Disclaimer: If they were mine, this very surely would not have happened.
Author's Note: This is the beginning of what will be a post-finale series. Huge thanks to the betas, KinoFille, iheartbridges, and Lula Bo for helping me tweak this story so that it properly begins the story I want to tell.
The click of her heels on the pavement is the only sound that penetrates the white noise buzzing in her head. She holds her fists closed tightly, her nails threatening to bite through the skin of her palms. Her breaths come in deep gulps, as though she'd just finished a race rather than a fight with her…
She can't bring herself to put a name to what she and Luke have become, to think about what it means that she gave him an ultimatum that he didn't accept. That she's walking away and he's not following her. Because she knows that even through the sudden rush of sound in her head, she'd be able to hear the determined thumps of his feet. She'd know if he were fighting for her.
She can barely process the events that have led here: the insurmountable frustration at her inability to be a part of Luke's life, the hypocrisy of lying to her friends and daughter about her state of mind, the unimaginable coincidence of finding someone anonymous to talk to at the exact moment that her fears seemed set to overwhelm her in all of their agonizing hopelessness.
"Maybe it's not meant to be."
Each syllable echoes in the misty fuzziness of her thoughts, punctuated by the sound of her shoes on the street. "May-be it's not meant to be. Step. May-be it's not meant to be. Step."
The mantra takes on a sing-song rhythm that entrenchesitself more firmly with each passing step, that taunts her the further she gets away from him.
The words pause briefly when she reaches the Jeep and stops to pull out her keys, and she thinks that perhaps she's kicked the mantra, but it begins again as she climbs into her seat.
She reaches for her phone and punches buttons, the motions automatic. She stops for a moment as her finger hovers over Rory's number. As much as she needs her, she can't do it. She can't ruin her last night with Logan. Rory deserves the chance to make it work with her boyfriend, even if her mother can't make it work with her own.
If not Rory, this should be something she could talk about with Sookie, but she can't bear the pity. She cringes against the thought of admitting yet another relationship failure to her oldest friend. Her friend who has managed to fall in love, get married, and have two children, all while watching Lorelai fumble around in the world of love and romance.
Without those options, the emptiness of her bedroom at home looms large, larger still for the fact that he hasn't been there to share it in days, weeks maybe. And he's not likely to be there again.
No, there's no way she can go back to the house that, after so many years of being hers and Rory's alone, had been expanded to become Luke's as well, only to now be just hers.
She leans her forehead against the steering wheel, feeling lost. She knows that only a few moments have passed, but the pressure on her head is a dull ache by the time she sits up, turns the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the road.
She's not sure when she decided where she was headed. She's only been to the new place in Hartford once, but she finds it easily. Too easily perhaps. She's there before she has a chance to think through the decision - before she's had a chance to understand why she's seeking consolation from the one person who won't tell her what a mistake it was to walk away from Luke.
"Uhh…I'm having a really bad night and um…I just don't wanna be alone, okay?"
Christopher ushers her in graciously, his voice concerned and his hand gentle on her arm. He leads her to the couch and she lowers herself onto it slowly. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to get a grip on what she's feeling.
The strange thing is that she can't feel anything.
Lorelai has always been keenly aware of the tastes, smells, sounds, and touches that surround her. The sweet aroma of a stack of blueberry pancakes. The crushing ferocity of a hug. The full-body vibration of a hearty laugh. The shine of eyes glistening with love. The brush of skin against skin. She's wondered sometimes if she feels these sensations with more intensity than other people, or if it's really possible that everyone is able to feel as much as she does.
But sitting here on Christopher's buttery leather couch, all of that is gone. She has a vague sense that it's her mind's way of protecting her in the face of pain, but the absence is stark nonetheless. The room seems colder, brighter, and harsher than it should.
She turns her head to see Christopher staring at her. She can tell he's confused, out of his element. He's not used to being the one leaned on. He's looking at her expectantly and she realizes that he's said her name.
"Lor?" he repeats. "What's wrong?"
She just shakes her head
"Can I…Can I get you something? Coffee? Soda? Beer?" He lowers his voice slightly. "Something stronger?"
She shakes her head again, more vigorously this time. She's numb enough without adding alcohol to the mix. "Just some water please?" she asks, lifting her head to meet his eyes for the briefest of moments.
He nods, saying, "I'll be right back."
When he returns, he's got a glass for each of them. He hands it to her and she tips her head in thanks. He looks at her uncertainly before sitting down next to her, his body twisted to the side and his elbow resting on the back of the couch so that he can face her. She still sits as rigidly as when she arrived. Her hands, which had been clasped in her lap, are now wrapped tightly around her glass.
He reaches to touch her knee. "Lor, what's wrong?"
"I just don't want to be alone," she says dully.
"Why? What happened?" She can hear genuine concern in his voice, worry even.
She lifts her fingers up and taps them back down on the glass, one at a time, staring straight ahead at the immense entertainment center spread out in front of her. She finally says, her voice emotionless, "I don't think he wants to marry me."
"Why?" he asks, sounding confused.
She shrugs. "It's not meant to be."
She can hear the surprise in his voice. "He said that?"
She tries not to notice that he doesn't encourage her, that he doesn't try to convince her that she's wrong. She is trying to avoid pity and false hope, she reminds herself.
She let out a sigh. "I don't really want to talk about it." She tilts her head, glancing briefly at him. "Can we just…I don't know…watch TV or something?"
"Sure." He rests his hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze before he leans forward to get the remote off the coffee table. There's something faintly possessive about the gesture. It reminds her of the way he ran his hand along her arm in the bathroom at her parent's house earlier. She doesn't know what to make of it, so she turns her attention to whatever late-night talk show he has chosen.
They watch in relative silence, Christopher attempting a few jokes and jabs at the talk show guests. She gives him weak smiles to acknowledge his efforts. When the credits roll, he turns to look at her, saying softly. "I know you don't want to talk, but I just want you to know that I'm here for you." He reaches to brush hair from her face, and his fingers graze down her cheek. They're gentle and his voice is soft and so Lorelai leans into his hand. He lets his fingers curl down to cup her jaw, all the while looking her in the eye.
She knows that he wants her. Not just in the sexual sense, but in the sense where he wants her let him take care of her. He wants to be the man in her life. Subconsciously, she's always known that she's had this power over him, as much as she has tried to deny it. She's tried to attribute it to a father's love for the mother of his child, but it's always been more than that. And, deep in the hidden recesses of her mind, she's always known that.
And now, he's looking at her with affection, and he's been speaking soft, kind words all night, and she finds that she's having a hard time resisting being wanted. Because she's been wanting to be wanted, to be needed, for many months now. And there he is, wanting and needing her. Except that it's the wrong he.
She knows this even as she leans in to press her lips to his. She feels a little like she's outside of herself, like she's watching a character on TV. And that character is about to do something monumentally stupid. And she wants the person to stop, but all she can do is yell at the TV and she knows that it won't do any good because the character can't hear her. Because she's really just a television character.
She pulls back and he's looking at her softly. "Lorelai?" he questions.
It's the first time he's said her full name, and though it's not unusual for him to do so, right now it sounds strange coming from his lips. Everything is off, out of place, when all she wants is warmth and safety. All she wants is to feel something.
"Lor?" he says again.
She whispers, "Don't say anything," as she closes her eyes and kisses him again. She's not sure exactly what she's looking for, but somehow his lips aren't warm enough, the hand behind her head not quite firm enough.
She thinks maybe if she gets closer that she'll be able to feel more, so she reaches around his neck and holds more tightly, and his arms hold her just as tightly as his hands gently knead the muscles of her back.
She sinks into him, searching for sensation, feeling it just out of her grasp. She thinks maybe if she could touch his skin, or feel his fingers on hers that it could soothe her. Somewhere in her search for comfort, he's lost his shirt and his hand has found it's way under the hem of her dress. His kisses are gentle, but insistent, marking her lips, her neck, her shoulder and she can hear him mumble against her skin, "I'm here…you have me."
When he pulls away, stands, and takes her hand, she lets him lead her down the hall, lets him lay her back on the bed. Because all she wants is warmth and safety.
By the time she realizes there's none to be found here, he's grabbing a condom from the bedside table and pushing his way inside her and all she can do is close her eyes and wait for it to be over. She hears him above her, panting between thrusts, "Lor. God…missed you…love you."
She hears the words, and even knows that somewhere in her damaged psyche she thought she needed to hear them tonight, but they don't evoke the feelings she'd expected them to. They don't bring any comfort.
She can feel him circling his hips to try to entice more of a reaction from her as he nears completion. She tries to summon the effort to pull herself into the act, but fails and he finishes without her, gasping her name as he slows his movements inside her.
Propping himself on one arm, he slips his other hand between them. "I can make you…Let me…"
She reaches to stop him as she opens her eyes and shakes her head numbly. "No. It's okay."
He nods, rolling to the side and cradling her against his chest. She feels his fingers running up and down her back as he whispers. "I'm here. Whatever it is…I'm here."
She lets the words fall on her ears, trying to feel something in them. When he loosens his grip, she turns away from him, acquiescing when he slips his arm around her and pulls her to him.
She curls her body in a tight, protective ball, and grasps her hands together under her chin. Her thumb brushes across the ring on her left hand as she tries to summon disgust and revulsion at the way that she ran here and used him.
But she can't feel anything. Nothing matters anymore. Because it's not meant to be. She twists the ring around on her finger, so that the diamond is hidden and the ring just looks like a ring with no particular significance.
The action should hurt. She should be wallowing in the pain of what she's lost, should be crying great gasping sobs. But she just feels empty.
To be continued…Author's note: There will eventually be a second chapter of this story, but not immediately, because I'm going to be working on another story in this series first.