"Hello," she said as the familiar bells on the top of the diner door jingled.

"Hey, how's your dad?"

"Better, though he says that life is not life unless it includes a steak. How come you're not out with everybody?"

"I had some things to do," he replied. Actually I hate this town and all of its freaks but you've had a rough night so I'll just leave that part out.

"Right," she nodded in understanding. "Anyways, this is for you," she said, handing him a bag.

"What's it for?" he questioned.

"Just a thank you. Christmas. Whatever."

He furrowed his brow. "Christmas isn't for two weeks."

"Do we really have to do this again?"

Nodding, he opened the bag and met her with a questioning look.

"I just thought, you know, God forbid something happens to that one, you might need a spare," she explained. "Here," she offered, taking the hat and placing it forward on his head.

"Does that look wrong," she scoffed at her failed attempt to change up his normal look. He laughed subtly. "There," she exclaimed, this time getting it right. Looking out onto the town square, she saw the procession rehearsal beginning. "Oh, hey! Turn out the lights," she requested as she walked toward the toward the window.

"For what?" he sighed, only slightly annoyed. "It's not the real procession, it's just the rehearsal."

"So? It's pretty," she argued.

"And why do they need to rehearse it? It's the same thing every year."

"Come on Luke, please," she pleaded with him. He couldn't help but notice the childlike wonder in her eyes when she looked out onto the snow-covered square with it's twinkling lights and it's display of age-old Christmas tradition.

Giving in, he turned out the lights and joined her. Truth be told, he had no interest in the goings on beyond his front window. How does that saying go? He thought. Oh, right. "She thought the view was pretty but I thought she was prettier."

He snapped out of his musings when her voice broke the comfortable silence between them. "It's hard to imagine living somewhere else isn't it?"

God, she makes it so hard to be grumpy. "Thanks for the hat," he settled on as his response.

"You're welcome," she said softly. "Looks good on you," she said nonchalantly.

"Good how?" he asked, reliving the events from earlier that evening.

"Just watch the procession," she told him, shaking her head.

He obliged for a moment, but he wasn't ready to let their conversation die down just yet.

"Any word on your dad?" he asked genuinely.

She turned her head briefly to say no but turned her attention back to the square quickly.

"You wanna talk about it?" he tried.

"I don't know," she bit her lip. She felt so much and all at the same time. Fear, nostalgia, love, family, concern. She and her dad had never been that close but she never thought something like this would happen and make her rethink her entire relationship and history with her parents.

"Okay," he replied softly, not wanting to press her any further.

"It's just that—," she began, surprising him. "...I never knew I felt that much for my dad. I told him I loved him tonight. You wanna know the last time I told him I loved him? I was probably like four. And I realized that you really can't take anything in this life for granted. I really don't know what I'd do without him. He was never as bad as I've probably made him seem. He's a good man."

"I'm sure he is."

"I mean he took me to the Girl Scouts' father-daughter dances, chaperoned field trips, let me believe in Santa much longer than I should have, taught me how to ride a bike, taught me how to swim, planned my birthday parties and all of those other things a good dad does. This really puts that all into perspective. I never really weighed those good things in until tonight," she admitted sadly.

"Maybe this happened for a reason, then," Luke observed. "I mean there's never a good reason for a parent getting sick, but maybe realizing all these things is just what you need to make the best out of this situation."

"How did you cope?", she asked. "...when your parents...you know...um…" she trailed off, regretting bringing it up.

"Died? It's okay, you can say it."

"Right...yeah," she nodded.

"Well, I can't say that I ever had a strained relationship with my parents. So, I'd say it was a lot different. My mom hadn't been feeling well for about 6 months, but she shook it off as stress. Then, one night, my parents were in bed and my dad felt a lump in her right breast. They called a doctor the next morning and made an appointment for later that day. They aspirated cells from the lump, sent it to the the lab and two long weeks later, they went back to get the results. When they came home, they sat me down with my sister and told us that she had stage 3 breast cancer. Back then, medicine wasn't as advanced as it is now but they did their best to treat it. A year and a half later, I held her hand as she took her last breath. As for my dad, he died much quicker. Pancreatic cancer is so aggressive. The time between his diagnosis and death was around 5 months. My sister and nephew were gone by then, so we only had each other. That's when I moved him upstairs so I could run the hardware store and still be right here for him at all times. After he died, I closed up the store and sold the family house. I used the money to convert this place into a diner. A year later, I opened and hung up the William's Hardware sign again so everyone would always know that I owe everything I am to him. I still think about them everyday."

He turned to her and realized she was crying. Pulling her in, he wrapped one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders. He placed his hand on the back of her head and laid it down on his shoulder, whispering "shhh, it's okay, I've gotcha."

After 10 minutes of her sobbing and him comforting, she lifted her head. Her red and puffy eyes looked up to meet his.

"Do you have any liquor?" she asked.

"Liquor?" he questioned, confused. "Um yeah. I think I have some upstairs."

"Good, I need a shot. Or six," she mumbled, walking toward the curtain that hid the stairs to his apartment.

"Wait," he swiftly grabbed her wrist and she spun back on her heels.

"What?"

"You shouldn't be drinking right now. Not like this," his expression was concerned.

"What do you mean 'not like this'? Nothing says shots better than crippling emotional distress. Come on," she said, pulling him.

"No."

She looked him square in the eyes. "Please. I need to forget right now. I need to forget the pain. The pain of realizing that, if my dad dies, I never got the chance to truly make things right. The pain of seeing my mother cry for the first time ever. The pain of seeing my daughter terrified of the man, who loves her more than anything in this world, dying," she paused briefly. "Please. I really don't want to be alone right now. And I really need to forget."

His heart melted. He knew exactly what she was feeling.

"One shot," he compromised.

"One shot," she agreed.

—

It wasn't one shot, or two or three. Actually, they both lost count at 7. He knew he should have stopped her after 3, but he was taking them with her and all of his logic washed right down with them.

They stumbled to his couch with a fresh bottle of whisky and a 6-pack of Budweiser. She clung to his arm, struggling to walk. It was like the blind leading the blind. He'd never been this drunk. And he could tell she hadn't either. He sat her down, wondering if she was talking to him or if that was just the buzzing in his ears.

Taking a seat next to her, he poured two more shots and cracked open two more beers. They pounded the now tasteless glasses of liquid and chased them down smoothly with long drags from their bottles. He felt dizzy and nauseous. He was seeing two of her, and they both seemed to be coming closer and closer. He tasted something new touching his lips and felt a weight on his lap. There were fingertips dragging down his flannel and he heard the vague sound of metal on metal.

She fumbled with his belt and thrusted her tongue between his slightly parted lips. She kissed him fiercely, throwing the piece of leather across the room and slipping her hand into her jeans, rocking against it.

He placed his hands firmly on her hips and lifted her off his lap, making a mad dash to the bathroom, where he threw up all of the poison that occupied his stomach. He drank some water and looked in the mirror, the night starting to come back to him. He splashed his face and the cold water tingled his returning senses. What the fuck is going on?

He opened the bathroom door and retrieved sweatpants and a t-shirt from his drawers. He disrobed his jeans and flannel and threw on his usual bedtime attire. He faltered toward his bed and laid his spinning head on the pillow. Once his heartbeat stopped pounding in his ears, he heard another voice in the room.

Sitting up, he noticed Lorelai on his couch, bucking her hips in the air and moaning. He noticed her hand was reaching down into her pants and moving in a circular motion as she breathed heavily through the "o" shape that her lips had formed.

She increased her pace and her body was jerking erratically and involuntarily. "Luuuuuuke," she groaned and he suddenly became more alert than he had been since shot number 4.

He stared at her, eyes wide and unblinking. Is she dreaming about me? About...sex with me?"

He felt himself growing hard as she screamed his name one last time, falling back to the couch and panting heavily.

Getting out of bed, he ran back into the bathroom. Removing his clothes, he turned the shower to it's coldest temperature. He stepped under the freezing waterfall and tried to think of the least sexy things possible. War. Poverty. Grandma. His prom date's dress.

He sighed in relief once he felt himself begin to soften. Stepping out of the shower, he dried off and put his clothes back on. When he walked back into the apartment, he noticed she was sleeping. Thank god. Taking hold of her wrist, he guided her hand out of her jeans, not wanting her to know what she'd just done to herself in his presence. He buttoned and zipped them and covered her with a blanket. Returning to his bed, he laid down, pulled the blanket to his chest and drifted off quickly.

—

The next morning, he awoke to the sounds of his wooden floors creaking beneath footsteps. Slowly opening his eyes, he found her pacing around.

"Hey," he grumbled tiredly.

"Hey."

"How do you feel?"

"Like I was run over by a mack truck," she answered.

"Can I make you some coffee?" he offered.

"Please."

He got up, started the pot, and filled two glasses with ice water. Reaching into his cupboard, he brought out a box of granola bars and took a few.

He walked over to his couch and handed her the glass and breakfast snacks. Returning to the kitchen, he poured her a cup of coffee and brought it to her.

"Thanks," she smiled.

He nodded and sat on the other side of the couch, as far from her as possible.

"Hey Luke?" she mumbled, breaking the silence.

"Mhm?"

"What the hell happened last night?"

"We were trashed," he answered.

"So much for one shot."

He laughed softly.

"Did I say or do anything dumb?" she questioned nervously.

"Not a thing," he lied, reaching for the remote and turning on the news.

"Okay. Okay, good," she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes, good. Very good."