w a r m t h
She always hated that temperature; that vexing half-way place between hot and cold. It drove her crazy- letting Rory have the first shower and getting in to find that the hot water wasn't quite gone, but wasn't quite there, either. Neglecting her eggs or pancakes for just long enough to banter with Luke (not flirt. never flirt.).
Nothing, though, she had discovered, was quite as bad as lukewarm coffee.
She drank it anyway, of course- it was coffee. Coffee was the only thing keeping her alive; she'd drink it hot or cold or out of a dog bowl or straight off the floor or even lukewarm. Still, though. Lukewarm.
It's one day at the diner when she finally gets the connection; he'd been upstairs for awhile, leaving the pot unattended, and when he finally gets down she holds him up for ten minutes, whining about the terrible service.
"How dare you keep me waiting?" She scolds, shooting daggers out of her ocean eyes. "I could have died, sitting here for ten minutes without coffee. Have you no concern for the welfare of your customers?"
He's not in the mood; or so he says. Secretly, he's always in the mood for her.
( Or not so secretly; but he doesn't realize that and neither does she, so he goes on pretending it's a secret, waiting for the day when she figures him out.)
He pours the cup for her and scowls, sliding it across the counter, and pretends not to watch as she holds it to her lips and drinks. Just another morning.
"Ugh!" she cries, slamming the cup onto the counter, "God. What did you do to it?"
He glares at her, crossing his arms. "Nothing different. Maybe you've lost your taste for coffee. I've got some nice herbal tea, if you want to try-"
"Nice try." She laughs but doesn't smile. "It's lukewarm."
He raises an eyebrow at her, glancing at the cup that she is eying with disgust. "I only left it out for ten minutes, Lorelai."
"Yeah. Sure. This is not ten minute coffee. This is forty minutes minimum, bordering on impossible to drink coffee."
"But only bordering, of course."
"Well, it is coffee." She blinks at him, disturbed by his lack of knowledge. "Coffee is always drinkable. But this is dangerously close to crossing the line."
He doesn't merit this with a response, shrugging at her and bringing trays to his more agreeable customers. They smile and thank him. They're friendly- a couple of older women a bit too much so, for his taste- and he wonders what is wrong with him. Why is his rudest customer also his favorite?
She's still complaining when he returns to the counter, as expected. She's groaning into the half-drained cup, and she scowls at him as he offers her something to eat.
"Thanks, but I'm afraid that the pancakes would be off, too." she snaps, gulping down another colossal sip and finishing the mug. "More."
He's not surprised- her surprises are so frequent that he's come to expect them. He grumbles something about twenty-eight year old Starbucks employees with heart palpitations, but fills the cup again nonetheless.
(he's always been worried that if he refuses altogether, she'll find someone else to irritate every morning.)
She grabs it, wincing as she chokes down another gulp. "God, that's gross. Lukewarm." She pauses. "Ha. Lukewarm. How appropriate. Why, I'm surprised that your coffee isn't Luke-warm every day."
He rolls his eyes at the pathetic joke. Her wit is never quite as sharp when she doesn't have a full load of caffeine in her system. "You aren't funny in the morning." he says, crossing his arms and fixing a breakfast sandwich for one of the friendly customers.
She disregards this. "Lukewarm. My, my. How didn't I think of it before..."
It's four years later when she thinks of it again- it's his sister's wedding and she's dancing with him, pressed up against his chest. Her head leans on his shoulder and she closes her eyes, and there's this burst of warmth that she doesn't quite understand for awhile- but there it is and there it will be, every time he touches her for the rest of her life.
But tonight the rest of her life still means being forced to invest in infomercial wrinkle remover and delivering horrendously embarrassing speeches at Rory's wedding and possibly becoming an unmarried version of Babette, and she doesn't want to think about those things.
She does want to stand her, leaning into him, forever. She does want to do a few other things involving him that she's fairly certain Rory would not approve of.
As soon as the thought crosses her mind, she wants to take it back. But she also wants to act on it, and she's had a few too many flutes of champagne and this is a bit too comfortable. His arms don't feel like anyone else's- Christopher's arms were electric, giving her a buzz akin to overly strong coffee and recklessness more related to vodka martinis. Max's arms were as neutral as Rory's, and Jason's were... a bit uncomfortable, actually.
His arms were different. His arms were strong and comfortable enough to have been made for her. His arms were-
Warm. Not hot or cold, but somewhere in between- somewhere that she had never thought she'd want to go.
For a few moments tonight, however, she's certain that it's the grandest temperature in all the world and the only one she will ever desire to be. Tonight, the connection makes more sense than ever, though he hasn't dared to leave the coffee pot unattended since.
And as their lack of contact inexplicably bothers her the entire walk home, she marvels at the thought of this. He grabs her hand for just a second before he walks away, and she shakes her head, utterly confused. She walks up the stairs and tries to shake away the lingering feeling in her hand and mutters the word to herself until it doesn't sound like anything but just his name anymore and she thinks that perhaps this is what the world was trying to tell her after all.
Lukewarm.
My first Gilmore Girl's story. I hope it isn't awful... review and let me know!