Work Text:
"Hey, Paris," said Rory from the dining room when she heard the front door slam in that distinctive Paris way. "There’s coffee in the kitchen. We're out of milk but Nanny said she’d bring some when she got the kids back from the park."
“What does that woman think we’re subscribing to BoxWeek for,” said Paris from the hall, already clipped and furious, “Perfectly proportioned ingredients for your family’s week. That’s the company’s founding ethos. Never go for groceries again, that’s their tag line.”
“It’s just milk, Paris.”
"We shouldn't ever be out of milk," said Paris, "I pay good money to ensure that I am never out of milk. That woman is letting them drown their cereal again. It's as if she doesn't know Harvey has asthma. Mucous production, it's not a myth."
Rory reflected for a moment on Paris's snottier child. "I believe it."
Paris paused in the doorway of the dining room and there was a moment of silence which was more worrying than anything Paris had said so far. She walked over to the huge table where Rory sat with a restrained aggressiveness that could mean anything from ‘had a bad day at work’ to ‘has exciting news to share.’ Rory closed her laptop slowly, watchful.
“If you want me to spend less time here, I can totally spend less time here. It's not a big deal,” Rory pre-empted. “I can stay at mom and Luke's when I have business in New York."
Paris looked momentarily insulted, “don’t you believe I could make it known in advance if the timing of your visits didn’t suit me, Rory?”
“I believe you are a clear and concise communicator, Paris. But I’m just saying.”
Her full headlight stare was trained on Rory’s face, "to be frank. The problem is not that I think you should spend less time here."
"uh, ok, what's the problem? If there’s a problem? Is it a me thing? Sorry for assuming it’s a me thing. Obviously, you’re a busy person, your things aren’t usually me things. I’m self-centred. What’s, uh, up?”
"No," said Paris, and sat down. The well-shone surface of the table was a lake of wood between them. "It’s a you thing. I'm propositioning you. In the conventional sense. Well Semi-conventional. I'd like us to go out." She spread her arms across the shining tabletop, leaning back like this was a business deal Rory couldn't afford to decline.
"Out to...dinner? out to lunch? out for coffee? Are you sure you know what the conventional sense of propositioning is?"
"Rory," Paris was using her slow, impatient voice, "I'm asking you out on a date."
"A date." Rory’s brain had spent the afternoon writing a freelance piece for the Atlantic and was struggling to keep up with this more-than-usually-chaotic Paris behaviour, “why are you asking me out on a date?”
"I'm aware that you've rebuffed my advances before, and that is your right," Paris tilted her head, her hair sharp against her neck, "but I ask that you please consider my current offer seriously before you run screaming towards the hills."
Rory's fingers started tap-dancing on her laptop case, "Your current offer. And what exactly is your current offer?"
Paris shrugged, "we wine, we dine. We see what happens. I think it could be something good. We click. We understand one another. You reign in my crazy. I feel that over the years I've played an equally valuable role for you. Whilst this is primarily an arrangement between the two of us, it’s worth noting that you get on well with my kids, your mom considers me a second daughter. Our chemistry is undeniable, Gilmore. We've been many kinds of partners over the years and ... romance would be a nice next step." Her folded hands fluttered slightly, fracturing the illusion of mirror calm.
"Paris ..." Rory stumbled a moment on the insanity of Paris thinking Lorelei saw her as a second daughter. "I'm not- We're not ... gay. I mean," she paused, "Paris, are you gay?"
"I've always been aware of my attraction to women," said Paris plainly, "even if I wasn't comfortable acting on it for many years. The odd gentleman caught my eye as well, so I was able to suppress it reasonably well." she tilted her head again, a nervous tic, "and anyway, I loved Doyle. I have found myself less and less attracted to men over the years ... but I really did love Doyle. "
"Oh," their decades of friendship felt flimsy all of a sudden, felt cold, "And I had no idea, all this time. Some friend I've been."
Paris rolled her eyes, "oh, please. Don't turn this into a pity fest. I didn't want you to know. For all your kookie liberal feminism - not to mention your own homoerotic if not overtly Sapphic entanglements - you've never expressed a strong opinion on the gays. And anyway," Paris squared her shoulders in her pastel blouse, "you broke my heart a little with that kiss."
"Really?"
Paris smiled, tight lipped, "really."
Rory looked at her then, for real. The sharp lines of her jaw, her hair, her neck. Thirty-two, her soft coral lipstick was perfect, there was a tremble in her mouth. If this was an interview, Rory would be drafting something about the seldom-seen softer side of this ferocious woman. She was nervous. This was serious.
Rory took a breath, "Paris Geller, I would love to go on a date with you." Her stomach may have flipped minorly, but she rallied.
And it was worth it, because Paris's answering smile was small and honest. A single vulnerable moment and she cleared her throat, squared her shoulders again. "Excellent. I've prepared a spreadsheet of suitable restaurants. There's no need for you to edit anything - but there is a column where you can add thoughts and comments. I'll send it to you this evening. I'm available on Monday evenings for the near future, but if that doesn't suit you, we can compare schedules and work something out."
"Sounds good. Sounds great!" Rory's fingers were still tapping on the laptop case, "oh, I actually have my planner on this - if you wanna schedule it now?"
Paris nodded sharply, "My bag is in the hall, one moment."
And then, all at once, the weight of what she'd done hit Rory like a tsunami.
--
Rory couldn't tell her mom.
She'd tried. She'd tried really hard. Every time she rang home the words were at the top of her throat, but they wouldn't come out. Instead they talked about Grandma’s new lease of life, about Rory’s most recent prenatal appointment.
She'd rehearsed the story in her head a dozen different ways. She could tell it like just another "wacky Paris" story. She could paint herself as the saintly best friend of a lonely divorcee, but no matter what way she said it, Lorelai-in-her-head nodded, listened, and only asked one question, "honey, why did you say yes?"
Rory had rehearsed answers for that one too. 'I panicked,' a classic. 'I didn't know what to say', 'I felt sorry for her', 'I didn't realise it was a date', but her mom knew when she was lying. The truth was, no matter how much she was kicking herself now, when Paris had sat across from her, with that big shiny table between them, Rory had wanted to reach for her hand. She'd wanted to put a hand on her shoulder, no, her neck. She'd wanted to lean in and to - to say yes.
--
Dinner was … normal.
Rory arrived early, and Paris was exactly on time.
They'd settled on a rustic and exclusive little farm fusion restaurant in a basement on the upper east side. It was warm, and dimly lit in pinks and blues. The food was delicious, and a little self-satisfied about that fac. The servers wore loose, androgynous clothing and served food on slates and in blocky wooden dishes. The wine arrived in a tortured looking contortion of glass, which apparently helped it to breathe. They’d eaten dinner in a hundred of such restaurants over at least a dozen years. It was normal.
Paris was looking at her a little more than usual, and maybe Rory blushed under her gaze. She declined the wine and avoided the fish. Paris didn’t comment, still unaware of the time bomb sitting low in Rory’s stomach. They didn't hold hands, they didn't split a dessert. Paris's calf brushed against Rory's under the small, heavy table; and for five minutes Rory was smouldering, just under her skin. Her heart was too big for her chest, it was pressing too hard on her lungs and she was going to catch fire.
They talked about work. It was normal.
Paris paid.
Goosebumps blossomed over Rory's skin when they walked out into the autumn night. It had nothing to do with Paris's hand in the small of her back, steadying her as they climbed the restaurant steps.
They waited together for their separate cabs. Rory was heading back to Star's Hollow. Paris's nanny's day off started at midnight for some reason. The stink and sounds of the city wafted around them even in the cold air. Paris didn’t remove her hand but wrapped her arm more firmly around Rory’s waist as they stood in silence. When Rory climbed into her cab, she caught her lightly by the elbow and kissed her on the cheek.
The kiss stung like a brand for the whole journey home. Rory felt unsteady with it. She still felt the mark as she let herself into her mother’s house, dark and quiet, hours later. She touched her cheek, but there was not a speck of lipstick on her, nothing that could be causing a reaction like that. Nothing at all.