Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them until TPTB fix what was broken.
Author's Note: I'm sorry for the long hiatus between chapters and I hope you all enjoy this and the final chapter, which should follow as soon as I can edit it. Again, huge thanks to the wonderful betas: iheartbridges, KinoFille and Lula Bo. Thanks also to Battlestar Galactica for helping to inspire this chapter.
She's spent the day talking herself out of canceling on Luke. She dreads the continuation of their early morning conversation, in large part because she has no idea what Luke wants. There are words she remembers him saying that feed her hope, but by mid-afternoon she's convinced herself that the most she can expect is for them to find a way to remain friends. It's the only future she can see for their relationship, and being resigned to that is the only way that she can make herself have dinner with him.
She arrives a few minutes late, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, pleased to see him in his usual attire, glad that he's not making this into a big production. The food is reassuringly casual as well, a simple pasta dish with chicken, Caesar salad, and bread. It all reinforces the image she has of two friends working out their differences.
As he stirs in the last of the ingredients into the pasta, he passes her the salad bowl and tongs, directing her to toss the lettuce and dressing, then add the cheese and croutons. She starts to protest, to make a joke about her lack of skill in the kitchen, but something in the offhand way he'd asked her makes her swallow the words. He's so very rarely asked for her help. It's something they've teased each other about: her hopelessness in the kitchen and his perfectionist attitude toward cooking. The fact that he's asked this time is one more thing that sets this dinner apart from every other dinner they've shared here.
It does give her something to do, she admits to herself, biting her lip as she focuses on the task. She's so intently watching the dressing coat the leaves of lettuce, she doesn't notice right away that Luke has stopped what he's doing and is looking at her with a bemused smile on his face.
"What?" she asks, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she recovers her wits. "You wanted it tossed, right? And didn't you say something about cheese and croutons?"
He just nods, chuckling as he passes them to her. While she finishes the additions to the salad he brings the pasta to the table, pulls the bread from the oven, and opens a bottle of wine. There's something in the rhythm of getting the table set and ready that has brought some level of ease and familiarity to the situation and though she knows the plan is to talk, she forestalls the heavier topics with compliments about the food and teasing comments about the way that he'd let April liven up his apartment. He's just pointed out the mask that April had given him for Christmas, his voice proud as he describes a process involving paper maché and drinking straws in noses, and Lorelai just stops and rests her chin on her folded hands, watching as he gestures and smiles.
After a moment, he looks up and gives her a curious glance. "What?"
"You are so freakin' cute." She'd meant it as a friendly observation, but it comes out more flirtatious than she'd intended, and she inwardly cringes as she waits for his reaction.
Luckily, he seems to take the teasing for what it is and just says gruffly, "Stop."
"No, seriously. I mean, here you are and you always said you're not a 'kid' guy, that you wouldn't have the first idea what to do with a kid, but look at you." She gestures toward him, her hand waving in the space between them. "You're a natural."
"Stop," he repeats, softer this time, his face flushing.
Lorelai answers matter-of-factly. "Well, maybe if I keep saying it you'll finally believe it."
His eyes narrow slightly as he shakes his head, but then he sighs, looking down at his lap. "Thank you," he finally says.
She gives a small shrug. "That's what I'm here for."
"Oh, is that so?" he asks jokingly and she just shrugs again in response. He's quiet for a moment before he says softly, "It's not just that, you know."
"What?"
He glances up at her shyly and then ducks his head again. "It's just…even after all that happened, you've been so encouraging about April." He pauses for a moment, and she wonders if he's thinking about how ironic it is that he's thanking her for helping with his daughter when it was his keeping her away from April that contributed to their breakup. His words sound just a little bit like an apology, but before she can respond, he takes a breath and continues speaking. "But what's really helped – what's made the biggest difference – is your company."
It catches her by surprise, the way that he can say, in just a few words, how important she is to him, and she has to swallow over a lump in her throat at his unexpected openness. It's such a non-Luke type of thing to admit that she has to resist the urge to joke it away with some sort of self-deprecating remark, but he's entirely serious, so she finally just says, "Me too."
"Huh?"
"It's been hard since…" she grimaces as she approaches the forbidden topic, "since…"
"You and, uh," Luke gestures toward her, unwilling to say the name himself.
"Split up," Lorelai says quickly, mentally throttling herself for the direction of the conversation.
He's suddenly apologetic, saying sincerely, "I'm sorry. That must have been hard. And here I've spent all this time leaning on you about April. I'm-"
"No," she cuts in, then corrects herself. "Yes it was hard, but not-" She pauses, shaking her head. "I tried to make it work and it didn't, so yeah, it was hard, but that's not…that's not what I meant. It's just…Rory and I didn't see eye to eye on everything and she and I…well, it's been hard."
She thinks she sees something like understanding flash across his face and it makes her wonder if he's noticed the way that she avoids talking about Rory, because it's so much easier to talk to him about his own daughter than about the reasons she keeps managing to disappoint her own. She sees sympathy, even pity perhaps, in his expression when he says softly, "I'm really sorry."
"Oh, it's okay," she says with a little wave of her hand. "We'll be…we're talking. It's just….strained. So yeah, the company has been good."
The air is heavy with the weight of their admissions and as much as she'd like to lighten the atmosphere a bit, the moment is too serious to back out of immediately. They've built a fragile understanding, and made another tentative step back to the friendship they used to have and the silence that surrounds them seems to be the way that they acknowledge that to each other.
She thinks it's possible that minutes have passed by the time he nods toward her plate and asks if she's done eating. She just nods, then proceeds to help him clear the table and put away the leftovers, using the little tasks to help her brain orient itself to this world in which they've admitted to one another how much they still depend on each other.
It shouldn't feel so strange, but it puts her off-kilter in the same way that rearranging the furniture in a room makes it feel unfamiliar. She'd like to think she could find her way around their relationship with her eyes closed, but nothing seems to be where she expects it to be anymore. And since she's never been inclined to shine a light on, to examine too carefully those things that most challenge her, she falls back on bumping around in the dark clumsily and laughing at her awkwardness.
"So, did I hear you say something earlier about dessert?" she asks lightly, flashing him a mischievous grin.
"Of course," he says dryly, playing along. "I made cheesecake-"
"With chocolate sauce?" she cuts in, pleading.
"With raspberry sauce," he corrects, smiling when she gives him a little pout, then sighing. "And chocolate sauce," he admits.
She just grins like a little kid and says sweetly, "Thank you, Luke."
It's all in fun, she thinks, this little exchange, until he adds, his voice low, "Well, I know you, Lorelai."
It's the unintentionally sexy tone of his voice that makes her think about how true that is, about how much he knows about her that no one else on this earth knows. She's still feeling the goosebumps running up and down her arms when he adds, "There's a catch though."
"What?" she asks, rubbing her arms in an effort to bring herself back to thinking about dessert.
"If I'm going to make chocolate sauce, you have to finish the raspberry sauce."
"Me? I don't know how…what if I screw it up?"
"I already mixed the raspberries with the sugar. You just have to strain it." He fumbles for a moment in the cabinet before pulling out a bowl, spoon, and mesh strainer and placing them in front of her. "And the only way you can screw it up is by missing the bowl, which is why that's a small strainer." He pauses for a moment to trace the circumference of the strainer with his finger. "And this is an extra large bowl," he adds with a mocking grin as he points out the much larger size of the bowl.
She just glares at him and it's only as he steps behind her to grab the raspberry sauce mixture from the refrigerator that she realizes how unnerved she'd been to have him standing so close to her. She turns in anticipation of being handed the container, taking it quickly and spooning some of the sauce into the strainer, her breath evening out as Luke steps a couple of feet away to cook the chocolate sauce at the stove.
It only takes her a few minutes to press all of the raspberries through the strainer. When she's finished, she places the strainer aside, then picks up the bowl and holds it toward Luke. "Check it out. No spills."
"Yeah," he smirks, "you're a regular Martha Stewart. Will I be pressing my luck if I ask you to squeeze about half a lemon worth of juice in there and stir it up?"
"Hmm, I don't know. That requires use of a knife, right?"
He just chuckles and shakes his head, using his free hand to point her in the direction of the lemon. Once she's successfully cut it in half, squeezed the juice through the strainer and stirred it into the sauce, she holds up a spoonful for him to taste. "Not bad," he says approvingly.
"You don't have to sound so surprised," she says with a teasing pout, as she peers into the pan on the stove. "Still melting?" she asks impatiently. "I could make three more batches of mine in the time it's taking you to make yours."
"Yours, huh?" he asks, pointing. "So that's your specialty now? Pushing raspberries through a strainer?"
"I'm sure I could do the part where you throw sugar on top of them and let them sit in the refrigerator too," she retorts with a grin. "I even know that you're supposed to float them in a bowl of water to wash them instead of using running water."
"Wow, you are an expert," he says sardonically. "You'll be shooing Sookie out of the Dragonfly's kitchen in no time."
"Just finish yours already. I'm getting impatient for dessert."
"At least that's nothing new," Luke says, looking up at her from where his head is bent over the stove, "but it won't be too much longer."
He does, in fact, finish up fairly quickly and proceeds to serve up two slices of cheesecake, one drizzled lightly with both sauces and one covered more generously. He hands them to her, nodding his head toward the couch as he pours a cup of coffee for her and hot water over a tea bag for himself.
She settles herself at one end of the couch, fidgeting nervously in anticipation of a 'talk.' She's resigned herself to friendship, but the little flutters that she'd felt in her gut while they'd been cooking make her want to put that off a little longer. Make it difficult to imagine setting aside all that she feels for him.
She knows she'll do it though. She needs him in her life – needs his friendship and knows he needs hers – it's a need that's greater than her desire to be loved by him.
But in the meantime, until the conversation is forced upon her, she teases him about the ready-made pizza she'd seen in his freezer when they'd put away the food from dinner, asks him what else he's given in to just because his daughter has asked. He takes the ribbing well, confessing to the occasional stop at Dunkin' Donuts, and admitting he'd let April drag him two towns over because she'd heard about a particular restaurant having amazing chili dogs.
As Lorelai watches his expression and listens to his confessions, it makes her wonder for a moment if things would have been different if she'd pushed more. That if she'd trusted him more, and told him sooner how she felt, if he'd have been willing to bend a little for her. She's truly not sure, though, so she swallows back the pang of regret that brings, and tells him that the next time April visits the two of them will have to dream up some deliciously disgusting things to add to the menu. It's goofy and silly, but it's the only way Lorelai knows how to get through this night, to navigate this place that until now has always been so familiar.
He eventually offers her a second slice of cheesecake if she'll only stop her teasing. When he brings it to her, it's dripping with chocolate and raspberries and he's anticipated her need for a spoon with which to scoop it all up.
She just grins as she finishes every last bite, though by the time she's done, she's jittery under his attentive gaze. When she's licked her spoon for the last time, she jumps up, taking her plate and his with her to the sink before returning for their mugs. She's barely begun to rinse the plates when she hears him say, "Oh, just leave them. I'll do them later."
"It's no big deal," she says airily. "You made the whole meal." She can hear him start to protest again and she insists, "I know you hate leaving dirty dishes in the sink and letting the food get all dried on, 'cause then you have to scrub and it takes twice as long to clean up."
When he speaks again, he's right behind her, his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her away from the sink. "Really Lorelai, you don't need to do the dishes. Let's just sit-"
It's just a casual touch. Lorelai knows he means nothing by it, but his hands are warm through her sweater and she can feel his breath when he speaks. Spinning around in reaction, she stumbles backwards as she steps away from him. She's conscious of his hand sliding down her arm as she moves, of his hands holding her wrists to keep her from tripping. She has to close her eyes to try to regain her equilibrium, but when she opens them her breath is more ragged than she'd like to admit. Though she's sure he doesn't realize he's doing it, Luke's thumbs start to trace little circles on the skin under her sleeves, and if she'd been thrown before, this puts her completely out of balance. Because it was just last night that he'd been horrified that he'd almost kissed her. Now though, his eyes are clouded and they both just stand there for a moment, her mind a mess of fear and desire, his hunger clear as he watches her, breathing hard.
Lorelai has no idea how much time has passed, but when she feels a pull on her wrist she honestly can't tell if she's trying to pull away, if he's pulling her toward him, or if she's given in and tugged him toward her. What she does know is that his kiss is fierce and hungry and when she feels his lips against hers, she knows that her kisses are just as fierce, just as hungry.
His hand wraps around the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. His grip tightens, but the little needles of pain running up the nape of her neck are dulled by the crush of his lips against hers. His other hand holds her tightly against his warm body while his lips trace a bruising path along her jaw.
She's got a vise grip on his upper arm and his flannel shirt fisted in her other hand. The nips she makes with her teeth aren't gentle and she thinks at one point she can taste blood when she's got his lower lip between hers.
He moans, and backs her up against the refrigerator, catching the back of her hip on the handle. He tries to push aside her sweater from her shoulder, then gives up and pulls it up roughly. When a few sharp jerks fail to free her hands, he just grasps at the bundled sweater and holds her wrists above her head as his other hand snakes a path down one arm. She whimpers as his heated fingers trace down her ribs and he spreads his palm across her belly.
Lorelai tugs one of her hands loose, and then the other, tossing her sweater aside before reaching for the buttons on his shirt. The first few come undone, but the fifth is persistent and she finally gives up and rips the last few free, shoving the shirt off his shoulders and tossing it to the side.
There's need and desperation in their kisses, in the way that they hold onto each other, in the way that her nails bite into his skin, in the way that he presses his body into hers. It's intoxicating, heady, and underneath it all, there's something else, a sharp edge of anger that neither one of them is hiding any longer.
She holds him to her like she couldn't during the ultimatum, surprising herself at the residual hostility she feels about that. She feels her nails dig in an effort to prevent him from walking away.
She uses the anger to help build a wall to keep out the hope and love, to keep out everything she wants to feel for him but can't allow herself to feel. The emotions that will only get her hurt again. So she stacks brick upon brick as she pulls him closer, craving his touch, his need. And she lets herself think that this is them saying goodbye, that this is them getting each other out of their systems.
And it's working, she thinks, as he presses her so tightly to the refrigerator that she can feel his magnets digging into her back. She can make this about need and desire, about hunger. Until he reaches to grasp her hands. Until he's groaning into her ear, "God, Lorelai."
It's not the desperation in his words that does it, it's not the ferocity, it's the submission, as though he's lost all resistance. And at his words, a tiny thread of hope snakes its way in between the bricks of her wall and her defenses crumble, the debris spilling down around her.
She's furious at herself for letting him in, for letting down her guard, and she twists her hands away from him, scrunching them into fists that pound on his back mercilessly. But he doesn't pull away from her, he doesn't wrench away from her blows. He holds her tighter and it makes the last shred of her resistance break.
She buries her face in his neck, feeling his pulse racing against her lips, and inhaling the musky scent of his skin. Her arms are locked around his body painfully and all she can do now is hold on, pulling him tightly to her. "I missed you," she whimpers softly against his hot skin. It's a hard thing to admit – how much it's hurt, how much of her life for the last several months has been about trying not to miss him.
In response he wraps both arms around her, pulling her away from the refrigerator as he does. His voice is ragged as he whispers, "I missed you."
They stand like that for a long moment, just holding on, until he pulls away enough to take her face in his palms. He kisses her then, tender and greedy, drinking her in as though she's his strength.
And as he pulls her back in the direction of his bed and tugs her down on top of him until she's sprawled across his body, as he removes the rest of their clothing and pulls her against his bare skin, she's struck by the realization that no one has ever needed her like this. That even when Christopher told her he'd been waiting twenty years for her, she'd never felt so wholly wanted as she does in the arms of this man.
And she's never needed anything the way that she needs to feel his hands, his lips, his tongue tracing paths over her body. She's never needed anything the way that she needs to hear his moans when she uses her hands, her mouth, her tongue in all of the ways he wants her to.
As long as it's been since they've been together, it should surprise her how well they still know one another, at how easily they can still read each other's signals. And as she hears his groans grow more desperate and her own whimpers more frantic, she opens herself to him, crying softly, "Please, Luke, please." They've said so little to each other in their lovemaking, no words, no endearments, that out loud the plea feels that much needier.
He enters her and she matches her movements to his, pushing them both toward ecstasy in that practiced way they have, as if it hasn't been almost a year since they've made love. She reaches for him, letting him pin her under the weight of his arms, holding his hands tightly as he locks his eyes on her.
The look in his eyes is so intense she almost has to look away, but she forces herself to drink in the love in his expression, holds his gaze until her orgasm forces her eyes closed and she breaks apart beneath him. She's barely recovered herself when he collapses on top of her, burying his face in her neck and saying her name softly over and over.
She wraps her legs and arms around him, savoring his weight against her, the solid realness of him pressing her down into the mattress. Eventually though, he rolls to the side, pulling her against his chest. It's then that it all comes back to her again, that awful moment on her porch, the hurt in his voice as he remembered her betrayal, and she begins to dread the moment he wakes up and realizes what they've done. The moment he begins to hate himself for letting her sneak her way back into his life.
So she sinks further into his embrace, taking as much of the moment before it ends. And she falls in love with him all over again, blinking back tears at the hopelessness of it all.
To be continued