1A/N: I intended this to just be a one-shot story, but I couldn't get Luke's thoughts out of my head, so I wrote them down, and chapter two came to life. I don't know if I intend to keep this story going now, I guess it depends on where my wandering mind takes me.
i Holding
you, I held everything, for a moment wasn't I the king.
But if
I'd only known, how the king would fall,
Hey who's to say, you know I might have changed it all. /I
At first, when sleep eluded him, and his thoughts drove him out into the night and to her house, it was enough just to know she was home, not with i him. /I And as days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, it was satisfying to still know that she slept alone, as he did, every night.
He thinks back of the nightly fantasies he wove inside his mind those first couple of weeks, as he painstakingly worked on the boat. How many nights did he wish for her touch, only to be assaulted anew by the bitterness of how she left him? How many fantasies has he had of her finding him here, of approaching him, of begging forgiveness? How many times did he push her away in his mind, watching her tear-stained face beg him to stay, as he just shook his head and walked away, feeling justified and absolved finally? How many times did he feed his ego on the pain in her eyes, on the strength of his certainty that he could be the one to turn and go, the word - i never /I - falling from his lips as easily as it did hers?
But she's never woken, never called, never begged or pleaded for a second chance. And the hurt and bitterness that he felt in the beginning has long ago burned itself out, leaving nothing left but the pain of being without her.
And the clarity of knowing now, everything he did wrong . . .
He falls into bed after the diner closes, exhausted, and is asleep within minutes. His body is just too tired to think or function anymore and it shuts down, reluctantly. He's lucky if he gets three consecutive hours.
He jerks awake somewhere around midnight, his restless mind suddenly alert, his heart pounding in his chest. He can't remember the dream that woke him. He never remembers. He doesn't want to remember.
He has stopped fighting the urge to go over to her house now. He did in the beginning, pacing the floor until he couldn't stand himself anymore, before reluctantly walking the distance to Lorelai's garage. But now it's become routine, part of his nightly ritual. And it's almost a relief when he wakes to do something, anything, to keep himself occupied.
It's been a hot summer, and he can feel the sweat seep from his pores as he rises in his tiny apartment. He steps into the shower, the cold water blasting, bringing him fully awake. Dressing quickly, he escapes the four walls that have become claustrophobic.
The summer air is crackling tonight, the impending storm looming closer. It fits his mood: restless, jumpy, dissatisfied.
He takes the truck tonight. He never takes the truck. He always walks to her house, quietly entering the garage as she sleeps. But tonight, he's almost daring fate to intervene, as he slams the truck door in her driveway.
Turning the light on in the garage, he admires his handiwork. It's almost done. It's taken him months to complete it, to get it just right. He runs his fingers over the wood, feeling for imperfections, delaying the inevitable end of his task. And he wonders what he will do to keep himself sane after the boat is finished.
It's been good to come here night after night. It's been healing to make something broken and incomplete into something fine and beautiful. It's been right, fulfilling the dream, seeing his father's boat come to life.
He remembers when he couldn't even look at this boat without seeing the pain in his father's eyes again, without dwelling on the inevitable end and what he had lost. But she changed all that, she made him talk. She helped him to remember the sunny days on the lake of his childhood, his father's love of fishing and boating, the great times they spent together. He remembers telling her the silly fishing stories that most boys and their dad have, hearing her laughter and her pleasure in his memories. He can almost hear his father's laugh again when he closes his eyes now. He can picture him standing knee deep in water, head thrown back, enjoying the day and life and his son reeling in his first trout. She gave that back to him he knows, the ability to treasure the good days, the happy times, the precious moments. And for that he will be forever grateful to her.
And though he'd like to deny it, the boat will always be linked to her now too, to her memory, to her laughter, to everything he had that he let slip through his fingers.
What had he told her that night he found the boat? Something about her always thinking about what she wanted, of not respecting his wishes. But he was so wrong, and she was so right. He wanted her to go on thinking like she thinks, but somehow in the end. . . he took that away from her too.
When did she start being afraid of him? . . . When did she stop telling him things?. . . When did he stop seeing her?
He should have realized that she was bending herself to try to make him happy. But he didn't realize it until she bent so far she broke. And the shattered pieces of their lives together were so small that neither one of them could pick them up and put them back together again. And neither one of them had the energy left to try.
He is so tired, his body almost trembling with the effort he's putting into the sanding. But he won't stop working, not until his mind is purged, not until he's exhausted every stray thought of her so he can get through another day.
He can almost smell her perfume and he stiffens at the reaction just the scent brings to him.
"Luke," she whispers. And a first he's sure he is dreaming, conjuring her up like his fantasies.
"I'm almost done in here; I'll move it out to do the painting," he responds without turning around, banishing the ghosts from his mind.
"You've been working on it."
And at the sound of her voice, so close to him, he realizes this is real, she's here after so many nights of fantasizing. And the feelings rush anew to overwhelm him, confuse him.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he answers, feeling vulnerable, caught out.
And he expects her to leave, to retreat in the face of his defensiveness. He holds his breath waiting to hear her footsteps. But she doesn't walk away this time, she touches him instead, without the words he thought he needed to hear, without the confrontation he's practiced over and over.
He can feel her trembling behind him.
And it's her silence that undoes him, her fear that brings him to his knees.
It's her willingness to bend for him that has him humbled, that has his broken heart beating again.
