it would shudder down their throats.
She would grow wanton, a temptress as she beckoned him forth with the ease of a siren. Any pretense of detached nonchalance on his part was left in shreds at her feet, for he would come every time; meet his sailor’s doom with wide eyes and willing mouth. She would take his hand and lead him upstairs to her bedroom, this knowing smile on her face. He would follow, entranced, watching the way her blue plaid skirt flowed around her thighs, the swish of the fabric against her skin. She would laugh at him (she was always surprised by his reactions to her); teasingly pull him through the doorway by his tie. They would tumble onto the bed in a tangled heap and lay there, taking their time to undress, patches of blue scattered across the carpet.
Now she is a belligerent drunk, as malleable as a tree trunk. Her face is scrunched up in concentration, swatting at his hands uselessly. He frog-walks her through the small living room of his suite. They stumble as she trips over her own feet, and he loses track of where they are in the darkness, his senses overwhelmed by her. Any reverie he may have indulged in is lost as his knee connects with the coffee table.
“Sonofabitch,” he breathes, his fingers biting into her hips briefly before he lets her half-drop to the table. The pain is immediate. Stars sprinkle the air; his neck hurts, strained.
She is oblivious, her limbs heavy, head on his chest. She rests against him like a tired child, half-asleep. He almost tells her everything, nearly spills it all out on a wave of agony, safe in this dark moment. It is too much to be near her. The desperation grows, the words clawing at the back of his throat, yearning to break free of his mouth. Oh, how he loves her; this night has only proven it. All at once, he wants to just leave this place and take her with him.
He knows he can’t; as soon as he moves, this spell will be broken.
To end the suspense (he would rather it at his own hand than leave it to that fucker Fate again), he stretches as carefully as possible, spreading his legs, using her to balance, and flips the switch by his bedroom door, bathing the room – couch, treacherous coffee table, end tables – in muted light, which he guesses is to create atmosphere.
He straightens and finds her watching him with clear eyes. He holds out his hand to her and she stares at it. “I’ll help you to bed,” he offers.
She takes his hand and uses him to pull herself up. She wobbles a bit and grabs his arm to steady herself. “I’m okay,” she says unconvincingly. She sweeps the hair out of her face, messily tucking it behind her ear. “Hold it – hey!” Her words are slurred, confused.
”What?”
She shakes her head, her gaze trained somewhere near his collarbone. “Don’t think you’re sleeping here, buddy,” she warns him, poking him in the chest. He tries not the flinch, but she has, if anything, improved her poking skills. It was her very own truth serum. Once she started poking, it was only a matter of time before he was giving up secrets he’d kept since first grade.
“It’s my suite, Rory,” he reminds her again. “At the hotel?”
She is quiet, her face thoughtful. “Direct me towards the sofa sleeper. A nice place like this should have one of those.”
Ignoring her, he maneuvers her into his bedroom. He sits her up on the edge of the bed, holding her firmly by the shoulder. “You’re taking the bed. I’m taking the sofa.” He talks slowly, hoping the words sink in so she will stop fighting him.
“Okay.” She shrugs out of his grasp and falls back against the comforter. Sighing, she wiggles over onto her belly, legs thrown wide. Her jeans are baggy, falling low on her hips. He stares at the hollow of her lower back, remembering, his hand resting there when they danced or as he led her into a room. As if she senses the presence of old memories, filing into the room like ghosts, she rises up on one elbow and looks at him over her shoulder. “Stop it, Tristan.”
He clears his throat, eyes blinking rapidly. God, how fucked everything ended up. For a brief, blinding second, he can hear his first drill sergeant, Michelotto, barking at him in the back of his head, even feels the spittle strike his face, “Shit always rolls down hill, DuGrey!” He didn’t realize it then (he smiles mirthlessly: hindsight is 20/20), but they were there, at the bottom of that hill, and neither saw it coming until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t be,” she tells him, yawning as she lies back down. Her voice is muffled. “Just forget about me, Tristan. I’m not that girl anymore. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
It’s not long before she falls asleep. Gingerly, he lies down beside her, curving his body around hers, careful not to touch her. Her face is to him, one cheek flattened against the fluffy comforter, her mouth askew. She looks more relaxed, but still, there is a wariness about her features even as she slumbers, as if she can never fully give up the burdens of her waking life. There is so much going on behind those eyes of hers, and they begin to move behind her eyelids as it grows later.
He does not sleep.
It is in this half-life, between dusk and dawn, where all can be given up to dreams, that he allows himself to remember. Their quieter moments, the brief seconds and minutes and hours when they would let themselves be. The way her hair smelled as she would lay her head on his shoulder, as they stood at his locker between classes. When they would curl up in the chairs in Richard’s study and read. How soft the skin at the back of her wrists was. He would marvel at the fine bones of her wrists, holding one in the circle of his thumb and index finger, caressing the pulse point with the pad of his thumb.
There was not a single memory of his life without her, at least the good ones. It was Rory who filled in the gaps, who made him strive for something more substantial than inheritance. From the outside, he looked to have everything, nothing out of his reach, but if one chose to look closer, his life spiraled down to her, his sole claim in this world. She was the only one who mattered.
Eventually he gives in. He dreams they are in some other place, and she is laughing like she did when they were kids, deep in her belly. She calls to him as she disappears down a trail, and he runs to catch up. She turns as he comes close, pulls him into her warmth (it is like sunshine), and whispers into his ear.
He wakes with a start.
She is gone.
She always keeps her promise.
End
AUTHOR: rubykate
PAIRING: RoryTristan
RATING: R
SUMMARY: It is in this half-life, between dusk and dawn, where all can be given up to dreams, that he allows himself to remember. AU future fic.
DISCLAIMER: All characters are the creations of others. I am only borrowing them. No harm intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following is directly inspired by Hito’s Roman Holiday, a brilliant piece I’m reluctant to categorize as fanfic.
DEDICATIONS: The honors go to Green Eve, who provided a truly amazing beta and helped me find the voice I was looking for. This fic would not be what you read today if not for her. Also, to both Betsy and kimlockt, for telling me this was great, even in its infancy.
-
The sky is a tumultuous mix. Blue to the west, glaring brightly down. To the east, a storm is moving in from the Atlantic, thick and heavy, pushing inland with aching slowness. Streaks of lightning crawl along the underside of the soot-colored clouds, spreading like silver cracks. Everything is illuminated briefly in quick flashes, then darkness returns, followed immediately by terrible, rumbling thunder. A weatherman advises the immediate viewing area to stay indoors; flash flood warnings scroll by at the bottom of the TV screens located in nearly every corner of the café. He feels a vague sense of worry, remnants leftover from childhood fears of thunderstorms, but doesn’t let it go beyond that; he has enough worries at the moment.
Strangely enough, it is the first day she seems happy, as if she only finds peace on the stormy days. But he knows she has always loved thunderstorms. She would press against him, whispering away his fears, until all he could think about was she and how she smelled up close. How he wanted to crawl inside her and live there in the warmth of her body. It seems so long ago. Now, he watches from a distance as a slight smile turns up the corners of her mouth, her eyes unfocused, with that glow of inward contemplation. Is she thinking about him, remembering the same memories?
Taking a sip of his tea, he grimaces at its bitterness (third day in a row, he should give up) and leans against the table. It is one of those tall tables favored by coffee shops, stopping a little above his waist. The hard edge digs into his left elbow, causing it to throb even worse than the incoming storm, and he stretches his arm forward along the faux wood finish, straightening it out as much as he can. Any kind of weather change wreaks havoc on his body, his myriad old wounds pulsing with the rise or fall in barometric pressure.
The lights brighten inside the café and fracture along the length of her hair as she turns to stare out the window. Thunder growls, making the pane shudder; her mirror-perfect reflection shimmers beautifully. But she is too busy studying the sky to notice.
He has watched her for a week now, but he can’t bring himself to go to her. Truthfully, he wouldn’t know where to start, what to say. (Where does one begin after nine years?) But it is more than that; the uncertainty stops him. Years in the service have taught him to predict the outcome of every situation, to plan each maneuver, know all possible variables involved and plan four steps ahead in the event the shit literally hit the fan. And this is the problem. This, whatever this may be, is a gaping unknown before him. It’s not as if the military ever took her into account when they taught strategy.
People are starting to leave, a flurry of coats and bags, trickling past him. He loses sight of her more than once. A sudden, irrational panic arches through him each time, afraid she will give him the slip. Drift out of his life and disappear, prove herself more dream than reality. Logically, he knows he could locate her in a matter of hours (he knows her routine and she never strays), but now that he’s found her again...
He nearly sags with relief when his eyes finally find the frail outline of her back. Then he feels the now-familiar wrench in his gut at the sight. It isn’t immediately noticeable (she wears her clothes much looser than she used to), but she is thinner, much thinner. The first day he followed her in, she signaled the waiter, fingers waving for his attention; her sleeve slid down, bunching in folds at her shoulder. He felt his breath rush out of him at the sight of that long, bony arm. Gone was the lush form from her youth that filled out her face and body. He misses her curves. He used to be able to trace them by memory, knew every right place.
She stands suddenly and gathers up her books, tucking them away in her bag. This is the first time she’s left this early, and he surmises it’s due to the weather. He waits a moment before he straightens away from the table and shrugs on his light jacket. Tossing a few bills on the table, he meanders towards the front, pausing by the bookcase where they’ve stacked books about coffee and useless trivia. (Who really reads this stuff? he wonders, rolling his eyes as he grabs one to flip through it. And all for only 15 bucks a pop.)
He keeps her in his peripheral vision, watching. Always watching. Paris used to tease him about it. “DuGrey, if I had a dime...” she would mutter. And he would reply, grinning, “I know. Rich, very rich.”
He’s a bit surprised by her abrupt departure. Usually, she wastes the better part of two hours every morning, sipping up to four cups of coffee as she reads a book or grades papers, or writes in a leather bound journal. She seems to find more in this tiny, out-of-the-way café than any other place. She appears listless when she is anywhere else, a downward slant to her mouth, as she goes through the motions of living.
He follows her outside, a full minute after the door closes behind her. She is oblivious to him as she hurries down the sidewalk, struggling to open her umbrella as she walks. It opens finally as the heavens let loose above and pours down their soggy offerings to the city below. Fat drops of rain splash against the shiny black fabric of the umbrella, roll down to the edges in long streams of water. It looks to be expensive, the handle heavy and ornate. Rory would never buy such extravagance herself. Most likely a gift from Emily. Even for an everyday item like an umbrella, only the best would do.
Her messenger-style bag bounces against her hip, its age evident in the worn green denim, the frayed strap that crosses her back. A second before it happens, he thinks, that bag is going to break one of these days. The strap severs silently and the bag falls to the pavement, spilling the contents all over the wet sidewalk. She lets out a curse and drops to her knees, careless of her faded jeans, scrambling to catch the multitude of pens as they roll away. Her books and notebooks, including a stack of graded papers, are getting soaked. He hesitates, then takes the last few steps and kneels beside her. “Here, let me help,” he offers and she stills instantly, fingers grazing the cover of her journal. The leather is soaked, both from the pavement and the rain, but she does not pick it up.
Her eyes, up close, suck the air from his lungs. They are painful and huge in her face. She is still so beautiful, but her features are drawn, the bones pushing up against the skin, and he can’t help himself. He has to touch her. She starts when his hand curves along the side of her head, but she does nothing, only stares at him.
“Rory,” he sighs and he leans into her, his forehead touching hers. He closes his eyes as rain slips over them, around them. They are soaked in a matter of minutes. Neither seems to notice.
“Tristan,” she says simply, her voice small and worn down.
-
He loved the way her pale face used to flush when they sneaked alcohol. They would sip it from crystal snifters downstairs in her grandparents’ sitting room, feet propped up on the coffee table, laughingly toasting their boldness. Her tongue would grow more illicit in proportion to how much she drank. The “hooch,” as she affectionately called it, was nearly as old as they were, and it would shudder down their throats.
She would grow wanton, a temptress as she beckoned him forth with the ease of a siren. Any pretense of detached nonchalance on his part was left in shreds at her feet, for he would come every time; meet his sailor’s doom with wide eyes and willing mouth. She would take his hand and lead him upstairs to her bedroom, this knowing smile on her face. He would follow, entranced, watching the way her blue plaid skirt flowed around her thighs, the swish of the fabric against her skin. She would laugh at him (she was always surprised by his reactions to her); teasingly pull him through the doorway by his tie. They would tumble onto the bed in a tangled heap and lay there, taking their time to undress, patches of blue scattered across the carpet.
Now she is a belligerent drunk, as malleable as a tree trunk. Her face is scrunched up in concentration, swatting at his hands uselessly. He frog-walks her through the small living room of his suite. They stumble as she trips over her own feet, and he loses track of where they are in the darkness, his senses overwhelmed by her. Any reverie he may have indulged in is lost as his knee connects with the coffee table.
“Sonofabitch,” he breathes, his fingers biting into her hips briefly before he lets her half-drop to the table. The pain is immediate. Stars sprinkle the air; his neck hurts, strained.
She is oblivious, her limbs heavy, head on his chest. She rests against him like a tired child, half-asleep. He almost tells her everything, nearly spills it all out on a wave of agony, safe in this dark moment. It is too much to be near her. The desperation grows, the words clawing at the back of his throat, yearning to break free of his mouth. Oh, how he loves her; this night has only proven it. All at once, he wants to just leave this place and take her with him.
He knows he can’t; as soon as he moves, this spell will be broken.
To end the suspense (he would rather it at his own hand than leave it to that fucker Fate again), he stretches as carefully as possible, spreading his legs, using her to balance, and flips the switch by his bedroom door, bathing the room – couch, treacherous coffee table, end tables – in muted light, which he guesses is to create atmosphere.
He straightens and finds her watching him with clear eyes. He holds out his hand to her and she stares at it. “I’ll help you to bed,” he offers.
She takes his hand and uses him to pull herself up. She wobbles a bit and grabs his arm to steady herself. “I’m okay,” she says unconvincingly. She sweeps the hair out of her face, messily tucking it behind her ear. “Hold it – hey!” Her words are slurred, confused.
”What?”
She shakes her head, her gaze trained somewhere near his collarbone. “Don’t think you’re sleeping here, buddy,” she warns him, poking him in the chest. He tries not the flinch, but she has, if anything, improved her poking skills. It was her very own truth serum. Once she started poking, it was only a matter of time before he was giving up secrets he’d kept since first grade.
“It’s my suite, Rory,” he reminds her again. “At the hotel?”
She is quiet, her face thoughtful. “Direct me towards the sofa sleeper. A nice place like this should have one of those.”
Ignoring her, he maneuvers her into his bedroom. He sits her up on the edge of the bed, holding her firmly by the shoulder. “You’re taking the bed. I’m taking the sofa.” He talks slowly, hoping the words sink in so she will stop fighting him.
“Okay.” She shrugs out of his grasp and falls back against the comforter. Sighing, she wiggles over onto her belly, legs thrown wide. Her jeans are baggy, falling low on her hips. He stares at the hollow of her lower back, remembering, his hand resting there when they danced or as he led her into a room. As if she senses the presence of old memories, filing into the room like ghosts, she rises up on one elbow and looks at him over her shoulder. “Stop it, Tristan.”
He clears his throat, eyes blinking rapidly. God, how fucked everything ended up. For a brief, blinding second, he can hear his first drill sergeant, Michelotto, barking at him in the back of his head, even feels the spittle strike his face, “Shit always rolls down hill, DuGrey!” He didn’t realize it then (he smiles mirthlessly: hindsight is 20/20), but they were there, at the bottom of that hill, and neither saw it coming until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t be,” she tells him, yawning as she lies back down. Her voice is muffled. “Just forget about me, Tristan. I’m not that girl anymore. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
It’s not long before she falls asleep. Gingerly, he lies down beside her, curving his body around hers, careful not to touch her. Her face is to him, one cheek flattened against the fluffy comforter, her mouth askew. She looks more relaxed, but still, there is a wariness about her features even as she slumbers, as if she can never fully give up the burdens of her waking life. There is so much going on behind those eyes of hers, and they begin to move behind her eyelids as it grows later.
He does not sleep.
It is in this half-life, between dusk and dawn, where all can be given up to dreams, that he allows himself to remember. Their quieter moments, the brief seconds and minutes and hours when they would let themselves be. The way her hair smelled as she would lay her head on his shoulder, as they stood at his locker between classes. When they would curl up in the chairs in Richard’s study and read. How soft the skin at the back of her wrists was. He would marvel at the fine bones of her wrists, holding one in the circle of his thumb and index finger, caressing the pulse point with the pad of his thumb.
There was not a single memory of his life without her, at least the good ones. It was Rory who filled in the gaps, who made him strive for something more substantial than inheritance. From the outside, he looked to have everything, nothing out of his reach, but if one chose to look closer, his life spiraled down to her, his sole claim in this world. She was the only one who mattered.
Eventually he gives in. He dreams they are in some other place, and she is laughing like she did when they were kids, deep in her belly. She calls to him as she disappears down a trail, and he runs to catch up. She turns as he comes close, pulls him into her warmth (it is like sunshine), and whispers into his ear.
He wakes with a start.
She is gone.
She always keeps her promise.
