The flashback in this scene takes place in the middlish-end of Season Four, right after Lorelai breaks up with Jason but before Luke gets brave enough to make his move. (Those last three episodes of Season Four are some the best of the whole series!) All flashbacks, and in fact everything in this story sans characters and places, are completely fictional. So, without further ado, on with the show!
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Luke stood on the unkempt lawn that encircled the Gilmore house, sparing not a glance for the flourishing grass and hidden nettles that pricked his ankles, digging thorns into his customary jeans, tearing out spools of blue thread that unraveled behind him as he moved. If he had cared to glance over his shoulder, he would have seen the meandering lines of navy that shivered in the slight wind, now hidden, now revealed by the rippling weeds; but the thought never entered his mind to tear his gaze away from the house that rose in sprawling glory before him. A faint smile drew up the corners of his mouth as his eyes found the memories that were imbedded into the grain of the wood; the banisters, doorknobs, windowsills, roof shingles he had fixed, and the footsteps where she had followed him, railing, ranting, that now seemed to glow as though capturing and distilling the light of the winter sun.
The constant swaying of the grass became violent as a particularly strong gust of frigid air swept by, pressing on Luke's back with a sudden force; jolted out of his recollections by the icy breath on the back of his neck, he moved sluggishly, an instinct to bolt overtaking him as he remembered the pulsing need that had drawn him here. He sighed, a violent burst of steam blossoming in the still sky; drawing in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, inhaling the scents of ice and autumn and coffee that drifted up to rest enticingly on his tongue.
Fortified by the familiar sensation, he rearranged his expression into his customary scowl, feeling a flash of fear that some passerby had seen the look of childish wonder that had distorted his face for a moment. Pausing only to adjust his baseball cap so that it perched backwards on his head and pull his coat tighter about his broad shoulders, he stamped his way across the wild lawn, up the porch stairs that still creaked despite countless summer days spent repairing them, and over to the scratched and splintered door.
Here he paused, all strength flowing out of him, nerves electrified with some unnamed emotion, wondering whether it would be wiser to knock, or to rummage through the cluttered porch for the turtle – or frog – or some amphibious animal, anyway – that he knew held a key in its mouth.
Finally, however, his bravery reasserted itself; shifting the bag he carried to his left hand, he banged loudly on the door, teeth clenched – when only silence and the distant echo of his pounding breathed back to him from the cracks in the door, he tried the handle, unsurprised and slightly worried to find it unlocked.
Stepping into the house was like plunging through the milky film of winter and straight into some future spring; immediately the air lost its bite, growing balmy and warm, and the curtains drawn across the windows filtered and scattered the sunlight so that it fell, not the gray gloom of approaching snows, but the flowering gleam of burgeoning summer. Summer lay eternally upon the Gilmore house; a thought that was regular and unsurprising, because in Luke's mind, the Gilmore girls themselves possessed all the overflowing warmth and radiance of the summer sun.
Now, however, the usual bubbling laughter and incessant noise that drifted through the house was vanished. The golden sunlight fell into a dead hollow of abandoned heat; it was as though June had been captured between these walls, and had grown dank and stale, then crumbled into dust that filled in the cracks in the hardwood floor. There was no sound, no movement, no signs of life; twisting the neck of the bag he carried in nervous fingers, Luke cleared his throat, the noise echoing back to him from unexpected corners.
"Lorelai?" he called into the silence, his voice sounding softer, gentler than his usual gruff growl. "Lorelai, are you here?"
His tentative inquiry was answered by a ringing crash above his head, a noise that came so sharply, so suddenly that he jumped away, afraid the ceiling was plummeting down. "Lorelai?" he called again, unnerved; but no sound answered, and the crash did not repeat itself. Breathing only barely, stepping cautiously across the maze of clutter and mess that had disfigured the living room, Luke crept over to the stairs, peering up into the well of shadows beyond.
"Lorelai? It's me, Luke," he shouted. Receiving no response, he began gingerly up the stairs, finding himself in the broad hallway that stretched away to a closed door at the other end, a closed door staring ominously down the empty expanse at him, the sound of soft, ragged sobs seeping between door and carpet and into the open air beyond.
"Lorelai?" he asked again, softer this time, walking with infinite caution over to the door, pressing his ear against the hard wood, listening with bated breath to the ragged sobs that echoed within. Hesitantly, he reached out, groping for the doorknob without glancing down, pushing until the door swung forward into darkness.
Stepping through into the bedroom, he was immediately struck by the impression of shadow; the room was unlit, the curtains drawn across the windows, the only sources of illumination the sliver of light on the mirror, and the pale face that seemed surrounded by its own light, staring mournfully at him from the bed.
Luke felt the breath he had been holding tear itself from him in a rush of air, as his eyes adjusted and he managed to make out the rest of Lorelai's form, draped in a bathrobe over a long nightgown, curled into a small, shaking huddle on top of a pile of blankets that had been bunched and wrinkled as though beaten by angry fists. Luke stood frozen, staring at this trembling ghost, the sight burning itself onto his brain with the hot brand of fear; then the silence was shattered as Lorelai sobbed, and Luke jerked back to himself, crossing the room in three long strides, settling down onto the bed and pulling off his gloves, stroking her back in slow, soothing motions. Lorelai twisted around and grasped his hand, pulling herself into an upright position, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.
Shocked by the sudden contact, Luke stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, wrapping her in his embrace, rocking slowly back and forth, holding her in silence until, finally, Lorelai's breathing slowed, her grip on his coat loosened, and she pulled away, wiping a final tear from her cheek.
"Hey," Luke said softly, compassionately, daring to speak for the first time, "What happened? Rory came in this morning, and I asked where you were, and she said you were sick." Reaching across the bed, he brought forth the bag he had been carrying, now cold to the touch. "I thought I'd bring you some food and some coffee."
A bitter smile tugged at Lorelai's lips, and she shrugged, taking the bag with trembling hands. "Rory would say that," she sniffed, trying furtively to wipe away her tears, "She's so sweet, she wouldn't want me to be embarrassed." She peered into the bag, and her smile widened, loosing some of its sharpness and breaking into a grin of genuine gratitude. "Thanks for coming, Luke," she said softly. "You're a great guy – really – you brought me coffee – you brought me chocolate, for heaven's sake –"
"Hey, that was a gesture of self-defense," he said gruffly, allowing a small smile to break out on his own face in answer to hers. "Especially since the last time you were sick you nearly decapitated me with a blunt fork. I figured that if I brought chocolate, you could at least be persuaded to let me leave alive."
"Because flattery will get you nowhere – unless it is accompanied by something chock-full of sugar or caffeine," she replied wickedly, the dazzling smile Luke was so accustomed to returning to her face – though it faded a moment later, and Luke could have sworn he could see morbid thoughts intrude on her brief happiness.
"So, if you're not sick, do you want to tell me what's really wrong?" he asked gently, drawing out the small box of chocolate and casting the rest of the bag aside. Lorelai moaned, falling backwards onto the bed, covering her eyes with her hands, as though longing to shut out the world.
"It's Jason," she sighed. "Me and him are – I don't know – I guess we're broken up. I mean, I only started going out with him at all to aggravate my parents, but – I really, genuinely liked him for a while. I think I even loved him. I don't know." Propping herself up on her elbows, she gave Luke a small smile. "I'm fine, really. I guess – it was just the shock of it all – and him and my dad, and –" she paused for a moment, evidently at a loss for words. "Anyway, thanks for coming," she sighed, finding a welcome change of subject. "You didn't have to, I'm fine. I'm sorry I got you all concerned." Letting herself flop backwards onto the pillow, she moaned, "And I'm really sorry I missed my morning coffee."
Luke allowed himself a small chuckle before standing up, searching for his discarded gloves amid the tangle of blankets. "Well, I'll go make you some," he said amusedly. "After all, what else is a diner owner for?"
"My thoughts exactly," Lorelai sighed from her place among the heaped pillows. Luke turned to go downstairs, casting a single backward glance at her prone form; forcibly turning his thoughts to the mess that had surely developed back at the diner, he had made it almost to the door before she stopped him, breathing his name softly, drowsily; "Luke?"
"Yeah?" he turned immediately, glad for the distraction from the struggle within his own thoughts. Half-lidded blue eyes peered back at him, their usually clear depths crowded with sorrow and sleep.
"Do me a favor?" she asked, covering a yawn with her hand. At his eager nod, she pointed over to the gleam of light that was the mirror across the room. "C'n you get the little round purple bottle? Either it's over there, or it's in the bathtub."
Not even bothering to ask what it might be doing in the bathtub, Luke walked gingerly over to the dresser, scanning the rows of bottles and dusty knickknacks until he found what he was looking for, picking it up by the neck and holding it up for Lorelai's approval.
"That's it," she affirmed, fighting back another yawn. "C'd you throw it away? It was Jason's favorite, and it'll only break if I put it in the Jason box."
"Sure." Wondering what a Jason box might possibly be, Luke held up the perfume bottle again, examining the creased and twisting glass, the absurd and obviously expensive engravings around the neck, and the white label, that was cut into the shape of a white flower blooming on the front. Exotic Lily, it read; glancing furtively around to make sure that Lorelai was looking away, he slipped the delicate thing into his pocket before leaving the room, stomping down the stairs and through the living room, not even noticing that he banged his foot on a discarded lamp.
Entering the kitchen, his eyes fell immediately on the table, where a fresh bouquet of flowers sat resplendent in a porcelain vase; he managed to identify orchids and tulips before his knowledge of flowers ran out. But gleaming on the table before the riot of colors, a heap of glistening white lilies lay like slaughtered birds, their stems ripped viciously in half, and all their petals torn out.
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Thump.
The dull crash of the wind-driven shutters smashing against the outside wall woke Luke from his reminiscing; a small smile fighting to emerge from his gloomy scowl, he set the book he held down gingerly on the bed beside daisy and lily and rose, then turned and strode across the room, to the chest of drawers that stood in a corner concealed by shadows. He opened one drawer after another, knocking on the bottom of each, searching for the right one; until finally his insistent tapping yielded a deep, echoing sound, the ring of a hollow hidden by thick planks of wood. Running his fingers along the smooth surface, he found a small groove, sliding his fingernails in and yanking back; the hidden compartment that he had built with his own hands was revealed, its precious contents laid out in the dim light.
Biting his lip in the face of the overwhelming weight of his memories, Luke stared hungrily at the contents of the drawer; at the cap his father had once worn, at the small, leather-bound book his mother had left him, that he had never opened; at the golden locket he had given Rachel the first time they had fallen in love, and that she had given back to him the first time she left; and, tucked away in the very back, half-concealed, lay a folded scrap of paper, held down by a small purple bottle that sported a drooping paper lily on its front.
Luke reached into the hidden hole, fumbling clumsily among the many keepsakes, though once he felt the cool, smooth glass of the perfume bottle against his fingers, he froze, fearful of breaking it. He lifted it gently from its resting place, blowing the dust away from the faded words; setting it carefully on top of the counter, he retrieved the folded paper, laying it out flat before him with nimble hands.
There, grinning back up at him, was Lorelai; a coffee cup held in her hand, a coat pulled around her shoulders, a genuine and gentle smile on her face, she sat haloed by firelight; his fingers gently tracing the gleam of golden blazes that was the reflected bonfire, he saw himself smiling back at her, felt himself basking again in the warmth of a blaze that burned brighter and warmer than the Firelight Festival could ever hope to achieve.
Turning his attention to the small bottle, he reached out and removed the crystal cap with infinite patience; once the delicate operation was complete, he held the container upside down, allowing its contents to slide out through the wide neck; the perfume had long ago evaporated, and in its place a dandelion, withered from lack of sun but poignant and beautiful nonetheless, trickled out to lay on the picture's glossy surface, shrouding Lorelai and Luke both in its tangled leaves.
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Just as a brief reminder because people say they are confused: There are two storylines taking place here. The one in normal print is Luke alone in his apartment; the one in italics is a series of flashbacks that chronicle the past heartbreaks of Lorelai's life. This was a fun little all-consuming plot bunny for me to write, and I hope you're having fun reading it as well! Oh, and thanks to all my lovely reviewers once again!