Ficlet: Class conscious (Gilmore Girls, Dean/Rory, PG-13)
Title: Class conscious
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Pairing: Dean/Rory
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She wears dark-colored dresses and black heels that click as she turns and says, “What do you think?”
Notes: written for the fabulous oxoniensis as part of help_haiti's lightning round. I hope this is happy enough. ♥ 675 words.
Sometimes Dean thinks he still doesn’t know how to treat a girl like Rory. Like when every once in a while she lets her grandmother - who doesn’t seem to realize Rory’s grown up and married - talk her into going to some charity function in Hartford. She wears dark-colored dresses and black heels that click as she turns and says, “What do you think?”
He thinks she’s beautiful. He always does, and he tells her so. But when she runs down the stairs in her pearls, with her hair tied up and something silky around her shoulders, he thinks about that first semi-disastrous school dance and every glimpse he’s been offered since of the girl she might have been. The world she might have lived in. And he feels a little sorry that he can’t give her that.
Except that at the end of the night she always comes home to their snug little house with its thumping radiators and warped front door he can’t replace until summer. She’s tired and a little silly from wine and she stands on the living room rug doing impressions of the blue-haired old ladies stooped over in their heavy diamond necklaces, Emily’s arch looks and diplomatic compliments, someone’s son who cornered her to talk about housing prices in Rhode Island until he noticed her wedding band. “Strangely, he seemed less interested after that.”
“Strange,” Dean agrees, and pulls her into his arms on the couch. Rory laughs, and he loves her so simply and completely right then he has to bury his grin in her falling-down hair. A bobby pin stabs in under his nose, and Dean loosens his grip a little, lets her lie back against the arm of the couch to look at him.
“What did you do tonight?” Rory asks.
“Hors d’oeuvres with the duke and duchess, dinner at the club. Then we went waltzing. With bears,” he adds matter-of-factly.
“Did the bears get fresh with you again?”
“I showed them your picture and they knew they couldn’t compete with that.”
“Good.” She yawns into the back of her hand. “What else did you do?”
He nods toward the file folders on the coffee table. “Invoices.” He used to be ashamed of his business administration degree, cobbled together from community college and the University of Phoenix online, but Rory pointed out that Lorelai took community college business courses (“and do you really think you’re better than my mom, Dean?”). And it does help him run his little home renovation business. He likes that he knows how to write up invoices and keep track of accounts. He doesn’t feel smart exactly, not compared to Rory. But he feels capable.
“The bears sounded more exciting.”
“Mr. Chalmers has a very thick beard.”
Rory pushes at the folders (neat with numbers and names) with her toes until there’s room for her to rest her feet. “You worked all Saturday night,” she points out.
“There’s still some of Saturday night left.” He runs a finger up her side and she stifles a laugh. “And you worked all last weekend on that article.”
“Point,” she agrees. Now that he’s started, he doesn’t want to stop touching her. He curves his palm around her ribs, and his fingertips rest temptingly close to her left breast, sheathed in the soft film of her dress. She glances down towards his hand, back up to his face. She raises her eyebrows.
Dean smiles, quick and bright. He carries her upstairs because he can, unfastens her pearls with clumsy fingers at the nape of her neck. The zipper of her dress is easier, just a slide down and then bare skin under his fingers, warm and smooth. Rory kisses him, up on her tiptoes in nothing but her stockings, and Dean feels the best kind of expectation sizzle through him.
She might have been the girl with the pearls and the social graces all night, but she wanted to come home to him, file folders and community college and doors that don’t close quite square.
♥ fin ♥
Bidding at help_haiti is open through noon EST tomorrow! I've still got three 500+ word ficlets on offer for $5 each in the Lightning Round HERE, and a fic of at least 2000 words HERE. If you were outbid on someone you really wanted, now is the time to get me instead! <33
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Pairing: Dean/Rory
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She wears dark-colored dresses and black heels that click as she turns and says, “What do you think?”
Notes: written for the fabulous oxoniensis as part of help_haiti's lightning round. I hope this is happy enough. ♥ 675 words.
Sometimes Dean thinks he still doesn’t know how to treat a girl like Rory. Like when every once in a while she lets her grandmother - who doesn’t seem to realize Rory’s grown up and married - talk her into going to some charity function in Hartford. She wears dark-colored dresses and black heels that click as she turns and says, “What do you think?”
He thinks she’s beautiful. He always does, and he tells her so. But when she runs down the stairs in her pearls, with her hair tied up and something silky around her shoulders, he thinks about that first semi-disastrous school dance and every glimpse he’s been offered since of the girl she might have been. The world she might have lived in. And he feels a little sorry that he can’t give her that.
Except that at the end of the night she always comes home to their snug little house with its thumping radiators and warped front door he can’t replace until summer. She’s tired and a little silly from wine and she stands on the living room rug doing impressions of the blue-haired old ladies stooped over in their heavy diamond necklaces, Emily’s arch looks and diplomatic compliments, someone’s son who cornered her to talk about housing prices in Rhode Island until he noticed her wedding band. “Strangely, he seemed less interested after that.”
“Strange,” Dean agrees, and pulls her into his arms on the couch. Rory laughs, and he loves her so simply and completely right then he has to bury his grin in her falling-down hair. A bobby pin stabs in under his nose, and Dean loosens his grip a little, lets her lie back against the arm of the couch to look at him.
“What did you do tonight?” Rory asks.
“Hors d’oeuvres with the duke and duchess, dinner at the club. Then we went waltzing. With bears,” he adds matter-of-factly.
“Did the bears get fresh with you again?”
“I showed them your picture and they knew they couldn’t compete with that.”
“Good.” She yawns into the back of her hand. “What else did you do?”
He nods toward the file folders on the coffee table. “Invoices.” He used to be ashamed of his business administration degree, cobbled together from community college and the University of Phoenix online, but Rory pointed out that Lorelai took community college business courses (“and do you really think you’re better than my mom, Dean?”). And it does help him run his little home renovation business. He likes that he knows how to write up invoices and keep track of accounts. He doesn’t feel smart exactly, not compared to Rory. But he feels capable.
“The bears sounded more exciting.”
“Mr. Chalmers has a very thick beard.”
Rory pushes at the folders (neat with numbers and names) with her toes until there’s room for her to rest her feet. “You worked all Saturday night,” she points out.
“There’s still some of Saturday night left.” He runs a finger up her side and she stifles a laugh. “And you worked all last weekend on that article.”
“Point,” she agrees. Now that he’s started, he doesn’t want to stop touching her. He curves his palm around her ribs, and his fingertips rest temptingly close to her left breast, sheathed in the soft film of her dress. She glances down towards his hand, back up to his face. She raises her eyebrows.
Dean smiles, quick and bright. He carries her upstairs because he can, unfastens her pearls with clumsy fingers at the nape of her neck. The zipper of her dress is easier, just a slide down and then bare skin under his fingers, warm and smooth. Rory kisses him, up on her tiptoes in nothing but her stockings, and Dean feels the best kind of expectation sizzle through him.
She might have been the girl with the pearls and the social graces all night, but she wanted to come home to him, file folders and community college and doors that don’t close quite square.
♥ fin ♥
Bidding at help_haiti is open through noon EST tomorrow! I've still got three 500+ word ficlets on offer for $5 each in the Lightning Round HERE, and a fic of at least 2000 words HERE. If you were outbid on someone you really wanted, now is the time to get me instead! <33