Disclaimer: Blah blah blah Idon'townanyofitcakes.
A/N: Again, thanks for all the feedback on the story. The only thing more fun than writing it has been getting response from people who actually read it. (I gotta tell ya, I wasn't sure anyone would.)
SeaWench: I think your probably right about the over-hastiness of Lorelai's outburst. I was thinking of her as the tired, overwhelmed "Incredible S(hr)inking" Lorelai, so I probably rushed it. And could you tell me more about what you thought was out of character in the first part? Thanks!
Bella Wilfer: I don't know if Jason had driven other cars in other episodes, but 'm pretty sure that in the tailgating scene in "Family Matter" he's driving a Mercedes. Thanks for keeping me on my toes, though!
Keep those cards and letters coming, gang!
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Lorelai pulled up to the diner late Monday morning, eager for a celebratory cup of coffee. She and Sookie had just finished what had to be the most optimistic meeting they'd ever had with Tom, their contractor. Things were progressing along nicely, he'd told them, and it looked like the Dragonfly would indeed open on schedule. She and Sukie got so excited they had jumped up and down and squealed and kissed Tom on each cheek, causing him to blush adorably. (Sukie even offered to name her next kid after him). For the first time in months Lorelai didn't feel like a failure. She could see her dream right in front of her, and for once she felt like she could allow herself to believe she'd get it. After the meeting Sukie had run home to be with Davy, but for Lorelai such good news called for coffee. And maybe pie.
As Lorelai parked her Jeep on the street, she was pleased to see Luke's familiar green truck sitting in its usual spot. It had only been a little more than a week, but she had missed Luke more than she wanted to admit. Sure, she'd gone to the diner while he was away, but instead of sticking around like she usually would, she'd just get her order to go and take off. She'd never really noticed it before, but hanging out at the diner 24/7 actually lost some of its appeal when Luke wasn't part of the whole hanging-out-at-the-diner package.
She found herself standing on the sidewalk outside the diner, just watching him for a minute through the window. The diner was nearly empty, and he was behind the counter, wiping it down as usual. He looked pretty much the same as he always did, maybe a little more tired. Somehow he'd been expecting him to look different. He'd just gone through a major life change, and she thought he should look more . . .single. But he just looked like Luke—rumpled, cranky, reliable Luke. She gave a guilty start as he caught her watching him and gave her a "the hell?" look.
"Were you just staring at me?" he demanded as she walked through the door.
Lorelai decided to play the whole thing off as a joke. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to figure out where I might know you from. You look awfully familiar, and that particular flannel pattern seems to ring a bell, but I'm having the darndest time placing your face." She snapped her fingers as she slid onto a stool. "Of course! You summer at the Cape, don't you? I met you at Kip and Muffy Worthington's house party in '54."
Luke rolled his eyes. "Well, at least it's good to know your sparkling sense of humor didn't diminish in my absence." He turned to retrieve the coffeepot, glad to have something to distract him for a minute. He'd thought about her the whole time he'd been gone, but had eventually decided to suck it up and let things go on as usual. But now that she was here, in front of him—in the flesh, so to speak—he was having trouble remembering why things should go on as usual. And why had she been staring at him like that a minute ago? He took a calming breath and turned back to place her coffee on the counter in front of her.
Lorelai's eyes widened—she wasn't sure whether she was more surprised at the sudden appearance of the coffee or the noticeable lack of lecture accompanying said sudden appearance, but she decided to take it as a sign that the Java Gods were smiling on her. "Wow," she said, taking a sip, "no lectures, no rants. You must have had a good trip."
"It was fine," he replied, expansive as ever.
"Uh-huh." She studied him for a minute, then placed her coffee cup on the counter. "Give me your hands," she said suddenly, holding her own hands out to him.
"Excuse me?
"Your hands." She gestured impatiently. "Let me see 'em."
Luke sighed and placed his hands on her upturned palms, wondering if this was some kind of bizarre Lorelai come-on. They both tried to ignore the warmth that flooded their bodies at the contact.
"Um-hum," Lorelai murmured as if she were an investigator on CSI: Stars Hollow. She turned his hands over, looking closely at his fingernails. "No obvious indications of moisturizer or a manicure." She let his hands go and leaned all the way over the counter, pushing his baseball cap back a few inches on his head. "Clearly no styling product in use." She sat back on her stool and studied his face. "I guess the scruff thing could go either way. Scruff is in right now."
"I don't even want to ask what you're doing, do I?"
She shrugged. "Just checking for telltale signs of burgeoning metrosexuality."
"I'm sorry, burgeoning whattrosexuality?"
"You know, as in 'metrosexual.'" She saw that he still had no idea what she was talking about, and sighed at his cultural ignorance. "You've obviously never seen Queer Eye."
"Excuse me?!?"
"The metrosexual," she began as if lecturing to an anthropology class, "is a new species of urban male who—while in many cases still straight—has learned to embrace the finer points of personal grooming and the chic lifestyle. New York City is, by many accounts, the epicenter of metrosexual culture, and since you've just spent over a week there . . ."
"Yeah, well, I was in Brooklyn, not the West Village," he grumbled, nevertheless relieved that Lorelai hadn't been making a comment about his . . . masculinity.
"Oh, look at you, trying to act all like you know what's hip," she giggled. "Besides, everyone knows SoHo is the hot place to be now. Or is it Tribeca?" She shrugged. "You know what? It changes so fast it's almost impossible to keep up." She took another sip of coffee. "So, when did you get back?"
"A couple of hours ago. And I wasn't here fifteen minutes before the vultures started circling."
'Oh, no . . ."
"Oh, yes. Patty and Babette were in here a little while ago." He shuddered. "They had . . . pictures."
"Pictures?" Lorelai was confused. "Pictures of what?"
"Of . . . women."
Lorelai let out a loud gasp, and the two customers remaining in the diner turned toward her. "No way! They brought you nudie pictures? Dirty!"
"Would you shush?" Luke blushed a deep red as he looked around to make sure the couple hadn't actually heard what Lorelai had said. "They were pictures of women they want to fix me up with, now that I am 'back on the open market.' Babette's words, not mine."
"Aw, you've got yourself a couple of matchmakers. That's so sweet. Hey, it's just like Crossing Delancey!"
"I'm assuming that's some movie or t.v. show I've never seen and don't care about, and that, despite my absolute indifference, you're now going to tell me about it in excruciating detail anyway."
"It's a movie, and it's freakin' adorable." She drank some more coffee and straightened up on her stool, preparing to give the full recap. "Okay, see, Amy Irving plays this woman whose meddling-but-well-meaning grandmother hires the neighborhood yenta to find Amy a man. 'Cause Amy's, you know, thirty-three and not married, and the world's about to come to an end." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, the yenta tries to hook Amy up with the local pickle vendor. You can tell right away he's a great guy, but he's kind of gruff and not very fancy—works all day in the family business, wears lots of flannel . . ." She looked at Luke thoughtfully. "Actually, he reminds me a lot of you. Except for that whole hands-smelling-like-vinegar thing."
Luke rolled his eyes. "Yeah, mine just reek of burger grease. So, what happens with Amy and the Pickle Man?" he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
"Well, see, at first Amy's not having it. She's all, 'Excuse me, I'm a single woman with amazing hair and a great job and a cool apartment and even if I did need a man—which, being a liberated career woman of the 80s I don't—it certainly wouldn't be a guy who needs a matchmaker to get a girl.' Plus, she thinks she's in love with Pretentious Writer Guy, who of course turns out to be a giant, self-absorbed jerk in the end."
"As most pretentious writers usually do."
"Exactly! Anyway, it turns out that Pickle Man never really hired the yenta, he was just trying to humor her 'cause she'd been bugging him for years. But one day the yenta showed him Amy's picture and he said yes, he'd meet her. Seems he'd seen her around the neighborhood for a few years and had this crush on her but had never really talked to her or asked her out . . ." She trailed off as she looked into Luke's eyes. Suddenly the movie was hitting a little too close to home for both of them. "So they finally get together in the end and they dance in the bubbie's kitchen and I assume get married and have lots of cute, literate little New York babies and live happily ever after," she finished hurriedly.
Luke looked down and wiped the counter mindlessly, trying to avoid Lorelai's gaze. This was the second story he'd heard in less than twenty-four hours about some guy who loved some girl from afar and took years to do anything about it. If he believed in those sorts of things, he's almost think that Somebody Up There Was Trying To Tell Him Something. Maybe they were—Amy Irving and the Pickle Man had a happy ending, and Liz and T. J. seemed to be heading for one as well. For now, though, he decided to change the subject. "You know," he said, trying to keep his voice normal, "you're just about the only person I know who can go from 50s Cape Cod to styling products to dirty pictures to Jewish matchmakers in the space of one five-minute conversation."
"Purely a self-preservation tactic, my friend. It's a skill I developed over years of trying to dodge my mother's conversational land mines." Lorelai grinned, relieved that the tension of a moment earlier seemed to have broken. She had the uneasy feeling that something was changing between them. She couldn't really put her finger on it—it was vague, as if everything had suddenly been moved an inch to the left of where it usually was, or the molecules around them were shifting or something. Whatever it was, she couldn't shake the idea that it was leading them to some not-to-distant Point of No Return, and that scared her.
Trying to put those thoughts out of her head she glanced down at her watch, and gasped when she saw the time. "Speaking of my mother and potential bodily mutilation, what time do you have?" she asked, praying that her watch was simply being as idiosyncratic as every other mechanical device in her life.
Luke glanced at his own watch. "11:37."
"Oh, god, that's what I thought." she groaned. "I was supposed to meet her at the Dragonfly seven minutes ago. And seven minutes late is the equivalent of two hours late in Emily time." She laid her head on the counter. "Please shoot me now. Just one little bullet to the brain to put me out of my misery, I beg you."
"She's coming to the inn?" Luke asked, a little confused.
"Yeah, we're supposed to—" she lifted her head up. "Oh, yeah, that's right—you probably haven't heard yet. Seems that Friday night I went into some kind of brief but intense psychotic episode and actually asked my mother to help plan the Dragonfly's grand opening. I think they're going to write the whole thing up in Psychology Today." She shook her head. "I still don't understand how it happened. Wait. Yes, I do. I blame Rory." She glared at Luke accusingly. "And you, too."
"Me?"
"Yes, you! Well, maybe not so much for the actual asking-her-to-help bit. But you weren't here for me to whine and rant after. You were a non-accessory after the fact."
"Well, sorry I wasn't there to help. But I'm back now, so you can come whine and rant at me any time." It came out more seriously than he'd meant, and they both caught it. They stared at each other for a brief second, then Luke suddenly noticed the counter needed wiping again and Lorelai became really intrigued by the handle on her coffee cup.
Lorelai was the first to break the silence. "Man, I suck as a friend."
Well, that wasn't what he'd been expecting. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, come on. You're going through this major . . . thing, and I just sit here crying about my mommy issues. I should be the one letting you rant and whine."
"I do not whine."
"But you do rant. You're known for your ranting throughout the state. They're thinking of building a statue of you in front of the state capitol and --"
"Okay, I rant. Point taken."
"Seriously, Luke, you're always there for me when I need you. Let me do something for you for once."
"You bailed me out of jail. That's plenty."
"But your bail was just a fraction of what I owe you, so really that's just like paying back part of a loan, not helping out a friend." She thought for a moment. "I've got it! You need a wallow!"
"Excuse me?" He knew it was the third time he'd said it since she'd sat down, but the conversation kept taking these weird turns.
"A wallow is the perfect antidote for failed relationships, lost jobs, bad report cards and parental sneak attacks. It's like movie night with self pity and mass quantities of junk food added," she explained. "."
"I don't do junk food," he said, stating the obvious.
"Okay, mass quantities of carrots, grilled chicken, whatever," she said dismissively. "C'mon, let me do this for you."
"Well . . ." He knew he should say no, but the idea of spending time with Lorelai alone in her house was just too . . . He sighed and rolled his eyes, as if giving up a great struggle. "Okay, fine. What the hell? I'll . . . wallow."
"Great! Tell you what, why don't you come over tomorrow night, I'll make us dinner . . ."
Luke raised his eyebrows skeptically.
" . . .buy us dinner," she continued, wrinkling her nose at him, "and pick up a couple of movies. I promise, this time only testosterone saturated, sports-themed, Luke-friendly films on the agenda. Whaddya say?"
"Well, since we both know I have no choice in the matter . . ."
"Great! So, 7:00, my place for the Luke Danes Dude-Movie and Wallow Extravaganza." She gave him a bright smile. The smile faded a second later when she remembered that her mother was still waiting for her, most likely tapping her well-shod toe and drumming her impeccably manicured nails. But then again, she was probably driving Michel crazy while she waited. It was sort of a glass half-full/glass half-empty kind of situation. She sighed.
"So, look, I figure I'm in for at least half an hour of 'For heaven's sake, Lorelai, you wear a watch. You should be able to arrive at your appointments punctually,'" she said, in a dead-on Emily interpretation. "To get through it with at least some of my sanity intact I'm gonna need the Super-Deluxe Trough-o-Coffee. To go."
Luke nodded his head sympathetically. "For once, I almost agree with you." He began filling one of the largest Styrofoam cups he had behind the counter.
"On second thought, better make it two. Maybe if I bring Emily a cup she'll drink it and the magical powers of your amazing coffee will make her forget my tardiness and what a disappointment my whole existence has been to her in general."
"I dunno. I'm good, but I'm not a miracle worker." He grinned to let her know he was joking and handed her the second cup.
She clutched both cups to her and smiled gratefully. "You are a god! So, I'll see you tomorrow night? Of course, that's after I see you when I come in for breakfast in the morning and lunch in the afternoon and—"
"I'll be there."
"Alrighty then!" She gave him one last smile then headed out door. As she walked to the Jeep she thought about the upcoming Wallow Night. She'd done the right thing in inviting him over, she was sure. He was her friend, and she was just trying to help him through a rough time. Then why did she feel like she'd practically asked him out? A wave of confusion swept over her, threatening to bring on the headache she always got when she let herself think too deeply about her relationship with Luke. And a headache was the last thing she needed when she was getting ready to face an irritable Emily-in-waiting.
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Up Next: Wallow Night!