Author's Note/Warning: I've marked this as 'friendship' instead of 'romance' because there is no romantic reconciliation here, within this story. But hopefully, javajunkies will still find it, well, hopeful. This could fit with canon, and ends mid season 7, when Christopher the slime (thank you, elusive, mysterious Nancy for that name) is still in the picture. I'm just trying to fill in some voids that might have helped those crazy kids get back on track and allowed for the happily ever-after we all know they're living now. The beginning of the chapter is still quite dark; but as promised, it does lighten up as it goes along. Enjoy the ride.
From the Frying Pan Into the Fire- Part Two
Weeks go by. He tries to live his life. He goes through the motions. Diner, April, fishing. Lather, rinse, repeat. But he is still not himself. Doesn't feel he'll ever be himself again. They have had no contact since the bonfire. But still he sees her face. Vividly, constantly. He cannot stop picturing her eyes when he last saw her. Eyes that first burned bright with anger and animosity, but still, he thinks, possibly hope. Then, with his one swift action, eyes that instantly dulled in defeat.
Initially, he feels triumphant. Soon that emotion gives way to a storm of others. Sorrow, regret, grief, love and hatred all rain down, confusing the hell out of him. Still he sees her eyes across that fire. 'Is that what you looked like when she told you about Christopher?' he wonders plaintively. 'What did you ever do to deserve that?'
'You must send off a vibe,' he sneers in another moment of self-pity. 'A "please cheat on me" vibe.' After all, he reasons, Nicole betrayed him too. Yet he does not hate Nicole, never gives her nor The Sockman a second thought. But why not? 'Why does this feel so different?' he ponders. He desperately wants to understand. He thinks it through, processes. Although his farce of a marriage was years ago and he knows emotion can fade over time, he recognizes that in fact he never hated Nicole. He also never loved Nicole. He still feels guilty about that. Nicole knew she never had his heart, but he committed to her anyway. 'Did you really, though?' he asks himself. He comes to realize that fidelity and commitment are not the same thing; the absence of one can lead to the loss of the other. He subsequently reaches a conclusion on his easy forgiveness of Nicole: He understands that her betrayal was merely a drastic reaction to her feeling unloved and unwanted by him.
'WHOA!'
He has what is possibly the second biggest epiphany of his life. He finally sees things from the other side of the (bon)fire. He stops thinking of himself purely as a victim. He recognizes his own mistakes as well as hers. Understanding them proves harder. He questions how it is that someone he loved (loves?) so utterly, so completely, could sense only the opposite from him. 'Why couldn't she see what was in your heart?' he ponders. 'Why couldn't you see what was in her mind?'
He reflects back on his frozen-food aisle assessment of the two of them being fundamentally mismatched.
...We're not right together, you know? You're you, I'm me. I just want to stop pretending we're something else…
He had spewed those words at her as a hurtful barb, but he thought them the truth at the time. Now, after much reflection, while he stands by his assessment of the two of them being intrinsically different types of people, he realizes that it was not incompatibility that destroyed them in the end. Ironically, it was their similarities. He now sees them as unwitting characters in the rarest of Shakespearean dramas- one with dual heroes, each with the same tragic flaw: self-doubt.
His anger dissipates. It is replaced by overwhelming sadness as he considers the futility of their dissolution. He is not sure he will ever reclaim his old self, but he tries to stay hopeful for his future nonetheless. He focuses on April. He dates. He dotingly watches Lane and Liz expand with new life. He continues to process, slowly. He thinks about her often, wonders what she is up to. 'Probably not slowly processing,' he snorts. 'Whatever.' He genuinely hopes she is happy. He misses her, he finally admits. Misses her terribly.
He wants her back in his life, in any way possible. Even if it's just to drink his coffee, to be his casual friend. And he really wants to clear the air between them. Wants to forgive her. Wants to be forgiven by her. Maybe then he can start feeling like himself again. Maybe.
After that, who knows?
So, when April gets sick he calls her. He feels better when he speaks to her; even better when he first sees her arrive at the hospital. But he fails to take in that she is not herself either. Her eyes still look dull, lifeless, but he does not notice.
Because he has already noticed her hand.
Seeing the ring on her finger sets the whole process back for him. The anger flares again, the self-pity, the shame. He feels that she has played him once more.
Only he knows that he is not really in the game.
The next evening, she checks up on April. She decides to use the phone instead of returning to the hospital; she cannot bear to look him in the eye.
"Hi, it's…me. Hi," she says nervously when he answers.
No response.
"I, um, called to see how April's doing."
"She's coming along," he says curtly. "Thanks."
There is an awkward pause. Then they both speak at once:
"So, congratulations." "I'm sorry."
He thinks about asking her to clarify what she's apologizing for, but decides it doesn't matter. He ignores her and continues snidely, "I mean, 'best wishes'. Congratulations should be for," he stops, gives a rueful chuckle, "Emily, actually. Her dream come true. Bet she's all over this."
She understands the sharpness in his tone, but it does not make it sting less.
"I didn't mean for you to find out like that," she offers meekly.
"Didn't you?" he spits. All pretense of civility is gone now. Vanished with the sight of the ring. Weeks of soul-searching mean nothing in this moment, as rage takes over as the reigning emotion.
"No!" she cries defensively.
"Really?" he roars. "Because it seems like that's the real fun for you. Getting to see my face when I find out. Find out you slept with him. Find out you're dating him. Find out you're married to him!"
She thinks about that for a while as she listens to his ragged breathing. Unlike him, she is not a ponderer. She acts in the moment, reacts in the moment. But now, for the first time, she truly reflects on her behavior. At the bonfire, before, since. She cringes as she pictures herself at the fire all those weeks ago, purposely fawning over Christopher. And just yesterday, at the hospital, 'Did you have to be so thoughtless, waving that ring around?' She then thinks back further. To painting dates broken, daisies callously distributed, front-yard fishing lessons, plates of pot roast prepared. She realizes that on some level, conscious or not, he is right. She does indeed seem to delight in showing him that others want her, in throwing other men up in his face. She is mortified. She's been doing this to him for years, and not just with Christopher. Years. 'Why was it so important that he be at your engagement shower? That he watch you dance with Max?' she wonders mournfully. 'How could you be so malicious?'
"Oh my God," she whispers hoarsely. "I'm a horrible person."
She starts to cry. Wracking sobs of self-recrimination. It has been years since she has shed such misty, water-colored tears.
He cannot bear the sound any more now than he could then. He instantly regrets his outburst.
"No, you are not," he states firmly into the phone.
After many weeks of processing, his anger, when it flares, now falls away faster. Moreover, all of his introspection and reflection have caused a definite shift in the paradigm as well. His need to console her now far outweighs his desire to upset her.
"Not horrible," he reiterates in a gentler tone. "Human." He doesn't know if she's heard him over the sound of her own woeful wails. He tries again. "Hey, come on," he soothes tenderly. "We all say and do hurtful things. When we're hurting."
Her weeping stops almost instantly with the realization that he is trying to comfort her. She is still crying softly, but she smiles through her tears at his familiar selflessness. She sniffles before clarifying,
"Like you did, with the horoscope?"
His first thought is to answer a quick "yes" and be done with it. Keep up the tit-for-tat game. After all, she is technically accurate. It was a retaliatory act, and he was hurting. Is hurting still. Nevertheless, he feels an overwhelming yearning to tell her. He needs her to know; he needs to explain. All of it. The hurting, the hating, the hope. He gives a self-deprecating chuckle, takes a deep breath, and confesses:
"It was a coupon for bait."
"What?" she exhales, then lapses into stunned stillness.
"A coupon. From the newspaper," he states plainly. When she doesn't react, he continues sheepishly, "For, uh, Bob's Bait Barn, over in Woodbridge?" After another bout of silence, he adds with mock enthusiasm, "Buy one bucket of worms, get the second half price!"
A gasp, a giggle and a sob erupt from her simultaneously.
"Idiot!" she manages to bark out through the laughter and the tears.
Relieved by her response, he retorts, "Nah, it was expired."
She toys with her wedding band.
"I meant me," she says softly.
This time, the silence lasts longer. He simply does not know what to say to that, so he waits for her to speak again.
"It's still in your wallet?"
The hopefulness in her voice stuns them both and breaks him completely. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and heaves a sigh.
"It's in a box, in my closet. Along with the blue hat, that one shirt you always…" He lets his voice trail off, because he's afraid he won't get through the whole sentence. He gives himself a moment, clears his throat. "I'm not as impulsive as you are. I need time to ponder."
She reflects back on instances in the past when he has tried to express to her that very notion…
...I was pondering…
...I need more time. I told you that…
...I can't just jump like this…
…and on her own dismissive responses.
...well, you ponder really slowly…
...I'm afraid of this more time stuff…
...I'm sorry to hear that. And I have to go…
She hangs her head in regret and shame. Her tears stream soundlessly as she listens, truly hearing him at last.
"One day, after I've thought it all out, I might want to put it back in my wallet. Or just bring it out to look at some time. To remember." He swallows hard. But his voice remains gravelly. "Who knows, maybe I'll even feel like wearing the hat again someday. Or the shirt." He stops to consider. "Nah, probably not the shirt," he rasps. He blinks away his emotion, grateful she cannot see him. "Or," he concludes with bravado, "somewhere down the road, I might want to get rid of all of it. But this way, I've got time to decide."
It is now completely quiet on the line. Yet somehow, he can hear her tears. He waits patiently once again.
Moments pass. Finally, she murmurs,
"I threw it all away."
He is surprised to feel his heart break. He didn't even think it was still there. But there it is, aching for her, sharing in her pain as it always has. He can't seem to help it.
"Aw, listen," he offers kindly, "Who's to say which way's right, you know? We're both just trying to deal, to get through it all the best we can."
"Yeah?" she asks skeptically.
"Yes," he reassures. "We're just different, you and me. I process, you jump."
"O-kay," she sniffles.
"I guess you just need another jumper," he states magnanimously. 'More like pouncer,' he adds to himself. But he holds his tongue. Just a short time ago, ruled by his fuming head, he would have told her to go lie in the bed she made. Now, overruled by his heart, he almost feels sorry her, stuck with that jerk.
So he tries to spin it for her.
"I actually admire that about you, you know," he starts off. "The way you can just jump. Move on. Me, I'm trapped in the same place forever. I don't deal well with change. Definitely not a jumper." He ramps it up. "Tried it once, jumping, and we know how ridiculous an endeavor that turned out to be. It's just not how I'm wired. But you are. So maybe you're better off with, uh, someone you can jump with. And, that's what you've got now, with...so, it's good, right?" He doesn't wait for her answer. "It's good," he answers for her, trying to convince them both. "I'm glad you're happy now. You may not believe it, but that's all I've ever wanted for you. To be happy. And if marrying," his voice hitches only slightly, "Christopher is what makes you happy, then, uh, good. So, yeah," he rambles, "I guess, in retrospect, it was the right decision for you because…"
She is barely paying attention to the words of his lame rant, which they both know is just a desperate rationalization. Instead, she focuses on his soothing affect. She marvels at how, despite his anger, despite the pain she caused him, he is trying to console her, to make things better for her, to help her justify her latest ridiculous, impetuous choice.
Which is exactly what she would have expected him to do, once upon a time.
Just experiencing this side of him again after such a long absence makes her own heart swell. She finds herself inexplicably grinning. Her tears dry up completely. She feels a slight shift in her world's axis, as if things that were askew for a long time may be starting to right themselves. Maybe.
Meanwhile, oblivious to her potential breakthrough, he continues his pathetic attempt at appeasement.
"…and we'll all be okay, eventually…"
"So, you made me a box, huh?" she mercifully interjects.
At first, he doesn't recognize her teasing tone. It's been so long since he's heard it.
"Well, not- it's just- something I-," he stammers. Then he thinks he hears a soft snicker on the other end of the line. "I am not pining," he overstates.
"Oh, no," she returns playfully. "Of course not."
"I'm not!"
"Okay," she acquiesces a little too easily. "Mr. Sinatra," she tacks on. "Chairman of the Board. Ol' Bl-"
"Stop," he admonishes. But he grins too as he feels their stilted discussion change to familiar banter.
"Really, Frank," she reassures him, "I get it. I am sadly quite familiar with the box-and-wallow protocol."
"So what's in my box?" he asks good-naturedly. "You must have kept something. I'm curious, in the great purge of all things me, which stuff got a box reprieve?" When she doesn't answer right away, he prompts, "You know pancakes are perishable. You'll get mice."
"None of it. I really kept nothing," she declares, sounding much more sullen than she intended. "So no box for you." She quickly moves to recover the lighthearted mood. "No soup, no box!"
"I don't get a box? You don't think I'm box-worthy? I'm a little insulted," he gripes, only half-joking, but equally anxious to keep up the flippant dialogue that sounds so much like the real them. "Between you and Rory, that stupid closet was full of ex boxes."
"Xboxes? Like, 360?" she teases. "Totally rad, dude!"
He rolls his eyes, but he cannot stop his grin from spreading. "Max boxes, Dean boxes. Jeez, even my punk-ass nephew has a box."
"Yes, but all it has in it is 875 thousand books."
"Yeah, I know. I'm the one who had to lift it into the cupboard. So, why no box for me?" questions the ponderer.
"I went a different route this time," the jumper answers.
"You could say that," he blurts too fast. "You got married."
That sobers them both up instantly. Their conversation comes to a screeching halt. There is more awkward silence while he inwardly chastises himself for setting back their progress and she stares mutely at her ring.
After a minute of intent gazing, she pronounces,
"I jumped."
"Yeah," he agrees sadly.
"Because I'm a jumper," she reasons.
"And I'm not."
The tears threaten once more, but she shakes them away. Her eyes remain fixed on her left hand, as she struggles to make sense of her new reality.
"God. It doesn't seem real," she divulges. "Does it ever feel like that to you?"
He bristles. "I already told you how unreal this all feels to me," he snaps.
She shivers, and he shudders, each remembering his monologue from that awful morning, the worst morning of their lives.
...It's like my life isn't even real to me unless you're there, and you're in it, and I'm sharing it with you…
He shakes his head in reprimand for once again speaking without filtering. Eager to get them back on track, he tries to bring back the playful chatter from moments before. "Hey, so you wanna talk about video game consoles some more? That was fun."
She smiles at his efforts. She's totally on board with the bantering, but now that she's opened up Pandora's Box, she also wants to keep processing. She thinks he might be on to something here…
"So does it still? Feel unreal?" she delves. "I don't know if unreal is the right word. Maybe surreal. I'm thinking less Rod Serling, more David Lynch, you know?"
"Zack is partial to the Playstation."
She presses on. "This past…I don't even know how long, it just seems like, like I don't know who I am anymore."
"Yeah," he concedes.
"Actually, it's more like, my life, it's happening to someone else, and I'm watching it all from inside a bubble," she muses. "Ooh, or, no, a cloud!"
"A cloud," he repeats, stalling for time. He's trying to keep up with her whirling mind, but he's pretty rusty.
"Uh huh. Remember how Serena used to peer down from Cloud Nine into the Stephens' mortal world? She'd be up there, all mocking and judgmental, but secretly intrigued by this life that was so foreign to her. Looking almost identical to her cousin, but behaving completely differently? Oh, but do not be fooled by the groovy miniskirts. Serena was no run-of-the-mill cool-cousin sweeps-week split-screen stunt."
"No?" he plays along, bemused by the bit.
"Oh, no. There was real depth there. Everyone knows Serena was supposed to represent the dark side of Samantha's soul, that she was actually just Sam's bad-girl alter ego. Don't you think?"
"Never really analyzed it to that degree," he drawls.
"Ask Kirk," she shrugs. "Anyway," she breathes out, "that's a little like how I feel these days. Like, I'm hiding in the clouds, beneath a wig and a birthmark, watching an alternate version of my life play out."
"Uh, wow, okay. Well," he says cautiously, "you know, it's probably normal, feeling...out of sorts. I'm pretty sure that's just part of the process. It sure has been for me." He pauses. "Been a lot to process," he adds. "The past few years have been pretty crazy."
"So many changes," she acknowledges.
"Yes," he agrees solemnly. "Whole new Darren."
She bursts out laughing. He basks in the sound, pleased to have elicited it. She marvels at the bawdy noise, and tries to remember the last time she heard it sound so natural.
"At least you've been pondering, processing, whatever. That's good. I've just been jumping. Well, cowering, and then jumping, really." After a beat, she gasps, "I am Consuela!"
"See, you do know who you are," he deadpans.
"When I was around seven or eight," she expounds, "my father went to this big insurance convention in Cabo. Solo, that time, you see, because Emily Gilmore does not travel to Mexico, nor to Central America," she explains with mock snootiness. "She only hires and fires from there."
"Nice." He switches ears and settles in for what he hopes will be one of her engaging poor-little-rich-girl tales. He is not disappointed.
"Without Mom's fabulous gift-buying guidance, Dad brought me back these beans from the -shudder- airport gift shop, these Mexican jumping beans."
"Hey, I remember those things," he says fondly. "They were once a very popular Stars Hollow Elementary show-and-tell item."
"Yes, they were a big hit with the Hartford mini-elite too. Way cooler than Digger Stiles' pet rock. Or Navena Cutler's nanny's gallstone in a jar."
"Sure," he encourages. God, he has missed her stories.
"So these deranged little beans would basically just twitch and shake constantly," she continues. "Not unlike many of Emily's aforementioned hires, actually. But out of the half dozen or so beans I had, there was this one that stood out. I named her Consuela…"
"Of course you did," he smirks. God, he has missed her.
"Consuela just lay there, motionless. For a while I thought she was a dud. She didn't twitch with her amigos at all. But if you put her too close to the other beans, or held her in your hand too tightly, then out of the blue, boom, off she'd go like a rocket."
"Yep, that sounds about right," he chuckles, "Consuela."
"Hey, watch it, Senor Crankypants," she scolds. "Don't mock the poor bean."
"So whatever happened to poor old Consuela?" he asks. "She ever fall in line?"
"Tragically, she, Pedro, Miguel and the whole gang did not make it past Senora Gilmore's firing squad," she intones. "They were gone by the next trash day. Mom was never a fan of the jumping. Or the tacky souvenirs."
"So Emily and I do have something in common after all," he smirks.
She laughs softly. "Oh, yeah, you two always were simpatico. One and the same," she pronounces. "Like Consuela and I."
"Wow," he sums up dryly, "so you are a worm-infested dried bean and I am your mother? Not sure who fared worse in that contest of metaphors."
"Tight race," she agrees. "But for the record, it's not so great being a jumping bean," she states, serious once again. "Pretty tiring, actually. I think," she sighs, "I think I'd like to become a little more of a ponderer, like you," she confesses. "Do some real processing. I'd like to try to stop the jumping."
"You know," he says, emboldened by her candor, "you can make a Mexican bean stop jumping. You just have to kill off the insidious little creature that has managed to burrow itself inside."
Another hearty laugh escapes before she can stop herself. But her amusement fades quickly. She stares at her ring again, debating whether or not to share her next thought out loud.
"The thing is, though," she starts tentatively, "when I look at my life and where I've jumped to, sometimes I can't believe," she breathes out, "that this is where I've landed."
His eyes widen. "I…understand how you feel," he answers very carefully. They're walking a fine line now. While he's pleased with her budding openness and honesty, he knows that too much of it too fast will scare her off. He also needs her to see that there's no quick fix here, that getting back to their complete selves will take time. "Look, it's the same for me. Even with all the processing I've been doing, some days I still look around and ask myself, 'How did I get here?'"
"Yes!" she exclaims. "Yes, exactly, David Byrne!"
He smiles. 'There she is,' he thinks. 'There's your Crazy Lady.' His smile fades. 'Christopher's Crazy Lady,' he corrects himself.
"Definitely not the same as it ever was," he grumbles, not even realizing he spoke out loud.
"Not the same, no, but it's okay, right? Where we are at, it's good?" she tries to confirm. "You said it was good," she reminds him. "Remember your awesome jumping rant?" she kids.
"Jeez, are you looking for more reassurance from me about your marriage? Because now you're really pushing it." He hopes he's pulled off a joking air too. When she doesn't seem to take offense, he decides to really go for it. "You know," he tells her slowly, "one other great thing about you being a jumper- if you really don't like where you've landed, you can always jump again."
She's so quiet that he worries he might have gone too far. Then he hears the tiniest sound of contemplation:
"Huh."
"I mean," he pushes, "should you ever wake up one day and say to yourself, 'My God! What have I done?'"
"Well, ignoring for a minute that you now owe Talking Heads about five trillion dollars in royalties," she quips before continuing thoughtfully, "Yeah, I guess I can." She sighs deeply, suddenly feeling a giant weight lift off her chest. She tests the words on her tongue before letting them gradually sink into her psyche. "I can jump again."
She takes another steadying breath. "If I ever need to," she backtracks guiltily. "I'm not saying I want to. I mean, I don't want to just jump again," she says in a rush. "Not now, at least. I've been married for about 11 minutes. And, well, I do have that bet going with Brittney Spears over who can stay married to her childhood sweetheart longer, so…"
He has mixed feelings as he listens to her nervous rambling. Although it hurts him to hear her standing by her commitment to Christopher, he remembers all too well the internal pressure to stick it out in a marriage; even, or maybe especially, one that started as out as a spontaneous elopement. He also knows from experience that nothing can save a doomed union, and, in his heart, he's sure that's what she and Christopher are. Doomed. But he understands that she has to work this through herself, on her own terms, in her own time. He's just really happy that she now seems willing to do it.
"…but, like my homegirl Brittney, if Chris turns out to be, uh, toxic for me, down the road, it does feel good to know I'm not stuck. That jumping, baby, one more time is…"
"It's an option," he confirms. "For the future."
"Like your blue hat!" she cries excitedly.
"Exactly," he laughs.
"I'm glad you kept it, as an option," she declares. "Your new one is awful."
"Well, you don't have to look at it, much," he retorts. "You don't come in the diner anymore," he adds solemnly.
"Yeah, well, under the newly wed circumstances," she winces, "I think, for now, it's probably best if I keep getting my caffeine fix elsewhere."
"Maybe one day," he shrugs, trying to sound casual, "After you've…"
"Jumped again?" she anticipates. "Paid my retainer to Arnie Becker? Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal."
"Sheesh. I was just going to say, 'after you've done some real processing.'" His tone softens. "It would be nice to see you there again, is all." He pauses. "No matter what."
The sincerity and warmth in his voice almost make her abandon her newly revived cheekiness. Almost.
"Okay, Burger Boy," she taunts, "If I come into the diner, will you wear the blue hat?"
"If I wear the blue hat," he counters, "will you come into the diner?"
"Well played, Monty Hall," she quips. Then she surprises them both. "I'd take that deal."
He clears his throat. "Tell you what," he offers. "How 'bout this? You go start your processing, see where it takes you. The diner will be waiting, if you ever want to come by. Whether you eventually decide to take that one last leap or not," he adds pointedly. "As for the hat, I'm still not finished my own processing, but I'm thinking there's a good chance you might see it on my head again, when all is said and done."
"O-kay, wow, well, you're a little ahead of me with this processing stuff. Let me get this straight," she says. "Mind if I recap? Get it? A-head? Re-cap?"
"Jeez," he groans.
"So you're saying that, theoretically, it would be okay if I kept jumping for now, if I need to…"
"Yep."
"…but that eventually, after some good old processing and pondering, I might be ready to stop…"
"Yeah."
"…and that one day, I may start coming to the diner again…"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"…and if I do, I might, at some point, find you wearing your blue hat there…"
"You just might."
"Ah, Monosyllabic Man. I have missed you so." She smiles coyly. "And If I do, you'll give me coffee?"
He snorts. "If I do, you'll go away?"
She laughs. "It's not looking promising."
"Good." She can hear his smile through the phone. His real smile.
"And maybe then," she continues, "we'll get back to being us?"
"Us?" he rears back.
"You back to you, me back to me," she corrects quickly. "That's what I meant by, um, us," she stammers. "Because, um, married, Christopher, and…"
"Uh, sure, yeah. Yes," he concurs, equally flustered. "I agree. You need to get back to being you, whatever that takes, and I'll keep on doing whatever I have to 'til I'm me again," he blathers. "And uh, maybe…"
"Oh, the work!" she interrupts. "Tell me, is there a time frame for all this jumping and processing? All this blue hat wearing and diner dining?"
"Nope," he answers simply. "Take all the time you need."
This time, it's a comfortable silence that envelops them, as they each cling to their receivers, grinning like fools at the sheer contentment of a phone call. A phone call filled with promise.
Maybe one day, he will wear that blue hat again. And maybe one day, she will return to the diner, having jumped one last time before finally settling in her rightful landing place.
But for today, they've come far enough. They wrap up their call, both feeling, at last, that they truly are on their way back to being themselves.
"So…good talk," she concludes, and he can hear the smile in her voice. Her real smile.
"Yeah, it was. Thanks for the call," he says, his own voice filled with affection. "Goodnight, Lorelai."
"Goodnight, Luke."
A/N2 A tremendous thank you (you have no idea) to both deepfriedcake and Eledgy for helping me see this crazy idea through. Yes, due to my neurosis, it took two people to beta this thing, much like it took two people to write the Happy Birthday song (Ok, anyone who gets that reference will instantly become my new cyber bestie). Of course, I kept tinkering long after they told me to post it, already, dammit, so any awkwardness and mistakes are entirely on me. And thanks also to the legendary Mag68 for graciously letting me steal the adorable moniker "Senor Crankypants" from her Good at Dating series (as I was running out of things to call Luke). As soon as I realize I'm borrowing from another fanfic, and not from the show (where they used the less fitting "Senor Swankypants"), I try to acknowledge it, and check with the author. But it's always a fear that I'm doing it without realizing it, and I want to offer sincere apologies to anyone else I'm inadvertently or subconsciously taking ideas from. Oh, and all those other regular disclaimers, too. I always forget that: I own nothing. Thanks for reading.