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Stone and Star

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Rory's had her share of themed celebrations in her time. She's even been crowned princess for a few of them.

Since she's started dating Logan, however, she's been astounded by the myriad ways in which alcoholic concoctions can be incorporated into said themes.

For example, Colin's suite has been transformed into something he claims is Paris in its glory days. This, of course, provokes Finn to spit into the four corners of the room and declare Colin his sworn enemy. At which point Colin declares Finn is only ancestrally British, and thus doesn't have any call to desecrate the sanctity of his friends' homes.

There's a single, shining moment when they might actually come to blows over national pride by proxy.

Then, Logan threatens to withhold cocktails from both of them, and the conflict fades immediately.

In the meantime, Stephanie teaches Rory the glories of the Parisien, as well as the reasons why after-dinner cocktails can actually precede the meal without civilization crumbling to pieces.



Her mother calls her cell phone at half past eleven.

Rory answers it be habit, and winces when a group of people in the corner start cheering as Lowell tosses back five shots of vodka, consecutively.

Rory turns her back to the revelry. "Hey, Mom."

"Hey, kid." Lorelai sounds vaguely worried. "You're not at a kegger, are you?"

"Nope." Melissa wanders past, a feather boa draped over her shoulders, twirling an antique cigarette holder between her fingers. "Not a kegger."

"I just, you know," Lorelai says, "wanted to say good night. I haven't heard from you in a couple of days."

Rory winces. "Yeah, I know. It's gotten kind of crazy. Big research project. You know."

"Right." A pause. "Is everything going okay?"

At that moment, Logan puts his hand on Rory's shoulder, runs his fingers lightly over her neck. She shivers.

"Everything's fine, Mom."

"If you're sure."

Logan touches his lips behind her ear, and she can feel him smile against her skin.

"I'm going to, you know. Get some sleep. Class in the morning."

"Okay, well. Love you. Kick some ass tomorrow."

"Just for you, Mom."

She hangs up, and Logan wraps an arm around her waist.

"Sleep?" he asks.

Rory tips her head back and breathes in the scent of him.




In the morning, she wakes when Logan's hand slips over her hip.

She smiles at him, then hears her cell phone beep. Voice message.

She reaches over, retrieves the message.

"Rory," her mother's voice recites, blurred by static, "Just wanted to say good morning. Let me know how class went. Did you do that thing where you stand on top of a desk and woo Robin Williams? Just remember, there's always the play next year. Love you."

Logan eases across the mattress, kisses her shoulder, her collarbone.

Rory deletes the message.