Disclaimer: If it was mine, there'd have been no Christopher ever again after he said, "Nice shirt, take it off" in S1. Ergo, not mine.

AN: Clarity: We're post-series, into autumn 2007. And, yes, I know, Luke's been acting insane. But this is AU, and he's facing a lifetime of self-inflicted BS, and that tends to make people loopy. This fic covers what Liz probably dealt with over a lifetime of attempts at rehab and sobriety, really, only in Luke's head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THEE

Rory flung her arms wide, dropped to her knees and hugged the cardboard boxes. "My babies," she crooned. "Oh my babies. Did my mommy take good care of you?"

"Didn't even touch the tape. Boxes dusted, contents still in vacuum-sealed plastic bags as instructed," drawled Lorelai with a pointed little smile that her daughter ignored. "Have you got any idea what it's like putting that many books into that many bags and then using that vacuum-sealing thing?"

"Nope," said Rory cheerfully, stood carefully to avoid bonking her head on the attic's ceiling, and sighed. "Well, Thomas Wolfe did say you can't go home again, but, y'know, this works."

"Better than cots in hotels and bus seats?" prodded Lorelai, gnawing her lower lip anxiously.

Rory hugged her, knocking her backwards into the chimney that bisected the attic almost exactly in the center. "Oh my God, Mom, I missed you! You smell like home! Minus coffee." She stepped back to frown at Lorelai. "Still no coffee?"

"Nope." Lorelai tightened her grip. "I missed you, too, kid. Seriously, I'm taking the couch, my loin-fruit is home, you get breakfast in bed, not breakfast on couch, Mommy wants to pamper you."

Rory clambered down to the kitchen. "Um, Mom, how do I put this?"

Lorelai climbed down the stair-ladder with care. "Greek yogurt, fruit, and oatmeal is not cooking!"

"Ew," said Rory promptly, and made a face. "I get that at the continental breakfasts. I was thinking toaster pastries?"

Lorelai smirked, and opened a cupboard to reveal four boxes of toaster pastries. "Ta-da! We have chocolate, cinnamon-sugar, strawberry, and variety pack."

With a little squeal, Rory hurled herself at Lorelai and squeezed tight. "Thank you, Mom."

Heart singing to have her kid home, Lorelai chuckled. "Hey, I listen. No fiber, no nutrition. You're only here for a few days, we gotta live it up. I even bought British popcorn."

Rory's eyes widened. "You. Bought. Sugared. Popcorn."

"Two bags."

Rory collapsed into a chair at the same old table, and sighed. "Wow. You rock. I feel like I just got out of a really uncomfortable dress, y'know? I know we don't have to be all suit-and-stuff, but it's the atmosphere. Tense. Hectic. Boring."

"Ah, adult life," sighed Lorelai with a melodramatic flourish. "Yep, sums it up, kiddo."

Rory stretched her arms over her head, flopped slack and loose. "Lane told me that you and Luke are still, y'know. Not you and Luke all in one word. It's been over a year, Mom. I get it, I do, but…"

"No, you don't get it," interrupted Lorelai, cold pain flowing in her veins. She began making hot water for a cup of tea she wouldn't drink. "This isn't talking out a few things with a self-help book on the table! If he won't trust me, then why the hell should I even try to trust him? He said no more lies, then he lied and lied again! He thought I'd cheat! Maybe if he'd told me more, if I'd told him more, when we were supposedly best friends… But we didn't, and here we are, and you do not judge that, get it?"

Rory paled. "Mom…"

"In the last eighteen months, I lost a baby, my parents got divorced, my kid left home, and I lost the one guy… No!" stormed Lorelai, and knocked the cup of steaming water into the sink. The mug shattered. "If you think a year cures that, then, kid, you got a lot to learn!"

Wide-eyed, Rory pushed her hair behind her ears and said quietly, "Okay. I just… I guess I… You seemed okay."

"Rory, honey," sighed Lorelai and leaned hard on the counter to keep from falling down. "You were twelve before I ever let you see I wasn't okay all the time. You're out there, conquering worlds, like you should be." Tears slid hot down her cheeks. She wiped at them, impatient with the emotional display. "I'm as okay as possible, I'm sorry I yelled, I'm feeling rotten. I'm supposed to know that Emily has good intentions, even if her actions suck, and be with Luke when he can't say he trusts me, so what's the point, and Sookie's out till the new year, with Anthony."

Obviously scrambling for a diversion, Rory opted for, "Not Tony?"

"Nope. Anthony Belleville or nothing. Something about a saint who was hope of the helpless or help of the hopeless, she wasn't too clear, but she told Jackson if he chose not to get the snip-snip, she gets to choose the name." Slowly, Lorelai made her way to the table, sat down, and opened her arms. "C'mere."

Rory gave her a hug. "Sorry, Mom. Want you happy." She wheezed out, "And some air. Mom?"

Lorelai sniffled and giggled simultaneously. "Sorry. Lots of hugs to catch up on. I'm not unhappy, Rory, I'm just not with a guy. There is a difference."

"Ouch, got me right in the feminism," joked Rory weakly. "Change of topic?"

"Please," said Lorelai. "God, kid, please change the subject."

"I want to eat supper at the diner."

Lorelai let her stare speak for her.

"Hey, I've had tons of diner food now, I'm an expert, and believe me, I want good diner food. Okay? Please? For me?"

"Rory…" Lorelai verbally squirmed.

"Mom, I don't care if you say anything to Luke, I just want good chili fries and a chance to talk to Lane, you can sit there and nibble carrots."

Lorelai rubbed her arms to ward off a nonexistent chill. "Okay. But no carrots. I have my limits."

Rory bounced out of the room. Lorelai trailed after her, and told the dog, "You're my new favorite kid."

The dog wagged his tail.

The closer they got to the diner, the more uncertain Lorelai became. Rory chattered onward, stopped abruptly at the very door. "Uh. Mom?"

"In you go," said Lorelai brusquely, and opened the diner door. "Your adoring fans await."

The first sound was Lane squeaking happily. Voices rose, a babble of greetings and questions. Lorelai quietly slipped back outside, and inhaled deep through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. The twilight tasted to her like apple juice smelled, still sweet, not yet crisp, or sharp. True autumn was near, and with it, town festivals, falling leaves, the deepening hue of the sky.

She sensed a presence on the sidewalk. "Hey," said Luke.

"Hey."

He passed over a take-away cup. "Green tea. One sugar."

"Thanks."

"She looks great."

"She is great."

The pause stretched uncomfortably into a stop.

"Do you think you'll ever trust me again?"

Lorelai choked on a sip of green tea. "Huh?"

Luke simply stared at her. He was giving her the chance to have the words, and she didn't know what to do with any of them.

"I…" she started, then looked away, down, anywhere but at Luke.

"We did pretty good with writing," said Luke slowly, thoughtfully. "We could… Call each other? Maybe a few times a week? Just… Y'know… About whatever's going on. Diner stuff. Inn stuff. Life stuff. Stop worrying if we should bring up something."

Fear demanded Lorelai run. Nostalgia mixed with hope ordered an immediate agreement. After a few moments of emotional juggling, Lorelai concluded aloud, "That's a good plan. Talking. Not worrying if we should discuss something with each other. If we're going to even be friends again, well, we need to be able to talk."

Luke seemed glad and disappointed. Lorelai sympathized. "Okay. So. Uh. Rory's not staying too long before she hits the road again?"

Lorelai turned, beaming softly at the sight of her daughter, surrounded by happy townspeople. "Yep, back to wherever it is. They're switching her to a different candidate, they have to do paperwork stuff."

"I'll call you Tuesday?"

"That works." Then, because Lorelai needed to talk herself out of talking herself out of talking to Luke, she told him, "Rory's counting on chili-cheese fries."

"Can't disappoint the next Christiane Amanpour," said Luke, with a gentle grin. "Thanks. I'll talk to you Tuesday."

He smiled shyly, as the diner door closed behind him.

Lorelai sat on the step and said to her cooling green tea, "Don't look at me like that. I'm not agreeing to marry him. It's talking. That's it. Talking. Making sure we talk. Not thinking we know, because wow, we really didn't sometimes."

She had a horrible moment of if only we had… before she stomped it flat with a terse but we didn't. Then she felt strong enough to go into the diner, to join the celebration of Rory's temporary return.

GG GG GG

For his granddaughter's sake, Richard smiled and rapped on the front door of what was once his own house. It was unthinkable that Emily not host a supper before Rory returned to her work. "Don't be silly, Richard, we'd never fit into that cottage of yours," had been her actual statement.

"Oh good," said Emily as she opened the door. "It's you."

Her tone said drop dead, peasant.

Accustomed to worse from people more formidable than Emily, Richard said genially, "Good evening, Emily, I see you've been renovating."

"Oh yes, this place needed fresh air."

A quick look around told Richard that Emily's definition of fresh air was not the same as his own. "Does this style have a particular name?"

"Art Deco. I find it very clean and refreshing. No clutter. No tiresome heirlooms."

He was tempted to ask if Andy Warhol soup can paintings came next, but decided to focus on pleasant topics. "The girls are here, I see."

"Yes. Do come sit down. Martini, I suppose?"

The somber old house had been gutted. Expecting some sort of rejoicing from Lorelai, Richard glanced at his daughter and found her regarding the place as if she'd walked into a morgue. Then again, Richard had to admit, there was something cold and clinical about the new design aesthetic. "It's, ah, no martini, but juice, please, thank you, Emily."

He took a seat, and Rory muttered to him, "What's black and white and geometric all over?"

Emily chirped, "I was thinking of The Great Gatsby, but cleaner. The designer was inspired."

"Really?" asked Lorelai thinly, and sipped what seemed to Richard to be water. "To what? Make sure you can break all the tables?" She glanced meaningfully at the coffee table, a symphony of ebony and glass. "And, uh, the wallpaper is… Y'know what? I got nothin'. Rory?"

"The accent color is, er, very interesting. What do you call it? Eggplant?"

"Good heavens, no! Aubergine!"

"I know my language skills are minimal," replied Lorelai with an evenness Richard could tell came at a price, "but isn't aubergine the French word for eggplant?"

"It is," said Richard quickly. "A rather purplish color, dark, really, but the, ah, the light catches beautifully off all the glass."

Emily's simper was a sword. "Thank you, Richard. Rory, more wine?"

"Please, yes, thank you."

Richard met his daughter's eyes. They said what he felt: Oh, to be drunk!

"The wallpaper is silk, a minimalist design from Japan."

"That's nice," said Rory too enthusiastically. "But I could have sworn Gatsby had more, y'know, curlicues and stuff?"

"That's Art Nouveau," sniffed Emily, swirling wine and crossing her ankles daintily. Richard wondered what the difference was, but didn't ask. Silence was, truly, golden.

"It's very optical illusion-ish," offered Lorelai, then grimaced into her glass. When she shifted her weight, the leather upholstery squeaked. Richard stared at it with mild horror. "So. Um. Nice of you to have us for dinner, Mother."

"You needn't sound as if I am a cannibal!"

Richard's "Emily" rumbled up by habit. He coughed, then filled in with, "She simply meant to express gratitude, as I do. Now, it's six-thirty, I believe dinner should be served."

"It is on time, naturally, I've had no difficulty keeping a competent maid lately."

Richard wanted to say something along the lines of balderdash but Lorelai beat him to it with an acidic, "Finally gave them combat pay?"

Emily's cheeks colored bright and hot. "Here we are."

Lorelai's little "Oh" summed it up for Richard. The dining room was completely unappetizing.

Rory reached toward the table, pulled back. "Um. Black marble?"

"Actually, enamel inlay, finely polished, the wood is mahogany."

The chairs were upholstered in a black-white-and-not-at-all-eggplant fabric. The solid shining-black backs had an odd motif that made Richard think of a fan, or a peacock's tail, without the beauty.

White placemats and white napkins were offset by stark black dishes. A swan-white vase held deep purple flowers.

"I don't recognize the flower," said Rory weakly.

"Dahlias. The Diva variety."

Richard reached over and clamped a hand on his daughter's wrist, and shook his head. It was too easy, and too cruel.

"Is the entire house…" started his daughter hopelessly. "Aubergine?"

"Oh no, merely these two rooms," said Emily before Lorelai could finish that question. Richard stifled a sigh of relief. Black, white, and raw liver in a bathroom would render him unable to use the commode.

"I've selected charming neutral reds and blues and greens, it's very colorful and restful."

Lorelai mouthed neutral red in disbelief. Rory gave a quick roll of her eyes. Richard told himself that his blood pressure was not rising, but did not believe it.

The food arrived. The salad was dull, with sweet dressing; the soup, tomato in need of a pinch of salt; the entrée, a veal medallion with tiny potatoes, neither with any sauce whatsoever. Dessert was the crowning slap at both himself and Lorelai, in Richard's mind. After watery lettuce, a meager cup of tomato liquid, and dry meat, the dessert consisted of prettily sliced raw apples.

"There we are, very healthy and satisfying, don't you think," gloated Emily, and managed to do so while sounding polite.

"Has the cook heard of herbs and spices?" asked Richard, unable to keep his temper in check another moment. "Would a pepper grinder have been too much to ask? Good God, Emily, there are ways to accommodate someone's dietary preferences without insult."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Dad," cautioned Lorelai, "remember the doctor."

Richard bit down on a great deal of frustration, and did the calming breathing technique meant for just such moments. It allegedly lowered his blood pressure and heart rate. "Lorelai," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "I will not be shushed."

"I got this, Dad," his daughter promised, stood, and threw an apple slice at Emily. "So what's this, Mom? A pregnancy test for me, or just rude?"

The little red-skinned white-fleshed slice of fruit sat on the table mere inches from Emily's wine glass. Emily stared at it, paling, before setting her jaw and raising her voice. "How dare you behave like a spoiled child! You ruin everything!"

Lorelai dropped into her chair. Richard didn't blame his daughter for the seeming weakness. Anyone would be stunned. "Wow. Okay, nothing new here." She rubbed her temples. "Hundredth verse, same as the first. Do you know, Mother, you might not be too old for this, but I am. Rory, if you want to stay, I can…"

"No, I'm good, I need…" Rory's visible unhappiness pinged at Richard's heart. "Sleep. Y'know. Big trip tomorrow once I find out where I'm going. Thank you for, uh, supper, Grandma."

"I'll take my leave, as well," said Richard grandly, and stared miserably at his ex-wife, love of his life and yet his bane. "Thank you for the invitation. We'll see ourselves out, of course."

"Unnecessary," said Emily, and stalked him to the door with slow steps punctuated by, "This is genuine alabaster," and "Black granite," and similar details he didn't want to know. Courtesy was a harsh master, at such a moment. He could not, by training, simply run for it.

Outside, he found Rory eating a candy bar. Lorelai broke a small rectangle in half, and offered some to Richard. "Dark chocolate, Dad, the docs can't yell. Much."

"Oh thank God," he sighed, and let the bittersweet wonder melt on his tongue. "Minty. Very nice."

"With Sookie still at home and all, I'm using these as my go-to addiction."

"Good choice."

Rory pouted a little. "She killed the house. And I have to inherit it."

Lorelai hugged her, one-armed, around her waist. "Don't worry, sweets. She'll redecorate again in a few months. I'm betting something like Versailles."

"No bet," replied Richard, and patted his Audi fondly. A man's car was a comfort in a time of distress. It did what it was meant to do, and could be readily repaired. He forced himself to smile. "Rory, dear, I am very proud of you. Now, we should say good night."

After a few hugs, kisses on cheeks, he waved farewell to his girls, and drove away from the one he'd once thought most important.

AN: Diva Dahlias exist. No joke. That's the name of the variety. Too good to pass up. Minimalist Art Deco aesthetic described is taken from actual pictures from the Art Deco period. Since they weren't in color, well, neither is Emily's renovation. I did check colors used with the black-white theme, and those were among the colors mentioned. Actually, now I think about it, the dining room sorta sounds like the one from the scene late in the film Beetlejuice, right before everyone sings Harry Belafonte and the shrimp cocktails attack… Huh. Great. Now when I watch that for Halloween, I'll be seeing Gilmores at the table.

Just so everyone knows, Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost items. Saint Jude is the patron saint of desperate cases and lost *causes*. People confuse the two, I'm told, by my husband. All I know is, my grandmother referred to Saint Jude as "hope of the helpless and help of the hopeless". So I sort of… I dunno. I needed filler and a name for the kid and here we are.

GG GG GG