Chapter Three
Like clockwork, Luke Danes awoke at a quarter to five as he did every morning. He softly cursed as he turned off the clock before the alarm sounded. Rory needed to sleep. A warm gooey feeling suffused his being, something he was not at all used to, but was oddly comforted by. She had chosen him, Luke Danes, the guy that didn't matter, over that punk in Boston. He liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.
The previous night had been such a chaotic blur of emotions for him that he had hardly slept. He had always been a creature of habit and cherished order above all things. Emotions were not orderly. He could not control them, or deal with them. In truth, he preferred not to have them at all. Things were simpler that way. He liked simplicity. Last night, things became complicated.
He had had no knowledge of crossing the distance between him and the waifish child who had been trying so hard to be strong. Yet, he had clutched her to his chest. It had felt easy, natural, to be holding her in his arms and stroking her hair with odd shushing sounds coming from his lips. He had never presumed to put himself in that position, where the girl he considered his daughter would be crying into his flannel shirt. He was not that kind of guy. He was more the gruff awkward guy in the back of the room, who said nothing, but made the comfort food and fixed the house. He was not a Dad. Dads were… protective, firm, stern, loving, and strong. And right then, as he had held in his arms the girl he wished was his, he had felt anything but strong. He had felt weak. And angry. Very angry. He had wanted to punch Christopher, repeatedly in the face. Maybe use his sledgehammer for good measure.
Luke growled softly and pulled on his pants. Yes, beating Christopher to a pulp would be good. Hell, it would be a blast. The jerk certainly deserved it for everything he had done to Rory and Lorelai. He could almost feel the pretty boy's neck in his hands. He roughly shook his head to rid himself of the image. It was not right to think about hurting Christopher when he was supposed to be taking care of Rory. He had other things to do.
Luke sighed as he trudged down the stairs. He almost cursed the false-dawn light that heralded the coming of morning. The dull light of the odd purple-pink sky painted the streets and buildings in brittle March colors of gray and faded violet making the world seem hollow and empty. He filled a pot with water from the coffee maker, taking extra care with the pitted glass dish, and worn machinery. Dawn would come and make these things seem new and fresh once more; but here, now, all pretences were washed clean by the zodiacal lights of the pre-dawn hour and everything showed itself for what it truly was: faded, dull, and dying. Dying, not dead, though. Never dead. The false dawn did not allow for such tenderness and mercies as death; there was no end in existence, everything lingered in a procession to, but never achieving, complete oblivion. He chuckled bitterly at the irony that such truths could be revealed by a lie.
He wondered how long he had lingered in that march. If he asked, he knew people would say that they could not remember a time without him in Stars Hollow. The old—those people furthest in the cortege—may know of it, and speak of such a thing in hushed almost reverent tones. The time before Luke was almost mythical; he was such a staple in the town community. He doubted even he could conceive of such a time. He had always been and would remain in Stars Hollow. At times such as these, during the revealing light of the deceitful brilliance, he would half-believe himself eternal, progressing no further in the decent to entropy.
He overturned the pot of hot water onto Rory's car and watched the boiling liquid melt the sheen of ice encasing the lock. Steam billowed out in thick clouds, flashing briefly in the cruel false light before succumbing to the inevitable fate of all things. Entropy won again.
But not with them. Never them. They did not rot or decay. They developed, evolved, grew. They sparkled and shown with the light of a thousand stars. Their light was neither cruel nor deceitful. His girls—they were his, and would always be, no matter what happened—filled the world with magic and mystery. They alone from the entire world withstood the inexorable march and frolicked, danced, and sparkled through life, returning each day to the beginning of the procession fresh, new, and clean. For a time, brief and unbelievable, Luke was a part of that dance, no longer eternally watching others walk to oblivion, but running forever chasing the light of his girls as the Vikings of old heeded the alluring draw and patterns of the stars, to join them in their cyclic dance of rebirth and joy.
Now, he stood once more against the onslaught of the throng. Eternal.
He tipped the pot one last time over the car, feeling a small sliver of satisfaction in witnessing Entropy's defeat just this once. His girl would be waking soon, and he needed to take care of her.
Dawn, true dawn, filled the small apartment above the diner with warmth and beauty by the time Luke made his way back into the kitchen. With its light, Entropy receded to the dark, shadowed places of the room, and seemed to leave the apartment mended and whole. Luke gave a bitter laugh at the sun's deceitful veracity and set bowls from the cupboard on the table. Color, in all its lying beauty, returned to the apartment; things were brighter, fuller, and warmer than before. He acted on instincts uncovered trough years of practice, and assembled a feast for the wan girl slumbering in his nephew's abandoned bed. Pancakes—extra blueberries with boysenberry sauce and topped twitch heavy whipped cream--, bacon, eggs with cheese and toast with four kinds of jellies all battled for occupancy on the dinner plate he prepared for her. He stifled a grimace at the array of food he had put together. It really was a sickening display of artery-clogging gluttony. Was Rory's happiness worth the heart failure that was sure to find her thirty years down the road?
"Hell yes."
He would give anything for his girls. Anything to make them happy, to make them smile. If that meant enabling them in their addictions, then so be it.
He poured a cup of coffee—another addiction—and set it on the small table beside her head, then returned to the kitchen for his own meal. HE considered opening the diner early, but thought better of it. He was in no mood to deal with people and Rory certainly did not need any of the town crazies pestering her with questions.
She had stopped dancing enough.
He hastily scribbled a "Gone Fishing" sign in black baker's pen and taped it to the diner door. People would probably gather around the door and stare in awe at the sign, pondering the ramifications. Was Luke sick? Was Luke really fishing? Was Luke still grieving? He doubted anyone did not know the answer to the last question. His food was testimony enough. Factor in his volatile temper, and even greater surly disposition, and even Kirk could connect the dots. Eventually. With plenty of time and patience.
He shook his head in dismay at the insanity of his town. There was nothing he could do for them, Kirk least of all, and trudged back up stairs. He stubbed his toe on the way and winced as his tool belt crashed to the floor. Luke carefully picked the noisome object from the oaken boards of and returned it to the table, tiptoeing as he worked. Every motion was exaggerated and deliberate, like a baby or old man who is unsure of how its body functions. Yet the damage was done, and his girl groaned the first uttering of protest as wakefulness scrabbled for purchase against her eyelids.