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Title: Mistletoe
Mistletoe It’s barely more than a weed, Paris would say, and launch into a tirade about outdated symbolism and contrived excuses for frenzied groping in the supply closet at the office party. But a kiss can be even deadlier, if you mean it, her mother would say, fluttering her eyelashes in her best Michelle Pfieffer impression. Lane would have some anecdote about her mother going into conniptions at the sight of it; Sookie would giggle and try unsubtly to set someone up underneath it. Dean would- And Rory broke off that line of thought quickly, because it still hurt in the dull, unimportant way her wrist had hurt months after the crash. But right at this precise moment it didn’t really seem to matter what any of those people would say. Because Rory Gilmore was standing under the mistletoe, and Logan Huntzberger was making his way towards her. She’d wandered underneath the stupid thing quite by accident. She’d been on her way back from the bathroom, and her foot had slipped out of the pretty but entirely too big shoes she was wearing. Rory knew that she never should have bought the damn things if they didn’t fit, but after a half-hour search for her size she’d felt so bad for the frenzied clerk in the holiday season madness that she’d gotten them anyway. Of course, when she paused in the doorless doorway between the hall and the common room to put the shoe back on, she just happened to stop underneath the one sprig of mistletoe in the whole suite. Idly she found herself surprised that Finn hadn’t drenched the place in the plant - he seemed like the type to enjoy getting caught beneath it. Then again, he probably hadn’t done the decorating. Somehow Logan had spotted her at that precise instant. He’d been standing by the punch bowl, talking to three or four very pretty girls, all of whom were obviously smitten, but when Rory’s eyes fell on him he was watching her intently. His eyes had flickered upwards, then back down to her, and he’d put down his drink - put down his drink, which in Huntzbergerese meant he meant business - and headed towards her, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. She should flee. She could go back into the bathroom, or try and fight her way through the crowd to find Colin or Finn or Stephanie, the few people that she felt comfortable talking to here. Or, and this was probably the best option, she could always walk forward a few steps and talk to Logan, who was impossible but always good conversation, and who would no longer have an excuse to kiss and/or mock her incessantly if she just took the teeniest step forward, out from under the little red berries and into the party proper. Yes. That would be the best course of action. She didn’t move. And now Logan was standing in front of her and his hair was tousled in that annoyingly perfect way it always was, and he’d forgone his signature turtleneck in favor of a green shirt that probably cost more than three of Rory’s outfits, and she tried not to stare at the bit of tanned collarbone that was consequently revealed because really, who cared about collarbones anyway? He smirked broader, but his eyes were searching and Rory wondered, briefly, if he was nervous, before dismissing the thought as the nonsense it was. In the four months of their acquaintance - Rory couldn’t quite say friendship, for a confusing and stomach-twisting reason - she’d learned enough to know that Logan Huntzberger did not experience nervousness. Well, maybe when jumping off seven stories of scaffolding, but that was an extreme situation. “Well, Ace,” he said, and the nickname was growing on her against her will. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a fix.” “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said airily, but she wasn’t sure it came across as breeziness when she couldn’t stop staring at him. He pointed upwards. “Mistletoe.” Rory looked. “You don’t say.” When did she get to be so coy? She didn’t want Logan Huntzberger to kiss her. She didn’t. Really. “You’re lucky I’m such a gentleman,” Logan said. Rory snorted. “I’ll ignore that. See, other guys might leave you standing here all night, but not me. Much too embarrassing.” Rory raised an eyebrow. “Like you’ve ever been concerned about embarrassing me.” “First time for everything,” Logan replied, but the smirk was gone, and he’d taken that step into her personal space that always made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and he was leaning forward, with a look in his eyes like he was asking permission. Rory took a breath, and tilted her face up slightly, and gave it. She closed her eyes and felt the whisper of his breath across her face before their lips met, tentatively, timidly. A warm hand drifted lazily across her back, mostly bare in her strappy dress, and she made a soft noise and parted her lips slightly. Logan tasted like eggnog and peppermint and all things Christmas, and his hand trembled slightly, and Rory had the crazy thought that maybe this, too, was an extreme situation. And then she had a hand on a surprisingly toned arm for a boy who’d never had to do a moment of manual labor in his life, and another on his chest, where his heartbeat thudded almost painfully against her palm, and his fingers were in her hair. His thumb moved across her cheek in a way that could only be described as affectionate, and he might - might - be nervous, but he was still the best kisser she’d ever kissed, better than Dean or Jess or, God help her, even Tristan, who up to now was the reigning champ and that was partially due to the element of surprise. She loved mistletoe. |