Instruments of Hypertension

"Coffee." Lorelai slung her purse onto the counter in Luke's the following morning and then slumped onto a stool. She'd already decided to forget the arsenic. She didn't know what arsenic tasted like, and it might ruin the coffee. Luke's coffee tasted so good, and arsenic sounded like it would taste very bad. She didn't know why she thought that; probably because she knew it was a poison, and also probably because arsenic sounded vaguely like parsnips. She knew parsnips tasted bad. Parsnip-flavored coffee was a risk she was just not willing to take, even if it meant she had to sit through a Friday night dinner with her parents- at Luke's. That fact was having trouble sinking in to her caffeine-deprived brain.

Rory was slightly more verbose than her java junkie mother.

"Coffee, please," she requested sleepily.

"Well, good morning to you, too," Luke greeted them dryly. "Actually, it's no longer morning, so you can't have breakfast."

"Coff-ee," Lorelai repeated, slowly and loudly as if she were talking to someone who didn't speak English. And she wasn't even going to give that breakfast comment the time of day- Luke was going to make her pancakes, at 9 in the morning or 3 in the afternoon, she didn't care- even if he might.

Rory collapsed next to her mother, her head in her hands. "Tired," she groaned.

"How was dinner last night?" Luke figured he was dealing with the Saturday-morning fall-out of the Friday-night before.

"Coffee," Lorelai whimpered, giving him the full-on puppy-dog look with her brilliant blue eyes, which Luke knew very well he was completely unable to resist.

"Coming right up," he said, resigned. He wondered if there was a medical study somewhere that dealt with victims of caffeine overdose and withdrawal- he'd have a thing or two to share with those researchers. He filled two giant coffee bowls to the brim with the steaming liquid and slid them in front of Lorelai and Rory, who immediately perked up.

"Coffee!" Lorelai giggled happily. "It's perfect! It's the nectar of life! It's life-sustaining fluid! It's-"

"It's death in a cup," Luke finished for her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, no, you are so wrong, my friend," she informed him. "This is not death in a cup. Any fool could see that this is not death in a cup."

"Are you calling me a fool?" he wanted to know, but she ignored him.

"This…" she paused dramatically, "is death in a mug."

Luke smacked himself on the forehead in mock dismay. "Of course it is!" he exclaimed. "Thanks so much for clearing that up for me, you know, it's not the kind of mistake I'd want to make twice."

"You're so right," Lorelai said sweetly, batting her eyes at him.

"I mean, what if some customer came in here and ordered death in a mug? I wouldn't know what in hell she was talking about, it would all be very confusing, and some poor idiot wouldn't get her last wish just because I gave her death in a cup. You have quite possibly just saved someone's suicide."

"It's what I'm here for," she answered, not missing a beat. Luke had to marvel at her- not two minutes ago she'd looked like something the cat wouldn't even want to drag in and now she was making witty comebacks to his nonsensical rants.

"So, some nice bran muffins to go with that coffee?" he asked innocently.

Rory made such a face it looked like she actually was in pain. "That hurts, Luke," she scolded, tapping her chest over her heart, "right here."

"Pancakes it is," he sighed. He tried one last time. "I could put fruit on the side," he offered.

Lorelai looked at him quizzically. "Why would you do that?" she questioned in a shocked voice. "Just syrup," she ordered, "lots and lots and lots of syrup. Hey, you know what, just because we like you so much, we'll have blueberry syrup. That has fruit in it!" she announced, satisfied with her reasoning.

"Sure it does," Luke rolled his eyes. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."

Lorelai raised both hands in the air. "I win!" she cried triumphantly.

You always win, Luke thought to himself exasperatedly, because I always let you. He disappeared into the kitchen to make the pancakes, leaving Lorelai and Rory to entertain themselves by watching Taylor and Kirk debate what color bunting to have at the next town festival.

"It should be yellow, Kirk, because yellow is the color of springtime, and this is a Springtime festival," Taylor explained in his usual way. If 'duh' had been in the man's vocabulary he would have used it at the end of every sentence.

"I had a bad experience with yellow in my childhood," Kirk confessed. "There was this incident with a big yellow hat that my mom made me. I've never been able to look at yellow the same way since. It's a real hardship for me, you know. I can't eat bananas."

"Bananas are fruit," Lorelai commented helpfully.

Taylor glanced up from his omelet. "Thank you for that helpful input, Lorelai," he said sarcastically. "And I suppose you have an opinion on what color our bunting should be?"

"Of course not, Taylor, because having an opinion would mean I actually care what color bunting you have. Though now that I think of it, I do have a suggestion."

Taylor looked intrigued, and Rory laughed to herself in advance at what his expression was surely going to be in a few seconds, after Lorelai got through telling him whatever crazy idea she had.

"Black," Lorelai stated.

"Black?" Taylor shook his head as if he hadn't heard right. "Did you say black?"

"Sure! We've got all that black crepe paper left over from Halloween. Save some money, use it again, and plus, I think the whole, yellow-for-springtime bit is so overdone. Go with black- it's edgy, it's different, very Goth." She smiled, knowing that she'd raised Taylor's blood pressure by at least 10 points, and that all was now right with the world.

"I agree," Rory chimed in, unable to resist. It was so much fun when she and her mom joined forces- evil, but fun. "Definitely black. Oh, and what about puce balloons? Don't you think puce balloons would look festive?"

"Now you're thinkin', Lincoln," Lorelai congratulated her.

Taylor sighed loudly, pulled out his wallet to leave some money for his breakfast, and walked out the door.

Lorelai and Rory high-fived. "Wow, I think that has to be a record," Rory enthused. "Usually he sticks around long enough to lecture us."

"Yeah, I think that bit about the puce balloons really pushed him over the top," Lorelai commented admiringly.

"Quit talking about puce and eat your pancakes," Luke suddenly appeared next to them and unceremoniously served them breakfast.

"Ooh, puce and pancakes, that's alliteration," Lorelai observed ridiculously.

"Just-- shut up and eat, will ya?" he instructed, exasperated, as he refilled their coffee and headed back to the kitchen.

"Thanks Luke!" Rory yelled.

"You really know the way to a girl's heart, Luke!" Lorelai added at full volume.

"I wish," Luke muttered to himself, well out of her hearing.

"Luke's."

She could hear the background noise from the diner over the phone line; plates clattering, a hum of conversation, Kirk singing, Luke cursing.

"Hi, it's me," she greeted him cheerfully.

"Me who?" he demanded. He knew perfectly well who 'me' was. He could recognize her voice the instant she opened her mouth, but she didn't need to know that. Well, probably she did need to know that, but he wasn't about to tell her.

"Me Lorelai," she huffed impatiently. "Come on, who else calls you up without identifying herself and then expects you to know immediately who it is?"

"Only one person I know who would be that inconsiderate," he agreed readily.

"Oh, I can feel the love," she shot back sarcastically.

"No you can't," he muttered, but she didn't hear, and he hadn't intended her to.

"What do you need, Lorelai? It's kind of busy here, you know, trying to run a business and that sort of thing…"

"I need to make a reservation," she informed him. "Ew, do you have fleas?"

"Excuse me?"

"Not you, Michel. He's scratching like a leper, and his damn dogs are carrying those itchy crawly little things, so of course I told him to-"

"Paw-Paw and Chin-Chin do not have fleas, I told you, they are allergic to their doggy shampoo!" Luke could make out an indignant French-accented voice in the background.

"Whatever, Michel, just don't do that in front of the guests, or I swear I'll quarantine you upstairs with no cheese."

"Lorelai…" Luke growled down the phone.

"What? Oh, sorry, Luke, just- hang on a second, 'kay?"

"No, I can't hang on a second- Lorelai! Ah, geez," he sighed, realizing he was talking to himself; she'd put the phone down and all he could hear was paper rustling, low voices, and then a loud thump that sounded suspiciously like something colliding with a Frenchman's head.

"Okay, I'm back," she said brightly. "What did you need?"

"I need to know if there was another reason for you calling me, besides wanting me to hear a fascinating conversation about dogs and fleas," he grumbled impatiently.

"Oh. Oh yeah," she remembered. "Reservations. I need one."

"What?"

"Reservation, from the Greek, reservationario," she quipped. "Dates back from the two-hundred-and-fortieth century BC, meaning 'Gimme your best table for four at seven next Friday night.'"

"We don't do reservations," he sighed with exaggerated tolerance.

"Ah, but I think you'll make an exception this time," she said in her best deal-maker voice.

"And what makes you think that?" he asked with false curiosity.

"Because at seven PM next Friday night, my parents- Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde- Rory, and myself, will be enjoying our weekly Friday night dinner at your diner."

"You're kidding."

"Well, yes, of course we won't be enjoying ourselves, but actually all the rest is true."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Come on, Luke, I'd do it for you if your obnoxious relatives wanted to have dinner at my house," she whined, in what she hoped was a cute and endearing way.

"I don't have any obnoxious relatives-" he began, but was interrupted by a cough from the other end of the line that sounded very much like "Jess!"- "And if anyone ever wanted to have dinner at your house I'd take them straight to the nearest mental institution," he finished, drumming his fingers on the counter and glancing apologetically at the line of customers waiting to pay their checks.

"But I already told them to come!" she wailed, wishing she'd remembered to ask him when she was in the diner this morning for breakfast; she was much harder to resist in person.

He exhaled loudly in frustration, desperate to get off the phone and back to the diner.

"Okay, fine."

"Thank you, thank you! You're an angel, Luke Danes, have I ever told you that?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice," he sighed. "I've got to get back to work- I'll save you a table next Friday night."

"At seven!" she added happily, smiling as she hung up.