Fic: Ballroom Suite for Intellectuals (Gilmore Girls, Rory/Paris)
Fic that is not about ice skating. I win.
Title: Ballroom Suite for Intellectuals
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Pairing: Rory/Paris
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Continuity: Set in the third season; doesn't refer to any major events.
Word Count: about 1,700.
Summary: A final exam in P. E. is a ridiculous concept, but you still have to learn to tango.
Disclaimers: Gilmore Girls is the intellectual property of Warner Brothers, Hofflund/Polone, and Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2006 Mosca and is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976 because I do not intend to sell it at any price. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. So, so close to calling this "Last Tango With Paris."
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for the beta. Written for jae_w for femslash_today's Sadie Hawkins Dance high school femslash ficathon. Songs referenced are "Little Drop of Poison," by Tom Waits, and "Take This Waltz," by Leonard Cohen.
*
Paris had never invited Rory to her house before. "It's a mausoleum," Paris had explained once. "There's an echo. It sucks all of your intellectual capabilities out through your ears and chews them slowly. The worst your house does is distract you with fiber-optic hula girl lamps and put you in a diabetic coma."
This was why they weren't technically in the house, but in the backyard, just beyond the gate to the pool. They were studying for their P.E. final exam, which, as both of them had pointed out at various times, was completely ridiculous. The very concept of physical education was oxymoronic, Paris believed. Education was, by definition, a sedentary activity, best practiced alone and in complete silence while hunched over a thick and informative volume. They were finishing up a unit on ballroom dancing, and they were supposed to prove, with the partner of their choice, that they had learned the tango, the rhumba, the cha cha, the foxtrot, and the Viennese waltz. Loudly, again, Paris wondered why there wasn't a written option. They could diagram the dance steps. They could write an essay on the history and proliferation of the waltz. Something, anything, other than attempting to tango in front of an audience of their peers.
They'd partnered up because they always worked together on school projects, because it was second nature to assume that anyone else would bring down their grades, and they hadn't realized until they'd put their names down on the sign-up sheet that it might have been more normal to dance with a boy.
"I can't do this," Paris said, sitting down in the grass. "I have no rhythm."
"That's a serious disability," Rory said. "They should excuse you from P.E."
"What's your excuse?" Paris said.
"Same thing," Rory said. " Total lack of coordination, here. Miss Patti forced me to quit her gymnastics class when I was five because I mowed down three other girls trying to do a walkover. They still hate me."
"People like us," Paris said, "should not be required to tango."
"At the very least, it shouldn't go on our transcripts."
"It's absurd," Paris said.
"And oxymoronic," Rory said. "Get up. You can be the girl this time."
"This would be easier if you weren't insisting that we learn both parts," Paris said.
"Mr. Leffler expects all the girls in the class to know the women's parts, which means we're going to have to demonstrate each dance both ways," Rory explained for the seventeenth time. "Besides, you learn a lot about the women's part when you've got the boy's eye view."
"Fine," Paris said. The stereo was inside the house, but it had a powerful remote control and a connection to speakers all over the yard and pool area. Her parents had installed them, thinking it would be neat to send soft music wafting all over the yard when they gave garden parties. They'd forgotten that they never gave parties, and that they didn't own any music worth playing. Rory's CD collection reminded Paris that her parents' negligence had led to humiliating gaps in her musical education. If she had to take a final exam in Popular Music of the Later Twentieth Century, she'd fail that, too.
They were practicing their tango to a song by a guy named Tom Waits. As usual, Rory assured Paris that he was famous, a rock & roll pioneer, and not just some wino who sounded like he was about to cough up a lung. "He probably was about to cough up a lung," Rory said. "That's part of his charm."
They got themselves into a tango hold, after some adjustment of hands and hips. Rory had the basics down, as long as she didn't trip over her feet (or Paris's): slow, slow, fast fast fast, repeat, turn, switch hands, same thing in the other direction. Paris, on the other hand, was having a hard enough time wrapping her head around Tom Waits.
For the first time, they got through their steps without any mistakes. If this had been a skit for English class or a group presentation for Chemistry, they would have practiced at least one more time to make sure they really had it nailed, but this was neither of those things. "I think we've got the tango down," Rory said.
"Close enough, anyway," Paris said.
"What's next?"
Paris flipped to the "P.E." tab of her binder. It was the first time she'd ever had to make a tab for P.E. She'd run out of colors and had to use a second yellow one, not that she was likely to confuse P.E. with Modern World History. On the handout, the tango was listed last, so there was no sense imposing order now. She picked a dance at random. "The Viennese waltz."
They pored over the diagram in the handout, trying to remember what they'd stumbled through in class. Paris had danced with Brad on Viennese Waltz day. His Broadway training had enhanced his natural grace, and she'd literally ridden through the day on his coattails. Meanwhile, he'd taken his giddy revenge by berating her for having two left feet, as if it were her fault. Why she couldn't have signed up to dance with Brad in the final exam, she didn't know.
Who was she kidding? Brad would never have danced with her for the final. She'd drag down his grade. She was probably even going to drag down Rory's grade. No matter how hard she tried, she was going to end up being one of those kids she despised: those kids who expected a higher grade because they'd put forth their best effort and improved a lot. Harvard didn't give a hot flying damn about effort, unless that effort led to a 4.0 average plus a well-balanced extracurricular life. Harvard didn't want someone who squeaked out a B- in P.E. because Mr. Leffler was too impressed with her dedication to saddle her with a C.
You had to hold a person really close to do the Viennese waltz. Paris had once read that in its day, the waltz was a really risqué dance, because it was face to face and you didn't switch partners. You could pretend that no one existed except you and the person you were dancing with. That would have sounded romantic if she weren't dancing with Rory. Not that the concept of romance with Rory seemed impossible, but she was so focused on her P.E. grade that there wasn't a whole lot of love in the air.
"Oh, wait, I have to change the CD," Rory said.
"The player holds ten," Paris said. "I just put in all the ones you brought. Which one is it?"
"Leonard Cohen," Rory said.
"Which number."
"I don't know," Rory said. "You put them in the CD player."
Paris sighed like it was still somehow Rory's fault. "Now we're just going to have to play all of them until we find the right one."
"Looks that way," Rory said.
They had to go through Santana, The Gipsy Kings, and Elvis to get to Leonard Cohen. "Track five," Rory said.
"I don't know why you couldn't have brought them all on one CD," Paris said.
"It's more fun this way," Rory said. Somehow, it was, having to dig through all the wrong music to get to the one they needed.
The Viennese waltz wasn't as hard as the tango, as long as Paris knew where Rory's feet were. As long as Rory's feet were predictable and not tripping over each other, she could do that. Rory danced with her eyes closed, like she was somewhere far, far away from Paris. "Who are you pretending to dance with?" Paris said.
"Oh, no one," Rory said.
"Don't play games with me, Gilmore," Paris said. "You're dancing with someone, and I intend to find out who it is. Dean? That Jess person? Someone from school you have your eye on? I will get to the bottom of this."
Rory laughed. It sounded like an innocent enough laugh, but Paris had learned in her many hours of group work with Rory that this was how Rory laughed when she was feeling just a little bit superior. Her talent for disguising arrogance as sweetness was infuriating. "I am dancing," Rory said, "with a swarthy yet sensitive Argentinean named Sancho. I made him up."
"You have an imaginary friend?" Paris said.
"No," Rory said. "I mean, I have an imaginary dance partner, but he -- it's not like we talk much." She stumbled and lost her hold on Paris. Paris was grateful for the break.
"Oh," Paris said. "That kind of imaginary friend."
Rory blushed. "No. Not that kind of imaginary friend at all. Ew."
"Oh, come on, everyone has them," Paris said. "Madeleine and Louise have them. I have them. So there. You're outnumbered."
"I really don't," Rory said. "But it's okay if you do."
"Thank you for your permission."
"No, it is," Rory said. "What's he like? Yours."
She's like you, Paris didn't say. "Tall. Brown hair. Erudite."
"What's his name?"
"I hadn't gotten that far," Paris said.
"I think you should call him Rainer," Rory said. "That's a good name for an erudite Viennese waltzer, right?"
"If you say so," Paris said.
"I do," Rory said.
"We should waltz," Paris said. "We have a final to pass."
Rory held out her arms in the position from the diagram. "You be Sancho, I'll be Rainer," she said.
On their eighth attempt at the Viennese Waltz, Paris noticed that Rory was dancing with her eyes open. No Sancho anywhere. She lost count of her steps, and they crashed into the pool gate. At least when they danced badly, they were dancing together.
Title: Ballroom Suite for Intellectuals
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Pairing: Rory/Paris
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Continuity: Set in the third season; doesn't refer to any major events.
Word Count: about 1,700.
Summary: A final exam in P. E. is a ridiculous concept, but you still have to learn to tango.
Disclaimers: Gilmore Girls is the intellectual property of Warner Brothers, Hofflund/Polone, and Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2006 Mosca and is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976 because I do not intend to sell it at any price. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. So, so close to calling this "Last Tango With Paris."
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for the beta. Written for jae_w for femslash_today's Sadie Hawkins Dance high school femslash ficathon. Songs referenced are "Little Drop of Poison," by Tom Waits, and "Take This Waltz," by Leonard Cohen.
*
Paris had never invited Rory to her house before. "It's a mausoleum," Paris had explained once. "There's an echo. It sucks all of your intellectual capabilities out through your ears and chews them slowly. The worst your house does is distract you with fiber-optic hula girl lamps and put you in a diabetic coma."
This was why they weren't technically in the house, but in the backyard, just beyond the gate to the pool. They were studying for their P.E. final exam, which, as both of them had pointed out at various times, was completely ridiculous. The very concept of physical education was oxymoronic, Paris believed. Education was, by definition, a sedentary activity, best practiced alone and in complete silence while hunched over a thick and informative volume. They were finishing up a unit on ballroom dancing, and they were supposed to prove, with the partner of their choice, that they had learned the tango, the rhumba, the cha cha, the foxtrot, and the Viennese waltz. Loudly, again, Paris wondered why there wasn't a written option. They could diagram the dance steps. They could write an essay on the history and proliferation of the waltz. Something, anything, other than attempting to tango in front of an audience of their peers.
They'd partnered up because they always worked together on school projects, because it was second nature to assume that anyone else would bring down their grades, and they hadn't realized until they'd put their names down on the sign-up sheet that it might have been more normal to dance with a boy.
"I can't do this," Paris said, sitting down in the grass. "I have no rhythm."
"That's a serious disability," Rory said. "They should excuse you from P.E."
"What's your excuse?" Paris said.
"Same thing," Rory said. " Total lack of coordination, here. Miss Patti forced me to quit her gymnastics class when I was five because I mowed down three other girls trying to do a walkover. They still hate me."
"People like us," Paris said, "should not be required to tango."
"At the very least, it shouldn't go on our transcripts."
"It's absurd," Paris said.
"And oxymoronic," Rory said. "Get up. You can be the girl this time."
"This would be easier if you weren't insisting that we learn both parts," Paris said.
"Mr. Leffler expects all the girls in the class to know the women's parts, which means we're going to have to demonstrate each dance both ways," Rory explained for the seventeenth time. "Besides, you learn a lot about the women's part when you've got the boy's eye view."
"Fine," Paris said. The stereo was inside the house, but it had a powerful remote control and a connection to speakers all over the yard and pool area. Her parents had installed them, thinking it would be neat to send soft music wafting all over the yard when they gave garden parties. They'd forgotten that they never gave parties, and that they didn't own any music worth playing. Rory's CD collection reminded Paris that her parents' negligence had led to humiliating gaps in her musical education. If she had to take a final exam in Popular Music of the Later Twentieth Century, she'd fail that, too.
They were practicing their tango to a song by a guy named Tom Waits. As usual, Rory assured Paris that he was famous, a rock & roll pioneer, and not just some wino who sounded like he was about to cough up a lung. "He probably was about to cough up a lung," Rory said. "That's part of his charm."
They got themselves into a tango hold, after some adjustment of hands and hips. Rory had the basics down, as long as she didn't trip over her feet (or Paris's): slow, slow, fast fast fast, repeat, turn, switch hands, same thing in the other direction. Paris, on the other hand, was having a hard enough time wrapping her head around Tom Waits.
For the first time, they got through their steps without any mistakes. If this had been a skit for English class or a group presentation for Chemistry, they would have practiced at least one more time to make sure they really had it nailed, but this was neither of those things. "I think we've got the tango down," Rory said.
"Close enough, anyway," Paris said.
"What's next?"
Paris flipped to the "P.E." tab of her binder. It was the first time she'd ever had to make a tab for P.E. She'd run out of colors and had to use a second yellow one, not that she was likely to confuse P.E. with Modern World History. On the handout, the tango was listed last, so there was no sense imposing order now. She picked a dance at random. "The Viennese waltz."
They pored over the diagram in the handout, trying to remember what they'd stumbled through in class. Paris had danced with Brad on Viennese Waltz day. His Broadway training had enhanced his natural grace, and she'd literally ridden through the day on his coattails. Meanwhile, he'd taken his giddy revenge by berating her for having two left feet, as if it were her fault. Why she couldn't have signed up to dance with Brad in the final exam, she didn't know.
Who was she kidding? Brad would never have danced with her for the final. She'd drag down his grade. She was probably even going to drag down Rory's grade. No matter how hard she tried, she was going to end up being one of those kids she despised: those kids who expected a higher grade because they'd put forth their best effort and improved a lot. Harvard didn't give a hot flying damn about effort, unless that effort led to a 4.0 average plus a well-balanced extracurricular life. Harvard didn't want someone who squeaked out a B- in P.E. because Mr. Leffler was too impressed with her dedication to saddle her with a C.
You had to hold a person really close to do the Viennese waltz. Paris had once read that in its day, the waltz was a really risqué dance, because it was face to face and you didn't switch partners. You could pretend that no one existed except you and the person you were dancing with. That would have sounded romantic if she weren't dancing with Rory. Not that the concept of romance with Rory seemed impossible, but she was so focused on her P.E. grade that there wasn't a whole lot of love in the air.
"Oh, wait, I have to change the CD," Rory said.
"The player holds ten," Paris said. "I just put in all the ones you brought. Which one is it?"
"Leonard Cohen," Rory said.
"Which number."
"I don't know," Rory said. "You put them in the CD player."
Paris sighed like it was still somehow Rory's fault. "Now we're just going to have to play all of them until we find the right one."
"Looks that way," Rory said.
They had to go through Santana, The Gipsy Kings, and Elvis to get to Leonard Cohen. "Track five," Rory said.
"I don't know why you couldn't have brought them all on one CD," Paris said.
"It's more fun this way," Rory said. Somehow, it was, having to dig through all the wrong music to get to the one they needed.
The Viennese waltz wasn't as hard as the tango, as long as Paris knew where Rory's feet were. As long as Rory's feet were predictable and not tripping over each other, she could do that. Rory danced with her eyes closed, like she was somewhere far, far away from Paris. "Who are you pretending to dance with?" Paris said.
"Oh, no one," Rory said.
"Don't play games with me, Gilmore," Paris said. "You're dancing with someone, and I intend to find out who it is. Dean? That Jess person? Someone from school you have your eye on? I will get to the bottom of this."
Rory laughed. It sounded like an innocent enough laugh, but Paris had learned in her many hours of group work with Rory that this was how Rory laughed when she was feeling just a little bit superior. Her talent for disguising arrogance as sweetness was infuriating. "I am dancing," Rory said, "with a swarthy yet sensitive Argentinean named Sancho. I made him up."
"You have an imaginary friend?" Paris said.
"No," Rory said. "I mean, I have an imaginary dance partner, but he -- it's not like we talk much." She stumbled and lost her hold on Paris. Paris was grateful for the break.
"Oh," Paris said. "That kind of imaginary friend."
Rory blushed. "No. Not that kind of imaginary friend at all. Ew."
"Oh, come on, everyone has them," Paris said. "Madeleine and Louise have them. I have them. So there. You're outnumbered."
"I really don't," Rory said. "But it's okay if you do."
"Thank you for your permission."
"No, it is," Rory said. "What's he like? Yours."
She's like you, Paris didn't say. "Tall. Brown hair. Erudite."
"What's his name?"
"I hadn't gotten that far," Paris said.
"I think you should call him Rainer," Rory said. "That's a good name for an erudite Viennese waltzer, right?"
"If you say so," Paris said.
"I do," Rory said.
"We should waltz," Paris said. "We have a final to pass."
Rory held out her arms in the position from the diagram. "You be Sancho, I'll be Rainer," she said.
On their eighth attempt at the Viennese Waltz, Paris noticed that Rory was dancing with her eyes open. No Sancho anywhere. She lost count of her steps, and they crashed into the pool gate. At least when they danced badly, they were dancing together.