Work Text:
Rory’s already nursing a migraine when Paris bursts into the club room of The Franklin, stray wisps of hair falling out of her ponytail, a mile-high pile of textbooks in her arms. Wordlessly, Madeline slides her container of Advil across the table at her before returning to paint her nails over her laptop’s keyboard. Rory valiantly suffers through a two-second standoff with the container–at which point it mocks her, her mother and her maybe-reworn outfit because Lorelai keeps shirking laundry duties–before grimly popping two and swallowing.
“I can’t believe it!” Paris yelps, slamming her books down on the table. It startles one of the poor unsuspecting freshmen, his pencil flying across his paper mid-sentence. “I cannot believe I am the only high school senior who does not have a date for prom! Sally found a date and she had mono last week! Last week! I bet it’s still in her system, do you even know what the incubation period for mono is?”
Over her shoulder, Louise makes a shooing motion at Rory and she sighs. Somehow, between serving as her Vice President and keeping her from running their entire group ragged during every English assignment, Rory had unsuspectingly earned herself a reputation as the Paris-whisperer. She sighs, assessing the situation (medium bad, given the state of her hair but not so bad that she’s started chewing on her nails) before springing into action.
First, she slides the stack of textbooks out of her reach before she terrifies any more unsuspecting underclassmen with them. Next, she pats Paris’ shoulder to try and smooth out the iron rod that lives there permanently. (Mostly a lost cause but worth a shot.) And finally, the killer punch–reason.
“Paris, plenty of people go to prom without a date. It’s no big deal unless you make it one.”
“Really?” Paris sneers. She’s hyperventilating and Rory tries to mime slow and deep breaths but Paris is barely looking. “Like who?”
“Like me.” Paris finally turns at that, craning her neck like it’s on a swivel.
“You’re not going with your boyfriend? Dan or something?”
“As I’ve told you before, Paris, we broke up.” Rory’s eye twitches and she tries to picture Buddha or Gandhi or whatever paragon of patience in her mind as she speaks. “Two years ago. I cried. You tried to cry for me but couldn’t so you decided to start cutting onions. Louise brought popcorn. We watched When Harry Met Sally.”
“Oh. I thought that was because someone’s family member died.”
“No, you’re thinking of the party I threw when my uncle died!” Madeline pipes up cheerfully. “We celebrated because I finally got his Benz.” Rory blinks because that suddenly explains the all-black dress code for the rave Madeline threw.
“Whatever,” Paris snaps, waving her hands again. “Well, everyone already loves you, Little Miss Sunshine, so nobody cares that you don’t have a date. But everyone hates me and I know they’re all waiting to knock me down a peg and since they can’t come after my grades because I have a rock-solid grip on the #1 spot, they’ll be all over this news instead. You better start writing the article, Rory, I’m serious.” Paris’ face is starting to turn red from lack of oxygen and that’s how Rory knows they’re approaching meltdown territory. She needs to act stat. “I can see the title in my mind already, front cover. ‘Paris Gilmore, Student Council President, Editor of the Franklin and #1 Loser in all of Chilton unable to find even one pathetic person who’d be willing to stand her for one measly evening’. More on page 3. I’ll even let you have the byline.”
“Look, Paris, if it bothers you that much, I’ll take you to prom, okay?” Rory cuts in.
There’s dead silence for a glorious five seconds before the room erupts in a cacophony of chaos. Madeline drops her brush onto her keyboard and hastily picks it up, leaving behind a splatter of red. Next to her, Louise spits out her water onto the freshman’s half-written article, his poor pencil shooting across the table again. Paris turns to her slowly, each inch like the raise of a guillotine. Rory feels dread and anticipation tug in her stomach and she already knows she’s going to regret whatever comes out of her mouth next but what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“What?” Paris says.
“I’m serious, if it really bothers you that much, I will take you to prom. Case closed.”
Paris sputters like a dying engine.
“What? But–but you can’t! You’re a–” She stops suddenly and Rory arches an eyebrow.
“I’m a what?”
“Girl,” she finishes lamely. “Although, Harvard loves that sort of thing.”
Madeline squints at her, interest piqued.
“Lesbians?”
“No, diversity,” Paris snaps. “And I’ve got nothing in that department because I’m as white as they come. This, this, could be good.”
Rory shakes her head as she tries to follow the gymnastics of Paris’ reasoning.
“I’m not asking you out to prom because it’ll look good on my college resumé. I’m asking you out because you’re my friend and you’re on the verge of a panic attack and I could use the company.”
Paris curls her lip at her, as if the thought of doing something nice for another person appalls her.
“Right, you’re just racking up your karmic duty as if the fact that you clean up trash on your weekends and help nuns cross the street isn’t enough.”
“For the last time, it was a clothes drive, not a dumpster dive. And Miss Patty’s not a nun. Definitely not.”
“Whatever!” Paris flaps her hand at her. “I don’t care about whatever your reason is! I’m late for my prep class, just pick me up at 7 tonight!”
And with that, she picks up her monstrous pile of books and storms back out of the classroom, leaving a couple of stray papers in her wake. Rory’s left standing in the aftermath, wondering what the hell she just did.
“Hey, I think that’s the first time she didn’t deny being your friend,” Madeline says, smiling. Rory manages a feeble grin in response.
“Great, let’s just hope she doesn’t freak out at the idea of being my date now.”
“Good luck,” Louise says, one corner of her mouth tugging like someone’s snagged a hook in it and Rory puts her head down into her arms and groans.
The first thing Rory does is lock herself in a bathroom stall and phone Lorelai.
“Independence Inn, this is Michel speaking.”
“Oh thank god, Michel, please put my mom on the phone and tell her it’s an emergency.”
“Hmm,” Michel says and Rory hears the rustle of paper as he flips a page. “I’m sorry, I think she’s all booked out for the day.”
“Sookie, these need more shots to be jello shots! Right now, they’re just jello!” Lorelai hollers somewhere behind him. “Do we have more vodka?”
Rory sighs, the air hissing out of her teeth.
“You know I can hear her in the same room as you, right?” Michel makes an unamused hmmm and Rory bangs her head against the stall, racking her brain.
“Are you still mad about the cupcakes? I swear I didn’t know my mom was going to give them to you after they’d been sitting out for a month!”
“I trusted you,” Michel hisses into the phone. “And what did I get as a reward? Hours spent sitting on my toilet, staring at my own sad reflection in the mirror.”
“I’m sorry! Let me make it up to you. I’ll bring you some cheese tomorrow–fresh cheese–from that place by Chilton that you like. Just please, I really need to talk to my mom, it’s an emergency, like a life-threatening-everyone-break-out-the-life-vests emergency.”
There’s a long pause as Michel deliberates before he finally sighs and calls for Lorelai.
“I clock out at seven, you better be here before then.”
“I swear on my mother’s name,” Rory says, all smiles.
“As if that means anything,” Michel grumbles before passing the phone.
“Hey Rory! What’s up? You should come by and try these jello shots, Sookie’s really going crazy with the flavors,” Lorelai says.
“Mom, I’m 18.”
“Well, if you won’t tell, I won’t! But seriously though, what’s up? Everything okay at school? Did Headmaster Charleston finally realize what an awesome student you are and reward you with a giant gold bust of himself and you don’t know where to put it? ‘Cause if so, Michel’s living room has been looking pretty lonely.”
“No, Mom, no golden busts yet but I’ll let you know.” She runs her fingers along the stall wall, trying the best way to phrase it so she doesn’t sound like a psychopath and coming up empty. “I asked Paris to prom.”
“Come again?”
“I asked Paris to prom!”
“Someone call the president because I think the world is ending,” Lorelai says. “Honey, why in the world did you do that?”
“I-I don’t know, she just looked so sad and she was panicking and we were about to get the next atomic bomb, Paris-style, and I got this weird feeling in my chest and I just said it!”
“Ahhhhh,” Lorelai drawls and Rory tenses at the all-knowing tone in her voice. “I see. You must get that from me. You know shortly after your father and I broke things off, I had this thing with one of the other maids–”
“Oh my god, TMI!” Rory shrieks, ripping the phone away from her ear. “First off, TMI! Second, sexuality is not hereditary! Third, it’s not like that!”
“O-kay,” Lorelai says. “So you and Paris are just going as friends.”
“Yes. Pals. Buddies. Girl friends. Wait no, scratch the last one.”
“Hm,” she says. “And does Paris know that?”
“Yeah,” Rory replies and then realizes with a horrifying clarity that she never clarified. “I mean probably. It was implied, I think.”
“Alright, well do you want me to pick up a corsage for your date on my way home? I’ll be back late tonight but I should catch you a couple minutes before you have to go.”
Rory can practically see the grin on her mother’s face and she grits her teeth.
“No, Mom.” Then she pauses and thinks about it. “Actually, wait, yes, Paris will probably be expecting one. And I don’t want her to get on my case about being a bad date.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Lorelai says and she’s definitely grinning this time, all Great White Shark-style. “See you at home, love you!”
“Love you,” Rory says and hangs up. And for the second time in one day, she puts her head in her hands and groans.
“I think I got possessed,” Rory tells Lane as she’s getting ready. Lane arches an eyebrow at her even as she passes the blush.
“Possessed?”
“I’ve been going it over in my head, over and over again and it’s the only thing that makes sense. A demon came into my soul, took over and asked Paris out to the dance.”
Lane screws her face up behind her glasses.
“That feels unnecessarily cruel to Paris,” she says and Rory gasps.
“Hey, whose side are you on?”
“Yours, obviously!” she says, hands raised. “But let’s go over the facts. Paris came in, Paris was stressed, you said her hair was out of its ponytail but her nails weren’t bitten to the quick yet so that put her at a 6 on the Paris scale–a scale, which you have for some reason and can deduce with startling accuracy. At this point, Paris’ lackey #1, Louise, signaled you to ‘handle’ the Paris situation–which you do regularly enough that you’ve earned a reputation–and you touched her shoulder and then got this weird feeling in your chest and asked her out because you were concerned for her.”
“Yes,” Rory says, bobbing her head up and down as she sorts through her mom’s lipsticks.
“Honestly, I’m insulted you didn’t ask me.”
“Lane!” Rory hollers and Lane cracks a grin.
“Okay, sorry, kidding. Well, here’s a crazy theory–maybe you didn’t get possessed by a demon. Maybe you just like Paris and that was your subconscious coming out.”
“And maybe the world is ending,” Rory huffs. “What’s there even to like about Paris?”
“Well, you’ve told me multiple times that she’s practically a shoo-in for Harvard, which means she’s smart enough to give you a run for your money. And we all know you have a thing for smart people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rory snaps.
“Jess,” Lane coughs unsubtly and Rory groans.
“Okay fine. Keep going.”
“You also have clearly been paying enough attention to her to recognize the signs of a ‘Paris meltdown’. And you know her well enough to talk her down from the edge of one.”
“So I’m a good friend!” Rory protests. “Sue me.”
“Rory, I love you and we have known each other since Kindergarten but I do not have a scale for your emotions.”
“Maybe that’s just because I’m not an expressive person,” Rory huffs.
“And you said you think she’s pretty,” Lane finishes.
“That–no, that’s not what I said!”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Paris should let her hair down, she actually looks pretty good when she does.’ Unprompted, by the way.”
“That was a moment of weakness,” Rory says as she finishes applying her lipstick. “You are taking advantage of one of my rare moments of weakness. I don’t like Paris!”
“Sure,” Lane finally concedes. “I just thought it could be food for thought.”
“Food rejected. Did not pass inspection standards, return to sender,” Rory says and steps back from the mirror. “Okay, now how do I look?”
Lane pumps one fist in the air.
“Knock ‘em dead!”
For all her worry and prep, the dance itself ends up going rather smoothly. Inevitably, Paris nitpicks about the corsage, from the color to the shape of the petals but she shuts right up when Rory huffs and slips it onto her wrist, mid-protest. They spend a couple minutes awkwardly loitering in the venue’s entrance before Madeline and Lousie find them, one arm looped around their dates.
“I don’t know what you’re so worried about, Louise and I kiss all the time,” Madeline had said and Rory had blanched, going white as a sheet. Paris, for her part, looked mostly unfazed.
“Keeps the lips limber,” Louise had said, nodding.
“More like keeps mono alive,” Paris had muttered.
“Alright, we’re going to go find a supply closet for the next few hours. See you,” Louise had said, drifting off, and that had effectively shattered any lingering awkwardness.
The dance ends up going rather smoothly until they get to the actual dancing. There’s one waltz where Rory ends up spinning Paris in a circle because her father had insisted on teaching her both parts of the dance, and there’s a split-second where Paris’ back is to her and with her hair splayed at behind her and her dress–satin blue–flowing behind her, Rory thinks god, she’s gorgeous and every single cell in her body comes to a screeching halt.
She drops Paris’ hand like she’s been burned and Paris turns instantly, brow furrowed. Rory looks from her empty hand to Paris’ face, Lane’s words thumping in her head. Just food for thought.
“What’s wrong?” Paris asks, leaning closer and Rory scrambles back a foot in response. She feels all the blood rushing to her cheeks and fans herself with one hand.
“Nothing, uh, I just felt dizzy! It sure is hot in here, let’s grab some punch.” She makes a beeline for the refreshments table and ladles out some juice into a cup. Her hand’s still shaking as she raises the rim of it to her mouth.
“You’re upset,” Paris says, hovering right over her shoulder and Rory nearly jumps in her skin, just narrowly avoiding spilling juice all over herself. “You know, after two years, I know how to read you too.”
“What? No, that’s ridiculous, Paris. I’m not upset. Why would I be upset?” As she speaks, her voice climbs higher and higher and she feels like a racecar, hurtling dangerously close to the edge of the track.
“I think this was a mistake,” Paris says quietly and Rory turns to face her. That expression is new and Rory realizes she’s seen every shade of an angry Paris, from quiet fury to full-blown rage, but she’s never seen her this sad. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna go now.”
She storms off towards the exit and Rory’s left scrambling in her wake. She throws her drink on an unsuspecting server’s open plate and chases after her, nearly barreling over dancing couples in the process.
“Paris, wait, come back!” Rory hollers, chasing her through the doors. Paris breaks into a full-out run–somehow managing that in sparkling heels–and dashes into the bathroom. She locks herself inside a stall just as Rory enters the room. Rory tries the handle a couple times but it’s no use.
“Listen, Paris, just come out and we can talk about this!” She bangs once, then twice on the door but Paris is unyielding.
“Go away! I don’t want to talk about it! This whole evening was a mistake! You only asked me out to the prom because you pity me!”
“That’s not true!” Rory hollers. The words are an instinct, peeling themselves for her throat before she can process them. Maybe you just like Paris and that was your subconscious coming out.
“Why then?” Paris shouts hotly from inside the stall. “Why’d you ask me out?”
“Because I like you!” Rory yells back and it feels like a stone’s been rolled off her back, the admission heavy and freeing as it leaves her lips.
The lock clicks and the door swings open slowly, revealing Paris open-mouthed and wide-eyed beyond.
“What?”
“I asked you out because I like you, Paris,” Rory says again and hopes her face isn’t nearly as red as it feels.
“Why? I’m a stubborn asshole who likes to make the other team cry in debates for fun.”
Rory cracks a grin because no part of that statement is untrue.
“I like you because you’re a stubborn asshole who likes to make the other team cry in debates for fun.”
“That makes no sense,” Paris says, still sounding numb like she’s in shock.
“You’re right–I’ve never met anyone as stubborn as you. You’d probably bulldoze an orphanage if it stood in your way and well, I’d like to stop you from bulldozing the orphanage but I admire that grit you have. And the fact that you make the other kids cry at debates? Yeah, it’s scary for them but standing on this side of the line, it’s pretty damn cool.”
“Oh,” Paris says faintly.
“Besides.” Rory pauses to knock their shoulders together. “G and G. We’ve even got the alliteration, right?”
“You remember that?” Paris stares up at her, eyes wide. “That was our sophomore year campaign slogan. I came up with much better ones the year after.”
“Sure, Paris,” Rory concedes.
“You really like me?” Paris asks, her voice quiet. “You’re not confusing me for someone else?”
“Yeah, Paris,” Rory says, smiling. “I really do like you.”
“Oh,” Paris says again. “I feel like I should go out and buy a lottery ticket or something. I’m just me but you–you’re the whole package. You’re nice and you’re funny and you’re beautiful and you’re smart but not an asshole about it like me and you write a damn good article and you’re the only thing that kept me from running the Student Council into the ground these past two years and–why is your face so red?”
“Nothing,” Rory mutters, one pitch too high.
“Should I not have said that?” Paris asks. “I’m still new to this whole… thing.”
“No, Paris, say it as many times as you like.” Rory smiles and Paris manages a shy, hesitant one back. “Hey, let me have a do-over. Be my date, for real this time?”
She holds her hand out and Paris stares at her open palm, eyes wide, for a moment before she nods and takes it.