Luke pulled off the road and into the driveway, afraid that the crunch of the gravel would wake her up. They squeaked to a stop in front of the cabin just around midnight; she'd drifted off quickly after he'd sped furiously out of the hospital parking lot. His hands took turns gripping the steering wheel, skin blistering, knuckles whitening, as he careened down the highway in a canvas of yellow-dashed blackness. After sneaking up the steps to turn on the lamps and do a quick spider-check, he gingerly nudged Lorelai's knee, then slid into the cab by her bare feet.

"Hey," he tried. "Lorelai?"

She breathed in sharply through her nose, instantly wide awake. "Luke?" She blinked, then cringed, her hand to her head. "Headache," she muttered unnecessarily.

"C'mon."

He slid a hand under her back, lifting her out of the truck and shutting the door with his foot. He paused at the top of the landing, first to try to figure out how he was going to get to the handle, then just to stare.

Her eyes were closed, though it looked like her left eye had actually swollen shut. The first few hints of bruise were already showing around the bridge of her nose, as the pooled blood was beginning to lose oxygen. It wouldn't look good in the morning, he judged. Probably wouldn't feel very good, either. It occurred to him that he'd forgotten ice packs at the pharmacy.

Luke was beginning to regret bringing her here. He wasn't prepared; he didn't have enough bandages, not even a VCR so she could keep busy while she healed. He knew how she felt, on some small scale, when she said that she just needed to leave. And this was where he'd want to be taken to escape. And that had been the extent of the thought process.

"Luke?"

"Hm?"

Still groggy, she tried to open her eyes, but only was successful on the right side. The sight of her lying in his arms, feebly struggling to open her swollen eye, made his heart ache.

"Where are we?"

"Can you stand okay?" He asked gently. He was tired, and he was sure she was tired. And hungry, because she was always hungry.

She responded with her body, hooking an arm around his neck as he lowered her to the ground and opened the door.

"Bantam Lake. This is, ah… my family's old cabin." He held it open for her and watched her walk inside, suddenly embarrassed.

Lorelai squinted around the room, sleep still clouding her thoughts. The place was simply furnished, dimly lit, very clean. Very Luke. "This is where you brought me?" she asked, confused.

"I just thought…" God, this was a bad idea. "I thought when you said you wanted to get away…" What, that you wanted to be extricated from civilization?

She nodded as if she understood, wringing her hands. "No, this is fine. But… do you have… um." She was having trouble focusing, but he'd always anticipated her thoughts.

"Yes! Here."

He led her to a small room and sat her down on the bed, running back and sorting through his duffel bag and coming up with socks, boxers and a warm flannel.

"I'm just gonna go for a walk," he said. "I'll be back after you change and I'll help with your… uh…" he motioned circles around his eye and headed for the door. "I'll be back."

"Hey Luke?"

He paused. He had his hands pressed together in front of him, an eager expression on his face. She softened, realizing how much he reacted to her voice, her expressions, her in general. And then she felt guilty.

"I just…" The tears were in her eyes again, his shoulders physically sagging at the vision.

"Thanks," she choked.

This was the thing. It was still Lorelai, the woman always so strong, the epitome of everything vibrant and good-natured, utterly confident in her carriage; here, now, a heart-rending expression on her face, her body hunched over, arms protectively crossed over her stomach. Beaten, looking lost and out of place.

And there was something about seeing her in that cabin, the place Luke felt he belonged. Where his family had spent summers together, where he'd first learned to be like his father. Growing up, life's lessons handed down over the dry salami sandwiches in the boat, fishing until sunset. Coming back here, to the room she was recoiled in now, building forts under the bed.

So Luke crossed the room, sweeping her up in a fierce, protective embrace. It was almost reflexive; it had to have been, or else he would've talked himself out of it. She's too fragile, or she's been through too much, or just… we don't hug. It's Lorelai.

But there it was, and she hugged him back, laughing tearfully into his shoulder from the shock of it. But also the familiarity. Because it's Luke.

He released her, looking down sort of awkwardly, and patted the pile of his neatly folded clothes sitting next to her. "You get changed, I'm gonna go."

Lorelai knew somehow, instinctively, that he wanted to say something more. That way his chest stilled when he was trying to figure out the first word he'd say. The way he looked through her rather than at her because he was organizing and calculating and arranging in his head. They stared at each other for a long moment, the melancholy tension thick between them, ready, eager, willing to be acknowledged.

But he left quickly, wordlessly, and she heard him trotting away from the cabin the second she dropped her gaze.

She was able to take a hot shower, surprisingly enough- heat, soap, running water, everything. He wasn't so impractical. She was also able to avoid looking in the mirror, at any part of her body, and really only did so fleetingly when the mirror was covered in steam.

She sat on the bathroom floor wrapped in a towel, covered in droplets of water that slid quickly downward with each of her movements. Until she ceased moving altogether and perched herself upright, leaning against the wall, staring at her feet. The bottoms were red and swollen and ached from too much bare contact. She balanced herself with her hands on the floor beside her while she rubbed and tangled her feet in the old, shaggy rug.

The steam from the mirror was unsympathetic as she pulled herself up and came face to face with a blue and red and puffy version of what she'd thought she probably looked like. It stared back at her, that reflection in the mirror, long and hard. It told her she'd lost.

She'd lost.

You lose.

Control and trust and independence.

Gone, and now you have to run away and hide until you've healed because no one would think of you the same if they knew.

But she was fine with that. She didn't care; she'd stopped caring, because there were too many emotions to feel right now, and she'd decided that the solution was to not feel any.

So when she slipped Luke's flannel shirt over her moist skin, stepped into his boxers, padded her feet with his thick socks, she barely registered how much had already been healed.

He could smell the lake before he could see it. That fishy smell, and after he'd trotted a few steps more, he sat on the ground where the water shimmered behind the trees.

His knees were pulled up so he could rest his forehead against them, hands steadying himself on the grass on either side. He'd been to the lake a thousand times, but never with such a nauseated feeling. Except that time Liz made him eat the really old can of tuna Mom had found in the cupboards. He'd thrown up for three days.

And he was confused, too. He was supposed to be mad at Lorelai, but he'd whisked her away in a single moment of panic. Luke knew she was asking him for help, but she kept looking at him with disdain.

And he still had no idea what the hell had happened.

He couldn't decide if it were incredibly unfair to him that she wouldn't tell, or if it were incredibly selfish of him to want to know. One of these extremes, he'd decided. But she had asked him to take her away; he'd brought her here, he was taking care of her. He deserved to know, dammit.

So he'd ask when he got back. There'd be a discussion, everything would be explained and answered, a plan would be hashed out. He knew what he'd say, how he'd say it, what to say back. The whole silence thing was frustrating.

But this was who he was. This was Luke. He fixed rooftops for free. He lent money without reservation. He forgave customers with a wave of his hand when their wallets turned up short. After Stevie Collins's dad left, Luke kept an eye on him every day for a month after school, feeding him cherry Cokes and french fries, swapping baseball cards until his mother picked him up after her second job.

And he did it all without being asked; without wanting something in return.

But this is Lorelai. It shouldn't be any different.

But it is different. Because it's Lorelai.

Lorelai.

Luke swatted away a mosquito. He tried picturing Christopher. Tried imagining where he'd be, which smug expression he'd have on, whom he'd be with. He wanted to know that Rory was okay and made a mental note to ask Lorelai again. He wanted to know that Christopher was far, far away but not so far that he'd be unable to find him when the time came. He wanted Lorelai to tell him what happened because it was sickening him to not know.

So, this time, he did want something in return.

He wanted to hold her and soothe her and kiss her and touch her, not just because he'd always wanted that, but because he felt like she might need it, too, maybe for different reasons.

But no, not now, not while she was broken and vulnerable. And trusting him to put her back together.

And he really wanted to get Christopher out of his head, cocky and thin and spoiled, taunting him, egging him on with a Hartford grin and Italian leather shoes. So he mentally punched him. Again. And again and again, eyes clenched shut, until he saw nothing but a white haze behind his eyelids.

He glanced down at his fist, brushing off the dirt and blades of grass, torn between standing and lying flat on his back. The thought of killing that guy made him anxious, and he couldn't figure out where to put all that energy.

She needs to be taken care of, he thought.

He stood up, turned toward the cabin, and headed back.

Lorelai pulled her head out of the fridge when the door creaked open from the other room. She'd been mentally singing along to "Cracked Actor," stuck in her head from the Bowie moment she'd had earlier.

His footsteps landed heavily on the wooden floor, slow and hesitant.

Crack, baby, crack. She straightened, glared at the complete emptiness of the refrigerator, and swiftly slammed it shut.

"I have food in the truck." He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, hands in his back pockets, awaiting her cue.

Her arms were crossed in front of her chest. Her lips pursed into a tight line. She stared at his shoes. "Turkey burgers? Leaf lettuce and carrots?"

He made no response other than shifting his eyes away, face falling out of disappointment. He turned and huffed out the front door again.

Smack, baby, smack.

She sat herself gingerly at the kitchen table, resting her chin on her hand, wincing and pulling away when her fingertips brushed her swollen eye. Sighing, she settled back into the chair, eyeing the wardrobe she'd slipped into after he'd left. She was wearing Luke's boxers, the ones he used as underwear. Of course, she was wearing panties underneath, but she'd hazard a guess that Luke doesn't.

She tried to remember her phone call to Rory, made under a haze of panic and regret and Luke-pity. She faintly recalled Rory's meek Bambi-voice as she tried deciphering her mother's cryptic use of the words "incident" and "out of town" and "I'm fine but go to Lane's until I get back and stay away from your father and I'll call you again tonight I promise." Not the best choice of words, but choice had been a luxury at that moment.

Stupid Christopher.

Stupid Chris. Ludicrous...

LudiChris.

Dammit.

She laid her head on the table. Closed her eyes.

LukeNotChris.

But Luke was still mad at her. He was being sweet now, but he was. As far as she knew. He was still mad that she'd yelled and cast blame and banished him to hell, and no amount of completely unashamed pleading and flirting would change that. Not this time, anyway.

"I have Ranch dressing, too." His voice entered the kitchen. She jerked her eyes open but remained slumped over the table facing away. "You know, to slather your turkey burger, lettuce, and carrots with."

She pulled herself upright, rested her chin on her fist. Angled the left side of her face away from him. She could still see him though, peripherally emptying the giant red Coleman cooler of packaged things. Cans. Small boxes. Little bags of colored stuff that could quite possibly be vegetables. And beer, which she eyed curiously.

Without a glance back, he picked up one of those bottles and landed it softly in front of her. She watched it sitting there, tall and proud and beaming. The corner of the label folded under itself. The shiny brown glass collecting condensation that rolled downward and pooled onto the table. She was pretty sure that if she sat there long enough and still enough the bottle would blink first.

Luke turned around to reach for the bag from the pharmacy and stopped when he caught sight of her sitting motionless, moving again after she reached for the beer, twisting the cap off in a singular impressive grip of her hand. He dug around inside the bag, every now and then pulling things out and setting them on the table: toothbrush, deodorant, those facial cleansing wipes that he figured every woman used, travel-sized hairbrush, her shampoo, Aspirin, Oreos.

She picked up the bottle of shampoo. "How did you know to get this?"

He turned and glanced, then faced away from her. "Because. I'm practically in your shower more than you are. You plug up the drain every other day and make me come snake it; I know what kind of shampoo you use."

She was embarrassed somehow, that he knew such intimate details about her. Flattered just a little, definitely surprised.

"But how did you know to get me shampoo in the first place?"

He seemed uneasy, pausing and shifting where he stood. The words came out slowly. "Well, I didn't think you'd want to go back to your house tonight, and I wasn't really sure what happened, and so I figured you and Rory might want to stay... somewhere else. Just for the night. And you might want your shampoo there. In the morning."

"Somewhere else? What, like a hotel?"

His eyes avoided hers. "Yeah. Like a hotel."

Luke turned back toward the warming stove, waiting for the crinkling of a cookie bag. It came a moment later.

She munched quietly while he cooked and boiled and baked whatever it was that smelled so... un-diner-like.

Luke knew where to start. He had all his questions lined up, all the things he wanted to know about. Exactly what to say. But she wasn't giving him any invitation to do so.

A paper plate slid cautiously onto the table in front of her, pushing away what remained of the bag of Oreos. A napkin appeared to her right; a fork on top. Luke at the table across from her.

"So." She looked down her nose at the food. The "food," she air-quoted in her head. "Tell me about the lake."

"Huh?" Luke's eyes shot up into hers. "Oh, well uh, we used to come here every summer. Liz and me and my mom and dad." He didn't want to talk about the stupid lake.

She rolled a baby carrot back and forth across the plate, keeping her eyes down.

"The trout fishing is excellent around this time of year."

Wow. Nice one.

"It's a good place to, you know, get away. From things."

She poked at the carrot.

"Lorelai?"

Poke.

There were two things that Luke was going to talk about. But neither of them were what she hoped he would say, what she knew he wouldn't.

"Yeah?" She muttered.

"Will you tell me what happened?" There we go. Smooth.

She shoved the carrot into her mouth and cringed. "Ugh. I can't believe you eat this stuff." She poked some more. Shoved another carrot in.

"Where's Christopher now?"

"Smother it in enough Ranch and it's not so bad, I guess, but… man."

"Lorelai!"

"What, Luke!" She snapped her head up at him. Black eye wringing his stomach. "I don't want to talk about it!"

"Well I do!" So not how this was supposed to go.

"Well that's too bad. It's too bad, and it's not fair that we only talk about what you want."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Lorelai set her fork down, placing her hands in her lap. She took a moment to chew and swallow. She looked up at him, the futile, pleading expression seeping back.

And then he got it. "Is this about the apology?" She was silent. "Lorelai... I told you. Everything's fine. We're fine."

"No, Luke, it's not fine. Just because you say it's fine doesn't mean it's fine."

"Yes it does."

"No it doesn't!"

"Yes. It does."

"No--" She sighed, her gaze dropping to his own plate of untouched food. "There's a difference between just saying something and actually meaning it."

"I can't believe this. This is seriously what you're worrying about right now?"
"Yes!"
He sighed, somewhere between utterly exasperated and completely exhausted by her. "Well... how do you know I don't mean it?"

"Because I know. I know you. And I know the difference between when you're saying something to humor me or pacify me or make me shut up and when you're actually being sincere, Luke. I know."

He toyed angrily with the lettuce. Folding and stabbing it until it was a thick cube at the end of his fork.

"I'm sorry, Luke. I've been sorry, and I really wish you'd tell me what else I need to do because it kills me knowing that there's something I can do but can't because you won't tell me what it is."

He couldn't look up at her. There she was, with a broken eye courtesy of the creep who probably wouldn't have even been around had it not been for him and his nephew and his pushing of his nephew to be friends with Rory who he'd hurt which made Lorelai mad which made him mad which made her apologize as she sat across from him in pain and in hiding and probably scared as hell.

Jackass.

"I forgave you a long time ago."

She swirled the Ranch around her plate, zig-zagging and curling his words with the prongs of her fork.

"I wasn't even mad. I was just..."

She looked up expectantly, eyebrows raised, waiting.

"I deserved what you said. You never needed to apologize."

Lorelai stared back in bewilderment. "So why'd you make me go through all that?"

He didn't have an explanation. Not one that he could share. So he just shook his head. "I don't know. But I'm sorry." He spoke to his plate.

She leaned back into her chair, quiet and contemplative and tired and realizing just how ridiculous the goddamn fight had been in the first place.

She shoved a whole Oreo into her mouth. "I'm going to bed," she garbled through the cookie, leaving the table, Luke-socked feet padding across the floor.

"Lorelai..." he followed anxiously, standing behind her as she leaned over the bed, arranging the blankets and sheets and pillows. She didn't turn.

He pressed on, though he was afraid of all the things she could be feeling at the moment. "Lorelai, please."

He touched her arm lightly.

She wasn't sure then if he was apologizing for the fight or asking her to explain her eye, but his touch was hesitant and kind. She paused.

Releasing her uneasy breath and counting to ten, she succumbed to the gentle pressure Luke was placing on her shoulder.

As she turned, he carefully studied her face, looking for a way into her thoughts; his gaze passed over her chewed lip, tense brow and nervous eyes.

He imagined he was wearing a similar expression, one of forlorn anxiety.

Luke grazed the tips of his fingers across her cheek just beneath the swollen skin and exhaled. He didn't know what to do. This was exhausting, hovering between such intense rage and deep regret, tenderness and pity.

So he leaned in, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Only wanting to soothe her. Needing to soothe himself.

But she suddenly flinched, recoiling, not wanting to be touched. Cringing at another person's breath on her skin. Craving incredibly vast, immeasurable amounts of space between her and the next living thing.

Luke looked down immediately, suddenly embarassed by the intimacy in his gesture.

She didn't know how tell him that she hadn't quite regained control of her reactions yet. Her body was ultimately in charge, dictating her movements. Shaking hands, pounding heart, flinching eyes. Tenderness had suddenly become foreign. But she didn't want that, she didn't want her body to have control over her mind. And in her mind she knew that what she wanted, more than anything, was to curl up in his arms, take one last deep, conscious breath and fall fast asleep.

Lorelai stared at him, standing in front of him, knowing full well that he was seeing her differently now. Understanding that he would never be able to see her the same way again. If it were anyone else-- someone with whom she had a good handle on their perception of her-- she would've had little issue in asking for what she really wanted. She would've folding herself up into him, leaned her head into his chest and let him console her, allow his warmth seep into her mind and lull her to sleep.

Her voice scraped itself out of her throat. "I'm sorry, Luke."

He nodded, then slowly reached toward her, very gingerly taking hold of her frame. And though she jumped slightly in his arms, she didn't remove herself.