Title: Like You Mean It Author: My Only Carriage Rating: PG-13 Category: Romance Keywords: JJ Spoilers: None Summary: Written for the L/L ficathon. 4th of July at the Lake. Complete one shot. Disclaimer: All characters and situations from Gilmore Girls are properties of Amy Sherman-Palladino, Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions and Hofflund/Polone in association with Warner Bros. Television. No copyright infringement intended. Author's Note: Submitted for the L/L Ficathon organized by CIAchick. Written for CineFille whose requirements included: Lorelai/Luke on the 4th of July at the lake. Timeline: Pre-Raincoats and Recipes. I hope I did the request justice. Have fun with this piece of fluff. -*- You can learn a lot about the habits of human beings by observing them in their natural habitat. For example, take Taylor in the middle of a town festival. Odds makers in Vegas would salivate all over the possibility of him donning a cardigan, buttoned all the way up with the bottom hem folded inwards. But if you observe him enough, you realize that the sweater and its shiny buttons are a way of expression for a man so anal that he'd on occasion chide Luke for a hamburger patty whose diameter he felt was slightly smaller than average. That's how you can bet on whether the cardigan will be forest green (for a day that might get rowdy) or plain gray (a solid run of the mill color). Patty smokes first thing in the morning, one the bench in front of the dance studio, long before heading in for a cup of coffee. Luke still remembers her as a young boy, that same personality intact, but packaged in a much smaller frame. For years she'd smoke like a chimney, while she still danced, because it helped her curb her appetite. These days she's more than happy to accept a double helping of his lemon meringue pie, and so Luke knows therefore that she, like all people, is a creature of habit, and the dawn smoke is less out of necessity and more out of routine. The interesting thing about Lorelai is the way she would choose her seat at the diner. Most people, save for Kirk, had a preferred table along with a preferred order, while Lorelai liked to bounce around year to year, day to day. When Rory was a young girl, they would usually sit up at the counter. "Much better view from here." Lorelai once told him when he asked why Rory insisted on climbing on a stool far too tall for her and then having her legs dangling off the sides. Eventually Rory graduated from 8th grade, and simultaneously graduated up to the table by the window. When mother and daughter wanted a quiet moment together, but not quiet enough to go home, they'd sit at the table closest to the door, but far from the counter. Oddly enough (or not, considering the person in question is Lorelai), when she wanted to speak to him about something important, she would either sit quietly at the counter or at one of the tables, while looking out the window until he came to seek her out, and only then would she launch into a story which usually concluded in a request. Melting fridge, leaking faucet, broken porch rail, cracked banister, dying front lawn, clogged gutters, flat tire. If she wanted to bug him, then she'd run up to the counter, her hair bouncing off her shoulders, eyes shiny and flashing with excitement. Words would pour out in a cascade, her arms motioning expressively while he listened and responded accordingly - in monosyllables. So while he knew her well, and also knew that he knew her well, he couldn't quite decipher this new Lorelai that had come into his diner on Monday. -*- She sits by the door, finished her cheeseburger, asks for a piece of strawberry rhubarb pie, and seems to respect the fact he is busy. He doesn't even notice her, ten minutes later, sitting at the counter, pie half polished off, and the other half about to meet its unfortunate end. Lorelai eats slower than usual, savoring the sweetness of the berries and crunch of the crust. When she catches him staring at her, she explains Rory is off to Martha's Vineyard for two weeks with her grandparents. She doesn't have to say she is bored or lonely as a result. After that, she tells him about Sookie's new tenderloin recipe, and how Michel is considering a civil suit against the groomer who had shaved his dogs' fur too short last week. She then pokes around a bag of new t-shirts she'd bought in Hartford, and informs him she's got flip flops in every color except aqua. "That would detract from my eyes." She explains to a pair of raised eyebrows. She hangs around for a long time that night, long enough for him to consider offering to walk her home. Stars Hollow is no Compton, but Luke is still a gentleman. Just before he is about to ask, she gathers her parcels and saunters out the door. -*- On Tuesday, she has a long breakfast, asks him for a second stack of pancakes, and then returns at the awkward hour of 2:30, too late for lunch and way too early for even early bird dinner. "Oh good, we're alone!" She exclaims, walking around the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. "One - we're not alone, Kirk has been reading his paper for an hour in the corner. Two - had we been alone, it would mean I had no customers. And if I had no customers, I could immediately attend to your various requests, one of which is obviously coffee. All of which adds up to there being absolutely no need for you to be here." He points to the space between the counter and kitchen. "Kirk doesn't count." She looks over her shoulder and whispers conspiratorially. "He's practically like an indoor garden gnome. As for you - I'm helping you out. You should be tipping me." "Oh well, when you put it like that." He replies sarcastically and then gently pushes her around the corner, splaying his large hands over her lower back. They end up on opposite sides of the counter when he tells her how he's been up to Nantucket a couple of times as a child, and so he surmises that Rory is most likely having a good time. "I hated Martha's Vineyard." Lorelai says when he's done his bit, but doesn't elaborate. Instead she asks him how much a new fridge would cost and would there be any point in getting one of those nice new stoves with a porcelain top given the fact she doesn't really cook. "Then why would you want one?" "It's in all the magazines." She shrugs. "So are drunken celebrities in skimpy clothes." "Point?" She asks him and he quickly skims over her halter top. It's a delicate baby blue, embroidered, hugging her curves while the string tied behind her neck falls loosely over her skin. "Okay." He admits, a bit red in the face, and she sees it, even with his day old stubble. "Am I dressed too provocatively for this establishment?" She winks at him in an effort to see how red his face will get, and better yet - will the blush spread all the way up to his ears. "I thought we were talking about drunken celebrities." His answer is noncommittal, desperate to avoid commenting directly on her assets. "What have they got that I don't?" "Money, fame, and habits they can support?" "I pay for my coffee!" She yells out in mock protest. "Every other time." He says dryly, but his voice is teasing. "Well I'm not paying today." "On account of serving yourself a cup?" "Ooh, you're catching on, my friend." -*- By the time Wednesday evening arrives, she really does stay until closing time. For a brief moment she wonders if she is inconveniencing him, but she then she sees the way he smiles to himself when she comes in unexpectedly several times a day. And because she's a woman with blood in her veins, she appreciates a roving eye now and again, so today she's in a dark red cotton tank top, lacy over her breasts, dipping down to a low V. It's not once she catches his eyes below her neck, and it's not once she flushes in return. So she sits there until he starts to wipe down the counters, and helps him put the chairs up. He then offers to walk her home, and she's giddy inside at spending another ten minutes with her best friend. At the sight of her lawn, he promises he'll come over on the weekend before the weeds completely obstruct her porch. "You're here for the 4th of July?" "In living color." "Is Liz busy at Renn Faire?" "They are down in Maryland this week, which, if we are to trust TJ, is a humid hellhole this time of year." "I bet you miss him." "He's the last thing I think of when I go to bed at night." "Well, at least he's entertaining on the phone. Contrast with, for example, my Mother, who left an obnoxious message on my machine last night about how is it that I, as a mother of a proper young lady, would see it fit to send the aforementioned young lady to a place verving with proper young men, and yet without proper attire." "What's she supposed to wear, an evening gown out to the beach?" "A fruity hat to the country club." "Rory?" He asks doubtfully, wondering how anybody could picture her as a Stepford wife. "She'll probably buy her one. Prepare yourself for the mocking to begin when I bring in the pictures." "She won't let you take any." "Oh, there will be pictures, I promise you that." "While she's sleeping?" He guesses. "If that's what it takes." She nods back. They round the corner, approaching Babette's house in companionable silence. He loves the scent of her perfume, faded this late in the day, but still lingering in the summer air between them. She loves how he walks next to her, neither rushing ahead, nor lagging behind because he's trying and failing to catch up with her step. "Have you heard from Jess lately?" She asks quietly, not even sure why she's bringing it up. "He's still in New York, with a job, and a place to stay. I guess that's enough. For now, anyway." "It's good." She agrees. And he doesn't fail to notice she's the only one out here who has asked him about his wayward nephew, even if she is not, at the same time, one of his biggest fans. Or anything close to that. When they reach her house, he bids her goodnight, leaving her at the bottom of her steps, indulging for a moment in the idea of lingering for a second longer, of touching her, raising his hand to her cheek, then letting it fall to her shoulders. He thinks the smooth skin covering the hollow of her neck might be just the thing to soothe his calloused hands. She thinks she sees it in his eyes - maybe - but she can't be sure and is confused about how it is that she's spending her summer nights with a man - this man - in the perfect setting of a sleepy New England town, blue eyes meeting blue eyes in the dark, but parting ways nonetheless. She knows she'll see him tomorrow. -*- Luke is upstairs when she arrives just before the lunchtime rush on Thursday. People keep opening the doors of the diner, letting the heat in and he escapes to the air conditioning of his apartment for a few minutes while Cesar sweats it out by the stove. He returns downstairs in order to relieve Lane who is due for a break, and finds Lorelai dipping fries into a mound of ketchup on her plate. "BLT?" He asks in surprise at her choice. "Mmm, no L, extra B, loads of mayo plus cheese." "The hell?" She shrugs. "Cesar makes whatever you ask him. You can name it 'The Lorelai', I don't mind." He shakes his head and checks the time. "Early lunch for you today?" "I didn't have much to do at the Inn. Rory's phone seems to be off, and I thought I'd have lunch with you." She's very casual when she says it, and even holds up a triangle of her sandwich to him. "I'm fine, thanks." He crinkles his nose. "There's still T in there!" "Even so." "Suit yourself." She tells him, biting off a generous piece. Between episodes of chewing and swallowing, she says she's excited about the holiday tomorrow, hopes she'll consume at least 2 hot dogs and a sausage and wonders if the Taylor will run the slushy machine by the lake like last year. "Are you going in the morning? I'm going in the morning. For the waffles." She says at the tail end of the rant and he's more than a little confused. 'Am I dating Lorelai?' He asks himself, like he did this morning and last night and on the hour every hour for the past week. 'Is that what we're doing? Do I have an obligation to keep her company? Does she want me to?' "Am I your replacement Rory?" He blurts out instead, not in a panic, but calmly. "What?" "Well, she's gone and you miss her..." "And?" Now he can see she's grown a bit upset and he's cursing himself for apparently having no tact whatsoever when it comes to discussing anything with a beautiful woman. "It's just that you're here a lot, and there's the 4th of July festival you're now talking about me going to and all. And usually I'd need to be clubbed over the back of my head and dragged to an event like that..." He trails off stupidly. She puts her sandwich down, and the disappointment in her eyes is obvious. "I thought you liked me." "What? Lorelai..." "Seriously, I'm that annoying to you? Even more than Kirk? Because he's here every time I am and about a half a dozen times in between." "I didn't mean you shouldn't be here." He says, exasperated. "I like you just fine." She replies, hurt. "I know! And it's not - I didn't mean..." "You just meant that the only reason I'm here is because Rory's gone and I'm pathetic and lonely, and hey, why don't I go use the local diner guy for five minutes of conversation and a minced meat pie?" "You don't eat minced meat pie. Just, usually, you don't show me your shopping bags and things like that. So I was wondering. But forget it, it doesn't matter. More coffee?" "No, I think I'm done." As she gets up from her seat, dropping some loose change on the counter, she doesn't even bother telling him that even if Rory were home, Lorelai would still be here. If he's so dense that he can't see why her teenage daughter isn't quite the same company as the only man in her life guaranteed to make her smile at least once a day, then she's not going to bother explaining it to him. "It's on the house." He says weakly, desparately. She shrugs her shoulders and walks away just the same. -*- When she gets to the diner the next day, she enters it hesitantly. The door isn't locked, even though the "Closed" sign is up, so she doesn't knock. Luke is behind the counter, stirring a mass of something in a bowl, she notices, and also sees the sheepish expression on his face. "Hi." "Hey. Happy 4th of July." She says tentatively, trying to gauge his response. "You too. Off to the lake?" "Yep. Barely morning, though." She admits, laughing at utter inability to get out of bed on time on any given day. He checks his watch and offers her a smile. "You still made it." "Yeah." "Listen, about yesterday, I'm sorry. You know you're welcome here 27 times a day for coffee. Even if it kills you. Which it will. Someday." "It's nice to know you care." She teases and he can sense she's not about to go off on him again. Thank God. He stayed up half the night trying to come up with ways to beg her forgiveness. Of course that film reel would only ever play out in his head, because he was not just a man, but a man's man and ain't he begging, no sir. But he'd beg her, because he'd slighted her, hurt her feelings. It's just that he really couldn't do it to her face, so he'd have to practice in his head, in the dark. "I got you something." He says, surprising her and easing himself out of his melancholy. She watches him reach under the counter, pulling a white plastic bag out, holding it out to her. "What's this?" He doesn't respond, just pushes the bag closer to her face, nodding, wanting her to pick it up. It'll be a cold day in hell before she refuses a gift, even if unwrapped, and she happily accepts the bag, taking a quick peek inside. "Um..." "I can still see your eyes." He shrugs, trying to be gruff, but inadvertently coming across as charming and sentimental. "Thank you." She tells him sincerely, dropping the pair of flip flops on the ground, and stepping out of the pair she's wearing. "Good?" "Perfect fit." He supposes they're having a moment. Luke and Lorelai, studying each other in the diner they meet every day, he hopeful that she's forgiven him, and she touched not just by the 5 dollar purchase, but the fact he listened to her closely enough to remember such an insignificant detail. "You didn't have to, but thank you." She says again, sincerity once more dripping off her tongue. "It's nothing." He dismisses her, ducking his head to the bowl before him, the contents of which are as blue as the flip flops he's given her, but nowhere near as blue as her eyes. "So..." "Yeah?" "Are you going out there? I know Cesar will be doing the burgers." "As soon as I'm done this so I can drop it off." He points to the blue goo in front of him. "You're making greasy blue sauce?" She asks, taking a closer look at what he's making. "Mayonnaise is an emulsion. When it's warm, the oil starts to separate from the eggs." "Wow, that's pretty gross." She remarks, crinkling her nose at the bowl in front of her. Instead, she concentrates on Luke's tanned hand dripping blue food coloring into the sauce, then swirling it clockwise until the pale baby blue turns into the shade of the Pacific you'd see on a postcard from Fiji. "You never noticed?" "I usually eat it before it gets to that stage." He takes it as a compliment to his food, which doesn't manage to stay intact for prolonged periods of time when she's around. "So we'd get blue oil then?" She can see his shoulders shudder in disgust at the mental image and the corners of her mouth lift slightly in response, both because she is pleased that she knows him well enough to correctly predict his reactions and because Luke is guaranteed to stay as unchanged as the sun that rises in the East every day. "Nah, it would be clear, lying right on top of the blue mess of eggs and vinegar." "That's-" "Disgusting? Abominable? Nasty? Icky? Foul? Gross? Repellant? And positively yucky?" There's a hopefulness in his voice as he shows of his verbal skills. "Are you trying to turn me off mayo forever?" He instinctively cocks his head to one side. "Is it working?" She imitates his move, cocking her head to the other side, so as to complement him in a mirror image, then dips the index finger of her right hand into the bowl, tasting the pale blue concoction she's been mixing. "Guess not." That's her simple determination after sucking on the tip of her finger thoughtfully, letting her taste buds embrace the acerbic flavors. The long moment allows him to really consider her lips for the first time in a long while. He used to do it on occasion - when they first met, when Rachel left him and when he watched that putz dance with her in the middle of the town square thinking she will be his wife in a few short weeks. Luke was not a stupid man, and if there was one thing he remembered from high school physics, it was that for every action, there is an equal, and opposite reaction. Over the years, he'd come to believe that was false, because he saw no equity in periodically longing for her. He averted his gaze from her lips, pink and glossy and shimmering at different angles. Light refracts, he remembers. "Hey, Luke?" He grunts a response, acknowledging her question while his eyes return to the task at hand, folding the mayo over itself to make sure the color was evenly distributed. "What's Taylor got on you?" "Huh?" The refillable plastic bottles are lined up in front of him and he is scooping the concoction into them, carefully. It would be too hard to pour the thick mass into the narrow necks of the containers without spilling, and Luke is a practical man. "Unpaid parking tickets? Failing to comply with the required summer floral arrangements in front of your place of business? Maybe you're fudging your income tax reports? Did he come up to your apartment one day and find you in ladies' thongs?" She asks the last one with a crooked grin, fully deserving of his dramatic eye roll. "Only you, Lorelai." "You have to admit, it's quite the mental image." "I'd rather not." "But you're making blue mayonnaise." He drops the spatula into the bowl with more than a hint of irritation and points to the direction of the town square, as if the locale is representative of Taylor. "Because that idiot thinks people will want patriotic burgers. Can you believe that? Blue mayo, combined with the regular white, and ketchup, and we've got ourselves one hell of a Fourth of July. Hey, maybe I can throw in a serving of Freedom Fries to bring us full circle!" "Yep, I definitely want one of those burgers." "You," he points squarely at her and for a moment she wonders how close the tip of his index finger is to her chest, "I'm not surprised about." -*- "You're in a t-shirt. And what looks suspiciously like a pair of swimming trunks." She notes while helping him get his coolers out of the back of the truck, handing them off to Cesar. "It's 92 degrees, Lorelai." "They don't make t-shirt flannel? I could cut the sleeves off one of your other shirts." "What's wrong with this?" He asks, looking down at his plain navy t- shirt. "Nothing." In fact, she likes how the short sleeves hug his biceps, but she's not about to tell him that. Or that he's got nice calves. "I'm just used to you in flannel." She finally elaborates when she sees him watching her expectantly. "I have to keep you on your toes." He comments and she admires his muscles ripping as he picks up a particularly heavy box. "You're just full of surprises." When Luke doesn't respond, they work quietly until all the food and supplies have been carried over to the temporary Luke's stand. Lorelai can't help but smile at its placement between Patty's psychic tent ("Anybody paying five bucks for that sham should be shot." Luke says) and Carrie's Kissing Booth ("Taylor must hate me." Luke asserts). "Okay, well I'm done here." He tells Lorelai, wiping his hands, wet with the condensation from the ice, on the sides of his jeans. "You're leaving?" She squeaks out, hoping she doesn't sound as pathetic to his ears as she does to her own. "Cesar and his kid are working the festival. I'm paying double time and a half since it's a holiday and I know they can use it." He shrugs. "You're a good boss." "Yeah, well." He offers a shy smile, and looks away, towards his truck. "I should get going before Carrie corrals me and pulls that curtain if you know what I mean." Lorelai was never a fan of the buxom woman, but she surely didn't need any more reasons to dislike her. The fact she could feel the blonde's eyes from behind her made her blood boil with some kind of rage Rory would probably tell her is jealousy. But Rory wasn't here and denial was readily available. "You're not going to do anything in your apartment." "Beer. Baseball game." 'Me. Lake.' She thinks and then chides herself for sharing a similar thought process with the hussy behind her. "But there will be fireworks here. And Patty in her two piece. Have you seen his chest? Not to mention Lane's band will perform later and what kind of a boss are you anyway? We can go mock Al's unfluffy pancakes and you can be a man and win me the biggest stuffed Garfield at the booth. You can hit a target with a baseball, I presume?" "Patty almost naked? Is that your selling point?" "I just thought it could be fun. I'd be your guide. Protect you from Carrie and her feminine wiles." "By employing yours?" He shoots back, but there's a playful glint in his eyes and he's more than a little pleased to see her cheeks flush a tiny bit. "You think very highly of yourself. Must be the t-shirt." She mumbles and then looks up hopefully. "So what do you say?" "It's hot." He whines. "And the place is packed. We're stomping all over what used to be green grass. All the food prices are jacked up - I should know, mine are too. There are dozens of brats running around with water guns, Babette is in a tank top and Taylor will be giving a speech before the fireworks." "All things we shouldn't miss." She quips. "Do you know me at all?" He asks dryly, shuddering at the thought of spending an entire day out here baking with the celebratory masses. "A couple of hours, that's all. If you hate it, we'll both go. I'll even sacrifice seeing the fireworks for the greater good. Scout's honor." She crosses her fingers in a promise. "Lorelai..." "Is the woman you'll win a giant Garfield for?" He snorts at his own inability to say no to a single one of her demands, shakes his head and watches her pump her fist in the air before she throws her arms loosely around his neck, squealing happily in his ear. She throws him slightly off balance, figuratively and literally and they sway side to side. "You're the best." She sighs happily and he melts, even without his flannel. -*- "Wanna throw a dart at a balloon or toss a baseball at a milk bottle?" Her arms are crossed over her chest and she looks at him expectantly, excitedly. Like Liz used to when she was little and their parents took them to the carnival in Woodbury. Luke crinkles his nose and shifts his eyes between the two booths. He has no clear preference for either, so he tries to estimate which line is shorter. "Balloons." He finally decides and holds his hand out for Lorelai to give him a couple of the game tickets she bought. "I thought you could pitch." "I can." "Then grab a baseball, my friend." "Odds are better with the darts. Those balloons are huge." "So you can't really pitch?" "Do you want that stuffed lizard thing or not?" "I want the Shrek donkey." She states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world only to be met with a blank stare. "The big one." She adds. "38 inches." Andrew nods at them and hands Luke three darts. "That is soooo-" "Please don't say it." Luke cuts her off before she's had a chance to embarrass them both. "You've got to play successively. Win a smaller one first, then continue on up." "Till you get the big one." Lorelai adds with a grin and playfully slaps Luke's butt, sending him to jump a half a foot up in the air. "Are we in high school?" He demands while she laughs at his response. "Throw the dart, Luke." She tells him, smiling wide until he can't help but smile back, under her spell and unable to make sense of anything today. He turns back to the booth, positions his feet on the floor, digging into the dry dirt below, and with a quick flick of his elbow, he throws the first dart, bursting the bright yellow balloon in the center of the board. Andrew places a small donkey on the table and Luke faces Lorelai wearing a smug look on his face. "Well, it's a start." She winks, then steps up behind him, turning his shoulders back to the game at hand. "Concentrate." She instructs him in a whisper. He follows her instructions to the last detail; it's only too bad she has no idea that instead of the game he's now directed all his attention to her cheek grazing his, her slender fingers wrapped around his upper arms and the warm puffs of breath against his ear. It's no surprise that he misses with his next dart. Before she has a chance to complain, he throws another one, bursting a blue balloon this time, and trades in the little donkey for a slightly larger one. "Redemption!" She exclaims, clapping her hands in the air and rubbing his back. He knows he'll miss with the next dart and he doesn't even care. -*- "You're not serious about keeping that thing, are you?" They're walking side by side, eating hot dogs, much to his chagrin. He figures his is chicken anyway, and for one day a year, he can indulge himself, and more importantly, her. There is a neat, thin line of mustard on his, while hers is smothered with grilled onions, bacon bits, ketchup and relish. His stomach turns at the sight of it and he attempts to keep his eyes planted firmly on the path in front of them. "Xavier here," she swings the stuffed donkey in the air with her right arm, "is like family already." "You've named him." He notes flatly, realizing the battle has been lost. "Xavier." She repeats, even though she knows he won't be caught dead using the inanimate object's name to refer to it. As predicted, Luke ignores it, and looks up to the sky, squinting. "Lorelai, it's hot. The sun's beating down, your shoulders are going to protest loudly tonight and peel in a couple of days. We're sweating, the hot dogs are a lot of things, but meat isn't one of them and are you really going to make me stay out here until the fireworks come on?" "That's the whole point, Luke. You don't have a daiquiri without the strawberries, or sit through hours of useless second rate Academy Awards only to go to sleep before best picture is given out." "So we're roasting? That's the plan?" He wrinkles his nose. "We could go swimming." She points out reasonably. "Or we could not." "You've got trunks on. I've got my bikini on under my clothes." He glances at her sideways, trying not to imagine the tiny piece of lycra that lurks below. Instead, he occupies himself with crumpling up the tin foil the hot dog was wrapped in and tossing it in a nearby trash can. "How about ice cream?" He asks agreeably. "Way to segue, my friend." "I thought you never turned it down." "I wasn't saying no." "Then I'll get you a cup of the most childish flavor they've got - the fluorescent striped kind - and we'll call it a day." "After we go swimming?" "I see we're back to that." She shrugs her shoulders, surprised he even considered that she'd drop it so easily. Practically speaking, Lorelai was hot and cooling off in the lake sounded like the best solution to her problem. On a more personal level, she still remembers that sunny day in June, three years ago when she saw Luke shirtless for the first (and only) time, and took a long second look for good measure. And now he's been with her (and only her) for close to four hours, paying attention to her words, touching her softly and innocently now and again, smiling briefly and setting her cheeks on fire. It is only fair that she should get to ogle in return for him driving her crazy. "How about a bet?" She asks teasingly and Luke senses danger. "I'm not a gambler." "No money. I ain't got none, mister." "Liquid money?" "Better than that." "There's something better than my coffee in this alternate universe you inhabit? Did I not brew it right the last time?" "I want to go swimming." "Do I look like I'm stopping you?" "Okay, let me rephrase that. I want to go swimming with you." It's probably a little sad that he doesn't even remember being propositioned in this way. That's how long it's been. Probably since he was dating Rachel in high school and he'd had at least three beers prior to stripping down. But now he's got his best friend gauging his reaction with big eyes and a nervous face and it's taking him all the willpower he's got not to run right into the water and splash around like a toddler in a wading pool. "Come with me." She instructs him, impulsively grabbing his hand, pulling him, guiding them. He notes it's always been this way with them. They come to a full stop in front of the dunk tank. It's a large contraption, not very deep, but still imposing in this open field. Luke wouldn't be able to find three words to describe it once Lorelai peels her top off and goes to climb up to the seat. "Can you pitch, Luke?" She asks with a wink. -*- No love handles, she thought. Max had love handles. But he also didn't mow her lawn, had very little interest in fixing anything around the house and probably didn't own a toolbox. And his shoulder blades didn't rise up just so, and he definitely didn't have a tattoo, and she'd never seen him standing on the dock of a lake in a small town, jumping in without even testing the water with his toes. Luke was a doer. A problem solver. With a very nicely shaped back, tight, toned arms and a distinct happy trail she could mercifully no longer make out under the water. "Are you coming in or not? Or do I have to remind you it was your idea in the first place?" She sat down on the edge of the wooden dock, tentatively dipping her toes in, nowhere nearly as bold as the man in front of her. "Kind of cold, isn't it?" "It's nice once you get in." He promises. "Or I could just watch you." "Doing what?" "Frolicking?" "I do not frolic. No grown man frolics. No man child frolics either." "Man child?" "You know what I mean!" He exclaims, exasperated that she's within two feet of him, in a stunningly tiny bikini and he's a world away, in murky water, by himself, looking certainly like an idiot. She vehemently shakes her head and nods over to the beach. "There's Kirk right there." She points out. "And I said grown man." "So he satisfies neither condition?" She asks him with a grin. "No comment. Get in the water?" "You know how a few years back there was that Pepsi Clear, and so I saw the ad everywhere, I mean it pervaded my entire social fabric for at least a week or two. The worst part is I couldn't find it. Not here, not in Hartford, not at any gas station in between. So when I finally found one and tried it, well, let's just say sometimes you can't teach an old dog a new trick. Tasted like goddamn cough syrup. And suddenly all my wanting didn't seem like the best idea anymore." "Lorelai, get in the water." She sighs dramatically and ties her hair up loosely. She's more than a little surprised when he steps closer to her, and waves her in. His hands are under her arms, thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts as he gently lifts her up from the dock and then brings her into the lake. "Liar!" She yells, splashing him as she smacks his chest. "It's freezing in here!" "Give it a minute." He says calmly, submerging himself all the way up to his neck until she does the same. "Still cold." She complains, teeth chattering. "You're not cold. It's an illusion." "Oh, I'm pretty sure I'm cold." Her teeth are chattering and he feels bad, so he steps up closer, willing to hoist her back up on the dock. That's when his hands find their way to the smooth skin of her shoulders, and her runs the tips of his fingers down over it. "You've got a burn." He murmurs. "That's why I'm cold?" She guesses softly. "That's why." He confirms. "Should have been more careful, I guess." "You're pretty pale." He agrees. "Not as good as plain old pretty, but I'll take it." He knows she's joking around and there's no need to correct his statement, yet he feels compelled to do so. Maybe it's the sun that's gotten to his head today. Burned his brain to a crisp and then thrown him out into the lake to soak like a gigantic corn flake, about to become soggy and useless. "You're pretty, Lorelai. I think you know it without me telling you so." She shakes her head a bit at this Luke who managed to locate his soft, sweet voice for this revelation. "I didn't know you thought I was." She finally admits. To be fair, she'd noticed him noticing her over the years. There were times when she'd show up to the diner after a Friday night dinner and she could tell he appreciated the dip of her dress, or how a slinky silken skirt hugged her curves. She was also aware of his eyes following her as she'd walk away from the counter and during those times she tried to remember what her mother told her about a lady swinging her hips ever so gently in that irresistible feminine way. Of course, she was probably doing it wrong and taking out tables left and right with her swinging ass, but it was worth a shot. All those things could be attributed to Luke being a man, and a man notices a woman, and a man responds to noticing a woman in the usual manly way regardless of his feelings for her. Or lack thereof. But if he thought that she was pretty, then it's probably not just blood rushing through his veins that makes his head turn her way. "Well, I do." He says simply, after a beat of silence, hoping that he hasn't embarrassed himself too much. "Pretty or hot?" She asks with a grin. "Ah, jeez, Lorelai." "In between?" She jokes. "If I tell you that you're a beautiful woman will it make this conversation go away?" She cocks her head to the side and studies him thoughtfully. "Depends." "On what, exactly?" "Whether you mean it." Without waiting for a response, she bobs up and down in the water, cooling off her burning shoulders, splashing gently at his face. "Get your hair wet, we should match." "Yours is almost dry." He points to the top of her head where her curls are loosely gathered, then grabs one between his fingers. "So it is." She agrees, freezing from the water and on fire in his presence. "We've been out here a while." He says, letting go of her silky strand of hair, seeking her hand instead. "Wouldn't want me to get pruny?" She guesses as he glances down at her fingers. "Too late." He laughs. "We should probably go." "It's been fun though." "It has." He agrees and it's without his usual reluctance. "It's been a really nice..." "Date." She supplies. Luke imagines himself then, in a movie, an old movie, black and white and fuzzy on a large screen. It's the moment, the one before the onset of the denouement, although with Lorelai he wonders if it wouldn't be all climax from here to eternity, and not just in the sense she'd call dirty. "I'm more impressive when I'm unaware of the stakes?" He jokes feebly. "You're...you." He steps closer to her then, running his hands down her arms like he imagined days ago. And weeks and months before that too. She shudders, but her smile is set and bright and encouraging. "How do I make it better than nice?" He asks, in just barely above a whisper. "You tell me you meant it." She says confidently and captures his lips languidly, in contrast with the desperation she feels inside. His hands find their way to her waist, and he lifts her up slightly because the water they're standing in is deep and he doesn't want her to drown now that he's finally found her. His own burned neck stings when she wraps her arms around it tightly, but the way her tongue sweeps over his smooth teeth makes him forget his baseball game, suddenly inept pitching and the tub of aloe he contemplated buying on his way home. When his mouth opens to her so that she can taste him properly after all these years, she releases a sigh and he breathes her in. It spurns him on and his hands are everywhere, bold across her lower back, gentle at the nape of her neck, playful just below her breasts. She pulls away when she finds herself wrapping her legs around his waist and he stirs in response, probably signifying an arrestable offense. "Beautiful." He rasps against her soft cheek, his breath ragged. She looks at him with sleepy eyes, first date eyes, best friend eyes, in-love eyes. He kisses her once more, slanting his lips over hers as he backs her nearer the dock, Otis Redding in his ear and Lorelai in his hands. It's with skill that he's able to lift her back up until she's safely anchored and wrapped in a thick beach towel with Xavier soaking up the dripping lake water at her feet. He follows her up, wraps his wet body around her terry cloth covered one until she's no longer shivering. Because while he's a man with blood coursing through he's veins, when it comes to her, Luke, being the creature of habit like everyone else, was never just a man.