Disclaimer: I proclaim, exclaim and declaim that I have no claim to this stuff beyond my imaginings. Thus my disclaimer.

AN: Long chapter ahead!

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

"A Japanese deck," mused Emily Gilmore. Her preference for Chanel-inspired suits, and the classic lines of knits, had not changed despite her general sense of liberty. She had tweaked her wardrobe, true, with a few forays into her accessories. For example, the necklace she wore was Cartier (of course), but had a lovely pearl suspended from a circle-shaped pendant of diamonds, rather than being a simple chain. She now owned a pair of low-heeled pumps with leopard print on them, though she currently wore gray low-heeled pumps with a square heel and faint silver shimmer, as appropriate with her charcoal tweed skirt and classic pink blouse. It was part of her independence, she assured herself, much as the word grated on her. Decades of devotion to Richard, to his business, to his comfort, and now she was left with what?

House, money, reputation, and only so many committees to chair at a time, lest she make enemies amongst her peers. In a word, courtesy the French: ennui.

"Describe," she ordered the designer, tapping her foot on the flagstone patio.

"Here, the upper level of the deck, stained this lovely dark color," enthused the landscape designer, whipping his binder up to show her the wood stain in question. "Three steps down, to this lower deck, which will encircle the koi pond…"

"Oh, that is lovely," admitted Emily, peering over at the photographs of an example. "It won't hinder maintenance or so forth?"

"Not at all, and around it, instead of plantings, a thick bed of white sand, a Zen garden if you like."

"Zen," said Emily, to buy time to imagine fine white sand overtaking where roses and coreopsis grew. "I would so hate to lose generations of landscaping. I believe some of those roses were planted by…"

Her words drifted away, as her thoughts took her to the first years in the mansion.

She could hear Trix, disdainful as ever. Of course, you will tear away my roses, which were planted by Richard's grandmother.

She remembered so clearly denying she had any such intentions, and tending those roses loyally, faithfully, because they were part of the Gilmore legacy.

"And of course," said the designer tentatively, "we will integrate the path to the pool house into the design, by laying wooden…"

Emily nodded, forehead in a tight scowl. "Will it require removing the flagstones?"

"No, we can simply…"

Emily could not decide if she felt deep sorrow or rage as she bit out, "Good. I like that idea. As for the roses, what would replace them?"

"We have several varieties of decorative grass, which also sound pleasant in the wind, such as this plumed…"

"Yes, yes, narrow it down to six, I'll choose three," snapped Emily, winking back tears she pretended were from the glare of the sun off the koi pond. "I think that white sand would be far too difficult to maintain, the help here is dreadful, but perhaps some plant boxes that match the stain of the deck and walkway, for continuity, to the pool house?"

"That is always…"

"I'd like three options, none include a beach. If I want a beach, I'll move to one. Certainly you can conceive of more than one idea for this Japanese deck of yours, and integrate it without making the yard look like a cat's lavatory."

The man blushed, muttered, "Of course, I can give you ten options."

"Three suffice, dark stain is definite, the planter boxes are essential, and the roses…" She swallowed hard, a hand drifting to touch her new necklace, her gift of freedom to herself. It felt very small. "The roses can go. Dreadful old things. I think irises and lilies in the planter boxes would be quite lovely, particularly against these fluffy grasses of yours."

The man scribbled frantically. "All right. I'll contact you in a week with three complete design options, and we can have the job done by Thanksgiving."

"Excellent," said Emily thinly. "Now, do excuse me, I have other appointments."

She saw him out. She went to the shed in the garden, donned gloves, and took up some snips. One whippy stem at a time, she cut back the rose bushes, crying silently, but with her jaw set and her mouth clamped tightly shut by power of will alone.

GG GG GG

Luke set aside the teal-and-silver notebook. Its tattered cover spoke to many re-readings.

He dialed a number, wondering why people said dial when they were tapping.

A sleepy voice muttered, "Rory? You know Mommy's not on journalism time. Go to press, sweets, we'll talk when I'm conscious."

Luke glanced at his watch. It was four-forty-five in the morning, well before what Lorelai nicknamed civilized time.

"Uh, I'm not Rory," he admitted gruffly.

With that, Lorelai's voice shot awake in a yip. He imagined her in her summer sleep attire (a very old, thin t-shirt and a set of men's silk boxers in a leopard print that he'd refused to wear). He thought he could even smell that sweet-musky-sweaty odor of her. It startled him into saying further, "Everything's okay except it's not. I was up early for the stupid bread guy, like he can't just leave the damn bread in the alley till five-thirty so I can at least get a cup of tea in me, and I sound friggin' British like that stupid movie where the guy said it was only a flesh wound."

"Luke? I don't think everything is okay," answered Lorelai. He closed his eyes, and saw her shoving at her hair, and scooting around to make sure Paul Anka was undisturbed on the bed. "You just rambled. At way-too-early AM. And you know you worry about thieves and raccoons and the nonexistent alley cats."

"Hey, I swear I saw a cat once!"

"Luke, Taylor poisons cats, you know that. Also fluffy bunnies and annoying children, probably. Coop issued a warning to him about animal cruelty, remember? You can't kill animals because they poop inconveniently for the tourists."

"Your mother was a bitch," snapped Luke. "Who the hell takes away a pony because it fertilized the damn lawn? It's a horse. They crap everywhere, like dogs, only bigger. Cats cover up. I think."

There was a telling silence. It told him Lorelai thought he'd lost his mind.

"Um. Luke? Are you drunk? Do I need to call someone for you?"

"I did call someone for me!" yelled Luke at his cell phone, holding it at arm's length. "I called you!"

There was a very distinctive noise known as the dial tone.

He said something he'd never say around April, or even Kirk, and stormed through a ninety-second shower. He slapped on a shirt and jeans and a ball cap. It was new, from April, and read Nerds love pi. The hat also displayed a picture of an apple pie. April had a t-shirt that boasted the same, and had informed him he was serving free pie, every year on March 14, for the remainder of his life, or else. He grouched this to the delivery guy.

The bread guy, who was currently named Ken (like the doll that lacked dirty parts, his inner Luke reminded, in a Lorelai-type way), said dryly, "Dude. You write it out American style, and March 14 is three-one-four. The first digits of pi. You better serve free pie on that date, and especially in eight years."

"Why?" yawned Luke irritably.

"Value of pi, dude." Ken was around Zach's age, and unfortunately too competent for Luke to dislike, despite the constant dudes. "Everyone knows Pi Day is gonna be huge in 2015. Three-point-one-four-one-five. Well, you could round it up four-one-six, but y'know, dude, don't mess with pi. It's the constant. Chemistry, physics, math, it's the one thing, dude. The one thing that is always what it is. Irrational number. Transcendent properties. But constant. It's beautiful, dude. Three-one-four-one-five-niner."

Mind alight with dazzles like sun, Luke gaped.

"Dude, you got a girl," observed Ken, and ambled off to his truck.

Lorelai, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of the Stars Hollow gazebo on its front, hurried along the alley. "Okay, that's why you didn't answer the knock out front."

Luke took her by her hands and said, "You're my pi."

His inner Other-Luke groaned. What happened to clear communication?!

"You mean the number thingy that means cheap pie every March?"

Luke giggled. It was not a sane sound, but then, it was not a sane moment. "You're my pi," he chortled helplessly. "That's what I can't say. I blew up at you for Rachel's jacket thing because you couldn't be like Rachel, I wouldn't let you, but I read your notebook like it's that stupid movie, I rented it, that was pointless, but you're pi."

She did not flinch. She did lean forward and sniff. "You smell sober."

He hugged her tight, heart dancing. "You thought I was worth more than five-buck flannel. You wanted me happy when it hurt you. You get why I wanna weld Taylor's doors shut. You show up even when you hate me, if I need you," he ranted happily. "You're the pi of my life. That's why it won't work without you. That's why I wanted to burn that notebook when someone else read it."

"Who. Read. My. Notebook?" whimpered Lorelai by his ear. "Luke? Air!"

He loosened his hold and she broke free, wheezing, a hand to her side. "Ribs," she squeaked.

"Uh, the swim lady. Suzy or whatever. She, uh, read it and, uh, I dumped her, but the thing is, she wasn't allowed to have it. Not why you weren't allowed to have Rachel's stuff. It's because you're pi, and she's just some random number, but you're the constant."

He beamed at her, delighted to have spoken his truth.

Lorelai looked quite kind, and composed, all things considered. "April had fun explaining science camp, I see."

"You know about pi?" he asked hopefully.

"Rory got extra credit in fifth grade for reciting pi's first ten digits," said Lorelai calmly, though she stayed out of reach. "I found this kid's book about it. Kinda cool, y'know? Like, if you go through every single thing in the universe, pi always shows up, and it rhymes with pie, which I love, so, y'know." She tapped her temple. "It stuck. Three-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three, and pal, come 2015, you better believe I'm geeking out and celebrating Pi Day extra."

"I love you," said Luke with bone-deep relief at the admission. "Did you know pi has stuff called irrationality and transcendence, and that fits you perfectly?"

She blushed. She frowned. Finally, she said, "Thank you. I'm pretty sure that's an amazing compliment."

"You're welcome," he replied, and motioned her into the back of the diner. "C'mon, I'll make some tea. I can open late, Kirk will survive. I was reading your notebook again, I read a little every day, trying to get my head and your head on the same page. Wow, I didn't mean that as a pun."

"Are you running a fever?" asked Lorelai in concern, and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. The gesture was so simple, so classic, so utterly maternal and caring, that Luke grinned. He began making tea.

"No fever. Just. You wrote that you didn't think I like you very much. And you're wrong. I love you, and I love a lot about you, but it's because of what I like. You don't quit. You don't stop smiling. You come when people need help or just ask you to, even if it's your mother or me or friggin' Taylor. I like how you care when other people would walk away. I like how you kick me out of my rut and make me think about things. I like how you listen. I like how you make life fun when you talk, even when it's annoying as hell. I like that you adopt the dog nobody wants." He paused. "Still not sure I really like the dog sometimes."

"It's okay, Paul Anka is hard to know," said Lorelai very soberly.

"I like that you call me on my crap, like the single bed, and not living with Nicole, and I hate that you stopped," concluded Luke, and held out a mug of tea.

Lorelai glanced around the diner, biting her lower lip. He could tell she wanted to mention that all the chairs were upside down on the tables, and the stools were, too.

He sat on the floor.

She sat by him.

"I like that you know why I didn't want to spruce that spot," he said and finally ran out of energy, if not words. He sipped the tea. It was a new blend, from the shop Lorelai had mentioned many months ago, some sort of green tea with blueberries. He liked it. From her subtle nod, so did Lorelai.

He waited for her to speak.

"That's a lot," she remarked quietly, eyes fixed on his dad's hand-written scrawl.

"You're a lot."

"That's a consistent complaint you have, yes."

His inner Other-Luke wanted to kick his ass. See? You only open your mouth when you're grumpy and angry, and people think that's all there is! How often did Mom tell you, if you can't say something nice, at least don't say anything mean? Huh? You complain about jam hands, you don't know your kid for over a decade. You feel sorry for yourself that your life is exactly how you told it to be, and ask who the lucky guy is.

"I rant at myself. When I shut up. Get inside my head."

"Okay?" ventured Lorelai.

"I argue in my head a lot. You do it out loud. I do it in here." He tapped his chest. "That whole grouchy act. It's not an act."

"I know," replied Lorelai softly, eyes shimmering sapphire blue. "I didn't used to know. I still like you, though. You're patient with Kirk when nobody else is. I know you say it's to keep him from complaining, but you're not that way with Taylor. I like how you do anything for your kid."

"Back at ya," whispered Luke around a lump in his throat.

"I like your loyalty to your past, to your sister and Jess. I like that you're not scared to be angry. I don't like how you get angry, but you let yourself get angry. I still get scared to really be really angry."

Luke's breath caught. "Yeah, well, that DVD. Your parents. That Christmas. Geez, Lorelai, why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried. But you always said I should be grateful for my parents being alive and wanting to help, and I like that about you. Not how you say it sometimes, but…" She shrugged, set down her now-empty mug. "You were so angry we didn't set a date while Rory and I were on the outs. I've got to ask, Luke. Is that why, with April?"

"No," he answered wearily. "I was scared if we didn't set a date right away, you'd leave. I knew better. But I didn't believe it. Or you. You, you're always believing even if you're not sure, and that's… It's crazy. To me. But you're… We're… I need that crazy. Irrationality and transcendence," he quoted again. "But constant, at the same time."

"I thought if I was obedient…" Her smile turned watery and feeble. "If I could just figure out the rules and stick to them long enough… I stuck to the rules for you, y'know?" She sniffled and gestured weakly in his direction. "But they kept changing. And when you accused me of cheating…"

Luke bristled. "I never said that!"

"Who's the lucky guy is not a statement of trust!"

He flinched, goose bumps raising along his spine despite his warm flannel shirt.

"You like me. You love me. Yeah, well, pal, will you ever trust me to not leave like Rachel, to not run off to get an education like your mother, to not cheat like Nicole and Anna? Because this, us?" She pointed to her chest, then his, and back. "It's no good if you don't think I'm sticking around!"

He opened his mouth to throw accusations but stopped mid-breath, shoulders sagging. If ever he'd held moral high ground, then he'd long since surrendered it. "And it's no good if you think I'll keep running to my clubhouse."

She nodded, curls flipped back with an impatient hand. "Think hard, Luke. I have. Can I believe you? I can accept Anna in your life, duh, you share a kid. Will you ever accept that I'll be around Christopher? Not as often, but y'know. Sometimes it's bound to happen. Is it going to always be this passive-aggressive back-forth up-down crap? I don't know about you, but I'm tired of it. If we can't talk about things before it hits nuclear meltdown, then…"

Luke nodded blindly, clenching his hands. "Yeah. Every day, talk about everyday stuff."

"I have to go home and shower and go to work, because my business partner has a little five-pound baby to worry about, and we're heading into foliage season soon. Bookings and weddings and touristy stuff."

He understood that, admitting harshly, "I want to make the promise."

Her voice crackled. "I know. I'll want to believe it."

She slipped out the back door of the diner.

No more lies, he remembered bitterly. He should have worked on no more fears.

He looked at his dad's scrawled note on the wall.

"Screw you," he breathed softly, clenching his hands. "So damn wonderful that you couldn't let Mom stay. So friggin' great that Liz ran to drugs and booze. Like father, like son, you…"

He couldn't explain it, not clearly, but he felt immensely better when he'd duct-taped a menu over his dad's handwriting. As if he had taken a breath he didn't know he needed.

GG GG GG

AN: I decided for this fic that Luke's dad did not deal well with losing his wife, and whatever he was to others, his kids saw more of the ugly side of it. Also, three grieving people in one house? Oh, that can be messy. Which, btw, is how grief and all that works in real life.

Pi Day is real. (Pi Day 2015? Free pie if you mentioned it was mathematical pi day, at a local bakery. Yes, I got my free slice of pie. Key lime. Mostly, they just discount pie. Darn it.) Dates "American style" have month-day-year. Other places have day-month-year, e.g., 14-3-2015 for March 14 (or 14 March, as case may be). I'm comfortable with both, but it confuses the dickens out of my spouse if I don't stick to the US format.

"Only a flesh wound" or something like that is from a Monty Python movie. I don't recall which one. Holy Grail, probably.