Mistletoe Madness (Rory/Paris)
Mistletoe Madness - Gilmore Girls ; Rory/Paris ; 1,200 words. Paris Geller versus mistletoe, featuring Rory Gilmore (who just wants to go home and put on her pajamas).
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“Who did this?” Paris barks. There’s a definite psychotic glint to the words.
Rory sighs. They’re the last people in the Yale Daily News office-they are at the Yale Daily News office later than anyone should ever be-and all she wants is to go home, put her pajamas on, and drink tea while flipping through channels like a zombie. But apparently, this is too much to ask.
She puts on her gloves, secures her scarf around her neck, and glances over her desk one last time. All good. There’s nothing left to do but face the new wrath of Paris on the way out.
“Peachy,” Rory mutters to herself.
“What’s the big idea, huh?” Paris is fuming as Rory approaches her. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? Newsgirls gone wild for the holidays? A very lesbi-Christmas? Very mature, people,” she adds, throwing a Sauron-level evil glare around the dark and empty newsroom.
Hanging very innocuously in the doorway, driving Paris into a rage spiral, is a sprig of mistletoe.
“You do realize you’re berating nobody,” Rory points out.
“This has Huntzberger fiendery written all over it.”
“My Huntzberger?”
“Rory, I have to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I make no promises,” Rory says. By now, she’s very aware of the value of a clear disclaimer when it comes to dealing with Paris.
“Has he ever tried to negotiate a little threeway action between us? Be honest.”
“What? No!”
“Rory, we knew each other for years before you took up with old Preppy McGatsby. You are honor-bound by the tenets of our friendship to be truthful. BFFs before balls.”
“Paris, Logan has never tried to suggest that the three of us-” Okay, nope, she’s not even saying it. “-I really don’t think he thinks of you ... and me ... in that way.”
“Why?” Paris is offended. “Are we not a catch?”
“Sure, I’m a catch and you’re a catch, but us as a package deal? I don’t think we’re ... you know ... particularly catchy!”
“Then why does he want us to kiss on the mouth??” Paris bellows, pointing at the mistletoe.
“Okay,” Rory says, and allows herself the luxury of a long sigh. Then: “So many questions.”
“I’ve got time.” Paris crosses her arms.
Rory takes a deep breath. “One: how do you know that was Logan? Two: why do you think this mistletoe is specifically for you and me? I bet someone just hung it up earlier for seasonal, decoratey fun. Three: why is it even bothering you in the first place? It’s not like it’s magic mistletoe. We don’t have to kiss. We can just walk under it and go home. If you want, you can even take it down and burn it for offending your honor. My only request is that you don’t give our dorm the Thornfield treatment in the process.”
Paris takes an even deeper breath. “One: Rory, your boyfriend’s a hoodlum. You know it, and I know it. A recovering hoodlum, sure. You’ve worked wonders. But a hoodlum nonetheless! The rest of these worker bees wouldn’t have the pluck. Two: do you see anyone else around? NO. Even if it wasn’t for us originally, we are obviously the only remaining victims now. And why didn’t the last person to leave before us take it down? No, this was a targeted attack. Three: ...”
She goes totally silent.
Paris being silent always sounds so appealing in theory. In practice, it’s pretty ominous stuff.
“What?” Rory groans.
“I’ve never been kissed under mistletoe before,” Paris says nonchalantly, eyes wide, expression strangely demure. It’s the way she used to get when she’d accidentally act like a human being on rare occasions during their Chilton days. “Have you?”
“Dean and I did our share of mistletoe time,” Rory replies. “Stars Hollow does not skimp on the mistletoe.”
“Unsurprising,” Paris snarks, but she still looks wistful.
“Paris,” Rory says after a long and very significant silence. “Do you want me to kiss you under the mistletoe?”
“Pah!” says Paris.
Which is not really an answer.
She still has her arms folded over her chest, but now the stance seems oddly vulnerable.
“It wouldn’t mean anything,” Paris adds casually. “It’s just a holiday tradition, right?”
“Right,” Rory says. “Sure.”
She’s suddenly aware of how close they’re standing. It wouldn’t be hard at all to lean forward and just-get it over with. For the chance of a peaceful evening! For pajamas!
“Tristan and I got caught under some mistletoe once,” Paris recounts glumly. “At a Chilton dance. 1999. But he pretended not to notice.”
“Paris,” Rory says patiently. “Tristan’s a butt. Have we not come to terms with that by now?”
“I know he’s a butt, Rory,” Paris says impatiently. “Tristan Dugray’s buttishness is not up for debate. I’m just saying. Not all of us had a farmboy to give out all the mistletoe kisses a girl could want.”
“You do get that as far as I know Dean has never even been to a farm, right?”
“Don’t care. It’s a good nickname. It gets the job done and I’m sticking with it.”
Oh, enough of this!
“Fine,” Rory says. She puts her hands firmly on Paris’s shoulders - if anyone needs some steadying, some motivation to stand still, it’s Paris - and leans forward to kiss her.
Her aim is a little off, so her lips barely catch the side of Paris’s mouth. It’s the sort of thing that could probably pass as a polite greeting in Europe. Paris is surprised - Rory can tell by the little hrrumph! noise she makes - and then she turns her head just slightly. It makes it a lot less like a greeting kiss. A lot more like a kiss kiss.
Rory tastes vanilla chapstick, just a hint of it, and something about that sends little tingles through her body. It’s just ... different. Not the sort of thing she’d expect in a Logan kiss.
And now would be the time to stop kissing, says some dim sensible voice in the back of Rory’s head.
Rory is remarkably sluggish on the uptake.
In fact, Paris is the one to pull away. She stares at Rory for a moment, her eyes wide, then clears her throat loudly.
“There,” Rory says, trying to sound like she is totally poised, unshaken, and one hundred percent confident in her ability to remember her own middle name. (Victoria. Wait. Leigh! God. Sharing a first name with your mother is confusing.) “Now you’ve been kissed under mistletoe. Happy?”
Paris lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess,” she says, way too blasé to be believed.
“Good,” Rory says, ignoring the pesky, not-unpleasant fluttering of her heart.
Paris switches the lights off and Rory locks up. Home time at last! And all it took was randomly kissing Paris to make it happen.
Not so bad, Rory decides.
They walk in silence at first, but there’s an odd jitteriness in the air between them that makes Rory feel different. Bold, maybe.
“I like your chapstick,” she remarks slyly.
Paris actually blushes-blushes!-at that.
As they step out into the snow, shoulders touching, Rory decides to count that one as a Christmas miracle.
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“Who did this?” Paris barks. There’s a definite psychotic glint to the words.
Rory sighs. They’re the last people in the Yale Daily News office-they are at the Yale Daily News office later than anyone should ever be-and all she wants is to go home, put her pajamas on, and drink tea while flipping through channels like a zombie. But apparently, this is too much to ask.
She puts on her gloves, secures her scarf around her neck, and glances over her desk one last time. All good. There’s nothing left to do but face the new wrath of Paris on the way out.
“Peachy,” Rory mutters to herself.
“What’s the big idea, huh?” Paris is fuming as Rory approaches her. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? Newsgirls gone wild for the holidays? A very lesbi-Christmas? Very mature, people,” she adds, throwing a Sauron-level evil glare around the dark and empty newsroom.
Hanging very innocuously in the doorway, driving Paris into a rage spiral, is a sprig of mistletoe.
“You do realize you’re berating nobody,” Rory points out.
“This has Huntzberger fiendery written all over it.”
“My Huntzberger?”
“Rory, I have to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I make no promises,” Rory says. By now, she’s very aware of the value of a clear disclaimer when it comes to dealing with Paris.
“Has he ever tried to negotiate a little threeway action between us? Be honest.”
“What? No!”
“Rory, we knew each other for years before you took up with old Preppy McGatsby. You are honor-bound by the tenets of our friendship to be truthful. BFFs before balls.”
“Paris, Logan has never tried to suggest that the three of us-” Okay, nope, she’s not even saying it. “-I really don’t think he thinks of you ... and me ... in that way.”
“Why?” Paris is offended. “Are we not a catch?”
“Sure, I’m a catch and you’re a catch, but us as a package deal? I don’t think we’re ... you know ... particularly catchy!”
“Then why does he want us to kiss on the mouth??” Paris bellows, pointing at the mistletoe.
“Okay,” Rory says, and allows herself the luxury of a long sigh. Then: “So many questions.”
“I’ve got time.” Paris crosses her arms.
Rory takes a deep breath. “One: how do you know that was Logan? Two: why do you think this mistletoe is specifically for you and me? I bet someone just hung it up earlier for seasonal, decoratey fun. Three: why is it even bothering you in the first place? It’s not like it’s magic mistletoe. We don’t have to kiss. We can just walk under it and go home. If you want, you can even take it down and burn it for offending your honor. My only request is that you don’t give our dorm the Thornfield treatment in the process.”
Paris takes an even deeper breath. “One: Rory, your boyfriend’s a hoodlum. You know it, and I know it. A recovering hoodlum, sure. You’ve worked wonders. But a hoodlum nonetheless! The rest of these worker bees wouldn’t have the pluck. Two: do you see anyone else around? NO. Even if it wasn’t for us originally, we are obviously the only remaining victims now. And why didn’t the last person to leave before us take it down? No, this was a targeted attack. Three: ...”
She goes totally silent.
Paris being silent always sounds so appealing in theory. In practice, it’s pretty ominous stuff.
“What?” Rory groans.
“I’ve never been kissed under mistletoe before,” Paris says nonchalantly, eyes wide, expression strangely demure. It’s the way she used to get when she’d accidentally act like a human being on rare occasions during their Chilton days. “Have you?”
“Dean and I did our share of mistletoe time,” Rory replies. “Stars Hollow does not skimp on the mistletoe.”
“Unsurprising,” Paris snarks, but she still looks wistful.
“Paris,” Rory says after a long and very significant silence. “Do you want me to kiss you under the mistletoe?”
“Pah!” says Paris.
Which is not really an answer.
She still has her arms folded over her chest, but now the stance seems oddly vulnerable.
“It wouldn’t mean anything,” Paris adds casually. “It’s just a holiday tradition, right?”
“Right,” Rory says. “Sure.”
She’s suddenly aware of how close they’re standing. It wouldn’t be hard at all to lean forward and just-get it over with. For the chance of a peaceful evening! For pajamas!
“Tristan and I got caught under some mistletoe once,” Paris recounts glumly. “At a Chilton dance. 1999. But he pretended not to notice.”
“Paris,” Rory says patiently. “Tristan’s a butt. Have we not come to terms with that by now?”
“I know he’s a butt, Rory,” Paris says impatiently. “Tristan Dugray’s buttishness is not up for debate. I’m just saying. Not all of us had a farmboy to give out all the mistletoe kisses a girl could want.”
“You do get that as far as I know Dean has never even been to a farm, right?”
“Don’t care. It’s a good nickname. It gets the job done and I’m sticking with it.”
Oh, enough of this!
“Fine,” Rory says. She puts her hands firmly on Paris’s shoulders - if anyone needs some steadying, some motivation to stand still, it’s Paris - and leans forward to kiss her.
Her aim is a little off, so her lips barely catch the side of Paris’s mouth. It’s the sort of thing that could probably pass as a polite greeting in Europe. Paris is surprised - Rory can tell by the little hrrumph! noise she makes - and then she turns her head just slightly. It makes it a lot less like a greeting kiss. A lot more like a kiss kiss.
Rory tastes vanilla chapstick, just a hint of it, and something about that sends little tingles through her body. It’s just ... different. Not the sort of thing she’d expect in a Logan kiss.
And now would be the time to stop kissing, says some dim sensible voice in the back of Rory’s head.
Rory is remarkably sluggish on the uptake.
In fact, Paris is the one to pull away. She stares at Rory for a moment, her eyes wide, then clears her throat loudly.
“There,” Rory says, trying to sound like she is totally poised, unshaken, and one hundred percent confident in her ability to remember her own middle name. (Victoria. Wait. Leigh! God. Sharing a first name with your mother is confusing.) “Now you’ve been kissed under mistletoe. Happy?”
Paris lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess,” she says, way too blasé to be believed.
“Good,” Rory says, ignoring the pesky, not-unpleasant fluttering of her heart.
Paris switches the lights off and Rory locks up. Home time at last! And all it took was randomly kissing Paris to make it happen.
Not so bad, Rory decides.
They walk in silence at first, but there’s an odd jitteriness in the air between them that makes Rory feel different. Bold, maybe.
“I like your chapstick,” she remarks slyly.
Paris actually blushes-blushes!-at that.
As they step out into the snow, shoulders touching, Rory decides to count that one as a Christmas miracle.