A/N: I'm writing at a warped sense of reality, so disregard relatively all plot points of this show. Also, although I'll be writing in the past, there will be no past tense. Only in rare circumstances will I use it. Enjoy.
I own nothing except for the two new characters, Leslie and Paul.
August 1993
The diner draws her only because of the heat. Her hair sticks to the back of her neck and she angrily puts it up into a ponytail. Damn her damn car. How does this shit happen? How does she end up in the last place she ever wants to be, walking towards the last place she ever wants to walk towards?
She pauses on the sidewalk across from the diner, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. No one is on the street, but she can see people huddled in buildings, leaning against the glass windows, chatting, laughing, arguing, slurping slushies and enjoying the invention that should have won every single prize in the world: the AC.
Looking across at the grayish blue of the diner's paint, at the hardware sign and then at the coffee mug with his name and his establishment written across the front, she wonders if she should head back or go to Doose's or to Miss Patty's place instead. Then she thinks of the free food and the unquestioning nod upstairs to use his phone and his bathroom and she breathes in the muggy air, which, ironically, settles her nerves.
Screw it, she thinks to herself, so what if I just up and left the last time we slept together? So what if he only called once and I didn't bother to pick up? He owes me, dammit. He owes me.
She walks slowly across the empty street to his full diner and hesitates before swinging open the door and hearing those jangling bells. A blast of cool air hits her and her skin immediately bumps up. She ignores the curious glances of the town gossips and makes her way artfully to the counter, where, thankfully, a spare stool sits open right in the line of sight of the grill.
She slides onto it, her short jean skirt riding up so that the upper part of her thighs hit the cool seat. She lets out a little sigh of relief which turns into surprise when a tall, frosted glass of lemonade is set in front of her along with an extra large slice of apple pie, cold, with pistachio ice cream.
"You still like pistachio, right?" he asks and she can feel her skin turning red at the sound of his voice. Even now, after months of knowing him and sleeping with him, the sound of his gruff, sardonic voice induces throbbing in the most private of places.
She takes the fork he placed on the plate in her hand before looking up at him. He is staring at her with his expressionless blue stare, the one that can strip her naked and make her crazy, especially in this heat. She pulls out the same stare and she still gets that same little thrill just knowing that she can make his eyes change color that fast.
"It's been two weeks, Luke. Tastes don't change in two weeks," she replies, her voice unintentionally husky.
"Some tastes do, Lorelai. Why are you here?" he asks, frank, something he usually isn't with her. She takes in his appearance, seeing him from a different standpoint, one of intense want. His hair is longish and messy and he's wearing a plain blue t-shirt that is tight across the chest and in the sleeves. His jeans are slung nicely on trim waist and she has the incredible urge to tug at his weathered leather belt.
She takes a sip from the glass and lets the tartness from the lemonade affect her words.
"Believe me Danes, I didn't come by for your warm hospitality, although the ice cream and apple pie certainly gives you an almost human shape," she stops to take a forkful, delicately licking a drop of pistachio ice cream from her lip, "I came by because my car broke down in a hundred degree weather and the diner is the only place I can stand while hot."
He searches her face while she eats, for what, he can't be sure. They always start out like this-barely civil yet subtly lustful and three hours later he's prostrate on his bed, wrapped in sweaty sheets listening to Lorelai hum Bowie while she showers and dresses. He won't deny that should that happen today, he wouldn't welcome it-he's just tired of waking up alone and feeling like he's the scratch for her itch.
He gives her one more watchful gaze before motioning his head towards the stairs.
She pretends to be taken aback by his gesture at gallantry. "No, Luke, I couldn't. Really, I'll just use the phone-"
"Lorelai," he sighs and she knows he can see through the act. He's getting good.
She gets up, taking the plate and the glass with her and without looking at him goes up those familiar wooden steps to that familiar apartment. She doesn't realize how silent it had been in the diner until she's in his apartment and can hear the sudden flare of talk that had been restrained.
She shakes her head and steps out of her flats, setting the plate and glass on the modest kitchen table. This town and their gossip. She wonders how he can take living here, being the way he is. She slings her bag onto his armchair and goes to the phone and dials the number for AAA.
Five minutes later, she hangs up, moderately more satisfied with her situation now that her car will be fixed and ready for her come tomorrow morning. She finishes off her pie and lemonade and goes to the bathroom.
She showers using his soap and dries herself by wrapping herself in a towel and resting on his bed. She runs a hand over the dark blue and green plaid sheets, the material not soft and worn like she's used to. She breathes in his pillow. That of newly opened sheet set smell has replaced the smell of his shampoo and of laundry detergent. New sheets. He doesn't buy new things, not in two weeks.
For some reason, this disturbs her and she shuts her eyes to his apartment and opens her mind to other things. She dreams of hands and his mouth and the texture of his skin as it collides with hers. She dreams of her tongue sliding along the bottom of his lip then continuing down until he is shaking and gripping her shoulder.
She can feel the pressure now and she moans, her body becoming flushed when that pressure turns into a brush across her shoulder blades. Luke, her mind whispers.
"Lorelai, wake up. It's after ten," his voice snaps her back into the present time and she shoots up, unaware that during her sleep her towel had opened.
He casually takes one side of the towel and covers her, his blue eyes too light for her to read. He is sitting next to her on the bed, an arm over her legs. She reaches for his face but he gets up. She puts her outstretched hand to her own face to find that she is hot and shaking.
"God," she whispers, suddenly embarrassed and covers her face when he comes back to stand above her.
"Here," he drops a t-shirt and boxer shorts onto her lap. She peeks out through her fingers at the clothes.
"I'll sleep on the couch," he says before turning from her and going into the bathroom.
She can hear the rub of the cotton shirt on his skin as he takes it off and her pulse quickens when she hears him unbuckle his belt, the quick rasp of the leather as he pulls it free from the belt loops. Her heart begins to thud slowly when the zipper makes that quick unzipping sound and puts a hand to her forehead when he gets into the shower, the shower hooks scraping the metal rod and the sputter then splatter of the water as it bursts forth from the shower head.
She is burning with the knowledge that he is naked and that nakedness is lathered in soap and water is sluicing down the muscles of his neck and of his torso, of his back and his legs. The image and the want propel her onto her feet and she is in the bathroom, clutching the towel to her. She feels that what she's doing is dangerous, hell, she knows what she's doing is dangerous. She hasn't felt him for two weeks. She pulled at her skin for all those days, hoping that it would stop remembering how easily he made her feel too much. She knows that this absence is her fault, but she saw him and now she is here and she has gone too long without feeling too much.
She pulls aside the curtain and he quickly turns to her, shocked. She lets her eyes betray her hunger and that shock turns into something more dark and unknowing. He turns his body fully towards her, everything becoming tense as she slowly rakes her gaze from wet head to toe. When she comes back to his eyes, they are glittering with the kind of need that allows her to drop her towel and step into the shower with him, completely unafraid that he might kick her out.
The water is cold as it washes around her feet and sprays her skin. She steps closer and places her hand on his chest, running it down over his stomach. His skin is soft from the soap and she moves closer still, so that the tip of her nipples grazes his chest and the tip of his erection presses into her stomach.
His hands come up to her waist, but they fall away and he does not touch her. Instead, he stares down into her, like he is looking for something that will make doing this okay, that will reassure him that this won't become another two weeks. She bites her lip and raises herself on the balls of her feet to his mouth.
"It's not. I'll try so that it won't be," she says against his lips and shudders in relief when his mouth comes down on hers and holds her under for what seems like hours. He lifts her and her legs wrap around his waist. He turns them both towards the shower tile, the cold water beating into her side. He moves within her in one quick thrust and she cries out, the movement spiking further heat throughout her body. He burrows himself deeper by using an arm under her behind to grind her pelvis against his, adding to both their pleasure. He flattens her against the shower wall and, with her holding on to his neck and shoulders, begins to drive into her, his mouth periodically finding its way to her breast, nipping and lathing it. She squeezes her legs tighter, unconsciously trying to contain his fullness. Her cries become louder as his pace becomes faster, her grip on him becoming tighter, her nails digging into his shoulder blade.
She cries out something unintelligible as she climaxes and one hard thrust later, he is right there with her, in a state of complete exhaustion. She is limp in his arms and he reaches over to shut off the water when she starts to shiver violently. He carefully withdraws from her as he sets her on her feet. She gives a small moan and clings to his shoulder, her legs unsteady.
He picks her up and carries her to the bed, turning down the sheet and placing her under it. Her hand finds his and pulls him back as he's about to leave. He gets under the sheet with her and they fall asleep, their hands clasped between them, their heads sharing a pillow.
The next morning, he awakes to find himself on his stomach, his arms around a pillow that is bunched under his cheek, his legs sticking out from under the sheet. The morning sun hits his eyelid and he turns his face the other way. He comes out of sleep when he hears her humming. The song is different, one that he's heard on the radio he's forced to turn on when Taylor starts in on him. He can also hear voices from downstairs, numerous voices.
"Shit," he sits up and she looks over to him from his armchair, a cup in her hand. She is dressed and her dark brown hair hangs in a shoulder length bob.
"Don't worry-I called in Josh. There's orange juice on the stand next to you and a bowl of fruit, courtesy of Josh, who hopes you take it easy and told me to tell you that fruit is better than soup when dealing with a cold," she says, a layer of ease underlying her dryness.
He glances at the nightstand, unable to process why she is still here, drinking from his cup on his armchair.
"I thought you'd be gone," he says, deciding that it's better to cut to the chase than to play at whatever game she might be up to.
She sighs and gets up, setting the cup down sharply on the kitchen table.
"I said I wanted to give it a try. Do you think I would sneak out of here after I said that?"
He doesn't reply and she goes to sit next to him on the bed. "I meant what I said Luke. I do."
He nods, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, that's good. That you mean it. It's good."
"Mmmhmmm, it is very good. Last night was beyond good. How can I give up something that good?" she smiles playfully.
He shrugs, laying back, a small grin on his face. "So it's about that, huh?"
She bends over him and gives him a slow, heated kiss.
"We got to start somewhere," she says as he rolls over her and that is the only conversation they have for the next couple of hours.