Part Two

Tonight: Redux

She feels him fall asleep, feels the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek slow and deepen, his muscles relaxing, his hand slipping out of her hair. She waits a few minutes to make sure he's sleeping thoroughly, then carefully slides out from under his arm. She is afraid to stay in bed, worried that her inevitable tossing and turning will wake him. A few hours of peaceful sleep is something she can give him. It isn't much. It isn't enough. But it's something.

Lorelai won't sleep tonight. The worry is surging through her veins like a chemical, some vile concoction mixed by ominous hands. Fear is a bitter drug, and she's on a particularly bad trip. The feeling reminds her of the time she gulped down two pots of coffee before having anything to eat; she's wide awake, jittery, a little nauseous.

The floor creaks when she stands, the paneling cold beneath her feet. Her skin is still warm and damp from their lovemaking, the pink flush a vestige that will keep her warm long after the color fades. The air of the apartment is cool against her hot skin, and she stares longingly at the haven of twisted sheets and body-warmth where he is sleeping.

She finds herself wishing, for the hundredth time, that this is actually some terrible dream, and she'll wake up soon. The wish blooms in her chest, a tiny bulb of hope. And then it's gone, dissolved in sour reality, and all that's left is the empty space, a hole. She's awake. She knows she's awake.

She tiptoes over to his side of the bed and pulls the covers up from his waist to his chin, lingering for a moment when her fingers brush the warm skin of shoulders. She bends and picks up the white button-down shirt he'd been wearing from the floor. It isn't as comfortable as his usual flannel, but she slides it on anyway.

Wrapping herself in an afghan, Lorelai curls herself into the corner of the sofa, pulling her feet up under her and laying her head on the back of the seat. The afghan smells like Luke. She wonders how long it would take the scent to fade away.

The events of the day seem blurred and dark as they turn over in her mind, the moments tenuous and fragile, like they'd shatter and slip away if she concentrated too hard. She is certain of one thing– this has been one of the worst days of her life.

She isn't at all happy with the way she's handled it, either. She's been morose since the appointment with the oncologist, balancing on the brink of tears every few minutes. Even when they went to Sniffy's to tell Buddy and Maize the bad news and pretend to have dinner, she couldn't manage to keep up any semblance of a conversation through the meal.

Until today, Lorelai had been positively chipper throughout the entire ordeal, painting a smile on her face and quipping like there was no tomorrow. Even the day the biopsy was taken, when she held his hand and watched as a nurse slid a nine-inch needle into his chest, and Luke –unflappable Luke– had cried out with the pain of it, even then, she'd waited until she'd excused herself under the pretense of getting coffee and locked herself in the hospital bathroom before crying.

But today, as they sat across from the oncologist and listened as he told them that it was cancer, that there was a tumor growing on his kidney, that it was bad, that he might die, she realized she couldn't do it anymore. She just couldn't tell another joke. She couldn't force a smile. She was too exhausted.

Lorelai knows she failed in that respect. It was her job to be supportive and optimistic, and she let him down. After all the things he's done for her, all the times he was there when she needed him, the one time he needed her she couldn't swallow her own selfish grief long enough to grin and pretend everything was fine. She couldn't even keep herself from crying when they were in bed.

The anger rises up in her chest all over again as she remembers her silly tears, and she berates herself for being such a damn girl. But the sudden rush of emotion had surprised her. She'd been staring up at his face, moving with him, her hands sweeping over the planes of his back, trying to memorize the decadent feel of warm, slick skin stretched over taut muscle. She was trying not to think too much, trying not to dwell on the fear curled in her gut. Then, so sweetly, Luke had pushed a pillow beneath her and placed his big, gentle hand on her hip, changing the angle and pressure in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. For one, glittering moment all she felt was an unbelievable surge of pleasure, followed closely by a swell of emotion so strong it wrenched the floodgates open wide enough that her heart poured out into his hands.

Luke starts to snore a little from the bed, and she feels the hot sting of tears again. Lorelai presses her palms into her eyes, willing away the tightness in her chest. No more crying. She's gotten so used to the sound of soft snores emanating from his side of the bed in the darkness that it rarely wakes her up anymore, unless he's pressed right up against her and his nose is next to her ear. Even then, she doesn't usually mind all that much– it's such a special thing to have to roll him over in his sleep, such a domestic thing, a whole life thing, that it only serves to remind her that she finally has it:the whole life thing.

She doesn't want to have to relearn how to sleep in silence. When they'd been apart, during the coldest month of the winter, she'd barely slept at all, suffocated by the thick, gummy silence, constantly searching for the sound of him next to her. She would frequently wake up in the middle of the night, having dreamt of him, with that terrible heavy feeling in her gut, that aching, that missing him.

Lorelai would do anything to keep from having to feel that again. But this is beyond her control. She is powerless, and it scares her. Even when she left home at seventeen with a baby on her hip and no place to go, she knew they would get by because she was in control. But there is nothing Lorelai can say or do that will keep the tumor inside him from growing, or influence the outcome of the surgery. Helplessness is a sick and ugly feeling.

When restlessness tickles her fingertips and toes, she gets up, the afghan still wrapped around her shoulders, pours herself a glass of water and sits at the kitchen table, sipping it slowly.

She thinks of the doctor's appointment they went to earlier in the day. She presses the glass of water against her cheek, against her lips. She remembers sitting beside Luke in that small office, staring at the odd, blue-checkered wallpaper, trying to force herself to listen to what the oncologist was saying, to make sense of his words. But there was no sense in them. He was saying that Luke might die. There was no sense in that at all.

After nearly half-an-hour of explaining the disease, Luke's chances of recovering, the possible treatments, and the surgery he would have the next day, Dr, Healy left them alone in his office. "Take all the time you need," he said before he stepped out into the hallway. Lorelai thought it was an exceptionally odd thing to say when he'd just finished telling them that Luke may not have any time at all. What they needed was another fifty years.

At first they said nothing to each other, shock's numbing hands resting heavily on their shoulders. Lorelai crossed her arms, feeling cold. She wondered why they had the air-conditioner up so high when it was only May.

Finally, after a few minutes, or hours, she wasn't sure, Lorelai heard Luke take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She looked at him. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands clutching the armrests of the chair. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to cry.

"I want you to know," he said suddenly, not meeting her eyes, his voice unbearably soft. "That if you want out, or you want to take some time or something, it's okay." He pursed his lips, and looked down at his lap. "I don't want you to feel obligated... " His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat.

All she could do was stare, open-mouthed. She'd never wanted to smack someone so much in her life. Anger and insult rattled around in her gut like the last two tic-tacs in the container. She felt her face flush. When she found her voice, it was little more than a harsh whisper. "You think I would leave you because of this?" Rage bubbled up in her throat, hot and sour. "Is that what you think of me?"

He shook his head, clearly frustrated. "I'm not saying this right. You know I'm no good at explaining myself." He sighed heavily, passing a hand over his face. "I didn't think you would leave. I just want you to understand that you can, if this is too much."

She suddenly felt as if she'd swallowed an anvil. He was giving her a way out, she realized. The anger and the hurt trickled away until she was left feeling ineffably sad. "Luke..." she said softly, shaking her head, incredulous. How could he not know how much she adored him?

"I've been here before, Lorelai. I know what it's like to deal with the... the cancer thing. It's no picnic. My dad was really sick. I mean, really fucking sick. It was horrible, and disgusting, and humiliating for him."

Lorelai's breath caught in her throat, the true weight of reality pressing down on her shoulders for the first time. She could see it in his face. He was scared.

She'd felt a few tears slide down her hot cheeks, watched as they landed on her lap, making little, wet splotches on her already dark jeans. She swept them away with the back of her hand.

"And really," Luke continued, "this is my thing, my... problem. So you shouldn't have to... if you don't want to..."

"Dammit, Luke. I love you." It came out sharper than she meant it too, but she wanted him to really hear her, because she had a feeling this was probably the most important thing she'd ever say to him. He looked up from his lap when she said the words. She saw his eyes widen. "I love you," she repeated, softer this time. "This is our thing."

From her seat at the table, Lorelai watches the night fade, grayness seeping in, overtaking the dark, until finally, slowly, the light comes.

Right before dawn, Lorelai makes a decision. She can be strong when she needs to be. She's done it before, she can do it now. She's going to be like Hillary after The Monica Debacle– she'll be tough and unflappable and wear really expensive shoes.

Lorelai sits up a little straighter in the small kitchen chair.

When the sun is high and bright and warming the room, she crawls back into bed and lays beside him, propped up on her elbow, lips pursed. Reaching out with her other hand, Lorelai touches his forehead, his cheek, and finds herself wishing again.

She loves him; she doesn't want him to hurt. She wants him to be absurdly happy. She wants all this sickness to go away. More than anything, she wants to be able to wrap herself in the afghan every night for the rest of her life and be surrounded in the smell of him.

"Luke," she says softly, her hand flat on his sternum, shaking him gently. "Luke," she calls his name louder, and he opens his eyes. He blinks, focusing on her.

"Hey." His mouth turns up in a sleepy grin, his voice rough. She can tell the moment he becomes fully awake, when he remembers what has happened and what day it is, because his smile fades and he turns his head to look at the clock on the bedside table. "It's morning," he says flatly, and takes a deep breath. Her hand rises and falls with his chest.

She nods and manages what she hopes is an encouraging smile. "I think we have time for breakfast before we leave, and I can hear Caesar puttering around downstairs already. Do you want me to go down and get us something?" Her voice sounds hollow to her ears.

Luke doesn't answer, just stares up at her face, his eyes narrowing. "You look tired. Did you sleep?"

Lorelai sighs softly. He always sees right through her. "Some," she lies.

He looks away for a moment, toward the window overlooking the street. Then he turns back to her, reaches an arm around her back and pulls her down to him, so that she's curled to his side, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Five more minutes," he says, the words muffled in her hair.

Five more minutes. She nods against him and he pulls the covers up and over them.

Five more minutes.

It isn't enough. But it's something.