AN (ridiculously long):

First of all, thank you for the wonderful responses to chapter one. Your comments were thoughtful and much appreciated, and it's an honor to see reviews from authors I admire.

Several of you have asked about "Any Other Day", and I am still working on that one. Unfortunately, R&R (wonderful as it is) has skewed things so much that I'm having some trouble writing a pre-R&R world right now. I am still working on it, but it's slow going at the moment.

This fic should be updated more frequently; my muse is cooperating and I've got it outlined pretty thoroughly. I'm aware this story is pretty dark at the moment, but it will lighten up somewhat as we progress. I'm trying not to retread territory that's been covered by other post-R&R fics out there, but that's going to happen a little; it's the nature of the beast. Hope this one will be different enough to keep your interest; thoughts and constructive criticism are always appreciated.

Huge thanks to carrielynn, a wonderful writer and friend who also happens to be a terrific beta.

It all started just after Rory turned fourteen and discovered her mother's closet was much more desirable than her own. Lorelai had come out of the shower one morning to find her daughter wearing her own favorite skirt, Lorelai's best black v-neck sweater, flats, and a matching scarf.

"And what is that?"

Rory smiled up at her. "It's your sweater."

"It does look like my sweater, but usually my sweaters are on me."

"Usually, it's on a hanger."

"But when it's not on the hanger, it's usually on me."

"Or in the laundry basket, waiting for Saturday."

"Ok, kid, if you're gonna do this, we're going to lay down some ground rules."

And so the official rules of sweater-sharing had been written, filed away in communal memory next to the official rules for movie night. It was a simple notification system: you were expected notify when you stole clothes, and also to notify when you were reserving an outfit for a particular occasion. (Lorelai's cherry-red A-line dress, for instance, was reserved that evening for a date one week in advance.) If you stained something, you got it out, and when you washed, you had to meticulously observe all categories of bleach and non-bleach, bleed and non-bleed, shed and non-shed, and the all-important dry cleaning. If, despite your very best efforts, you managed to ruin something of the other's, you were to confess immediately and plan a mall trip to make amends.

They hadn't been able to separate their clothes ever since. After Rory went to Yale, it became standard practice to search the laundry basket and make exchanges any time she brought it home.

This time, when Rory left, she hadn't taken any of Lorelai's things. Not her black v-neck, not her boot-cut extra-slimming jeans, not her Hello Kitty iron. None of her slingback sandals and not even one pair of Emily-appropriate earrings. For the first time since her chest filled out enough to wear her mother's shirts, Rory had left everything untouched, perfectly hung and folded. When she returned home, Lorelai found a pile of her things – some she didn't even remember owning – lying neatly stacked on Rory's perfectly-made bed.

Rory was gone, and hadn't taken a trace of her mother with her.

Lorelai sank to the floor beside the bed, hands running across her folded favorite v-neck sweater.

Luke flipped off the radio, downshifted, and steered the truck onto the shoulder of the highway.

"Luke, what are you doing?"

He put the truck into park and turned to face her. "Look, I may not be an expert at this, but when a woman cries all the way through a date, that's usually considered a bad sign."

Lorelai kept staring straight through the windshield. "I was weeping for Mary Shelley. All that grave-spinning has to get tiring at some point."

"Lorelai."

"Fine, it was for Hugh Jackman's career. Think how many hairdressers are going to be out of work, and I missed The Boy from Oz."

He stared at her for a moment, expression changing from anger to concern and back again. He finally gave a resigned sigh and pulled the truck back into gear. She continued staring out the windshield.

He was right, of course. She half-hoped he wouldn't notice, but that was a joke. She hadn't broken down sobbing, no heaving-chest hysterics, but had sat in the theater fighting off slow, persistent tears, the kind that left her swiping at her cheeks every few minutes, like a particularly annoying mosquito.

He pulled up in front of her house, put the truck in to park, and cut the engine. Neither of them spoke; neither of them moved; they both alternated between staring out the windshield and at their hands.

"Come in for a minute?" Her voice was serious again, subdued, unnaturally calm. Her unmistakeable Something Is Wrong voice. He inhaled, and nodded, and stepped out of the truck without another word.

She let him in the door and headed for the kitchen. After her third attempt to force shaking hands to measure out the correct amount of coffee grounds, she felt strong hands wrap around her own.

"Give me that, you're only going to spill it everywhere." She hoped the exasperation in his voice was exaggerated.

She took a seat at the table while Luke finished the coffee, picking up a slip of paper and turning it over and over in her hands. She heard him opening and closing cabinets, and when she glanced up he was pouring coffee in to the largest mug she owned.

"Trade you." She held out the folded piece of paper as he passed her the oversized mug. He scanned it as he sank down in the chair beside her, then slowly exhaled.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

Mom,

I've gone to visit Dad and Sherry; they've been asking me to come for a while. I don't know how long I'm going to stay. I'll let you know when I decide to come home. You don't have to worry about me. I'm fine.

-R

"You said you had a fight; you weren't kidding."

"Yeah, well, you know the Gilmores. It's not a fight until the Security Council intervenes."

"Can I ask what happened?"

She shook her head. "It involves some things that are personal to Rory – I can't say anything without saying too much, and the worst thing to do right now is get more people involved."

"You do realize this is Stars Hollow, right?"

It was meant as a joke, but it hit right in the chest. Lorelai covered her face with one hand as the tears started flowing again.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry." Luke reached over with a tentative hand and began rubbing her back. He didn't stop until she looked up again, wiping the tears from her face.

"Luke, you just—I tried so hard to teach her, and use some sense, and she's always been so thoughtful and so reliable and so Rory…" she wiped her face again, "I just never thought we were going to end up here."

For a moment, he seemed uncertain, not quite sure how to react. Then he pushed his chair closer to hers and pulled her into his arms; she let her face rest on his chest. She shut her eyes tightly and clenched her jaw. It was all just so, so much to absorb. She felt as if she'd been sucked into a David Fincher movie and was left dangling after the twist from hell.

And it didn't help that she was now sitting in her kitchen and crying in Luke's arms. This was Luke, our Luke, the town Luke, and now he was – she didn't want to think about it. She relaxed against him, willing all the complications away, at least for a moment. She wanted someone, now, to wrap strong arms around her and tell her blindly that everything would be okay. Luke was better at that than anyone she knew. He always had been.

He didn't speak until her shoulders had stopped shaking.

"Anything I can do?"

"You know any fast routes to Boston?"

"Do you want me to drive you?"

She looked up at him, shocked to see that he was serious.

"No, I don't want you to drive me to Boston, that would be the absolute worst thing—" she broke off and shook her head, blinking back fresh tears. "It's sweet of you to offer. Really, thank you."

She pulled back, wiping her cheeks with her hands. They stared at each other a moment, unsure what came next.

"Well, this isn't awkward." The Awkwardness Meter promptly jumped a few more notches, and Lorelai silently cursed herself for speaking. Luke slid his hands from her back and rested them on his knees, fidgeting with the fabric of his pants.

"You know, I should—I left Lane in charge of everything, and she shouldn't have to close up by herself."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

He straightened up, but didn't step away. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Jury's still out on that one."

"I mean here, now. Do you want to come back to the diner? If you needed company."

She pursed her lips and considered it for the moment, then shook her head. "I think I'm going to go back to the Dragonfly – there's still a lot to do over there, I could stand to be busy." She took a deep breath and brushed the tears from her face. "How do I look?"

"You always look great."

She smiled. "That bad?"

"We are still on a date."

"Then I officially declare the date over."

"Like you've spent three hours crying for Hugh Jackman."

"That good, huh?"

"You may want to—" he made some indefinite motion around his eyes, "—with the mascara."

"Got it."

And they were back to the Awkward Staring phase. Lorelai finally stood up and pushed her chair back.

"I'll walk you out."

They made it all the way to the front porch before they did the stop-and-stare thing. Again.

"Well, I guess this is Awkward Moment #493."

"It doesn't help when you say that."

"No, but it distracts you." She smiled for a moment, then went back into Serious Lorelai mode. "Do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Forgive me for being the worst date in history."

He laughed a little. "It's fine." He reached out, slowly, and caught her fingertips in his. "You've got World War Three to worry about." She slipped her fingers between his and gave his hand a light squeeze.

He took another long breath. "You could make it up to me," he said. "Have dinner with me on Wednesday."

She smiled. "Gonna milk that guilt thing for all it's worth."

He shrugged. "I've learned a thing or two." A pause. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"Good." Luke stepped closer and let his free hand rest lightly on her hip. Careful not to be mistaken, he tilted his head to one side – very far to one side – leaned in, and kissed her cheek.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight. And thank you – for everything."

He simply nodded, and she squeezed his hand one last time as he pulled away.