5.09 Emily Says Hello episode addition (in a thematic sort of way).

'Making it up to you' and Thanksgiving. Promo alluded to. Not spoilers.

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I.

"Hello." she heard.

She tried to focus her eyes. Tried to remember where she was.

"Hello," she answered, remembering now, "Sorry I fell asleep on you again."

"It's okay," he assured as he gazed down at her upon his pillow. He could see her eyes clearly now.

So blue.

"I do that," she sat up and rubbed at the crick in her neck, "I fall asleep in weird places. Kinda famous for it."

"It's fine, Rory."

"Well, I 'll get off your bed now and head home."

"I'll walk you."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Marty."

"It's late. And it's raining. I don't mind."

"Well, okay then. You're a good friend."

"What I'm famous for..." he mumbled from the closet as he dug for an umbrella, and then, "Do you think this will do?" he asked and presented her with a battered rusty black thing.

"Well, it's no Hello Kitty model, but it'll keep us dry," she approved.

II.

Hello, what a surprise; It's the fucking Dark and Stormy Night, he thought ruefully.

Cliches and bad weather aside, he kept walking anyway.

Slapping through the puddles and trying not to think about it. Thinking about it anyway. Still walking. Still thinking about it. Growling occasionally. Moving away from her house when, with each step, he knew he should just turn around and go right back. Go right back and try to explain.

But he'd never done that before.

Not about this.

Because after thirty years, he still didn't understand it himself. Hadn't talked to anyone about it. Ever. Not since that night.

Rachel in her day, suspicious, had fished around (to his annoyance) and finally gone to the library and looked it up on microfiche. It had been a big story in it's day. Sad and at holiday time. That always drew lots of the pruriently curious dressed up as the sympathetic. Once she knew, she'd left it to lie, more or less. Probably hadn't known what to say. There had been some long knowing stares and a few half-asked questions after that. But then she'd left and it hadn't mattered any more.

And Liz, through the years, even before their dad had died, had called it 'Survivor's Guilt', and had periodically encouraged him to go see a shrink. Usually when she was stoned which made the whole idea moot. Because when she was sober again she would just forget about it in her hurry to run away. And he still couldn't understand why it was never with a look of reproach or word of blame tossed over her shoulder at him as she went. Which was a large part of why he always bailed her out.

Well, he probably would have done that anyway.

The rain was soaking through his old green coat now. And he was well out along the old back highway. It was late. He didn't know how late. Didn't really care.

He sighed again.

'....He thought expressions of intimacy were a gift to his partner, but he was wrong. They should be given freely...'

Dammit.

He should be in bed with Lorelai right now.

Not exactly the intimacy Phillip had been on about, but it sounded better than the alternative right now.

And it had been their unspoken, though mutually understood plan. Dinner, a movie on TV, then bed. It was what they did. It worked for them. And now here he was. Cold and with old black and white home movies flashing in his head. Well, the parts he could remember anyway. The Super Eight images getting choppier through the years. Mostly it was just the feeling of it. Feelings brought back by the damndest little things.

Well. Fuck that.

He kept walking.

Nicole, of course, never knew. He'd made sure of that. Thought if he tried, made himself over, began again, he'd have his chance. Sure she knew something was there. But didn't press him on it. Which was partly why they lasted as long as they did. This way he could pretend that this was his new life. And what had happened so long ago was really still back there. Long ago.

And nowhere near the here and now. In the smokey evening-smell that burned in his throat from every chimney in town. Not in the frickin' orange and red leaves he could remember she loved. And certainly not in the dried out curves of the hand-planed wood in the garage. The planks shrunken so far away from one another now, no pitch or sealant could ever mend them.

"What is it with you and fall? Seasonal Affective Disorder or something?" (hunh?) she'd wanted to know, in that nosey Lorelai way. "You're always so grumpy this time of year. Would a few decorations kill you? Just a pumpkin? A cute little pilgrim? It's beautiful out! Be happy, damn it!"

So he changed tactics (away from the Taylor decorating rant) and tried to distract her with his theory about men who drive expensive foreign cars (only overcompensating for their shortcomings) but she wasn't buying it.

And started to bother him again.

And, as she needled him, and asked questions he didn't want to answer, he suspiciously wondered if she'd had a word from Liz. A warning of some kind. Of course! What else would it be? Why else would she bug him about Thanksgiving decorations or the time of year? Obviously they'd been talking about it. Well, specifically what had happened when he was a kid. And him too. And pretty soon, if he didn't nip this right in the bud, the fucking sympathy (or pity or blame, depending) would fire up in her eyes and he'd have to get the hell away.

And why couldn't she just let it alone? Like the rest. Just let it be.

But then did this woman ever let a goddam thing be? No, she did not.

He kicked a rock viciously into the road and kept walking. Still raining but there was enough moonlight to keep going.

So finally, when she'd pressed too far, he let it rip. With both barrels.

"Just because we sleep together doesn't mean you get to go everywhere in my life!" he'd shouted, and then watched, as if from a great distance, as this seemed to physically ricochet off her body and ring in the air between them. She'd even taken a defensive step backward away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes wide.

It hurt now to think of it.

She'd blinked at him for eternally long moments then, stunned, until finally, quietly, "My mistake," and turned to go upstairs.

He should have followed and explained.

But he didn't. He left instead. And slammed her door too.

How could he explain it anyway? It was so long ago. He'd been a kid. Pretty much why it happened in the first place.

And now here he was still walking, still wet, still wondering how this all came to be, and still thinking he should throttle his sister.

Maybe Liz had told TJ and he had blabbed to Lorelai. That would be just like him. Besides he'd rather be angry at TJ than his sister.

Still, he walked.

How hard would it be now to turn up there ahead, he tried to reason with himself then, follow the tracks south awhile then loop back into town, go up the square and over the few blocks to her house? How hard would it be to knock? To apologize? To explain? To get warm in her bed?

Fucking impossible. That was clear.

Because the pity (or whatever) would come with all that. And he'd have to meet, yet again, the beginning of the story he couldn't tell and wouldn't be allowed to stop telling until it was complete.

And all said.

III.

"Hello," she'd said. That's all. Not much. And really very simple too. And easy. Once the terror of it had passed that is. And their date (the wine, the refreshing flattery, the flirtation) had been lovely. All that such evenings should be.

And yet she couldn't sleep.

Had gone down and made tea and wondered through the house instead, straightening cushions, rethinking the arrangement of the living room. Settling in the basement finally, every light lit, digging through dusty cartons of china. Listening to the grim rain pounding.

Perhaps she should rotate out the Wedgewood, she considered. They'd been using it for years now. And the Limoges with the delicate green fern border would be lovely for the winter holidays. Not that they were celebrating them really. Not in the old style. The girls would come for a ladies luncheon for three. That's all. But she was thinking of broiled fish as a change from turkey. The Pilgrims had eaten fish too. The streams of North America full of salmon then. She wasn't the historical secretary for the Mayflower Society for naught.

So broiled fish on the Limoges then. That would make a nice change.

The Limoges they had bought that first summer when everything was ahead of them...

And the thought of this stopped her cold. Her hand, holding one of fourteen fragile finger bowls, remained suspended in air.

He had wanted her then. Needed her. Could he ever understand now what had been lost between them? The scope of it? No, she decided, he couldn't. He was fine out there, past the water-logged holly, in the pool house. He had his routine. His work. Music.

But inside, within himself, he had withdrawn from them all.

She could see this clearly.

'....Lorelai will do what she wants, and Rory's not going any where...'

So supremely matter-of-fact. She could have stomped her foot and slapped him for it.

And then he'd receded, withered even, away from the nerves in his hands and heart that felt and touched and wanted things. He was balled up tight inside and not coming out to get her. And she'd be damned if she'd go in and try to get him out again.

It was his turn.

And he seemed perfectly willing to let them all go, yet strangely ready with that absent smile when they were there. It maddened her, this dichotomy. Either way seemed fine with him as long as supper was at seven, tee time at eight, and the newspaper ironed open and flat before breakfast.

Damnable man.

Prolonging it all now made no sense.

She set the finger bowl back in its nest of tissue then. She'd have the maid bring it all up tomorrow. Pack up the Wedgewood and put it into storage. Bone china needed to be washed and used to remain bright and glossy. Left alone it could dry into fine powder, the gilt completely lost with it. Most people didn't know that.

And maybe in the spring she'd get out the hand painted set from Amsterdam. With the lilies. Lilies were the way to meet spring.

She would move on, she decided for the thousandth time that week.

She switched off the lights then and started up the stairs determined afresh to greet tomorrow with purpose.

IV.

Hello? What did I do? She wondered miserably again. The quiet tears blinked away for now.

She shifted then in the now-tepid bath. She couldn't seem to sit still even here.

Gah! Screw this.

She sighed, got out, and wrapped herself in a robe.

She picked up the bit of black silk she'd planned on wearing that night then (laid out ready on the fresh bed) and heaved it against the wall with all her might. It made a very unsatisfying 'whoosh'.

'...I owe you nothing!'

She remembered him yelling that once. At a time when she'd been pretty sure they were friends.

A different moment long ago. Snow then. Rain now. So why think of it?

Because it had been said.

He had been worrying her lately. His moods. Of course he always had his moods. Luke without moods was just like... Well, not Luke. He could get angry over even very little things. But usually she knew it to be bluster. For she knew the flip side that was patient and steadfast and attentive.

So usually the bark-worse-than-the-bite thing was funny.

Lately, not so much.

And when she reflected on these now-sincerely dark moods and rants, her brain had suddenly and shrewdly correlated them all to this certain time of year. He was definitely worse now. Through out the holidays really, but beginning in the fall right after his birthday (so that wasn't it) but before Thanksgiving.

Yep, it was an annual thing all right.

And when she'd bumped into Liz and asked jokingly if this was the way it had always been, the usually sunny woman grew tight and quiet. It was all long ago and in the past, when they were children, she'd said, but was something she'd have to ask Luke about herself.

Okay...

But when he had come that weekend warm and ready for her (they still had that cut-short date to make up for) and she had asked him, it had all gone horribly wrong and some very tender nerve, nursed alone and in the dark for far too long, had been fired and there he was yelling, not for her entertainment, but at her.

'...I'm in. I am all in...'

He seemed to mean it at the time.

But maybe not. Maybe he didn't know what that meant. Not really.

Maybe she didn't either.

And what were they doing anyway?

It was so much more than fun and sleeping together for her. It was potential now and had become this thing that kept her warm when she was away from him. That kept her happy and hanging out at the diner like a teenager with a crush. Made her smile when she was alone and just thinking about him.

But this other thing, this childhood trauma. His mother, she guessed. It was here between them, and of course she could see quite clearly now that it always had been. Had always been there for him anyway. Had impeded his joy and hung about him. Like Pigpen's cloud. Sent him again and again, grumpy before his time, off to fish alone. Had chased beautiful women away. This handsome, smart, desirable man.

For awhile she'd thought it had been Rachel. Hello, broken heart gone on too long, she reasoned. But now she wasn't so sure. Maybe his heart had been broken long before Rachel. Before Nicole. Before Jess and before his father's illness and death even.

And her tears pricked afresh then as she thought of the scared little boy that he must have been. And what could possibly have happened to his mother that he saw or caused, or simply could not stop?

And what the hell could she do about it?

Better women than she had clearly tried to help and failed. Because once he pulled away, she knew from her own small experience, retrieval was next to impossible and that he did not forgive easily, if at all.

She sighed and wondered again where he'd gone. It was an awful night out and she had called his apartment and the diner. Twice. Each. She peered out through the curtains again, looking up the road where he had stomped off.

Only missing Boo and the ham costume, she thought miserably.

And then, I am pathetic, as she turned away from the window to dress and wait it out...

Sorely needing the welcome embrace that were the Wallowing Sweats.

V.

They huddled under the leaky umbrella and laughed as they hurried along. He even bravely slipped an arm about her shoulders to squeeze them more tightly to the middle (the driest part, he justified.) But he knew the justification didn't matter, just as he knew that she was no more aware of his arm being there than how her blue eyes blinked away at his reason.

He hesitated briefly, causing her to trip a little and laugh up at him accusingly, "Hey!"

"Sorry," he responded and looked down at her.

Could he... What if... I mean, you never know... Right?

No. You do. You do know.

That settled it. He couldn't because she'd only be surprised and say no and it would be awkward magnified to the hundredth degree.

But... what if he did just ask?

Would the world end?

And suddenly he remembered becoming horribly aware of his situation and then of her standing there kindly offering her robe... And just how incredibly grateful he'd been, and later, when painfully (embarrassingly) sober, how surprised by this gesture he was too... And from such a beautiful girl...

Things like that just never happened to him.

"Come on," she pulled urgently at his arm in the here and now.

He could see her building up ahead there....

Would the world end?

Only a fifty yards away now...

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Back on the main floor, she checked the front door lock again and turned to the main staircase. Her chin still up. She climbed the few steps up to the landing and paused a moment beneath the stained glass.

To reassess.

She hated to. It made her feel weak. Richard had clearly moved on. He had made that clear enough. But... what if...

No, it was too ridiculous.

But then again, they should at least discuss the situation. Plan for the future.

Just a few words to finally clear the air... She felt herself detached enough from the situation to talk rationally now. One adult to another.

Of course.

And Lorelai had been right in her way; He should move out as he had clearly moved on. If he had moved on, that is. This living in the pool house had been practical in the beginning but was now rapidly approaching farcical. And unfortunately still the most beguiling topic amongst the crones at the club, dammit.

And with that Emily about-faced, to hell with the time, marched down the stairs and snatched the Burberry out of the coat closet and the coordinating umbrella from the stand too...

But stopped again.

It was the rain. The rain stopped her. Before she'd even stepped a foot outside.

The rain and remembering that night, more than forty years ago. when they had been so young and had made their decisions about one another and the lives they would lead together. And how lucky she felt to have found him....

Damn it. She was being ridiculous, she told herself again.

She would just go out there and wake him up. Just as she had planned.

And they would talk. Just as she planned.

There had to be some plans in this life that go the way they are supposed to go. Otherwise there is just no point.

She went to the kitchen then, slipped out into the garden and headed toward the darkened pool house...

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He'd turned at the tracks and was taking the loop toward town.

His anger cooled to moderate seethe.

Still not sorry though.

She should have minded her own business. No good can come of bringing this up. It's not like anything could ever be changed. It had happened and he had lived with the consequences. Not very happily, that was true. But what did you expect? Logically he knew he'd only been a kid. But she had been his mother. And just how are you supposed to sort that out?

His mother.

You don't sort it out and that's that.

He stopped a moment then, looking about himself. Resting his hands on his hips, catching his breath, getting his bearings in the dark and rain... He hadn't been out this way in years.

And a little memory crept into his brain then. Right out of the blue. Right there by the tracks on Ivers Road. Not a memory of his mother. Not at all. But of Lorelai. Of her coming into the diner one day years and years ago. With Rory of course, who was still a kid. She'd come to bug him and drink coffee and feed her child trans-fatty acids... Couldn't think why he'd remember that right now in the rain on Ivers Road... Nothing special had happened. One of a million such days. It had been fall, he remembered that clearly. Not the day, but thereabouts. He'd been fighting with Taylor about something and suddenly there she was in a bright purple sweater laughing. She and Rory both. Laughing. And there in that moment he had just been so glad for it. Hadn't let that on, of course. His day had still been crappy, but the purple sweater and the laughing.... he'd been glad for them...

If he cut through the depot parking lot now he could get over to her house more directly. Cut twenty or thirty minutes off his route...

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Umbrella closed and standing in front of her door now, his decision was made. Someone who could offer their robe to a naked stranger in the hall would let him down gently. Right? And then, that way, he would know for sure. It would be settled. And then they could just be the friends he knew she intended them to be.

"Rory..." he began.

"Hmmm?" she looked up from digging for her key.

"I wanted to ask you..."

"What?" blinked the blue eyes into his.

He breathed anyway.

"...Nothing. It was... nothing. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, okay. See you tomorrow."

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Damn! The door was locked. And her keys were back in the main house.

She knocked.

And knocked again, more loudly.

"Hello! Richard! Richard!" she tried calling.

Nothing.

She walked over to the garage then and peered in through the door's window.

His car was gone.

So much for plans.

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The doorbell rang.

She sprang from bed and hurried down the stairs to whip open the door.

"Hello," she tried to search his eyes but he wouldn't lift them.

"Hello," he responded. Where to start?

"You're soaking," she told him sympathetically.

He nodded.

"Do you want to come in?"

He took a deep breath, "Yes."

But didn't move.

"Are you sure you want to come in?" she checked in concern.

"Yes."

He still wasn't moving.

"Do I need to come out and push you in?" she asked.

He looked up at her, "You might."

She nodded.

"Okay."

VI.

And once it was all said, it was perhaps not as awful as he had thought it might be. Terrible of course, because it (what had happened so long ago) had been a terrible thing. No denying that. But easier to say perhaps than he'd feared. But not the relief such things are always painted to be in movies. Definitely not that.

She herself had no experience with real tragedy. No compass to give her a grip on the situation. Only words. Those she always had...

So she told him how she could hear what was heroic in his story too—something that he'd never acknowledge because of the loss. But he suddenly appreciated so much that she could hear that about him, in his words, true or no. And, most importantly, did not seem to love him less for it (for even he could see that this is what it all meant)

In a way, it seemed to maybe make that love more. More. For both of them.

For him, it was because of the trust. He looked up at her then and could not doubt that she was grateful for his trust (in telling the story) rather than horrified by the details.

Well, what had he expected?

For her, it was being so damn glad to have him back beside her. And however he thought this might change things, it not changing them at all.

So she began to talk then of the now. Of things now. And tomorrow too. Now and tomorrow and what they meant.

And he listened quietly to that for awhile and then, eventually, spoke as well.

This is how they started again.