Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

Rating: R (for language)

Characters: Rory, Tristan

Dedication: To Rox for being a sounding board and for Sur because she loves happy endings.

Author's Note: This was written for the Trory challenge at the LJ community so the likelihood of there being a sequel is slim. But then again, never say never.

Things to include:

a snowstorm
a fireplace
Rory borrowing Tristan's clothes
hot apple cider
a phone call from Emily

Things not to include:

OOC-ness or sappiness
Logan
the use of nicknames excessively and or exclusively
no Rory demanding coffee every two minutes

Storm

"Yes," Rory reassured Emily Gilmore again, resisting the urge to roll her eyes in a gesture that would surely be reminiscent of her mother. Rory 'handled' her grandmother with an expertise Lorelai lacked and it would take a snowstorm – like the one currently wreaking havoc outside the cabin, trapping her inside with nowhere to go – for a tone of irritation enter her voice while she spoke to her grandmother. "We're fine. There is plenty of firewood and necessities and I'm okay."

"Be careful. We'll have someone come fetch you as soon as this ridiculous weather lets up."

"Thank you, Grandma."

After Rory hung up, she sighed and closed her eyes, gathering her bearings before opening them again and scanning the room. Of course he offers me the room and the bed, she thought trying to be grateful. He is nothing if not well-raised. His smell enveloped her. She was wearing his clothes, too big for her but comfortable and clean.

It reminded her that he was there, mere feet away, hating her.

She needed to make amends, wasn't there a rule about never going to bed angry? That's for husbands and wives, she reminded herself with a bitter laugh. But bad blood between two people stuck in a tiny cabin during the mother of all snowstorms and with the nearest town miles away was not a good situation either and she just needed him to…stop looking at her like he wished she would just fucking disappear. He didn't have to say it for her to know that he was cursing her in his head.

When she stepped out from the bedroom at the back, he was leaning over the fireplace, unsettling the logs with a fire poker. He straightened, as if he knew she was there, put the poker away and turned slowly to face her. Later, in bed, she would think about how blue, vivid and rich blue, his eyes turned when he was angry and how the little twitch in the muscle of his jaw restrained the emotion churning within him from running rampant over his face. And how that feral look in his eyes, made her ache, deep and low in her belly for something so…she didn't think there was a word. But it was driving her insane, this thing between them that just wouldn't go away no matter how much she willed it, and she'd just have to look at him and it just fucking hurt to look at him.

"Grandma will send someone when the storm lets up." She was surprised by the strength in her voice, how solid and normal it sounded even as her heart battered against her ribcage. He kept his eyes on her, unblinking, and she nearly trembled. "I thought you'd want to know."

Finally, his lips curved, in a whisper of a jeering smile. "Thanks for informing me."

She reigned in her own anger and concentrated on making peace. "Tristan I -"

"There's some hot apple cider," he cut her off and hitched his head in the direction of the tiny kitchenette. "Help yourself."

She nodded, biting her lip from lashing out with, I don't want apple cider damn it, I want you to listen. If they both let anger run loose, it would just make the entire situation worse and Rory was just so tired of fighting him.

Tristan was tired, too. He had spent most of the day trudging through snow after his car had died down, the frostbite mean and vicious on his ears and hands and feet, getting lost on his way to the cabin he'd spent nearly every winter at and on top of that, worrying – fucking worrying - about Rory Gilmore's rapidly blue lips and chattering teeth as she trudged behind him. The girl definitely lacked common sense in that much appreciated brain of hers if she went out on a cold December day, knowing full well about the snowstorm, with no gloves, no hat and a jacket that could barely keep anyone warm.

He should have just left her, stranded and helpless. Rory was just too much damn trouble, plain and simple.

Hadn't he always known that? It was true, because she was just so goddamned perfect. Perfect people were always trouble because they were a lie. They were denial and half-truths and…eyes so big and so beautiful and the color of the summer sky, that looked at you so that you forgot your own fucking name and the fucking reason why you hated them so much. Reminded you of what you could never have.

Look but don't touch. Dream (night after goddamn night) but never hold. Want but never, ever hope.

Oh how pathetic, he thought to himself as he stared into the fire, pushed up the sleeve of his sweater in annoyance, watching the burning embers. Rory Gilmore has made me poetic.

"I got you some," she said softly and handed him a glass as she came to stand beside him.

He took it, nixed the idea of throwing it into the flames, and continued to stare. What was she doing, standing so close to him so he could smell the shampoo and soap from her shower, swimming in his clothes so that he would just have to close his eyes and imagine what was underneath? She had no right to look so soft and fresh and rosy while he was so exhausted and weary.

They stood in silence, mugs of apple cider in their hands, as the fire cackled and the storm raged on outside.

"Don't be mad, Tristan." She said it so softly, he barely heard her. But she turned to him and rested on hand on his naked forearm and in a much clearer voice, "Please."

Fuck, he thought and didn't have to look up to know she was staring at him, imploring him with those eyes. Those damn eyes. Don't fucking do that to me, Gilmore.

"Go to sleep, Rory."

She tried not to be hurt by his careless and at the same time, harsh dismissal of her. "No, we need to talk about what happened."

She was harping on the frayed rope of his control and it was only fair to warn her. His voice was low and threatening, even to his own ears. "You need to turn around and leave, Rory. Before I do something you'll regret in the morning."

The fear was there within her; he was emanating with anger, she knew it was right there below the surface and one word, one wrong word, and he would unleash it on her without hesitation. The violence, sharp and steely, would leave scars that no amount of time would heal. Not physical, no, he'd never do that, but her heart, she was sure of it, would never survive.

"I can't."

The frustrated growl alerted her and she took a step back as he turned to her, finally looked at her, the fury – beautiful, damn it, so beautiful- unfurled. "What do you want from me? Why the hell won't you just leave me alone?"

"I need to -" she faltered and avoided looking at him. "Talk. About what happened."

"You want to talk about it, Rory?" His voice sounded so ugly, vicious and harsh. Putting his mug on the coffee table, he turned to her again and spread his arms out. "Fine, we'll talk about it. Let's recap. You show up at my grandparents Christmas party, God only knows why, depressed and sad because, as usual, some jerk-off broke your fucking heart. You get wasted and I take care of you (by making sure your grandparents or parents don't see you), I listen, first amused, while you pour your heart out to me and then, and here's the real ringer, I feel sorry for you. I want to smash the miserable bastard's face in for making you cry."

"Tristan, I kno -"

"And then, I put you to bed after assuring your family that you're safe and unharmed and you ask me, in your best woe-is-me-damsel-in-fucking-distress voice to stay with you and glutton for punishment that I am I ignore every instinct that is telling me that it's a bad idea but I just get so...unhinged." He was raving now, that was the only word to describe it. "And…nothing happens. In fact, I stay up half the night watching you sleep."

Her eyes widened in surprised and he realized that he hadn't meant to let that slip. But it's out there and he just didn't care anymore. Her mouth opened and before she could even say the words, he knew he'd hate her more for it. "I'm sorry."

And like that, the anger came crashing down like a tidal wave. In its place was frustration, and exhaustion from the day, physical and mental, and he wanted her to leave, really just leave so that he could have some semblance of peace. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry for what, Rory? For making me into the bad guy? For lying to everyone about what really happened so that you could still be the perfect princess in the eyes of your precious family and friends? Or are you just sorry that I overheard?"

"Oh God, I can't be sure." She giggled, actually giggled as the lie came out. "I was so drunk; he probably tried to cop a feel or something, the jerk. God knows I'd never have gone to bed with him if I was in possession of all my mental faculties. He probably saw it as the perfect opening."

It still hurt. Damn it, he really thought he was over it.

Rory couldn't look at him. The shame and guilt swirled inside and clenched at her gut; she had been so cruel. How could she explain to him that she could barely recognize the person staring back at her in the mirror, anymore? How could she make him understand that she hated herself for hurting him more that he ever could? "I never meant -"

"That's just it, isn't it? You never mean anything, Rory." He couldn't – wouldn't – listen to her explanation. He pocketed his hands in his jeans and glanced up at her. "You're so goddamned pure and true you could never mean anything. Jesus, I actually thought at one point during your drunken spiel that what kind of guy would let you go? But now I get it. I should be congratulating the poor fuck for having the brains and balls," his eyes narrowed and pinned her down, cold and malicious, "to get away from you as fast as he possibly could."

She accepted that blow, even as her heart cracked; she believed she deserved those cruel words. The tears stung, relentlessly and before she could stop it, brimmed over and ran down her cheek. "Tristan."

He curled his fists in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her and wiping the tears, Christ, he was more far gone than he even knew. "Got to bed, Rory. Then tomorrow morning your family will whisk you away from the big, bad DuGrey and you can go back to Stars Hollow and bury your head in the fucking sand. And we can just forget everything. All you'll be is a real bad memory."

Her heart shattered, right then and there, it simply shattered.

She covered her mouth with one hand and choked on the hot lump in her throat as he turned away from her, indicating that he was done with the conversation. Numb from the pain, she turned stiffly, as her mind reeled from his malice, his rejection. In the room, under the covers (she somehow managed to make it there without collapsing into a pathetic puddle) she felt the gaping hole inside her, the missing piece. She'd lost him, his friendship and, now that she could be true to herself (oh how cruel that the honesty came now), she'd lost the potential of his being so much more.

Outside, Tristan stared at the ceiling, the shadows of cast by the fireplace, dancing in strange patterns above him. He swallowed, past the hard knot in this throat and ignored the vise around his heart. Eyes closed, he focused on the sound of her quiet sobs, filling the tiny cabin.

And the storm raged on outside.

The End