Everything Old Is New Again

by Lula Bo

How do the same things happen every year in so many different ways? A year in the life of Lorelai, Luke, Rory, Emily, and Richard. Followup to Separation Anxiety.

9. April

Apologies for the proliferation of f-bombs below. Thanks to the beta for everything, and to the lovely reviewers. Standard disclaimers apply.

April

The rain had begun on Saturday. Lorelai had been glad, at first. The weather was unseasonably warm, and rain seemed fitting, especially rain of this sort: a light, fine mist that fell softly and blurred windowpanes like smeary, wet kisses. It was an April kind of rain, she thought, not like the rain she and her mother had driven through to Atlantic City. After a winter of cold, unpredictable weather and nasty freak rainstorms, the sun shower on Saturday morning felt like a welcome into spring.

What had started as a light sun shower, however, by evening had grown into a full-fledged angry torrent. Lorelai had listened to it grow more violent from her perch on the ledge of the tub in the upstairs bathroom, had heard the rumble of thunder just after the front door slammed shut and she'd been left alone.

By the fifth day of rain, Lorelai was stir-crazed and ready to pour an entire pot of hot coffee on the next person to tell her that April showers brought May flowers. The rain now fell in sheets, slanted sideways by constant, unrelenting winds. She stood at the living room window, arms crossed over her chest, and wondered briefly if it was too self-centered to feel that the weather had adapted more to her moods each day this week. The wind beat a stray tree branch against the glass, and she flinched at the sudden movement. Her porch was littered with fallen branches and soggy leaves she hadn't yet gotten around to sweeping away. The front yard, dimpled with puddles that threatened to overtake the scant grass that was there, depressed her, and she turned her back on the window.

So wish I could sleep, she thought. It's all Luke's fault. Stupid dork. She rolled her eyes and rested her chin on her shoulder, scratching lightly at her elbow as she looked over to the TV.

"Poor slob, poor slob without a name," Audrey Hepburn said.

Lorelai folded herself up on the couch, legs tucked up under her, her cheek against her knees. Even if he was a stupid dork, she thought, after nearly a week without Luke whatever anger that flared during their short, brutal fight Saturday evening had faded. It had been replaced by a hollowness, an aching in the center of her chest that kept her awake at night. If she hadn't been so tired, she'd be angry with him at this point for simply making her so sad. She reached over her head and groped for the phone on the end table. Without looking, she dialed. The greeting she received was a whining groan.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Lorelai said. "But I can't sleep. I needed to talk."

"You're not seriously calling me again. You are killing me."

"Please?"

A sigh. "What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep," she said again.

"What movie are you watching now?"

"Breakfast at Tiffany's."

"Mom. You hate that movie."

Her mouth fell open. "I do not!"

"You always say that watching that movie actually gives you the mean reds," Rory said. "You think it's depressing and sad."

Lorelai hit the pause button as Audrey Hepburn jumped up from her bathtub couch, crying that it just couldn't be Thursday—but it is Thursday, she thought, day five of Hurricane Luke and Lorelai.

"That's why I like it," she said.

She heard Rory take a breath. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"I told you, I can't sleep," she said. "And I don't want to go up there."

"Why not?"

She paused. "There's a menacing stain on my ceiling."

"Mom."

"There is! It's shaped like a Gremlin!"

"Then don't feed it after midnight," Rory said. "Would you just call Luke already?"

"I can't."

Rory groaned. "Mom, I have an Italian test tomorrow—today, rather. It's two in the morning. This is the third time you've called me tonight. Please, please call Luke."

Lorelai said nothing.

"You know you don't want to be talking to me right now," Rory began.

"That's not true!" Lorelai cried, sitting up. "I always want to talk to you!"

"I just mean you'd rather be talking to Luke."

She sat up. "I can't. I can't call him, Rory. I just—I can't. This is his thing, he needs to be the one to call first."

"Mom, what was this fight about?"

A powerful gust of wind swept across the house. Simultaneously, Lorelai heard the kitchen door swing open and the power flicker and die. She sat in complete darkness, listening to the back door banging open in the wind. The portable phone she held made not even a staticky pop. She threw it aside with a howl and got to her feet. She took tentative steps to the kitchen in search of candles and matches, to shut the kitchen door and latch it closed. Tears pricked painfully behind her eyes; she sniffled and squared her shoulders. She would not cry. She wouldn't, she told herself. She wouldn't cry because it was two in the morning and the power was out and she was by herself and it was raining and she'd had a vicious, pointless fight with her boyfriend. That she was not going to do.

Rory's question echoed as Lorelai lit the candles on her kitchen table. She fetched herself a can of soda from the fridge before she sat down to wait for the power to come back on. What had the fight been about? She popped the top of the soda and startled herself with the sound. Whatever it had been about, she thought, it had been a lot like that—sudden and loud and disorienting. The comparison made her snort and the carbonation stung the inside of her nose. Her eyes watered and she coughed, trying to draw a proper breath. Yes, she thought, the fight had been a lot like that.

Lorelai chugged half the can in an effort not to think. She wasn't surprised that it didn't work; nothing else had helped so far, and she'd ended up dwelling on what they'd said to each other as they avoided the actual source of tension. This was another of their dances, she knew. Yelling at each other about anything else was easier than talking through the problem.

She'd been avoiding the bedroom all week. When the fight had reached its most vicious pitch, Lorelai remembered bellowing at Luke and hauling herself to the upstairs bathroom, locking herself in. He hadn't followed her. When she emerged an hour later, she'd crossed the hall to the bedroom and found it scattered with the things he'd left behind. A pair of socks. His jacket. His watch. Though she'd been forced to go in and get clean clothes for work every day, she hadn't slept in her bed since. She curled up each night on the couch in the living room instead. She rubbed her temples wearily, thinking of it. It hadn't done her much good: she'd found it impossible to sleep at all.

The wind moaned under the eaves; the sound made Lorelai shiver. She wandered into Rory's room with one of the candles and set it on the desk by the door. The light was uneven, faint at best, but she knew what she was looking for and the slight glow of the candle would do.

She'd hidden the jacket in her daughter's wardrobe for no other reason than if Luke tried to sneak in and steal it back while she wasn't home, it would be the one place he wouldn't look. For the same reason, his watch was in Rory's underwear drawer. Lorelai opened the wardrobe and slipped the jacket from the hanger she'd placed it on, beneath an old winter coat of Rory's, and hugged it to her chest. She kneeled to open the drawer where Rory kept her fine unmentionables. Lorelai found the watch wrapped in a pair of Wonder Woman under-roos. She giggled as she untangled it from the cotton. It was a sad state of affairs that its cold heft in her hand was the most comfort she'd had in days. She rolled her eyes at the maudlin melodrama of the thought and slipped the watch onto her wrist. She was perversely glad that, since he'd stomped out of the house on Sunday, he'd not only been without the joy of her company, he'd been without the jacket and watch as well. She struggled into the jacket and cuffed the sleeves. She allowed herself a moment to smell the fabric, breathe him in.

"You're being ridiculous and strangely creepy," she told herself. "You're also talking to yourself. It's never a good sign."

She took her candles and returned to the living room, telling herself she wouldn't allow the artifacts he'd forgotten to sway her in any way. If he wanted to talk to her, if he wanted to make up, he was going to have to come to her. He had been the one to snap first; his had been the most hurtful barbs; he had the problem, even if he didn't know it. She could sit here by the flickering light of her candles, hugged comfortably in his jacket with her knees tucked up under the tee shirt she'd stolen from him months ago, and wait him out. She missed him, but she knew, without quite understanding why, that Luke had to be the first to reach out.

Reaching out was something he wouldn't be able to do at the moment, she realized, remembering that all her phones were portable and so electric; she and Rory had never had the patience for cords that attached phones to bases and bases to walls, but patience would have at the very least made it possible for him to call. She pouted a moment and jiggled the watch on her wrist. She wanted to call Rory again. Her emotional, inner thirteen-year-old was getting the better of her—she wanted to be reminded that she was an occasionally rational adult who didn't have to spend her night sulking and waiting for her boyfriend to call. But, she thought, there's really nothing better to do at the moment.

She remembered her cell phone a few moments later. She'd turned it off days ago—a precautionary measure, she'd told herself at the time, to give him the opportunity to sweat it out and also to keep herself from calling Rory one time too many—and left it in her purse. The battery would still be good. She retrieved it, nearly knocking over one of her candles in the process. She curled up on the couch and flipped it on. As the phone lit up, it beeped and began to vibrate in her hand. Incoming call.

She sighed into the phone as she answered. "Hello?"

The rain seemed to clatter on the other end of the connection. "Where the fuck are you?"

She furrowed her brow. "What?"

"Where in the fucking hell are you?"

"Luke?" she asked. Immediately, she slapped her palm to her forehead at her own stupidity, instinctive though it was.

"No, Lorelai, Jimmy Hoffa," he growled. "Yes, Luke. Where are you?"

His anger riled her. He didn't get to be mad, she thought. "I'm at my house. Where else would I be?"

"You are not at your house," he told her.

"I am at my house, you lunatic!"

"You are not at your house!" he bellowed. "I've been calling your fucking house for over a fucking hour, and there's no answer, which means that you are not at your house!"

"Well, where the hell are you?" she shot back. "You sound like you're in Burma."

"I'm across the fucking street at the pay phone, is where I am," he said. Lorelai was aware that his voice was raised more in necessity than anything else, because of the rain, but it didn't ease the irritation making her fingertips itch. "I got so goddamned pissed off trying to reach you, I pulled the fucking phone out of the wall downstairs, and since you made me put in the portable upstairs, it's all I had, so I had to come out here in a fucking monsoon to call you and keep getting no answer only to realize that I've locked myself out of my fucking apartment!"

"You want to tone down the language there, Tony Montana?" she said. "The reason you couldn't get through, genius, is that all the phones in this house are portable and therefore, not functioning in what you have so exaggeratedly called a monsoon. I'm sorry you locked your keys in the apartment, but that's not my fault, and I'd appreciate you not yelling at me for something over which I had absolutely no control!" She was on her feet and pacing now, her voice rising with each pronouncement. "Now, not that you deserve the offer, but hang up the pay phone and get your ass over here before you catch pneumonia and blame me for your untimely death."

He was silent a moment. "If I come over, you gonna let me in?"

"No, Luke, I was offering only so that I could stand at the window and mock you for your stupidity in coming over—for crap's sake, of course I'll let you in. I'm mad at you, but I'm not, you know, Miss Minchin."

"I'll be there in five minutes," he said. "You got any firewood in the house?"

Lorelai looked over her shoulder. "Some, next to the fireplace. Why?"

"Gee, Lorelai, I don't know. What do people typically use firewood for?"

"I'm hanging up on you before you say anything else that will make me retract said offer," she said. "Hurry up."

Lorelai resisted the temptation to wait by the window or door, didn't want to give him the satisfaction of catching sight of her waiting for him. She stretched out on the couch, her hands folded on her stomach. His watch was heavy on her wrist, which was no longer such a comfort; she slipped it over her hand and placed it on the end table behind her. She laid her cheek against the cushion and played out what would have been the next scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's in her head. "Sing-sing, and step on it, darling."

She heard his heavy tread on the stairs sooner than she'd expected him. He banged the door with the flat of his hand, calling her name. Slowly, Lorelai got to her feet and padded across the room towards the door. She rested her hand on the doorknob a moment before she opened the door. They waited a beat, regarding each other over the threshold. Luke, in one fluid motion, stepped in, kicked the door shut, slipped his arm around Lorelai's waist, and drew her to him. She gasped as his arms went around her, pinned her own to her side. He held her in a fierce embrace; she found herself crushed against his chest, her cheek squashed in the shoulder of his water-logged vest. He rested his chin on her hair, and when she spoke, she jarred him, knocking his teeth together.

"So, this was so not what I expected to happen."

Luke stepped back as though suddenly remembering himself. "Sorry."

She wiped the back of her hand against her cheek, damp from his vest. "No, it's fine. Just… wasn't prepared for that."

"I—when I called and there was no answer… I panicked," he said, his voice low. "Scared myself shitless. And then I got pissed off, and the phone came out of the wall, and… mostly, I was worried."

"I was right here," she said. She took his wrists in her hands and began to lead him away from the door. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes." She paused. "And know that any scenario where that phrase is sexy is just so unlikely tonight," she told him. "Go wait for me in the bathroom. I'm going to get you some dry stuff. And take a candle."

She watched him pull off his boots and hurry across the house to the stairs, dripping on the floor as he went. He hadn't bothered to turn his hat around to cover his eyes, and Lorelai could see the water streaming from the bill of his cap, down the collar of his shirt. She sighed as she picked his boots up by the laces and tossed them onto the porch rather than let them puddle on her hardwood floor. She waited until he was out of sight in the bathroom before she went through the motions of finding something for him to wear. There were pajama pants in the dryer, she knew, and socks in the bedroom, still… She gathered his things and attempted to ignore the tiny, chirping voice in her head that wished the power would come back on so that she could make him something hot, get something warm in him, and the other, sultrier voice that insinuated there were other ways of warming up the man she loved that didn't have to involve hot liquid, though it would be interesting if they did. She wrinkled her nose as she mounted the stairs and passed the bathroom for her bedroom.

He called to her from where he stood on the bathmat. "Lorelai?"

"What?" She bent to rifle through a pile of laundry.

"You're wearing my coat."

She stopped, feeling caught. "So?"

"So, why are you wearing my coat?"

The amusement in his voice needled her. "In the hopes that if I get enough of my cooties on it, you'll never want to wear it again."

He chuckled. "If I don't have your cooties on me by now…" he began.

She stood in the bathroom door, his pants and socks hugged to her chest. The look on her face, somber and hurt, silenced him. He remained rooted to the bathmat; he'd thrown his vest, flannel, and tee shirt into the tub behind him, and he waited for her bare-chested in his jeans, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. The candle he'd brought up from the living room cast an unsteady, orange light over the room. It made Luke look haggard, pale. Lorelai tossed the socks and pants at him and moved towards the linen closet.

"Why were you trying to call?" she asked.

"It was raining," he said.

"It's rained before—it's been raining all week, actually, and you haven't tried to call," she countered. "Besides, it's not like I'll melt. I'm not made of sugar."

"You sure about that?"

She looked at him over her shoulder before she turned and began to rub at his shoulders vigorously with the towel she held. "Why were you trying to call?" she asked again.

Luke shrugged. He was watching her, and Lorelai determinedly concentrated on drying him down. "The power was out," he said. "I was worried about you."

"I'm a big girl, Luke. I can handle a power outage."

He caught her hands in his. "I know that."

They locked eyes a moment. Lorelai faltered, felt the hot rush of tears threatening to break the façade. She wrested her hands away. Covering his face with the towel, she massaged his scalp, dragging her fingernails along the terrycloth of the towel as she dried his hair. He made a noise of appreciation; she snapped the towel away and handed it to him.

"Finish yourself," she said. She squelched the dirty that immediately came to mind.

He did as he was told, skimming the fabric along his arms and across his back. Lorelai sat on the toilet. His jeans were in a tangled heap on top of his other clothes. She debated taking everything down to the dryer, but the prospect of carrying the heavy, soaking load down the stairs wearied her, and she instead focused her gaze on Luke's feet. When she looked up, he was twisting the towel in his hands, shivering slightly. She could tell, even in the weak light, that he hadn't slept.

"Cold?" she asked.

"Nah."

"I couldn't find a shirt for you," she said vaguely. She looked down at herself. "Oh." She stood and shrugged his coat off.

"You don't have to—"

She tossed the jacket into the hall. "I have shirts here, Luke," she said flatly, pointedly adding, "You don't." She grasped the hem of the shirt in her hands, her arms crossed before her, and pulled the tee over her head. "Consequence of not really living here."

Luke swallowed thickly. Lorelai turned her cheek to him as she extended her hand, offering him the balled-up, inside-out baseball tee. Immediately, she covered herself, wrapping her arms around her torso to hide her bare breasts. As though, she thought, he hadn't seen her bare breasts a hundred times before. As though he weren't intimately acquainted with her bare breasts.

"Thanks."

Lorelai stood a moment, holding herself, feeling more naked in her Thursday day-of-the-week underpants than she'd ever felt standing naked in front of him before. "Whatever," she said. She turned to the bedroom. His right hand, cold against her skin, set heavily on her shoulder, stopped her. She stared at the doorframe, waiting.

He slipped his hand lower, sliding his palm along her collarbone, pausing to dip his fingertip in the hollow of her throat, until he came to rest it on her left shoulder. Lorelai shook at the unexpected contact. He pulled her back against him, again rested his cheek on her hair. Lorelai took a breath and held it. She felt him close his eyes as he laid his other hand flat against her bare stomach, just at her navel. She flushed with heat beneath the chill of his touch. He lowered his mouth to her ear.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She waited to speak until she was certain her voice wouldn't break, that her tone would be even and cool. "What are you apologizing for?" she asked.

He sighed, his breath warm against her neck. "Not calling. I shoulda called. I am sorry, you know."

"I know," she whispered. She pressed her cheek to his. "But it's not enough, that."

He shuddered as she stepped into him, her back warm against his chest. She felt the goose-bumps rise on his skin. He tightened his arms around her and she stayed for a moment, her eyes closed as well, as he curved his body to hers and dug his fingers into her arm and her side, as he buried his face in her hair. Her throat ached.

"Put your shirt on," she said. To her own ears, her voice sounded hollow. "I'm going to get some clothes."

He released her slowly. "I'll meet you downstairs."

She closed the door of her bedroom behind her, gave herself a moment as she sat on the bed. She pressed her forehead to her knees and growled. She told herself she was being worse than melodramatic. She told herself she was being silly and oversensitive and it didn't have to be a big deal.

She rose and went to her dresser in search of pajamas, sighing. "But it is."

Luke was kneeling in front of the fireplace, coaxing the flame from the kindling, as Lorelai came downstairs. She set the candle she held on the coffee table and dropped to the floor a few feet away from him. His hair was still damp. He avoided her gaze as she reached out and rubbed the fabric of his shirt at his elbow.

"I like you in that shirt," she said. "It looks better on you."

He smiled ruefully. "And here I am thinking the opposite," he said.

"Ah, but I don't have your manly physique to fill it out," she replied.

"Thank God for small favors, then," he chuckled. He paused. "Listen, Lorelai—"

She decided she didn't want to hear it, that she wouldn't give him the chance to placate her, talk around it yet again. It was too late, she was tired, and they'd only have to go through it all another time. She said the first thing she could think of: "You look like hell."

He tipped his head, conceding. "I haven't slept."

She sat up and shook her hair from its ponytail. "Me neither."

"I wish I knew what to say to make this better," Luke said wearily. "I already apologized."

"It's not about apologies anymore," she told him. "And you know that."

Luke rose and wandered to the window. "I missed you, this week."

"I've been here." She inched closer to the fire, spreading her hands towards the heat. "You could have come over."

"Could I have?" he asked, turning.

"Of course," Lorelai said. "You know that, too."

He snorted. "Right. Don't I remember you telling me you couldn't look at me anymore and to get the hell out of your house? Those were your exact words, I'm pretty sure: 'I can't even look at you right now. Get the hell out of my house.'"

That she remembered, she thought. The memory lodged painfully in her throat, gave her a bitter taste at the back of her mouth. Her next words hurt as she spoke them: "And then you actually left. I still can't believe you actually left. You left!"

Luke gaped at her. "You told me to!"

"But I didn't mean it!" she cried. "When have you ever left when I've told you to, anyway? That's not what you do, Luke—you fold up your jacket and you sit on the couch and you tell me you're not leaving even if I want you to, that is what you do! You were supposed to—you were supposed to follow me upstairs, and we were supposed to keep fighting until we were done and it was fixed and then we'd have amazing make up sex and eat pancakes and fall asleep and it would have been fine! But instead, you left."

"Well, how was I supposed to know that was what you wanted?" he demanded.

"Because," she said quietly, "you've always stayed before."

"And you always get pissed at me for it," he returned.

"Not really," she said. "Luke. Why don't you want to come live with me? Why is that so hard?"

"Ah, geez, is that what this is about?" Luke groaned.

Lorelai felt her jaw drop. "What do you mean, is that what this is about?" she squeaked. "Were you here the other day? Did you not listen to yourself ranting about my stupid kitchen and my teeny tiny bathrooms and my teeny tiny bedroom with the teeny tiny bed and my stupid hallway with arches and my weird lamps? Were you not present for the litany of complaints you made about my housekeeping skills—or, excuse me, my lack thereof? You did everything but tell me I have stupid hair!"

"Oh, I did not," he said.

"Yes, Luke, you did. And when I dared to defend myself, you then proceeded to attack me for being too sensitive!"

"Are you on drugs?" he demanded.

She stared at him a long moment, slack jawed, unable to speak. "Seriously, did you just ask me if I'm on drugs?" She got to her feet. "No wonder I told you to get the hell out of my house," she said sullenly. "For crap's sake, Luke—do you not remember that argument, really? Because I'm pretty sure I could give you a word-for-word reenactment, if necessary."

"It's not necessary," he sighed. "I just—do you really think I don't want to live with you?"

Lorelai crossed her arms over her chest and kept her features carefully calm. "I really think you've come up with a hell of a lot of reasons not to move in for someone who claims to want to move in."

"You know that's not true," he sighed.

"I don't know that's not true," she said flatly. "When I brought it up the other day, you went into defense mode just like you are now—"

Luke scowled. "I am not."

"Oh, you are, too." She was sure that he saw, when she looked up at him, the weariness that overwhelmed her confusion, the readiness to give in, and again, the hurt. She knew it would raise guilt in his throat like bile, and she sighed. "We can move, if the house is the problem. We can find another place in Stars Hollow. It's not the only house—"

Luke contemplated the rain falling beyond the porch before he answered. "I don't want you to have to move. You love this house."

"It's just a house, Luke. It's not Tara, or anything, and I know that—yes, it's been my home for a long time, but I want—I want you to feel like where we live isn't just my place, you know? It's not fair that you should feel like a guest in the place you're going to live," she said. "And I want you to live with me. So it's fine, we can move."

"No," he said firmly. "You're not moving because of me."

"Well, you're going to move because of me, aren't you?" she asked.

"It's not about the house, Lorelai."

"A-ha!" she said, pointing at him. "I knew there was something—my spidey-sense was tingling. If it's not the house, then what is it? Come on, Luke. I'm not going to be able to sleep until we settle this, that's very clear by now, and my normally sunny disposition becomes quite Hyde-like when deprived of beauty sleep. Tell me."

Luke passed a hand over his eyes. "I've never really lived with anyone before."

"That's not true," she countered immediately. "You lived with Jess."

"With a girl," he corrected.

She fluttered a hand to her chest. "I'm flattered, good sir, by that appellation, but it remains untrue. You lived with Rachel."

"I did not live with Rachel," he said darkly.

"Yes, you did," she said. "I remember. She came in, all, 'hi, how's it going?' and then immediately installed herself in your apartment. You gave her a drawer. That whole time she was here, you were living together."

"And you remember how that turned out. She moved the milk and I ended up breaking in and then breaking things here just so I'd have something to fix and not be there while she moved the milk," he said.

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Luke, my life, I refuse to believe that Rachel left because you were uncomfortable with her dairy placement preferences."

"No, she left because of you." He lifted his head, his eyes wide.

She stared at him a moment, her lips parted in mute surprise. "You never told me that," she said, when she had found her voice. "Why didn't you ever tell me that?"

"Well, you went and got engaged," he pointed out. "It was sort of moot. Besides, what would you have done differently?"

"I don't—that's just—crap," she said weakly. She made a noise of disbelief, shaking her head. "Luke. I never knew."

He shrugged. "I know."

"God, Luke. I wish—I just—I didn't know," she said again. "But, still, while we will talk about this at length at another time, it has no bearing on the current topic at hand."

"Just because she left for another reason doesn't mean I wouldn't suck at living with someone," he said. "And why are you talking like a commentator for NPR?"

"I'm tired. Apparently that makes me Terry Gross," she sighed. "You think you're going to suck at living with someone? Living with me? Luke, you practically live with me already. I don't see how it's any different if your stuff comes and lives with my stuff, too."

"It's just different." He shuffled his feet. "I don't know—it's not like I'm worried you'll kick me out if I leave the toilet seat up one too many times."

"Then what is it like?" she asked. She waited a moment, and receiving no answer, clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and exhaled an impatient breath. "What, Luke?"

"Lorelai," Luke sighed. He sat back on the windowsill. "I don't know how to answer that. I just don't."

Lorelai closed her eyes. "Every time we've talked about this, you've either found something else to talk about or a reason why we should talk about it later until five days ago when you just exploded. And I have since spent the last five days trying to think of reasons why you wouldn't want to move in with me."

He said nothing a while. At length, he slumped further against the window. "What have you come up with?" he asked.

She smiled faintly. "Well, there's the repeated, two in the morning, panicked revelation that you don't want to get married—" she began.

Luke stood up straight. "Of course I want to get married!"

"I know that," Lorelai said. "But at two in the morning, it's hard to be sure of anything when you're not speaking to your husband-to-be because for some reason he has an aversion to sharing an abode with you."

"Ah, geez, Lorelai." He passed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. You never should have—I can't believe I did anything that would make you think that I didn't want to marry you. I'm so sorry. I suck."

"You do not suck," she said. "My brain got there with very little help from you."

He shook his head, braced his hands on his hips as he stared at his feet. Lorelai could see the mental ass-kicking he was giving himself, the tabulation of how long he'd have to punish himself before he sufficiently paid for the anxiety he'd caused her. She fought the urge to cross the room and put her arms around him; the small voice that had tormented her with taunts of Luke's indifference was attempting to convince her to keep laying on the guilt because he really did deserve it. I have a really nasty inner voice, she thought.

"Hey," she said. He looked up. "It's okay. I'll get over it. Besides, that was just one among several."

"What were the others?"

Again, she gave him the whisper of a smile. "Well, that I have horrifying BO and you can't stand my ungodly stench."

Luke's mouth twitched slightly. "You do not have an ungodly stench."

"No?"

"The way you smell is actually one of your many attributes," he said.

"Yay for me, then," she said. "So that's off the list. Also, there was the theory that you're suddenly deathly allergic to my sheets."

"I am not allergic to your sheets."

"I also wondered if you just couldn't stand the prospect of living next door to Babette for the rest of your life and therefore being the subject of more gossip than you are now."

"No," he said. "Well, yes, but no."

"That, I understand. Well, then, that really only leaves the last one."

"Which is?"

She took a breath. "That you're afraid to put up bookshelves."

He furrowed his brow in confusion. "Say what?"

"You can put bookshelves up here, Luke," Lorelai said.

"I appreciate that," he replied, "but I don't have the first idea of what you're talking about."

"You can put bookshelves up in my house," she said again. "And unless you discover a sudden affection for Hello Kitty! and Betty Boop socks—and God help us both if that ever happens—the only socks you'll ever put on here will most definitely be yours." She waited for this to sink in, but he continued to look at her in utter bewilderment. "You are going to be the only man with socks here. There'll never be any other sock man in this house but you."

When the realization hit him, his entire body tensed. He stood straighter, balled his hands into fists. He began to pace. His jaw was clenched—even his eyelids seemed to Lorelai strained in some way. He was silent for several long moments. "Lorelai. I know you would never do that. I know that. I can't—I can't believe you would even—how can you even think I would think that?"

"Luke, stop," she said. She tentatively stepped towards him. "I don't think you think that. I think maybe your brain went ahead and thought it without your help whether you think your brain thought it or not. Your brain hears 'moving in'and it remembers Nicole and moving in with her and how that ended up, and your brain has to know that no matter what it thinks, that's not going to happen with me, with us." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tipped her head to the side, smiling cautiously at him. "Your brain might be a little paranoid. I just want to let it know it doesn't have to be."

Luke turned away from her, again shaking his head. "I still—I still don't get why you're bringing that up. What it has to do with anything."

"Do I really have to explain this to you?" she asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared blankly at the window, keeping his back to her. He said nothing a moment. "You're wrong."

"Am I?" she asked.

"It has nothing to do with us, what happened before." His voice was rough, tired.

"But it does," she insisted. She stood beside him, placed her hand at his elbow to turn him towards her.

He started at the touch of her hand on his cheek. She brushed her fingers along the edge of his jaw, down his chin. She ran her forefinger over the arch of his eyebrow, her eyes sad as she studied his face. At length, she laid her hand to his cheek once more and forced him to look down at her.

"I don't know what it was like for you before, okay? But this is what I do know: Rachel came back to town and lived with you for awhile, and it didn't work out; you and Nicole tried to move in together, and it didn't work out—worse, when you tried, that's when things went screwier than they already were." He grunted at this, and she apologized softly. She continued, "I think there's a part of your brain that's afraid that moving in with me will somehow herald the doomsday of our relationship. And I'm telling you right now that it's not happening. Clearly, you or your brain needs to hear it."

He leaned into her palm. "Stop talking about my brain, Lorelai."

"I'm serious," she said. "Come here," she said, taking him by the hand. She pushed him to sit on the couch and climbed onto his lap. She straddled him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and dipped her head low to look at him. "Luke, it's going to be fine. You knew that—you know that. You didn't give me this ring for nothing, and if I thought for a second you were jerking me around with it, I'd make you a eunuch faster than you can cover your crotch with both hands."

"That's extremely genteel of you," he said. "I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't mean," she said. "I do. And we're okay. Your brain just has a little catching up to do, but your brain can totally trust me." She kissed his brow. "Lord knows that while they're superior to all others, I don't love you for your body and your coffee alone. I'm pretty fond of your insides, too."

Luke wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a hug. She leaned into him, hugged him awkwardly around his neck, and rested her chin on his shoulder. He pressed his lips to the crook of her neck. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry we fought. I'm sorry for staying away. I'm sorry I'm a dick," he said.

"You're not a dick."

He angled back to look at her. "Would you just let me be a dick, Lorelai?"

"Heh. Dirty."

He studied her a moment. "I'm not sure it is what you think it is. The bookshelf thing."

She placed her hands squarely on his shoulders and squeezed hard. "Regardless, know that you can put anything you want anywhere you want to—"

"Now that's dirty," he said.

"Oh, good one, Luke, good one," she said, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. "Know that," she said again, "and know that I know you know it."

He touched his forehead to hers. "So, fight over?"

"Depends."

Lorelai felt him tense beneath her once more, felt him take the deep breath he tried to hide as he ducked his head. When Luke raised his eyes to meet hers, his expression was resolved.

"You tell me when, I'll be here. Me and my stuff," he said.

"You sure?"

He nodded his head once, emphatically. "Five days of this again, I'll be beating the shit out of Taylor just to distract myself."

"Well, I'm glad I can amuse," Lorelai laughed.

"We're good?"

"We're good," she replied.

"How long are you going to hold this over me?" he asked.

She smirked. "Oh, many, many weeks, my friend."

"So," he said, pushing her hair off her shoulder, "are we at the amazing make up sex part of the whole fight scenario?"

Lorelai let herself fall forward against his chest, swinging her leg over his lap so that she lay across him. "Nope."

He supported her back with his arm, tapping his fingers against her elbow as he propped her up. "Nope?"

"Hungry," she said.

"Do I want to know how you've been surviving the past five days?" he asked.

She laughed and softly bit the side of his neck. "Pop Tarts and raw cookie dough. Peanut butter. But mostly just whole coffee beans. You know, those chocolate covered espresso beans? Mm," she murmured. "But I could use some real sustenance."

"Sookie hasn't been feeding you?"

"Not for lack of trying," she replied. "However, I was wallowing, and there is a protocol to follow."

He gathered her closer, grew serious. "I'm sorry, Lorelai. Really."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I won't tell you it's been fun." She traced a loopy, cursive L on his chest. "It has been the exact opposite of fun. In fact, fun completely vacated the premises. Fun went and moved to Canada. Something about not approving of Bush's foreign or domestic policies. I don't know. We weren't speaking by the time it up and left."

"I want to get married."

"I know."

"I want to live with you."

"I know."

Luke stroked her hair. "I guess… I guess things take time."

"Says the man who waited the better part of a decade to kiss the woman of his dreams."

"Who would that be?" he teased.

She poked him in the ribs, hard. "Watch it. You haven't earned back teasing rights yet, bucko."

"Sorry," he said. "How can I make amends?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "I think you know."

"Ah," he said. "Right. Pancakes." Luke lifted Lorelai out of his lap and rose. "When was the last time you ate a piece of fruit?"

"What's that?" she asked.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Luke put out his hand. "Come with me, I'll make you something."

Lorelai held his hand between both of hers as she followed him to the kitchen. His skin was cold, still; he hadn't warmed up properly when he came in from the rain. She sat on the counter and watched him, kicking her heels against the cabinets. They were silent, save Luke asking Lorelai for a match to light one of the burners and blessing her for having a gas stove.

"Forgot about that," she said. "It's a pity I don't drink instant coffee."

Luke didn't acknowledge this as he lit another burner and put the kettle on for tea. She made a face at him as he brought the mugs down and dropped tea bags in; he countered with a face of his own that made her laugh and nearly topple into the sink.

As they had done the first time almost a year ago and so many times since, they shared the pancakes from a plate balanced precariously on Lorelai's thighs as she sat on the counter and Luke stood between her knees before her. After several moments of silent eating, something occurred to her, and Lorelai set down her fork and caught Luke by his wrist. He stopped and looked at her, a question mark on his face. She then kissed him softly with her eyes closed, sighing into him, smiling against him. She had wondered, once, if there would come a time when kissing Luke this way, deep and long and slow, being kissed by Luke, would be commonplace, would no longer make her giddy or her abdomen tighten or give her that sensation of small, winged creatures beating at her ribcage. Raising her hand, she just touched her fingertips to his cheek, and at her touch, he leaned into her. As he pushed himself forward and gripped her waist tightly in his hands, she knew such a time would never occur. The weight of unanswered questions still sat heavily on her shoulders; she'd made him lay bare the emotional carnage created with other women that he still refused to see as well. Even so, she thought, when his mouth was over hers, it all became inconsequential, if only for the moment.

When they parted, she rubbed her thumb along his lower lip, smiling wryly. "You're scratchier than usual," she told him.

He bit her thumb. "Sorry. I can shave."

"You can?" she teased. "I'm shocked." She took a sip of tea and shuddered. "Seriously, Luke. How you can forgo coffee for something as tasteless as this, I'll never understand."

"Likewise," he said, "but backwards."

"Yes, that made very much sense," she said. "God, did I miss you."

Luke set the plate aside and pulled Lorelai forward, towards him, wrapped his arms around her as she crossed her ankles at his back. She draped her arms over his shoulders as he kissed her, savoring the taste of him, the pleasurable pain of his beard as he pressed closer and deepened the kiss, trapped her against him with his hands flat against her back beneath her tank top. She raised one hand and cradled his head; for the first time since he'd slammed the door behind him and left, she felt content, awash in his presence.

When they broke from each other, breathless, she kissed the tip of his nose. "Did you miss me?" In answer, he made to lift her from the counter and carry her out of the kitchen. Abruptly, she dug her nails into his shoulder and pulled back. "Wait. There's something else we need to talk about." She paused. "And I'm still hungry."

He hung his head, groaning. "You're killing me, Lorelai."

"You know, you're not the first person to say that to me tonight," she said. "Please? Food?"

He obeyed, making another stack of pancakes and adding bacon that he discovered in the depths of the fridge from the last time he'd made her breakfast. She cooed thanks for him and demanded hot chocolate in lieu of her tea.

"How long am I going to be your indentured servant, here?" he asked as he complied.

She blinked. "For life. Didn't you know? That's what marriage is all about, baby."

"And what do I get into the bargain?" he asked, eyeing her.

She spread her hands with a wicked grin. "Me as your willing love slave," she said.

He stepped away from the stove and just pressed his lips to hers. "You're getting the raw end of the deal on that one, you know."

"Keep kissing up, Luke," she laughed. "I'm loving it. In a non-MacDonald's sense."

He plated the food and handed her a steaming mug. "So. You wanted to talk."

"I just think there are some things we should talk about while we're, you know—"

"Delving into the uncomfortable?" he asked. He popped a piece of bacon in his mouth. "Shoot."

"Wedding," she said, her mouth full.

"Let's have one," he said. He helped himself to her hot chocolate.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, then. Would you like to participate in any way?"

"You mean, other than showing up and saying 'I do'?"

"There are details to plan, moron," she shot back. "Sookie's got the menu covered, Lane's dealing with the music, my mother has commandeered the invitations, Rory's picking out readings, we have the location, but there are other things we need to discuss."

"Such as?"

"Such as, who are you going to get to stand up with you? Groomsmen?"

"Jess."

Lorelai stabbed the last bite of pancake with her fork. "I'm having Sookie and Rory for bridesmaids, so you need at least one other person." She grinned at him. "You could always ask Kirk. He'd wet himself. And then he'd pass out."

"Yes, I'll do that," he drawled. "So," he said as he took the plate and put it in the sink, "you said there were some things. What else?"

Lorelai studied him a minute, thinking. The strain of the last week—the confusion caused by the fight, the sleeplessness, the time spent apart—were clearly written on his face. He was moving slowly, as though putting one foot in front of the other required thought and effort. She reached for him, and he once again pulled her into a hug as she sat on the counter. She rested her chin on her wrists, her arms looped around his neck. It might have been enough, the distance they'd come in the past few hours, she thought. And there was always time, later.

"Nothing," she said. "Just the wedding." She pulled back slightly.

"And?"

"Really, Luke. Nothing."

He reached for her hands, carefully avoiding her eyes. "Maybe we should think about adding on to the house," he said.

"What do you mean?"

Luke shrugged as he stared at their linked hands. "Add on. Make the house a little bigger. I mean, closet space alone—"

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."

"I'm serious. The house—I don't know, maybe it wouldn't hurt to have another room or two, just for practicality's sake."

"For practicality's sake?" she echoed. "Because…?"

He ran his thumb over hers. "Just, you know. In case we need room somewhere down the line, we'll have it."

"Room for what?" Lorelai asked, her brow furrowed.

Luke looked up. His eyes, as he locked his gaze on hers, were both serious and soft. "Room for—for anything. Just extra room. We might—we might decide we want it," he said, "or that we—we need it. And then we'll have it."

Lorelai's mouth fell slightly open, her lips just parted, and she raised her head as an idea began to form. Something flashed in Luke's eyes, something she almost recognized. "So you think we should add on," she said deliberately, "now. So we have room for… later."

"I think it would be a good idea, yeah," he replied. "It would be good to—to be prepared."

Lorelai closed the distance between them and kissed him lightly, briefly. "Okay."

He broke into a wide smile. "Yeah?" he asked. "Good. I'll start making some calls, get moving on it."

"Just like that?" she asked.

"Just like that," Luke said. "Why wait?"

She laughed. "And it's that easy. I don't know if I can afford it right now, Luke."

"Maybe not," he said, "but we can."

She lifted her head. "How?"

"Same way I could buy a building without a loan and give you thirty thousand dollars out of pocket," he said. "I've got some investments we could pull. I've got a savings account that's—it's one of those egg things."

"An egg savings account?" she asked. "A nest egg?"

He snapped his fingers. "That. We can do it. We'll get Tom out here, get an estimate, a plan, whatever. Don't worry about it."

"You're just full of surprises, there, Money-bags."

"Don't call me that."

She giggled. "Sure, Mr. Trump."

"Ah, geez, woman, would you cut it out?"

Lorelai ran her hands along the outsides of Luke's arms. "Oh, come on. Women love The Donald."

"Do they?" he asked, putting his hands on her hips, pulling her forward once more. He kissed her, a slow, languid kiss.

She pulled back and shook her hair, wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. "I think it's the hair," she said hoarsely. "Or maybe it's the pout." She continued as Luke bent his head and gently kissed the space just behind her ear. The whispered touch of his lips against her skin shook her to her core, and speaking took considerable concentration. "Conan O'Brien does a really hilarious impression of the Trumpster," she said. Luke trailed his kisses lower. Lorelai worked her fingers through his hair and tipped her chin to give him better access, even as she asked, "And, good sir, may I ask what it is you're doing?"

He didn't pause. "If you're asking me what I'm doing I'm not doing it right." He had reached her collarbone, slid his hands under the hem of her shirt and slowly up her sides.

"Oh, no, I think that's okay, what you're doing there," she said.

At this, he stopped. He took a step away. "Okay?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I meant to say something else." He lifted an eyebrow. "What I meant, of course, was 'may I ask what it is you're doing to me, making me so crazed with lust I want you to take me right here on this counter? Oh, baby, don't tease me so,'" she said. "That is obviously what I meant."

He scratched his head. "I gotta say, working in the food service industry makes that particular fantasy a lot less appealing."

"Consider the spirit of the sentiment and not the letter, then," Lorelai replied.

"Right," he said, and with that he hoisted her off the counter and onto his shoulder. He carried her this way to the living room while she made wolf-whistles at his rear end. Ignoring her, he deposited her on the couch and pinned her to the cushions before she had a chance to sit up. His kiss was heated, almost rough. Lorelai hooked one leg over his and slipped her arms around his neck, arching into him. His left hand was beneath her, his right tangled in her hair. He kissed her a while, just kissed her, held her, traced his fingertips across her skin. Lorelai let him take his time, knowing that he needed to show her the things he thought she'd doubted. It reassured him, thinking he could reassure her. And when she at last yanked his tee shirt impatiently over his head, he followed her lead.

She was dimly aware, at some point, of the strains of "Moon River" sounding through the room with the patter of the rain and the crackling of the fire. She wrapped herself around him, opened her eyes and watched him move, watched him watch her. He was tender as he kissed her now; she barely heard the words he whispered with his lips still touching hers, his voice lost in the sounds of the house around them. Love, she thought she heard, and home.

Luke tucked a blanket around them, after. Lorelai settled against his chest, smiling sleepily. He combed his fingers through her curls, his chin on her hair. She felt him press a kiss to her forehead. She kissed his shoulder in return, murmured his name.

"Hmm?"

"We brought the power back on," she said.

Luke lifted his head and looked around. Breakfast at Tiffany's played on the television; numbers blinked at them from the VCR beneath. He chuckled. "That might be one for the record books."

"Dear Guinness Book of World Records," Lorelai began.

He kissed her. "Hey, what time is it?"

"Hang on," she said, reaching over her head. His watch was still on the end table. "Close to five."

He cursed softly. "I have to go to work."

"No, you don't."

"I have to open."

Lorelai propped herself up on his chest and looked at him intently. "No, Luke, I don't think it's a good idea. You don't look at all well."

"No?"

"In fact, you look downright feverish," she went on. "I think I might have given you this twenty-four hour bug I've suddenly come down with."

Luke smiled at her lazily, brushed the hair away from her face with the back of his hand. "There's a dirty joke in there somewhere."

"Stay with me today," she said seriously. "You owe me this, Luke."

"Everyone will know," he said.

She shrugged. "So they know. Is there shame in spending a day having hot make up sex with your girlfriend?"

"Fiancée," he corrected her. "I want to stay."

She eased herself up and gently tugged his lower lip with her teeth. "So stay."

Luke laid his hand against her cheek. He studied her. "You're far too forgiving."

"No," she said, kissed his palm. "Just incredibly impatient. I want you here, and I want you with me, and if that means that I have to put up with your emotional retardation, then that's what I'll do." She shrugged. "That's all. Waiting isn't my forte."

"I've been serving your coffee long enough to know that," he replied dryly. "I'm gonna call Caesar, have him open."

Lorelai sat up, pulling the afghan up around her. "Yay," she said. "I win." She smiled. "Meet me upstairs, 'kay?" She paused. "Where's my shirt?"

While Luke went in search of the phone, Lorelai crept back upstairs. Luke's wet clothes were still in the tub; she hung them over the door and turned on the taps. She hummed to herself as she added bath salts to the water and clipped her hair up in a messy twist. They had both been right, she thought: she'd given in more quickly than perhaps he deserved, made it too easy for him, but giving in and making it easy helped her get her way.

"There's a flaw in that logic," she sighed to herself.

She was still rifling through her medicine chest when Luke stepped up behind her and slipped his arms around her. She reached back and touched his cheek; she ran her fingers along the line of his jaw absently. Her head tipped back, she gave him an awkward kiss and mumbled against him. "Strip." He raised his eyebrows in response. "Get in the tub," she told him and kissed him again.

Luke pushed his pajama pants off and stepped into the tub. "You put some girly kinda smelly stuff in this water? And are we ever gonna, you know, go to bed, sleep?"

"Just salts," she replied. "Nothing with a girlier smell than vanilla."

"Ah, geez," he interjected.

She eyed him askance as she set up the things she needed along the edge of the tub. "You can wash it off later. And yes, sleep, also later, but there are other things to attend to first." As she pulled her shirt over her head, she rolled her eyes at his rather pointed, delighted silence. "So not what you think, Flannel Man."

Luke sat with his back to the wall, his legs stretched out towards the tub faucet. Lorelai stepped in and forced his legs apart with her feet, sitting squarely between his knees. The water rose and lapped at the edges of the tub, threatened to spill over. She hissed, sucking air in over her teeth, as she adjusted to the heat of the water and felt her skin flush and blossom with color. Luke watched her with undisguised interest. She drew her knees to her chest, palming water up her arms and over her shoulders; Luke grasped her ankles and pulled her as forward as she'd allow him. He leaned in and rested his elbows on her knees, letting his hands dangle at her sides. As he kissed her, he cupped water in his hands and poured it over her spine, ran his fingers along the edges of her shoulder blades.

Lorelai pulled back from his kiss, wincing. "Seriously, ouch," she said. "Hence the bath."

"Excuse me?" he asked, a quizzical look on his face.

The way he was massaging her back and tightening his legs against her was altogether more distraction that she'd planned. She reached behind her and grasped the can of shaving cream she'd placed on the ledge. Waving it in Luke's face, she smiled brightly.

"You, my darling dear one, are going to get the full facial treatment," she said. "It's moisturizing shaving cream for dry and sensitive skin, because I know how concerned you are about your delicate complexion."

He watched her, his expression no less confused, as she produced a razor and a small bowl that she dipped into the bathwater. "Full facial treatment?"

Lorelai cupped her hands in the water and raised them to Luke's face, gently splashing his chin, cheeks, and neck. "You need a shave," she said. She shook the can of shaving cream vigorously before uncapping it and filling her palm.

"Yeah," he said, and he started slightly as she began to rub the shaving cream along his cheeks. "But I can take care of that myself," he said, speaking even as she lathered him completely. "I use an electric razor."

She sat back slightly and sank her hands in the water to rinse them. "You do? Have you cleaned it in the last ten years? Or replaced it? Recharged it?"

He glowered at her. "It has different settings for how close you want to shave," he said flatly.

"So you shave to achieve your particular look?"

"Where did you get this stuff, anyway?" he asked, a little desperately.

"They were having a sale at the drug store, and you didn't have any of this sort of stuff here, and not knowing about your normal beauty routine, I figured it wouldn't hurt to have some stuff around in case you ever needed it," she said simply. She brandished the razor close to his ear. "Up or down?"

Luke circled her wrist with his hand and lowered her arm. "Have I mentioned that I'm a dick?"

She softened. "Luke," she sighed. "Can we—can we just let it be over, that? It takes too much energy, carrying around that stuff. I prefer to expend my energy in more productive—" He snorted at this, and she giggled. "—ways. Okay?"

He released her wrist and placed his hands flat on her thighs. "I love you," he said. With that, he kissed her.

"Menthol shaving cream!" she protested, pulling back. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and laughed. "Luke, my life—"

He handed her the can she'd just put down. "Yeah. Sorry. Lather up."

"Dirty, dirty, dirty," she said, shaking her head. "Up or down?"

"Down," he said. He jutted out his chin. "Just remember—sharp instrument, very close to major arteries."

Lorelai blew a kiss at him. "No worries, lover."

She worked slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration, her tongue between her teeth. After each stroke of the razor, she rinsed the blade in the small bowl of water she'd set aside. Luke watched her, trying not to smile, gripping her thighs tightly each time she brought the blade into contact with his skin. He angled his face for her, tipping his chin up so she could shave beneath his jaw.

"How'm I doing?" she asked.

"So far, so good," he told her through clenched teeth.

She bent a little lower as she got to his chin, scooting back slightly. "The lighting in here is terrible," she said. "Which is why I always do my makeup in the bedroom—totally sucks when I miss a spot shaving my legs, though, because you get ninety-nine per cent smooth and then that one little strip of—"

He grimaced. "Easy, there," he said. "You clipped me. Less talking, more watching what you're doing. And believe me, that last doesn't need an explanation."

"I'll let that pass on account of the fact that I've sliced you open," she said.

"Just a flesh wound," he said. After a pause, he added, "I'll do you for that."

She laughed aloud. "Dirty!" she gasped. "But seriously, what are you gonna do, bleed on me?"

"I'm invincible," he said, lifted his chin.

She passed the razor just beneath his lower lip, down towards his chin. "You're a looney," she said. "By the by, so glad you've worked out the whole soul-patch phase of your facial hair development."

But he wasn't done yet. "All right," he sighed, "we'll call it a draw."

Lorelai rinsed the blade. "I think you killed that joke to death, just then, Luke."

He grinned goofily. "Running away, eh? You yellow bastard. Come back here and take what's coming to you. I'll bite your legs off," he said.

"End the Monty Python, Luke," Lorelai said. She reached for a wash cloth and soaked it, wiping the remnants of shaving cream from his face. "You're done," she said.

He sat up straight to let her examine her handiwork and passed his hand over his newly-smooth skin. "Man, does that feel weird," he said. "How do I look?"

Lorelai tipped her head to the side and regarded him. She cupped his cheek in her hand, at length. "You look different." She rubbed his chin with her thumb. Her face fell. "You don't look like you."

"Hey." His voice was gentle, concerned, as he angled to look at her. "What's this?"

She'd turned her face away; she worked her lower lip with her teeth and fought the sudden surge of tears. Looking at Luke without his characteristic beard, seeing the thinness in his face and the hollows under his eyes, the bleariness and redness therein under the harsh fluorescents of the bathroom lights, Lorelai was overwhelmed by a wave of weariness. Her bones throbbed angrily. Her neck suddenly felt weak, as though it would no longer hold her head up properly. The accompanying swell of emotion caught her even more off-guard; she felt the tears hot on her already flushed cheeks before she recognized that she was crying. As Luke massaged the small of her back, she tried to calculate how many hours of sleep she'd gotten this week.

"Talk to me, Lorelai," Luke said.

She shook her head mutely and grasped his arms tightly with both hands. "I don't know," she said, ashamed to hear herself blubbering. "I'm tired." She took a great, shuddering breath. "I'm really, really tired."

Luke closed his eyes and let out a breath of relief. "I know," he said. "I know. C'mere." He drew his knees up and helped her maneuver an awkward turn until her back was to him.

With a shaky laugh, Lorelai let Luke fold her in his arms; she curled up against his chest and tucked her forehead against his neck, closed her eyes. She cursed softly.

He held her tightly. "I'm sorry for this week, I really, really—"

"Luke, no offense, or anything, but shut up, okay?" she sighed. "I know you're sorry. I appreciate the fact that you're sorry. I accept the apology. I forgive you, I love you, and I just want—I want us to—to be there, already, you know?"

"Be where?"

"Where we don't have to do this anymore, you know, where we've done all this stuff already, where all the stupid little whatevers, these things—they just don't matter. Or happen. Or when they do—if they do—they're, you know, easier," she said. Luke didn't reply, only pressed his lips to her temple. "I know. I'm not really that naïve. But I just—I wish we could get out of our own way. Let ourselves be."

Luke rested his hand on Lorelai's knee beneath the water, swung his fingertips lightly across her kneecap. He was silent for what seemed to Lorelai a very long time. She stayed in his arms, immobile, and concentrated on the sweep of his fingers in the water. Relaxing against him, she brushed her knuckles along the line of his jaw in a repeated arc as she attempted to adjust to the new smoothness of his skin. Lorelai thought the silence had settled within her, somehow, formed some sort of inner calm. She flattened her palm against his cheek and drew his mouth to hers. As he kissed her, his hand solid and warm at the base of her neck, though her pulse quickened and she shivered in the rapidly cooling warm water of the bath, the calm remained.

When she let him go, he looked down at her, traced the lines of her face with the tip of his finger as she'd earlier done to his—it was a familiar gesture, one of thoughtfulness and deliberation. "Like that, you mean?"

She smiled sadly. "Something like that." She kissed him again. "To bed? For to sleep?"

"To bed," he echoed, "for to sleep."

He helped her up and handed her out of the tub. She shivered into a bathrobe, balefully surveying the bathroom.

"Water, water, everywhere," she sighed.

Luke stopped drying himself off and quickly kissed her forehead. "Go, I'll take care of this."

"Luke—"

"Go," he said again. "I got this."

The clocks in her bedroom erratically blinked different numbers at her as Lorelai pulled back the covers on her bed. With a glance towards the stain on her ceiling, she briefly considered calling Rory; the overcast sky and continued rain made it hard to gauge the time and her body-clock was so confused that she had only the vague notion that it might still be a little early for a phone call. She wandered the room, picking up random, scattered items of clothing from the floor as she waited for Luke.

She was in the process of buttoning up an abandoned flannel she'd found in a pile of cast-off work clothes when he came in, naked and still slightly damp from the bath, and unceremoniously, uncharacteristically threw himself on the bed with a heaving, grunting sigh.

"Fucking hell, am I exhausted," he said. He lifted his head and squinted at Lorelai with one eye. "You're really into stealing my clothing."

She shrugged as she padded across the room and crawled into bed. She shook her hair from its clip as she spoke. "Didn't steal it. I found it. And I have no idea how clean it is." She thrust her wrists at him, her hands covered by the too-long sleeves of his shirt. "Smell."

Instead, he rolled the cuffs of the shirt back and kissed her wrists. "Smells pretty okay to me," he said. "Certainly not an ungodly stench."

"Good." She wriggled beneath the blankets and turned on her side to face him. "It's utterly bizarre, I have to say."

"What?"

"Your face," she said.

"Thanks, love."

"I mean, I'm expecting you to get out of bed and go to the mini-bar—"

"There's a mini-bar in here now?" he asked, raising himself up slightly.

"—the imaginary mini-bar," she said, rolling her eyes, "for a shaken-not-stirred-martini, what with you all clean-shaven like that. And naked. There's something about you clean-shaven and naked that screams 'Secret Agent Man.' Can you do a Scottish accent?"

"I'm not going to call you Moneypenny, Lorelai."

"Tragic." She paused. "It's good you're here."

"Agreed."

She sighed. "You ever get so tired you can't sleep?"

"Nope. Just close your eyes."

She whispered good night and did as she was told. They lay facing each other, Luke's arm around Lorelai, his hand flat against her back. She tucked her head under his chin, threw her leg over his thigh. He stroked her hair, and she could hear his breath rattling in his chest as it began to even out; she could feel his arms relaxing a little as he drifted to sleep. Her palms were flattened between them, pressed against his abdomen, and the steady in and out of his breathing began to lull her to sleep. The last thing she heard as she drifted off was guttural rumble in the back of Luke's throat that signaled he was gone and snoring. She smiled.

The light had shifted when she woke. Lorelai kept her eyes determinedly shut, feeling groggy and stiff. She had the odd sensation of floating in water, of rising and falling with the slow ebb of the tide. A throaty, snorting grunt brought her fully awake. Without having to open her eyes to look, Lorelai knew she was no longer sleeping on her bed—she was stretched out spread-eagle on her stomach, her arms thrown out wide, directly on top of Luke, her head falling almost uncomfortably into the crook of his neck. Biting her lip, she raised her head slowly, and she felt the muscles at the base of her own neck knotted and pinched.

One of Luke's hands rested heavily on her rear. Lorelai squinted against the hazy, uneven light that filtered through the tree branches outside her windows and the curtains within. It was raining, still, though the wind was less and the fall was softer now. She wondered again what time it was as she tried to negotiate herself off of Luke; as she slid herself down his side, his hand tightened on her ass, and she swallowed the ready yelp of protest in response. She reached back and guided his hand up her back, loosened his hold on her until she could roll off him and onto her back on the mattress. She turned to look at him a moment. He slept with his mouth open, tasting the air as he took a great, easy breath, now unburdened of her weight. The hand that had until a moment ago taken residence on her bum he threw over his forehead. Lorelai pulled the covers up over his chest.

She kissed his cheek before she sat up to go. His hand twitched; he muttered something incomprehensible. Lorelai shushed him, stroking his cheek lightly, and kissed him again. "Sleep," she whispered. He sniffed and rolled on his side without opening his eyes.

Lorelai tiptoed downstairs, running her hand through her hair. Her mouth was dry and her eyes hurt—she felt as though she'd been drinking. And me the very portrait of abstinence, she thought. She needed coffee. As she walked the hall to the kitchen, she knuckled her eyes, yawning. When she dropped her hands, she shrieked.

Babette, standing over the kitchen table, hollered as well. She spun on her heel, turning to face Lorelai, and wielded the pen she held in her hand as a weapon. Lorelai laughed shakily, fluttering a hand to her chest.

"Oh, Babette. You scared me," she gasped.

"Lorelai, sugar, you nearly made me wet myself!" Babette cried.

Lorelai bit back a laugh. "I'm sorry for that, Babette. And not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here?"

Babette sat at the table and gestured. "Oh, I was just leaving you a note, doll. Me and Morey were having our breakfast at the diner, and I thought I'd just bring a little something to get you through the morning." She handed Lorelai a to-go cup with the Luke's logo on the side. "I knew you weren't gonna be working today—"

"How did you know I wasn't going to be working today?" she asked. She blew a little in the cup before taking a sip. Making a rather inappropriate noise of appreciation, she sank into a chair. "I seriously think this coffee just made my knees weak. I don't know what the hell that man puts in this stuff, but it's just orgasmic." She shot a guilty look at Babette. "Was that an over-share?"

Babette waved her hand. "Take your kicks where you can get 'em, sweetie-pie."

"Very wise, Babette," Lorelai giggled. "But again, how did you know I'd be home?"

"Saw Sookie at Doose's last night and she told me she'd convinced you to take the day off. 'Bout time, too, honey—you been running yourself ragged this week." With this, she gave Lorelai's knee a light tap of the hand. "And Luke! Who knows where the heck he's been since the two-a-you had that fight."

Lorelai paused, mid-sip. "What? Hasn't he been at the diner?" she asked, and she could feel the frown starting in her forehead as she spoke.

"Patty tells me he comes down in the morning, opens up, and disappears until late—doesn't set foot in there all day. I haven't seen him once this week," Babette said. "Oh, sugar, don't look like that. I'm sure he's just fishin', trying to cool off. Probably doesn't want to be around people—you know how he is, doll, better than anyone."

The frown had descended, and Lorelai couldn't quite bring herself to give Babette the chagrined look of reassurance she knew was expected. "I do know how he is," she said. "And I'm sure you're right, he doesn't want to be around people."

"You listen to me, honey," Babette said. "Whatever this is, it ain't worth it. You got something good, you two do, and we've all been watchin' for years now—since ya first stepped foot in that diner a-his. You two got something people go their whole lives lookin' for."

Lorelai looked down, a blush creeping up her neck. "We're lucky."

"And stupid, if ya mess it up now."

She laughed. "Everything's fine, Babette—we're sorting it out. I don't intend to let him get away, not after I've got him trained up so well." She paused. "I honestly don't know what he's been up to this week, but he's here now, so—"

"Sugar! You made up?"

"We're in the process," she said, cocking an eyebrow.

Babette rose. "Don't let me keep ya, then, darlin'. That's a good time, right there."

Lorelai nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, stopped cold when she heard her name called plaintively from the living room. She squeezed her eyes shut, offering a silent prayer that Luke was wearing some sort of covering over his lower half and would not give Babette an eyeful when he entered the kitchen. So to speak, she thought, opening her eyes again with a sigh. She looked hesitantly at Babette as she got to her feet.

"Lorelai?"

She could see Luke hadn't really opened his eyes as he came shuffling down the hall, his hair sticking up in odd places and his face imprinted with marks from the sheets. He was wearing droopy pajama pants, she was relieved to see, that he yanked up with one hand as he yawned and entered the kitchen. He stood beside the refrigerator, trying to blink. He resembled a little boy who had wandered from his bed during a cocktail party and had to be led away before he really awoke and would refuse to go to sleep again.

"Wha's going on?" he mumbled. "Why'd you leave?"

As Babette watched them, enormously amused, Lorelai set her coffee down and reached for Luke's hand, taking it in hers. She placed her free hand on his chest and tried to look him in the eye. "I just came down for some coffee," she said. "I'll be right back. Go on up."

He wrinkled his nose and looked past her with heavy-lidded eyes. "D'ja go all the way to the diner?" With some effort, he focused his gaze on her again. "In that?"

"No, Babette brought it for me," she said patiently. "Luke, why don't—"

"Babette's here?"

"Hiya, honey," Babette called, waved.

Luke tipped his head back and squinted. "Oh. Hi, Babette."

Lorelai tapped her fingers against Luke's chest to get his attention. "Luke, you need to go back upstairs—I'll be up in two seconds," she added. She smiled fondly as he closed his eyes and nodded by tipping his head all the way back and then bringing his chin down to his chest. Though she knew it would probably make the Stars Hollow Gazette, Lorelai leaned up and kissed him squarely on the mouth before she turned him in the direction of the living room. She walked behind him a few paces, her hands on his shoulders, kissed the back of his neck, and shoved him lightly on his way.

"Bye, Babette," he called.

Babette had started before Lorelai even turned around. "Honey, why you're coming after coffee when ya got that lyin' next ta ya upstairs, I don't know. I mean, hubba hubba."

"Thanks for the coffee, Babette," Lorelai replied.

"Any time, sugar, you know that. There's a sack 'a doughnuts on the counter for you, too." She paused at the door on her way out. "Guess I don't need to tell you to have a good day."

Lorelai shook her head with an embarrassed smile. "Bye, Babette."

Coffee and doughnuts in hand, Lorelai returned to the bedroom to find Luke hanging half-off the bed, face down. She maneuvered him into a more comfortable position before sitting, her back against the headboard, and drinking her coffee. Luke laid a heavy hand on her thigh.

"C'mere," he grunted.

"I'm having my coffee," she countered. "You want a doughnut?"

"No," he said. "I want you to come here."

With a last sip, she complied, scooting down until she was tucked in the curve of his arm, her chin in the hollow of his shoulder. She watched him several long moments.

"Stop staring at me."

"I'm not sleepy."

"How can you not be sleepy?"

"I'm just not." She sat up. "I'm going to go downstairs and call Rory."

"You can call Rory from here," he said, and he latched a hand onto her elbow to tug her back down.

"Yes, but the talking will keep you awake."

"It doesn't normally," he replied. He opened his eyes fully for the first time since they'd both fallen asleep. "I miss you."

"You're such a schmoop," she teased. "I'll be right back, I swear."

"Ten minutes," he said.

"Okay, ten minutes. And when I get back, you can wear me out," she said.

She changed in the laundry room, clothes that she was only half-sure were clean. "I really need to rethink my system," she muttered. There were shoes by the door, and her cell was in her hand as she stepped out, double-checked the lock to make sure she could get back in. The grass was slick beneath her feet as she jogged through the rain to the garage, cursing under her breath. She wasn't entirely sure what she was doing; she was entirely sure that whatever Luke had been doing all week, fishing wasn't it, but the odd clanking sounds she'd heard in the garage the day before yesterday made slightly more sense.

See, Rory? she thought. I told you no squirrel could be that big.

Whatever Lorelai had been expecting to find in her garage could not have prepared her for what she did find when she pulled the doors open. She stood, mouth agape, and stared before she stepped inside and shut the doors behind her. Her hand shot out to the light switch, and when the overhead lamps flickered and came on, they revealed the make-shift carpentry workshop she'd seen and not quite believed when she'd opened the door. There were sawhorses with planks of wood across them; various, oddly menacing power tools; the toolbox Bert, open and the contents strewn haphazardly around it; jars of nails and screws and other equally unfamiliar pieces; sandpaper; the missing measuring tape. Lorelai took tentative steps forward, her mouth still hanging open. And when she saw it, she was unsure she'd be able to form coherent sentences anytime soon.

She hit the speed-dial on her cell almost instinctively. "I'm sorry, I have no idea what time it is, but you are absolutely and totally not going to believe where I am standing and I am completely and utterly serious and oh, my God, I feel like I'm going to pass out."

"Mom? Are you okay? Where are you?" Rory's voice returned Lorelai to herself slightly, the fine line of worry in her daughter's words chastising her.

"I'm fine, sweets, I'm sorry—I'm just—I am—there are no words for how I currently am. Flabbergasted, maybe, or stunned—I'm just—I'm—I'm totally incredulous, is what I am," she babbled. "I can't even—I can't think," she said. "This is just too much."

"Mom, you're really starting to freak me out. Are you having some kind of episode? Should I call the paramedics? The men with the butterfly nets? Artie Davis from the packie at the edge of town?"

Lorelai took a great breath and held it, her eyes closed. "The paramedics, no, the men with the butterfly nets, possibly, and Artie Davis from the packie at the edge of town only if he's started making deliveries because my God could I use a little medicinal vodka right now."

"Mom, just tell me where you are."

"I," she said, again drawing a heaving breath, "am in… the garage."

"Holy crap, Mom, is that all?" Rory said sharply. "My God, here I am imagining you in the panic room and afraid that Jordan Leto's trying to kill you."

"The cell wouldn't work in the panic room, honey," Lorelai said. "And I'm sorry. I'm in the garage, and I am telling you, it is a sight to behold."

"More than it usually is?" Rory asked.

"Much more," Lorelai said. "Babe, Luke has—I don't know how to put it—he's taken over the garage. There's stuff everywhere."

Rory groaned. "Mom, this isn't some weird sex thing, is it?"

She snorted. "Yes, Rory, actually Luke has set up a sado-masochistic torture chamber outfitted with rubber walls, whips, chains, a sex swing, and, for good measure, a vaulting horse," she said flatly. "In fact, I'm wearing a pleather bustier right now."

"Sorry. There's a thing in the Dean's office with a student that I'm covering for the paper and I have sex on the brain."

"Keep that one to yourself, hon," Lorelai said. "I wish you could see this, Rory. It's just—"

"Flabbergasting, stunning, and incredible?"

"Exactly," Lorelai said. "You will never guess what I am looking at."

"So tell me," Rory said.

Lorelai waited a beat. "Babe, he made a chuppah."

"I know that," Rory said flatly. "It's been in the yard forever. We walk past it every day."

"No, Rory, I mean he made me a new chuppah. This is not the same chuppah. This is another chuppah. A different chuppah," she said. "And it's just—it's gorgeous."

She could almost hear Rory's mouth turn up in a happy, mushy smile. "That's so sweet! He made a chuppah just for you and him together!" she fairly cooed. "Because the old one was supposed to be for you and Max—this is the Danes family chuppah!"

"Which is the name of my next CD," Lorelai said. "And yes, sweets, that's exactly what he did."

"What does it look like?"

Lorelai circled it, stepping over various sharp tools as she went. "A lot like the old one, with the arches and the carvings and everything, but—hang on," she said. She stood on her tiptoes and strained, unsure of what she saw. She ran her fingers along the detailing, still rough-hewn and harsh against her skin.

She dropped to the sawdust-covered floor, her head tilted back as she continued to study her chuppah. "The arch has stars all along it. And flowers. There are little l's, too, on the posts." She continued to describe the smaller details as she found them until her eyes wandered a moment and she caught sight of something else in the back corner of the garage. She got to her feet and carefully picked her way towards the back. Her sharp intake of breath caused Rory to ask if she'd sat on a nail. "No, it's—he's—he made something else."

"What? What?"

Her eyes filled as she slid her arm across the smooth curve of the top. She bit her lower lip, tried to compose herself before she spoke. "It's a rocking chair."

"A rocking chair?" Rory echoed.

Her laugh was choked and shaky. "A rocking chair," she repeated, "for sitting next to the fire when he reads to me and I knit and we listen to the coyotes."

"Coyotes?"

"It's—it's not really hard to explain, but it's just something he and I, we talked about it once. It had been—it was a rough day, and we were at his apartment, and I made some passing comment about sitting in rocking chairs by the fire… " she trailed off. She laughed again, bending forward at the waist, disbelieving. "He made me a rocking chair."

She was almost startled when Rory spoke again, she was so lost in her thoughts. "How did you end up in the garage?" Rory wanted to know.

"Oh, something Babette said," Lorelai replied, rubbing her eyes. "And because of the giant squirrel from the other day."

"You'll explain that to me later, right?" Rory asked. "I'm about to go into class, so I have to hang up, but—Mom, did you—I mean, are you and Luke—"

"I followed the advice of my sage and lovely daughter and talked to Luke, yes," Lorelai answered. "He and I are going to be okay."

"Good. I have to go, but I'll call you later?"

"Sure," Lorelai said. "Have a good class, babe."

Clad again in the flannel she'd been wearing, Lorelai slipped beneath the covers beside Luke a few moments later, unable to stop herself from beaming. He pulled her roughly against his chest and held her a little too tightly as he spoke.

"That was longer than ten minutes."

Her reply was a lengthy, heated kiss. When she drew back, her eyes were alight with laughter. "Any more complaints?"

"Actually," he said, "someone kneed me really hard in the side last night. Really hurts. I might be bruised."

Lorelai lifted the covers and inspected the spot he pointed out. She made sympathetic noises as she slid down his side. She pressed her lips lightly to the invisible bruise several times in quick succession. She smiled up at him, rested her head on his abdomen as he pushed the hair off her face.

"Hey, Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you back."

"A lot."

"Same here."

"No, a really lot," she said.

"Well, I love you a really lot, too," he told her, chuckling. He gently pulled her towards him again, guiding her with his hand at the back of her neck.

She paused as she hovered above him; his eyes were still red and his face drawn, but as he looked up at her, pushed her hair behind her ears so he could better see her, his expression was restful, even happy. She let herself collapse against him and wrapped her arms around him in an awkward, fierce hug. He encircled her with his own, rubbing his cheek against hers.

"Babette said you were hubba hubba," she whispered in his ear.

"Ah, geez."

Lorelai rocked herself in his arms, laughed until she cried.

Later, she stretched on the bed, her movements almost feral as she yawned, arched her back, twisted her limbs about. Her joints felt loose, her body suffused with warmth. She was spent, her exhaustion now seeming almost luxurious as she extended her arms and wiggled her fingers. Luke had gone downstairs for a moment, so she let herself take up the entire middle of the bed. She watched the shadows she made in the slanting light of late afternoon. The rain had tapered off, and Lorelai saw the trees beyond her window weeping the excess water against the glass and the side of the house.

"Not a bad way to spend a day off," she remarked to Luke as he entered the room.

Luke climbed back into bed and handed her a glass of water, kissed her. "Not gonna disagree with you on that."

"That, my friend, is a very weird turn of phrase," she said. "You ever think about it? I do not disagree with you? It's a very nice way of saying while I do not agree with you, I still think you're wrong."

Luke set his water glass on the bedside table. "Then I heartily agree with your assessment."

Lorelai only smiled in reply, watched him as he took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. After a moment's deliberation, she spoke. "Hey, Luke? Where were you this week?"

His posture immediately stiffened. "What do you mean, where was I?"

"Well, Babette said that you haven't been at the diner, so I was just wondering—"

"Of course I was at the diner," he said.

"Babette says you weren't. She said that Patty said that you haven't been there during the day. So if you weren't there, were where you?"

Luke squirmed. "I was… out."

"Out where? Doing what?"

"Out someplace doing stuff!" he said.

"Oh, that clears everything right up," Lorelai said. "What were you doing?"

He passed a hand over his eyes. "I was working on a project."

"What kind of project?" she pressed.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, looking her squarely in the eye.

She softened. "No, it's okay. It just—it seemed odd."

"I didn't want to be where people'd be looking at me all day."

"But you're so pretty," she said. "I'm glad you stayed today."

"Thanks for having me."

Lorelai leaned against him. "Dirty."

Things had nearly returned to normal by the end of the month—Luke's apartment was full of half-filled boxes and the majority of his clothes were residing in heaps on the floor of Lorelai's closet; he took to cursing a blue streak whenever he misplaced something, as there was no telling when or where he would find it. Lorelai took it in stride and, on the occasion that his surliness was a bit too pointed, she amused herself by moving whatever he'd just found to an entirely different place.

While she was delighted in theory that Luke had taken such active measures to begin the move, she had to admit to herself that the confusion it caused was more than she had expected and nothing short of tiresome. As he'd promised, Tom came over late one afternoon and the two men argued about the possibility of adding on—the wheres, hows, you-don't-know-what-you're-talking-abouts. When the details had been evened out and Tom had confirmed that he could get a crew to begin work in early May, Lorelai looked over the plans. Luke stood beside her at the kitchen table, pointing out various nuances. She studied the paperwork and attempted to ignore the strange, nervous palpitations in her chest.

"Let's do it," she said.

The week before her birthday, she began to catch hints of preparations being made. Luke took mysterious, numerous calls, and when Rory called and Lorelai answered, Rory would affect nonchalance; Lorelai didn't know whether she should be amused or proud that her daughter was such a bad liar. Packages arrived at the diner, at the house, left on the doorstep, that she wasn't allowed to see. The whole process delighted her immensely.

Birthday Week had been shortened to Badass Birthday Weekend, for the sake of Rory's academic schedule. The night before the day of, the Lorelais sat on the floor of the living room surrounded by takeout containers. Rory fell onto her back, groaning.

"I'm never eating again," she said.

Lorelai helped herself to another piece of pizza. "Wuss," she teased. "Come on, take it like a man."

Rory raised her head. "Oh, hush, you. Are you having a good birthday?" she asked, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows.

"I am," Lorelai replied, her mouth full. "No birthday is complete without a Godfather marathon and a sickening amount of junk food. I'm just sad Davey had to get the chicken pox at this particular point in time and Sookie can't be here."

"And Lane's in New York," Rory lamented. "We're stuck with each other."

"That we are, pal," Lorelai said. "Not so bad."

Rory smiled at her mother as she pushed herself to her feet and ambled to the DVD player. "Pick your poison, birthday girl. And where's Luke?"

"Put in The Goonies. And he's working late," Lorelai said. "I thought you might have something to do with that."

"I know nothing," Rory told her.

"Then Yale's really been a waste of time for you, huh?"

"My mother, folks."

Lorelai reached for a soda. "So, what'd you get me for my birthday?"

"Not telling."

"What'd Luke get me for my birthday?" she asked. "It's the first birthday of coupledom, Rory. Please tell me he knows that the five hours of handyman work no longer cuts it and that I am a very, very greedy girl."

"Oh, he knows," Rory said archly. "That, he knows."

"Is it the chuppah? Did he tell you?" At Rory's shrug and unbearably smug smirk, Lorelai tossed a piece of pizza crust at her. She climbed onto the couch. "You have a responsibility to prepare me for any atrocities, you know."

"Has he ever given you a bad gift before?" Rory asked.

She conceded that he hadn't. "He's not really the world's best shopper." She paused, twisted the engagement ring on her finger. "But he has good taste, at least."

"Yes, he does," Rory said. "Now be quiet, lady, and watch the movie."

Lorelai woke to a faint touch against her cheek. She blinked against the darkness, disoriented. Luke crouched in front of her, smiled at her as she opened her eyes. He gestured for her to be quiet, and she looked over to see Rory sleeping on the other end of the couch.

"What time is it?" she whispered.

"It's after midnight," he told her. He kissed her softly. "Happy birthday."

She held her arms out to him. "Upstairs," she said.

He cocked his head towards Rory. "Do we just leave her here?"

"She's okay where she is," she said. "C'mon, upstairs."

Luke pulled Lorelai to her feet and lifted her up, cradled her with an arm under her knees and another behind her back. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

"You are the birthday girl," he said. "I hate to say it because it's a stupid phrase and I'm gonna regret it tomorrow afternoon when I'm feeding you grapes—"

"An excellent idea, except for the grapes."

"—but," he continued, "your wish is my command."

Lorelai locked her hands at the back of his neck and traced lines against his skin with her thumbs. "Oh, this is gonna be the best night ever."

Birthdays, she reflected the next afternoon, were really superior to all other days. She lay on the couch thumbing through a book that Rory had givenher. Luke sat opposite her, rubbing her feet. She had just finished the orgy of gift-giving and the special lunch he'd made her of double cheeseburgers and chili fries. There had been books and clothes from Rory and a ridiculously extravagant mall gift certificate and an ornate picture frame that would ultimately find a home in the back of a closet somewhere from her parents. Luke had been shy about his gifts—another pair of crystal earrings made for her by Liz, a delicate, thin silver chain with a small L charm that she'd immediately insisted on wearing, enormous Hello! Kitty slippers with stuffed Kitty figures at the toes, The Rundown on DVD in commemoration of the first night he'd spent with her in the house, a copy of Jane Eyre, as she'd decided she wanted them to read that together next, a wedding album, bath salts, and a fitted, olive-green jacket.

"So you'll stop stealing mine," he'd said.

"I don't steal yours because I want to wear it, I steal it because you need a new one," she said. "But I love it, thank you. And don't even think about stealing it—it'd be way too small for you and you'd rip it right down the middle."

"You like it?"

"I love everything," she'd said.

He'd shuffled his feet, embarrassed. "There's one more thing," he'd said.

Lorelai tried to smother a smile and failed, though she managed to keep her seat. She could feel herself color as Luke disappeared from the living room. When she glanced at Rory, her daughter had shrugged. Lorelai felt a dangerous pricking behind her eyes; her hands trembled as Luke came back into the room. In his hands, he carried a small, oblong box that he thrust at her. He kept his eyes cast down as she opened it.

Inside lay a bright, copper-colored door-plaque. Lorelai's breath caught in her throat as she lifted it from the box and fingered the engraving. "Lorelai G. Danes," it read, in smooth, elegant script, with "Owner and General Manager" beneath it. The name temporarily rendered her speechless, and she could only stare. When she was able to look up again, she saw Luke hanging back, his hands in his back pockets. She struggled to swallow the choking disappointment, resented herself for the sinking feeling in her stomach, and gave him a wavering smile.

"It's perfect," she said sincerely, though her voice shook.

"For your office door," he said.

"I can see that."

"So—good?"

She got to her feet and put her arms around him, stood on her tiptoes as she leaned into him. "Good," she murmured. She closed her eyes as he held her and swung her slightly off her feet.

For the rest of the afternoon, the question of the chuppah and the rocking chair in the garage sat at the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill over. She excused herself to shower an hour before they were to leave for dinner; beneath the water and the steam, she felt as though she couldn't rid herself of the tinge of disappointment no matter how hard she scrubbed. She felt ungrateful. The presents he'd given her she really did like, she told herself, and she loved him for his thoughtfulness. She stepped out of the shower and made a face at her steam-blurred reflection in the mirror before she crossed the hall.

Rory stood by the bed, laying out an outfit. Lorelai clutched at her towel. "Babe, I appreciate the thought," she said, "but I'm old enough to be dressing myself."

Her daughter smiled wickedly. "Ah, but you're dressing for an event tonight, Mom. You have to have the appropriate evening wear."

"Just what am I dressing for?" Lorelai asked. She stepped closer and examined the clothes. "Okay, a gold lame top and a fuchsia mini-skirt? Are you sending me out to turn tricks, now?"

"You'll see," Rory said happily, turning on her heel. "Come down and I'll do your makeup."

She ventured down to Rory's room, feeling ridiculous and exposed in her outfit. Rory sat at her desk in front of a makeup mirror in an outfit similar to her mother's: black hot pants and a purple and black polka-dotted halter top. Her makeup was likewise overstated and almost garish. She wore her hair in a high, curly ponytail. She grinned at Lorelai.

"We are gonna look so awesome," she said, "and everyone is going to be so jealous. And wait until you see Luke."

Lorelai pestered Rory with questions as the younger girl rouged and painted her up, but Rory wouldn't budge. She merely smiled and added more blue eye shadow or another swipe of blush. Lorelai looked in the mirror with a sigh. "I look like Carole Channing."

"You look perfect," Rory said. "Now your hair."

"Oh, God."

By the time Rory had finished with her, Lorelai's hair was three times its natural height. She sat in the living room, pouting disconsolately as she sipped her first birthday drink. Rory was hiding in her bedroom with the phone. Lorelai drained the rum and Coke before she cautiously raised a hand to her hair. She whimpered.

"I'm going to have to shampoo for a week," she told herself.

She sat up when she heard the front door open. "Luke?"

"Don't turn around!" he said.

"Uh, okay."

"Just—I need you to promise me something. Without turning around," he added.

Lorelai furrowed her brow. "Okay."

"Do not say anything. I don't want to hear a peep about this. If you say anything about Herb Tarlek or Tom Jones or professional wrestling or anything like that, I swear to God, I will not be held liable for what I do."

"So you want me to not comment on whatever it is you're wearing," she said. "Considering what I'm wearing, I don't know, Luke—"

"Not a word," he said. "You are the only person in the universe for whom I would submit myself to this, and if you so much as—"

"Okay!" she cried. "I won't say anything! Can I turn around now?"

She heard him sigh heavily. "Might as well get it over with."

Lorelai turned in her seat and peered over the top of the couch. Immediately, her mouth fell open as she stared wordlessly at Luke for several seconds. She covered her mouth with both hands as though to prevent the laughter from escaping, but the giggles, once they began, were uncontrollable.

"Yuk it up," he said dryly.

He stood just inside the living room, his hands on his hips, in a tight-fitting yellow leisure suit with a cream-colored, silky shirt beneath it, open at the neck and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. Around his neck was a heavy gold chain. His hair was slicked back, and he held in one hand a pair of aviator sunglasses. He looked miserable.

Lorelai got to her feet with some difficulty, gasping for breath. "You look like John Travolta!" she shrieked.

"Ah, geez, I told you not to say anything! You promised!" he said.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but it's just so funny." She giggled as she snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug. A moment later, he gave in with a grunt and slipped his arms around her as well, lifting her off her heels as he did. They rocked each other where they stood a few moments, and Lorelai continued to shake with laughter. She pulled back. "It's mostly out of my system."

"Liar," Luke said.

She laid her hands on his lapels. "I'm sorry, really. It's just—look at us. Where the hell are we going? A pimps and hos party?"

He snorted. "No. You'll see when we get there."

"I'd kiss you," she told him, "but the lipstick is smeary and I think we're trashy enough as it is. Thank you for whatever it is you're doing."

"Yeah, you better thank me," he said sullenly.

She lifted an eyebrow. "Later, my life, later." She pulled back. "You know, it's not such a bad look for you. Although I'm not so sure how comfortable I am with you exposing so much chest hair. The women of Stars Hollow just better be able to control themselves. People are going to be shocked by the stunning hotness you hide under all that flannel."

Luke rolled his eyes and slapped her rear end lightly. "I appreciate you sucking up, but no amount of flattery is going to make me comfortable wearing this."

She was about to respond when she heard Rory's step in the hall. She turned her head to see her daughter with the digital camera poised. "Rory, no," she said, and the flash popped.

"Just something for posterity," Rory said. "Hi, Luke. How's it going? Are you staying alive?"

"Staying alive?" Lorelai echoed.

"Woo, woo, woo, staying alive," they chanted together.

"I'm never, ever going to live this down," Luke said. "Can we just go and get this over with?"

Neither Luke nor Rory would tell her where they were going even as they began the trek into town. She pointed out that most of the houses were dark and the streets were deserted. "We going to a party?"

"Patience is a virtue," Rory told her.

She heard the music when the reached Main Street. The lights spilled past the square and lit the entire roadway. Lorelai stopped on the corner, craning to see. Rory tugged on her arm to pull her forward, and she followed reluctantly. They were at the diner before she figured out exactly what was going; she clapped her hands and jumped with excitement, hollered.

"Roller-disco! Roller-disco!"

"Fucking roller-disco," Luke confirmed.

A dance floor had been constructed in the middle of the square, smooth planks fitted together a few inches above the grass. Chinese lanterns hung throughout the square, and above the dance floor, a disco-ball was suspended from a pole. Lane had set up a DJ station in the gazebo. Tables of food lined the outside rim of the square, and the entire center of town was a throng of people eating, laughing, and nodding their heads to the music.

"How?" Lorelai asked.

"Oh, it was easy," Rory said. "Got some guys in town to build the platform—"

"Thanks, Luke," Lorelai said.

"—and we rented the skates from a roller-rink in Hartford. The disco-ball is Kirk's—"

"Why am I not surprised?"

"—and Sookie did the food. The clothes are from Miss Patty's costume closet," Rory finished. "Voila! Birthday roller-disco party!"

Lorelai hugged Rory tightly. "You are my favorite daughter."

"Lucky me," she replied.

Someone had equipped Kirk with a microphone. He wore a pinstriped leisure suit and seemed inordinately pleased with himself as he walked onto the empty dance floor. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, only to be answered by screeching feedback. "Someone check those amps!" He cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said again. "Our guest of honor has arrived. The dance floor is now open."

Lorelai submitted to a disorienting half-hour of hugs and good-wishes from the townspeople as she wandered the square, taking it all in. It was the biggest party she'd seen in the center of town, not counting the annual Firelight Festival and, she had to admit, her first engagement party. Luke trailed behind her as she walked, attempting to hide as much as possible by keeping close to her. She squeezed the hand she held and turned to him.

"This is torture for you, isn't it?" she asked.

"You have no idea," he said. "But it's your birthday. This is for you, so I'm doing it."

She kissed him. "Too much to ask you to roller skate with me?"

The music changed as they stepped awkwardly onto the dance floor, a ballad Lorelai didn't recognize. Luke's hand tightened over hers as they made tentative strides along the floor, following the circle of the other skaters as they went. He was concentrating determinedly on his feet.

"Luke?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for my presents. And the party. Everything."

He shrugged. "No big deal."

"Big deal," she said.

"Did you get everything you wanted?"

She forgot for a moment that they were skating and turned to answer. Her right foot caught an uneven spot on the platform and sent her wheels flight out from under her. She hung on Luke's hand, grabbed at his arm to steady herself too late—for what seemed a moment she had the sensation of weightlessness before she hit the ground with the full force of her fall. She felt Luke's hand still in hers, and she looked over to see him rolling onto his side. They'd somehow managed to fall off the edge of the platform and onto the grass, and they lay in the shadow of the other dancers.

"That's gonna hurt tomorrow," she said.

"Lorelai! Sugar! You all right?"

"We're okay," she bellowed. "You're okay, right?"

Luke grunted. "Okay."

They lay silent a moment, trying to catch their breath. At length, Lorelai began to laugh. Luke turned his head to look at her, puzzled. She gestured with one hand, silently indicating the ludicrousness of the entire situation. Luke pulled himself across the grass and hovered over her, taking a surreptitious look around to see that no one was watching. He slid one fingertip down the side of her face.

"I forgot to tell you how good you look," he said.

"I look like Tammy Faye Baker."

He kissed her forehead. "You do not look like Tammy Faye Baker. Everyone else here looks like Tammy Faye Baker, even some of the men.You are beautiful."

"Keep talking, Luke Danes, keep talking," she said. She smiled when he kissed her instead. "This is a good birthday," she told him.

"So, did you get everything you wanted?"

She looked up at him a long time. There were reasons, she thought, he kept things locked up the way he did—too many people had fallen away, walked away, hurt him, and he'd remained to deal with what was left. She ran her thumb along his lower lip, her fingertips along the line of his jaw. Finding the right key to fit the locks after all the time that passed between then and now was hard and painful and she understood that he'd rather not do it; and when he had to, he needed to do it in his own way and on his own terms. He looked at her expectantly, puzzled by her silence. She drew him down, guided his mouth to hers, and as she kissed him, she decided that whatever she'd walked in on in the garage was really no different. When she broke from him, she smiled.

"I really did," she said.