Title: Driving Sideways Author: Avery Rating: PG-13 Category: General Keywords: JJ Spoilers: None. Summary: None. 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. Chapter 1 Driving sideways If you roll down the window you'll see You're where you don't belong... --Aimee Mann A car seat on a Greyhound bus, a used Jeep, a station wagon with a crucifix that hung from the rearview mirror, another bus (every morning), a car custom made from scrap metal, a dark green pick-up truck, a big, shiny graduation present, a limousine full of drunken boys in expensive shoes. And now... a Porsche. A Porsche? Rory has been in a lot of vehicles in her life. More than she can remember, she figures, but this has to be the most expensive. She almost feels like she shouldn't be touching the leather (red leather) interior. It's a silly thought, but still, her hands are usually folded carefully in her lap when she's being carted around in this gleaming, beautiful thing, the envy of any male who has a driver's license and a pulse. (A quick voice in her head that sounds like a mixture of her own and her mother's points out that pulseless men probably shouldn't be driving.) She's been in this car tons of times by now, but she's still not used to it. There is nothing hanging from the mirror, such as a hula dancer or an air freshener that smells like pumpkin pie. It is dust free, dirt free, and generally fresh-from-the-showroom clean. The backseat, with its small bucket seats that are good for absolutely nothing (dirty or otherwise) is free of clutter. Hiking shoes that have been worn once before being sworn off forever are not lying on the floor. There are no Bee Gees t-shirts or extra jeans draped over the seat. The glove compartment houses the driver's manuel and nothing else. No lip gloss, no nail polish (thankfully, what with Logan being a boy and all). No hairbrush. Not even emergency Twizzlers. It's a perfect, fancy, grown-up car, and she shouldn't be scouring it for subtext, she chides herself. So what if he doesn't keep an extra change of clothes back there (wouldn't it be worse if he did? wouldn't she be wondering what they were for?) Who cares if the cup holder looks like it's never seen a cardboard coffee cup in its life? It doesn't mean the car has no personality. It just means it has a different kind of personality. Rory refuses, she absolutely refuses, to feel guilty about riding in this car. She also refuses to feel guilty about the two hundred dollar bottle of wine that Logan ordered with dinner (she hadn't seen the check for the whole meal, and she doesn't feel guilty about that, either.) She had two glasses and now her head's a little fuzzy. She is used to stopping after one. Until this year, she was used to sips from her mother's champagne glasses at Grandma and Grandpa's Christmas parties, very brief tastes of something sweet and fizzy, her mom's hand resting on the back of her head. Logan is still telling the same story he had started as they left the restaurant, and he's driving way too fast. She doesn't feel guilty about how fast he's going, by the way. So there. She's vaguely aware that some portion of her fuzzy head just thought the words "So there," and cringes inwardly at the fact that she sounds like a six year old. She smiles in response to something Logan's laughing about, and watches the Hartford cityscape blur past the window. Whenever she's driving from Hartford back to Yale, she always has the unshakable sensation that she's moving in the wrong direction, an instinct from all those Friday night dinners that ended in a return home. It must be the wine, she reasons, but she really wishes she was on the other side of the road, amidst the cars whizzing by in the opposite direction. She wishes that she was in the passenger seat of the Jeep listening to her mom fume about whatever jab that Emily had gotten in that night, discussing what kind of pie they would have once they got to Luke's, coming up with the best subjects for an E! True Hollywood Story and debating the merits of each other's suggestions. She smiles as she remembers that she came up with a great one in 19th Century Lit yesterday, the E! True Hollywood Story that would trump all E! True Hollywood Stories. For a moment, her hand lingers on the zipper of her purse, contemplating extracting her cell phone and calling her mom to tell her about it now. But no, of course she can't right now. Because then her mom would say "Where are you?" and Rory would say "In a car," and her mom would say "Who's car?" and Rory would say "Logan's," and the false cheer in whatever her mother's next words were would bring the conversation to a screeching halt. "Ho-ow's Dean?" she replays in her head, the first time she had heard the vapidly pleasant voice her mom now uses to cloak her disapproval whenever Rory mentions Logan or her internship at the paper. They're back at Yale. She's been here for almost two years now, has memorized the slope of the campus, the layout of the buildings. She often thinks about how funny it is to recall your first impression of a place once you've been there for a while. For instance, she still has a strange memory in her head of the first time she and her mother looked at their house with a realtor; all the rooms felt larger, and she remembers the way the porch looked from the lawn, but in real life it doesn't look the same as it does in the memory - it's distorted somehow, though she can't tell exactly where the distortion is. Rory thinks about her first tour of Yale, her perceptions and the way it appeared in her mind all those months before she actually got to attend. Real Yale is different from that image, but even further from reality is the way the campus looks to her from the seat of Logan's Porsche. She can't explain it, but everything changes. Logan cuts a sharp turn and lurches the car to park in front of her dorm. She jerks herself back to the moment and apologizes for being distant, an apology that he waves off, but doesn't, she notes, press her for details on where her head has been. He's waiting to be asked in. She will ask him in, she thinks defiantly, and she won't feel the slightest bit of guilt about it. She opens her mouth to do so, but something else comes out. "I wish I didn't have so much studying to do, or else I'd ask you to come up," she says. He rests an arm on her shoulder and tells her its okay, he'll see her tomorrow. "Thank you so much for dinner, it was amazing." She gives him a perfunctory kiss, which he deepens immediately. They kiss for a few minutes and she wonders if maybe he thinks he can change her mind about studying. All of that fake studying she needs to do immediately, those non-existent papers due tomorrow. But then he pulls away and says, sweetly, "Goodnight, Ace," and she's reminded of the paradox that is Logan: just when you think you have him pegged, when you're about to admit to yourself that he is exactly what he looks like he is, he proves you wrong. Paris is home, watching TV with Doyle, and they exchange a few pleasantries ("You used my hairbrush and left your hair in it." "No, I didn't." "Well, you have dark hair, and there's dark hair in my hairbrush." "Lots of people have dark hair, Paris, it wasn't me." "Then who was it?" "I don't know." "It was you." "Maybe it was Doyle!" "Doyle, was it you?" and on and on and on) before excusing herself to her bedroom. The wine is wearing off, and she needs to sit and do nothing and just figure out why she's sad when there is absolutely no reason for her to feel that way. She's lucky enough to attend one of the best schools in the country; she has a cute, smart boyfriend who really likes her, who gives her presents every time she turns around; her extended family, in all its eccentricity, loves her so deeply sometimes it cuts right through her. Everything is perfect, she repeats in her head. She's caught herself doing this a lot lately, drilling this mantra into herself until it feels true. The row of tiny buttons on the back of her pretty yellow dress, the one that she bought a while back, the day her mom got her Getting Back Together With Luke Dress, is digging into her back and it hurts, but she stays still. She lies there for an hour, maybe two, waiting for the last effects of the wine to wear off (two glasses of wine, most twenty year olds can drink two glasses of wine without it making them practically drunk, what is wrong with her, anyway?) When she's almost sure it has, she pulls the dress over her head and changes into jeans and a long sleeved white t-shirt. It's suddenly clear that she was going to go home tonight, although it wasn't for the past hour or so while she was lying in her bed. The idea never even popped into her head, she never consciously acknowledged it; oddly, she just knows that's why she's putting her jacket on, that's why she's grabbing her keys, that's why she's saying goodbye to Paris and Doyle. She's fine for driving, Rory realizes after she's been on the road for a few minutes. The old Rory would never even think of driving on a night she had indulged in two glasses of wine. That Rory would have waited until the next day, probably until the next night, after eating three full meals. But that was someone else. She wasn't that perfect child anymore, and she knew this this well before anyone else did, since even before her Great Indescretion with Dean, something she still doesn't allow herself to think about because if she considers it too long, if she considers her lack of judgment and the circumstances and, worst of all, how it had all been for nothing in the end, her stomach lurches and she feels the urge to throw up. She drives the speed limit, but there's no traffic, and she arrives in Stars Hollow just before eleven. She sees Luke's truck parked in the driveway and is suddenly terrified that she might be walking in on something; it was later than she had thought when she left, and there was a fair chance that they were already asleep, or worse. It's too late to do anything about it now, though, so she turns off her car and walks up to the front door. It's locked, and she has to use her key. She pushes the door open and sees her mom lift her head from its resting place on Luke's chest, where they are watching TV on the sofa, to turn and see who had just walked into the house. "Rory!" she exclaims, disengaging her limbs from Luke's to stand and wrap her up in a hug. "What are you doing here?" Luke greets her, waving from the couch, appearing genuinely happy to see her, but his "hello" is buried under a steady stream of questioning from her mom, who apparently sees that thing in Rory's eyes that she's trying so desperately to hide. "Is everything all right? Are you okay? Did something happen?" her mother demands, her hands flying from Rory's shoulders to her cheeks and back. "Yes, everything's fine. Jeez, Mom, enough coffee for you," she says as she shrugs off her coat. "Hear, hear," Luke says, looking from Rory, who apparently wasn't fooling him, either, to her mom in all her frantic worry, seemingly trying to decide which he should be more concerned about at the moment. "I'm sorry I didn't call," Rory says. "I know it's late." "You never have to call," says her mother. They sit on the couch next to Luke. "I just came home because..." Rory begins, but then trails off, knowing that anything she says next will be a lie because she honestly has no idea why she came. Instead, she changes tacks and says, "Mom, I thought of the best ever E! True Hollywood Story the other day." Curiousity, concern, and amusement were battling her mother's face for expressive control, and eventually, after Rory prodded "Don't you wanna know?," curiousity won. "Okay, what?" "Trudy from 'The Facts of Life'! What's her real name?" Rory asks, delighted when she sees her Mom throw her head back and laugh. "Oh, no one knows her real name. But hon, there's already a 'Facts of Life' E! True Hollywood Story." "No there isn't," Rory protests. "No way." "Yes way! Luke," she says, dropping a hand on his thigh, "We watched it together, remember? Tell Rory. There is a 'Facts of Life' E! True Hollywood Story." "I have no recollection of this, and please, can you stop saying E! True Hollywood Story?" he asks, his gruff words fooling no one, as usual, as he undercuts them by lacing his fingers through her mother's. "Sure you do," her mom insists. "You remember that night. You were sitting there. I was sitting here. You said, 'Do we have to watch this?' and I said, 'Yes, we do, you must be educated, you must be exposed to great things that make life colorful and wonderful." He looks at Rory and rolls his eyes, and says "You just described every night of my life." Rory giggles in spite of herself, and her mom joins her. Luke shakes his head but once again his gaze turns tender when it lands on her mother, and Rory wonders what it feels like to have someone look at you like that. Dean was puppy love, that was different; Jess never let anything he may or may not have been feeling show itself on his face; and Logan... well, with Logan, she could never be totally sure. Her mom curls into Luke again and pulls Rory close against her other side and they watch The Daily Show together. Her house is very warm, so much warmer than the dorm at Yale or that restaurant or Logan's car. Rory is happy there on that couch. The couch is maybe the one place in the world that she can push everything else out of her mind and just let the pillows and the view of the living room and the way the light from the kitchen casts shadows in the hall revert her back to the way everything used to be. She has been extra dramatic lately. Maybe she's pre-menstrual or something. The show ends and her mom yawns big, the way her mom does everything. She fights the urge to hug her tight, because when they stand up from this couch, everything will go back to how it really is and she'll be reminded of a gap that she feels widening between them, a gap that terrifies her because lately she's had the nagging, disturbing feeling that something big is just around the corner, waiting to destroy them. Oy, with the drama already, she chides herself. "I better go," she says reluctantly. "I have class tomorrow morning." "Aw, hon, it's so late. Stay tonight, get some sleep." "It's too late to drive," Luke says firmly. "You were practically sleeping earlier and it's not safe. I'll take you back to Yale if you want to go." "If either of us was practically sleeping, it was you," Rory says teasingly. "You'll never convince him of it," her mom sighs. "He never admits when he falls asleep on the couch. What time is your class?" "It's at eight," Rory says. Her mom frowns. "Blow it off," she whines. "Just this once." The old Rory would never blow off a class, especially Russian Politics, a class that not only did she love but that she was currently averaging a low B in. "Just this once," Rory says, letting her eyes drift shut briefly. "Yay! I'll buy you breakfast tomorrow," her mom says, happiness shining in her blue eyes, but maybe something else glinting out from behind it. Rory says goodnight and hugs them both before heading to her room. While changing into her pajamas, she can hear the muted sounds of a half-hearted argument in the living room, the gist of which seems to be that Luke thinks he should leave, and her mother whole-heartedly disagrees. It ends abruptly with the sound of someone's bare foot stomping the ground (she can venture a guess whose foot it is) and Luke's belabored sigh, then the heavy footfalls of his boots on the stairs. "You coming?" she hears him call. "In a minute," her mom replies, and then a knock comes softly at her door. "Can I come in, babe?" "Of course," Rory says. Her mom comes in and straightens the quilts, then pulls the corner down for Rory to hop in before settling next to her. "Something going on with you?" her mother asks once she's all situated. Rory shrugs. "No. Not really." "Not really, huh? All right. If you're sure. I mean, it is a little uncharacteristic for you to just pop in at eleven o'clock at night, though. And you sort of have this sad-eyed thing going on. But not really, she says. Okay." "Mo-om," Rory says, and it feels good to drag the word out this way, it makes her feel fifteen years old, when everything was simpler. "Ro-ry," she mocks. "You don't have to tell me right now if you don't want to. Just know I'm onto you, Private. Got me?" "I got you." "Okay. I love you, babe," she says, moving to get up. "You can stay," Rory says, trying to ignore the hopeful way her voice comes out. She is twenty years old, for God's sake. Twenty year olds don't ask their mommies to sleep in their beds with them. For the second time tonight, Rory is forced to ask herself what the hell is wrong with her. "Luke's upstairs," her mom says, by way of explanation. Rory grins. "You know, there was a time when you scampered down here to hide from men who had the audacity to spend the night with you. Things sure have changed here on Walton's mountain." Her mom laughs and blushes, obviously uncomfortable discussing how much she had grown, how much the love of this particular man had changed her. Then, she's suddenly concerned: "It's all right that he's staying over, isn't it?" "Of course it is," Rory says. She can't even believe that her mom would question for a second Rory's comfort with Luke's presence. "I thought so, but I always like to check." "I appreciate that." "Okay, sweets. Sleep tight." She stops to turn off the light. "There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway..." Rory sings quietly, without even planning on it. Her mom is startled and smiles in the darkness from the doorway before continuing the song, a bedtime tradition long forgotten. "A song that they sing when they take to the sea," she croons back. "A song that they sing of their home in the sky-" "Maybe you can believe it, if it helps you to sleep..." "But singing works just fine for me...." her mother finishes, pressing her lips to two fingers and then extending them out towards her. "Do you know how I love you?" Rory nods. She does know. And for one brief, fleeting moment, the moment between when her mom steps out of the room and when the door closes, everything is the same again. Both songs borrowed for the purposes of this fic do not belong to me, but to Aimee Mann and James Taylor, respectively. This was written as a stand-alone, but now I'm thinking about writing a second part, or a companion piece, that chronicles Lorelai's evening and speaks from her point of view. Thanks for reading! -Avery. Chapter 2 Driving sideways Taken in by the scenery As you're propelled along... --Aimee Mann Given and received pedicures, talked about boys, opened Christmas presents one strangely balmy December morning, stared into the wrong engagement ring, given motherly advice, taken part in petty arguments, talked about boys again, sipped lemonade on hot days, read many great books, flipped through many trashy magazines, stressed about money, pretended not to be stressed about money, watched the trees ignite in October, talked about boys a bit, watched someone who was more than a friend and less than a boyfriend rake the yard, fix the railing, and shovel the walk, sat beneath a blanket and enjoyed the first snowfall, drank hundreds or thousands of cups of coffee, and talked about boys some more. Lorelai has experienced many things on that loveseat on the porch, but coming home to find Luke sitting there waiting for her with a glass of wine and a sympathetic smile is her current favorite. "I'm dying," she moans as she heaves her body up the front steps. "You're not dying," he says. "But maybe this is why people generally avoid working fifteen hour days." "Maybe," she agrees, dropping her purse to the ground and stepping between his legs. He rests a hand on her hip and she runs her fingers through his hair, something she does compulsively on the rare occasions he's not wearing his hat. "Thank you for not being wrapped in tulle," she murmers. He chuckles. "You never have to thank me for that. Wine?" he asks, and she crashes to the seat beside him. She makes a little whimpering sound that he takes as a yes, and passes her the glass he has poured for her. "She changed her mind four times. Four times!" she begins after the first sip. He nods in sympathy. "I know." "Four times, Luke! First she wanted a pink and green color scheme. Then graduating shades of blue. Then it was a beautiful mix of beige, tan, peach, and coral, which, by the way, was my suggestion and was the obvious winner, but no. Three o'clock, mere hours- hours, Luke- before the wedding, she comes to me and says: Yellow. Just like that. Yellow!" "I hate that you put up with that. I hate that you didn't just tell her to go screw herself." "That's why you wouldn't last a single day in the hospitality industry." She leans her head back and closes her eyes for a brief moment. "So we're all scrambling to get rid of everything we have or at least somehow turn it all magically yellow, and she's upstairs crying, crying loudly, because her six thousand dollar dress is cutting off circulation in her arms, which she claims are bloated due to the salt- infused lunch that Sookie served this afternoon." "Was it her lamb chops?" Luke asks knowingly, and holds his hands up in response to the daggers she shoots him. "What? She uses way too much salt in those things." "I hate my job," Lorelai pouts. "You love your job," he corrects. "You hate sucking up to crazy people, which you're great at, by the way." "Everybody's gotta have a hobby," she jokes half-heartedly. She runs her hand up and down his arm and plays with the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. "Anyway, enough about Lucifer's Bride. How was your day?" He shrugs. "The ususal. I cook. Kirk's annoying. I yell. Kirk cries." "Lather, rinse, repeat," she finishes with a hint of a smile. "Thanks for sending Lane over with that burger. The one bite I had recharged me for another hour or so." "Have you eaten at all today?" he asks sternly. She shrugs. "Two pop tarts, that bite of the burger, and sixteen million cups of coffee." He shakes his head and moves to get up. "I knew I should have delivered that myself and forced you to sit there while I watched you eat it, but I didn't want to be a distraction." She removes her heels and then follows him into the kitchen, half- listening as he rants about how she needs to eat better and take care of herself and dammit, Lorelai, you're going to run yourself into the ground one of these days. He's boiling water and making a salad that he'll force her to eat in a few minutes, and throwing other ingredients together in a frenzy that makes her even more tired. When he stops lecturing her and stands still for a minute stirring the pasta, she smiles at his cotton-clad back and is so overcome with love for him that she needs to sit down. He sits with her as she eats and makes sure she swallows every single thing he puts in front of her. When he takes her plate to refill it, she puts a hand on his arm and stops him. "Please, I'm full, babe, I can't eat anything else." He grunts. "You ate barely half your normal intake. Your stomach shrunk from starving yourself all day." "Stop being mad at me," she cajoles. "I forget to eat like a pig for one day and it's the end of the world! What about all the other days that I stuff myself and you tell me I'm going to have a heart attack before I'm forty? Do they mean nothing to you?" He shakes his head but he's smiling a little. "You can't work like this if you aren't putting anything into your body. Understood?" She decides to ignore the call for a "dirty" just this once and gives him a little salute. "Understood." "Okay. Why don't you go change, I'll clean up." "No way, mister. You cook, I clean up. That's the deal." He shakes his head firmly. "Not tonight, Lorelai." When he says her name like that, all forceful and determined, she knows it's no use arguing. She sighs a "Fine," squeezes his arm as she passes, and heads upstairs to get undressed. When she comes back downstairs, the full smile on her face that always accompanies the removal of panty hose, he's spreading a blanket across the couch and has placed a pint of ice cream and a spoon on the coffee table. "You have got to stop spoiling me. Wine, dinner, and dessert? I feel like I'm hogging all the perfect boyfriend karma from floating around to all the other girls. They're going to be very upset with me." He smiles. "You're insane." "You waited for me on the porch," she says, suddenly serious. She takes a step towards him with her next words. "You gave me wine, and made a whole dinner just for me." She has both hands on his chest now, and he's gazing at her in that way, that way he has that makes her feel like nobody in the entire world has ever felt that loved before. "You made the couch cozy and bought me ice cream. Don't think I'm not aware that that pint wasn't in the freezer this morning, because if it was I would have eaten it with my pop tarts." He grins sheepishly. "After that two o'clock phone call, I knew it was going to be a rough afternoon, so I might have stopped for some emergency provisions on the way over here tonight." "I don't know what I did to deserve you," she says, "but I'm not asking questions." She kisses him once, sweetly, and then again and again. He returns the kisses fervently, full of the perfect mix of gentleness and desire that no one except him had ever combined in quite the same way. The fact that they spent the previous night apart, combined with residual pangs from that burst of emotion she felt in the kitchen and with his eagerness to end her day on a high note, causes things to escalate a little more quickly than normal, and they soon find themselves tangled on the couch. She presses kisses on every inch of exposed skin she can find, and his hands are everywhere, massaging and carressing, trying to knead the bad day right out of her muscles, absorb her stress with his hands. Magic hands, she thinks incoherently before recapturing his lips with her own. She slips her tongue into his mouth again and is mesmerized by the little moan he makes; it's such an un-Luke kind of sound, and it makes her crazy to know that she is the only one who ever gets to hear it. She pushes him back furthur on the couch and positions herself on top of him, realizing that somehow, things had gotten very heated very fast and exhausted or not, she's pretty sure they've passed the point of no return. Almost immediately after this thought enters her mind and she attempts to muster up any energy she possibly can to finish what she started, he grabs her hands up from where they are inching down his stomach and holds them tightly between their chests. "What's wrong?" she asks breathlessly, and he plants three affectionate kisses on her lips. "You're exhausted," he reminds her, the cloudy desire in his eyes transforming to something much tenderer. "I'm fine," she insists, but closes her eyes when he pushes a few strands of hair from her face and strokes her temple with his thumb. "Look at you," he says, half-amused, half sympathetic. He sits up and pulls her with him. "Come here," he instructs, carving out a space for her in the pillows and helping her tuck her aching body under the curve of his arm. "I'm really okay," she murmers against his neck, and traces lazy patterns on his chest next to where her head lies. "Shh. I know you are," he says, burying his hand in her hair and rubbing her scalp. He uses his other hand to switch on the TV and she burrows even deeper into his side. "Close your eyes, okay?" She nods. "Just for a few minutes." "Do you want to go upstairs?" he whispers into her hair. "Mmm. Not yet," she says. "I'm good right here." She thinks she hears him sigh and say "Me, too," but she can't be completely sure. A few minutes later, she shifts slightly and when he's sure she's not sleeping, he asks, "So, how was the ceremony?" "It was pretty," she says. "I just caught the beginning because Michel went home and I had to get back to the desk." "The yellow turned out all right?" "It looked good," she says. What she doesn't say is that for the ten minutes that she was watching and the hours after that that she looked after the front desk and got everything in order for the reception, she was mostly thinking about how her own wedding might look. How there would be fairy lights sprinkled everywhere, and a color scheme of tans and peaches, and a beautifully carved chuppah in the center of the Inn's sprawling back grounds. There would be calla lilies and lilacs, because they were hers and Rory's favorites, and Luke wouldn't have to wear a tux if he didn't want to, he could wear jeans for all she cared, but she'd be wearing a beautiful dress (a few shades darker than white, because who was she kidding?), the most perfect dress in the world, with dainty cap sleeves, a wide sash, and sparkling beadwork. She almost describes it to him, but swallows the impulse and focuses on the carton of melting ice cream in front of them. She can't believe she's having these thoughts and that it's not making her want to hop the next plane to Anywhere, USA, but she is, and it's not. They talk quietly for a while longer, and he tells her about a frustrating phone call with Liz as he wraps a strand of her hair around and around his finger. They hear someone jimmy the doorhandle and then a key in the lock. "What's that?" Luke asks, startled. "Don't worry, you don't have to be afraid. It's just the Hamburgler," she teases, knowing full well that he would have no idea about the McDonald's character reference, but would be frustrated all the same knowing it was a little joke at his expense concerning something as important as security. She tilts her head back and is surprised to see her daughter standing in the hall. "Rory!" she exclaims, before realizing that it's close to eleven and something isn't right at all. The soles of her feet feel like lead as she drags herself up the stairs to her room after what she decides can only be described as tucking Rory in, something she hasn't done for about eight years. Something is definitely off with her, but she knows that pressing the issue will only ensure more problems between the two of them. Something has shifted, and it would be simplistic of Lorelai to blame it on situation with Dean, or even on Rory's slow infiltration into Logan's group of friends and the life that her grandparents prayed nightly for her to have on bended knees. She's not sure how they got to where they are now, but she can't shake the unsettling feeling that, as far as they have started to feel from each other, they still have a very long way to fall. The lights are off and a Luke-shaped lump is already under the covers on his side of her bed, so she is extra quiet maneuvering around him to the bathroom. She flips on the light and brushes her teeth, her make-up having been washed off earlier when she changed her clothes. When she's finished, she leans closer to the mirror and examines her face. She has been aware, lately, of a sort of calm that has descended upon her, a maturity that must be a byproduct of realizing her professional dream, of having a kid in college, of finally being in the right relationshiop. She feels so much older, and is surprised to find that the change in her has not manifested itself physically, as well. The years have been kind to her so far; her face is, for all intents and purposes, the same as it was ten years ago. She crawls into bed and pulls the quilts up beneath her chin. She was wrecked earlier, but Rory's sudden appearance and an intense worry that she can't quite rationalize has given her a second wind. Luke turns to his side and grunts, his arm flailing around for her. She places her palm affectionately on the side of his face, moving her fingers slowly against the grain of his stubble. He opens his eyes and smiles at her. "Everything all right?" She nods. "Yes. I think so," she lies. "Maybe she just had a little wave of homesickness." "It was good to see her," he says. "The timing was a little weird," Lorelai admits. "Eleven o' clock at night?" "Hey, just be thankful she didn't walk in about an hour earlier," Luke says, with a face that indicates he has been cringing at the thought ever since Rory came home. Lorelai laughs and buries her face in a pillow. "Oh, God, I didn't even think of that." "From now on, bedroom only." Lorelai looks up at him and giggles. "I'm serious, Lorelai." She puts on her best 'I'm Serious Too But Not Really' voice and then says "Oh, I know you are. Whatever you say, mister." "Do you think something happened tonight to make her sad? She looked a little sad," he notes. She shrugs. "I don't know. She had on her fancy earrings, which usually means she went out with Logan." Lorelai hears the way she says the word 'Logan,' like she's saying 'Ebola virus' or 'Son of Sam.' She never says 'Logan' this way in front of anyone but Luke, and it feels inexplicably freeing when she does. He's suddenly stiff, and grabs her hand away from his face, holding it in his. "You don't think... I mean, that little putz wouldn't have..." "Wouldn't have..." she prods, puzzled. "You know. Tried anything." She almost smiles at the way his face is suddenly ferocious, ready to jump out of bed and into his truck right now to rip the kid's head right off his shoulders. She's too tired and his belief in Rory's unblemished innocence is too touching for her to explain to him that her once-angelic daughter is now having consensual sex on what she can only assume is a regular basis. She doesn't want to tell him, because truthfully, sometimes she wishes that she didn't know, either. "No, babe. I don't think it's that simple." He unclenches slightly. "You need to get some sleep," he says, and when her eyelids close she feels his fingertips brush her lashes back and forth, so softly she can barely feel any contact at all. "Tomorrow," he whispers, "I'm not waking you up before I leave." "Hey," she protests weakly. "I like to say goodbye. I always go back to sleep." "Not as deeply as you would if you never woke up," he insists. "You two sleep as late as you want tomorrow, and I'll see you for breakfast." "Lu-uuke..." she mumbles, still not ready to concede. "We'll say goodbye now." "But it's night." "We'll pretend." "But you hate pretending." He sighs, then she feels him prop himself up against her pillow. "Good morning, Lorelai. See you in a few hours," he says, dropping a light kiss against her lips. "Mm... morning, hon," she says. "Have a good day." It's still a little while before she falls asleep. When she finally does, her thoughts are a jumble of Rory's sad eyes and Luke on the porch holding out that wineglass and a perfect wedding at her beautiful Inn, with calla lilies everywhere and not a single trace of tulle. ::the end::