Luke grunted as the suitcase hurled onto the truck bed with a satisfying thunk. The night was wearing on, and he wanted to get going as soon as possible.
The flickering streetlight caught his eye as he glanced up and down the square, noting the trickle of citizens who remained fancily dressed, despite the hours since the wedding had ended. A few had stopped into his diner to gossip over who was wearing what and who was drunk and who had snuck off with whom. He only half-listened, assuring himself it was only because he felt guilty over missing his friend's wedding. As soon as the stragglers left, he'd grabbed his stuff and flipped the sign.
Luke was doing a damn fine job of pushing her away, both from his diner and from his head. Resisting the urge to meet her eyes; things like that that kept him smug, until he thought of her with Christopher. Then he felt like the only damage he was doing was to himself.
Stars Hollow had become smaller and smaller since the fight, and Luke knew he had to leave before it eventually closed in on him. He needed to distance himself from her, let her have her own life, scrub himself clean of all the crap she put him through.
His hands fiddled with the dollar bills in his wallet. He wouldn't need money, besides gas for the 30 minute drive, but kept the $186 in there anyway. He barely even remembered anymore that there were other pockets in his wallet besides the one for money. Except, of course, the one that had housed the condom his father had bashfully given him back in high school; the leather retained the condom's shape, though the package itself was long gone.
Luke finally turned the key to lock the door; he'd waited all day for that moment, and it felt damn good to be free of everything for awhile. He rarely took time to enjoy the smell of the air at night, but now allowed himself to pause for a bit, now that he was leaving. It smelled clean.
He remained standing in front of his diner door, hand still on the key, key still in the lock, as he stared at the reflection of his truck in the window. He was listing off items in his head one last time. Socks; check. Underwear, t-shirts, pants; check. Fishing pole, tackle-box, soap; che-- Some sort of small reflection in the window scurried by, just past the gazebo. He only saw it for a second before it was gone, but when he turned around to get a better look, he saw someone scampering down the sidewalk 20 yards away. Quietly, he noted, for someone running on concrete.
The shadow slowed to a walk when it arrived safely on the other side of the street and continued away from the diner. A hand was on the face; the head was bent forward. A dress fluttered at the calves. A pony-tail traced thinly down just below the shoulders.
In all honesty, it looked like her. Like Lorelai.
Luke didn't really come up with a reason why, but he began trotting after her. To tell her he'd be out of town for a few days? Not that she'd care. To ask her where her car is? Her daughter? Her purse? Her shoes?
As he neared her retreating silhouette she slowed and finally stopped, remaining turned away from him. One hand was covering her mouth as the other clutched her stomach. Great. He sneered inwardly, assuming she was drunk. The moment she sniffed he regretted his thoughts.
"Lorelai?" He stood behind her tentatively.
"I'm fine, I just--" Her voice was broken. She breathed in audibly.
"Where are your shoes?"
He stepped forward and faced her, her head still bent forward. "Lorelai?"
His hand went to her arm, fingers brushing the skin lightly. Another hand went to her chin and tilted her head upward; stooping just a bit to meet her eyes, though she kept hers lowered. His heart stopped when he realized she'd been crying, and with his hand still under her chin, his thumb brushed at the thick tears trailing down her cheek. She flinched.
His fingers felt damp; slick. In the ever-growing darkness he had to bring his hand closer to see what was wrong and immediately froze. He stared at the shiny red that was quickly becoming sticky, then back at her. Then back at his hand.
When he realized what it was, a powerful shudder pulled through his body.
"Jesus," he whispered, reverence in his voice. His eyes clenched shut and opened again when he heard her muffled sob. Lorelai's face was buried in her hands and she was fighting very hard not to cry.
He looked her over quickly; saw the swelling eye, the small rip on the border of the lid, smears of blood across her cheek, her neck, her dress. Saw her well-pedicured bare feet against the cement.
Saw her shaking as she stood before him, silent and tense.
"Lorelai, who did this?" His voice was surprisingly steady and commanding, his eyes never leaving her face. She looked up and over her shoulder, searching for something; someone.
"Jesus Christ, Lorelai," he whispered again, and she turned back to him. Her eyes met his for an achingly long moment, darted across his face, and rested on the top button of his flannel. Her brows furrowed and she cringed as tears welled up yet again.
Her whisper was almost imperceptible, and he had to lean his head in to hear. He noticed her fingers absently toying with her bracelet. "I have to get out of here."
The breath had rushed out of her lungs when he swooped her up into his arms, making his way quickly back toward his truck. Her head lay on his shoulder. She was tired. And her feet throbbed.
"Where are your shoes, Lorelai?" She pictured them strewn about the hallway of the inn, the carpet underneath, the wallpaper surrounding.
"I don't care."
The press of the window against her face was cold, rather soothing. Leaning the weight of her head against it, she allowed the hum and vibrations of the engine to lull her into a peaceful absent-mindedness.
He left the engine running, air conditioner on, while he went into the pharmacy. She sat in the truck staring blankly out the window at nothing in particular, her mouth open as she listened to her own breathing. The stillness, the incessant quietness, unnerved her as adrenaline shot through to her fingers. Maybe, if she sat perfectly still, her mind would turn off entirely.
Her breath hitched faster, and she could see little clouds of moisture collect on the window next to her mouth. Watching them form, fade away quickly, and form again, over and over. Still she continued to wait, clenching and unclenching her fists, sore from the tension trapped therein.
There are no thoughts, she thought.
Her skin felt stiff where the blood had dried on her face. She wanted to scrape it off; the tears, the blood, the skin, all of it. Her fingernails scratched at her palms in vain.
Lorelai expelled another breath and waited for Luke, pulling her knees to her chest in an effort to stop the jittering. She was running away; she knew that. But she wanted to go faster. Sitting in an idling truck isn't really all that fast.
Her legs shook up and down despite the grip from her arms. She focused on the store-front window, snapping her eyes toward each movement from inside. A sudden, nervous throb in her chest kicked her breathing up higher, and she squeezed her legs to her chest. Her bare feet squeaked against the vinyl of the seat. She jumped at the sound, surprised to hear anything other than her ragged breath.
She switched her focus to the inside of the truck, to the keys dangling from the ignition, to the knob of the dial-radio. But her vision blurred, and the blood rushed past in her ears. A painful wail was caught in her throat though it came out a strangled heave.
She was panting now, chest heaving, every muscle solid. The sound of her breath was all she heard.
In, out.
Rasp, wheeze.
It threatened to knock her unconscious, collapse her to the floor. Her head was becoming lighter as the air scratched at her throat, hot and dry and over and over again.
And then it stopped. Luke had swung open the door, and she was jolted back. Her arms loosened, and she cringed at the ache when her legs straightened out. As he climbed in next to her she laid her head back against the seat, her panting slower. Utterly, utterly exhausted.
She casually wondered what was in the giant paper bag Luke had brought back. But her eyes were closed and her mind was calm and she didn't care. She heard him scoot next to her.
"Lorelai?" His voice rattled and disturbed her cherished silence. "We need to get you cleaned up."
She lifted her head slowly but remained facing forward, careful not to use up too much precious energy. He observed her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, rubbing them roughly with his own until they relaxed.
When she had finally opened her eyes, she watched him out of the corner of her eye with a look that made him pause. He stared back, trying to decipher its significance.
But he couldn't. It wasn't familiar. It was hollow and broken, radiating a quiet edge of anger.
He broke his gaze to reach into his bag, digging around briefly and pulling out a small package of alcohol wipes that crinkled too much upon opening. Lorelai neither broke her gaze nor flinched away, even as he dabbed the very corner of her eye. His brow impossibly stern, jaw clenched.
She sat perfectly still, lips parted and breathing even, her sidelong glare scrutinizing his face. He looked mad at her. His head was tilted inches from hers, his left hand pressed lightly against her jaw. His right imperceptibly swabbing her skin. As her eyes drifted closed, he stopped to watch.
It was obvious that she was trying so hard to be strong. But he could also see that she wanted to be cared for, to stop caring herself.
"Who did this, Lorelai?" His voice was gravelly. Stigmatizing. "Christopher?"
She swallowed hard as he searched her face, knowing that her dropped gaze, her filling eyes and the growing lump in her throat were enough of an answer.
"Goddammit!" His powerful outburst was absorbed quickly by cushioned interior of the truck, though it seemed to reverberate endlessly through her body.
She recoiled, and he regretted saying it immediately. "I'm sorry, I just... God..." He swiped his hand over his face, studied her expression in the dimly-lit store front, passed a critical eye over the wound on her face.
"I, uhh-- I bought a tube of ointment to help with--"
"Let's just go, Luke."
She stopped him with a hand tight around his arm, her calm tone betraying her agitation. It was the first time she'd spoken since he put her in the truck. It made his stomach churn, to hear her voice, that voice he heard every day begging him for coffee and needling him about his personal life, pleading with him in such an unfamiliar, unconvincing tone.
"Please."