Author: Cara

Pairing: Trory.

Disclaimer: Sue. Me. Now.

Feedback:  Feed. Me. Now. (or perhaps read my schpiel first.)

A/N: While waiting for some divine inspiration and a pizza I ordered an hour and a half ago I gave birth to this. I should also say, that Season 2…and 3… and 4… they are dead to me… - What is this [insert any season after season 1] you speak of? (See?)

Summery: AU. Stuck perpetually in the Chilton-Verse… Rory's parents were married before she was born and are now involved in a lengthy divorce… And Rory finds solace in the most unlikely of people. TRORY

Where Pop Culture Fails

Chapter 1: I Tease, Because I Care.

All his life, up until her entrance, he was blissfully ignorant. He was it. He had the good breeding and the good graces to get him through any of life's unpleasantness. It wasn't the least unnerving to know that it was awe and not respect that he craved from people. Playing them just like they played him. It was just the way it was.

He wasn't ready for her. That's partly why she always had the last word. Or maybe he just liked to let her win. He threw her these inane innuendoes, because she threw him with her indifference. He'd walk past her in the halls and she'd look right through him. So he made her notice him, he cornered her, goaded her; tried every 3rd grade tactic in the book bar hair pulling and spitballs.

Once, he even kissed her.

It's amazing how things can change so quietly.

She slumped dejectedly against her locker and was just mustering up the energy to find her books when she felt his presence arrive beside her.

"Mary, don't hit me all at once with that Monday morning enthusiasm." He began playfully, resting against the adjacent locker.

She smiled gratefully at her distraction and turned, surprising herself how quickly she closed the gap.

"What about if I just hit you?" she mumbled into shirt collar.

"I don't know Mare, physical abuse is frown upon in most circles…" He gave a deep chuckle and leaned casually into the friendly hug, resting his chin on the top of her head, trying to be undetectable in the way he was getting off smelling her hair.

Seconds passed before the two stepped out of the embrace, realising that it probably didn't fall under 'platonic' - well not in any dictionary she could think of. But Rory was passed analysing what he saw in her and what she got out of him - passed defining him in her life, passed ignoring that niggling feeling that she felt all the way down to her toes each time they made the slightest physical contact.

Tristan examined her strangely, the way her head tilted to the side, as if she was on the verge of unravelling the mysteries of the universe.

"Did you finish Macalister's paper?" he asked, and his voice broke over the stillness.

"Did I finish?" she scoffed lightly. "I think a thousand words more and I'd have a PhD in Cuba-Missile-Crisis-ism…" she trailed off jokingly and begun to spin her locker combination. "Why?" she asked and looked curiously at him side-on.

"Well, I was hoping you'd help me then. I think I'm a few Batistiano exiles short of a Bay of Pigs conflict." 

She laughed beautifully and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants; an effort to purge the impulse to pull her back into him.

"You lay awake all last night thinking that one up didn't you?" she asked cheekily and he matched her smirk.

"I did lay awake last night. Tossing and turning. Thinking something up." He waggled his eyebrows up and down and watched her face with interest.

She rolled her eyes and gestured heavenward.

"I walked right in on that one didn't I?" She was having a hard time keeping the smile off her face.

He didn't even miss a beat.

"Ah, there's a fantasy I like to see fulfilled." He supplied and closed his eyes as if envisaging the picture she presented in his head.  She coloured at his antics, again rolling her eyes. It was a wonder she hadn't rendered herself cross-eyes during the course of their friendship.

She turned to face him, placing her hands firmly on her hips and looked up at him slowly. Tristan felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Tristan," she began and his name rolled off her lips like honey. "The last time we studied together, we ending up watching old episodes of MASH and you attempted to gouge my eye out with a pixie stick."

He laughed softly at the memory, deep and throaty. "Ah, good times," he sighed dramatically and instinctively moved closer.  

"But seriously Rory, I signed up for American History not a War and Peace novel - Krushchev, Gorbochev, Chicken Kiev… its all I can do not to turn the pixie stick on myself…" he implored and further punctuated his despondency by jutting out his bottom lip. She bit down on her bottom lip; determined not to smile; to give the game away.

He grinned and held her gaze.

It was disconcerting, really, the intensity that lay behind his teasings, compelling her to…

 "Fine. I'll help you," she grumbled, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Not that she wanted too.

A/N: Please review. Your comments are the only thing that will make this better. And apologies, I'm Australian, so my American-ism may be awry.

Also, I need a BETA reader. It you're interested, you can email me at [email protected] :D