SUMMARY: Luke and Lorelai have a conversation after Friday night dinner. Post-How Many Kropogs To Cape Cod? fic.

DISLCAIMER: Not my characters. Damn it.

THANKS: To Jo, Em, and JeSouhaite for allowing me to pester them with various drafts.

Serving crying little girls and their annoying parents isn't the most fun he's ever had, and Luke's mood is past irritated and well on its way to cranky when the phone rings.  He yanks it off the wall and barks, "Luke's."

"Sounds like your night is going about as well as mine," Lorelai answers.  

She sounds odd, but Luke is in the middle of a post-Miss-Patty's-dance-recital rush, and he doesn't have the patience right now to figure out what could be wrong with Lorelai.  Well, aside from the obvious post-Friday night dinner stress, because not only are there half a dozen kids running around in the diner, but they're wearing sparkly blue netting and getting caught on each other and the furniture, leading to much crying and gnashing of teeth.

"Stupid kids," he mutters.

"I'm just going to head home," Lorelai tells him.

Luke nearly drops the plate balanced precariously on his forearm because he's trying to keep the phone from sliding off his shoulder.  "Hang on," he tells Lorelai, plunking plates down on the counter in front of Damon, his kid sister, and their two mommies.

"Ketchup," Luke says, pushing a bottle down the counter for them.  "Anything else?  Good."  He retreats before they can really answer, slipping around the corner into the kitchen.  "Lorelai?"

"Yeah," she says, her tone bright.  "I won't keep you."

"No, it's fine," Luke lies.  Probably eight little girls dressed up as blue fairies won't destroy his diner in the next five minutes.  "How'd it go?"

"I don't think a directorial credit for David Lynch could've made it much more dysfunctional," she answers, her tone acerbic.

Luke takes a moment, but the reference sails right past him.  "Who?" he asks stupidly.  He hates it when she alludes to something he doesn't understand, because no matter how silly her pop culture references may sound, he's learned over the years that they can be pretty revealing.

"Never mind," Lorelai says.  "It was fine."

Her first Friday night dinner back at the Gilmores', with the added bonus of Rory's new blue-blood boyfriend?  Now why doesn't Luke believe that it was fine?  "Lorelai--"

"Luke," Caesar calls, "we're backing up in here."

"Just a second," Luke snaps, slapping his palm over the phone so he doesn't blast her eardrums.  "Listen, Lorelai--"

"Go take care of your customers, babe," she tells him, warmth and exhaustion in her voice.  "I've got a headache -- probably from the damn onion -- so I'm just going to go straight home."

"Luke!" Caesar shouts.

"All right!" he hollers back.  "I'll see you later," he tells Lorelai.  "I'll bring food."

"You're a god, you know that?" Lorelai answers.  "See you."

"Bye," Luke answers, shoving the phone back into its cradle and grabbing some more plates to distribute to the sequined masses.

The sparkly blue rush lasts another hour.  When the last stragglers leave, Luke closes and locks the door behind them, not caring that it's before 10.  He's tired and he's cranky and now that he can hear himself think, he's a little worried about Lorelai.  An evening with Emily and Richard Gilmore, as Luke can attest, is not a whole lot of fun, particularly when you're the focus of their subtle put-downs.  Add to that the screaming case of nerves she had before she left, and Luke's pretty sure she could use something to help calm her down.

So he cooks her a burger and makes the fries extra salty, then packs up her dinner.  He fills a large takeout cup with coffee, pours the rest down the sink, rinses the carafe, and dumps the grounds. Caesar and Lane are already gone, and Luke locks the diner behind him and heads for her house.  

The windows are dark, and he wonders if she's already asleep.  Luke lets himself in, moving quietly but saying her name softly, in case she's sitting in the living room in the dark.  He's been clobbered with pillows more than once for sneaking in, and while that generally leads to fun, he suspects Lorelai's not in the mood for shenanigans tonight.

He finds her upstairs, the bathroom door ajar, candlelight flickering from within, and he knows it's bad.  Lorelai doesn't wallow often, and she rarely slows down enough for luxurious bubblebaths.  Still, the few times he's seen her really upset, she's retreated into the bathroom, lit candles, and stayed there in the dark until she regained control.

Luke's torn.  He doesn't want to bother her, since he can certainly appreciate wanting to be left alone, but this is Lorelai.  He can't stand to see her suffer.  And, selfishly, he wants her to let him in, to tell him what's wrong.  The soft sound of bathwater lapping against the porcelain tub drifts out into the hallway.  Undecided, he stays where he is, weighing his options, until he hears her voice.

"You might as well come in," Lorelai calls.  "I can smell the French fries."

Grimacing, Luke crosses the remaining distance and pushes open the bathroom door with a mumbled, "Sorry."  It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.  She's lying in the tub, the pale oval of her face glowing in the candlelight, framed by her dark hair.  She's beautiful, her arms and knees visible above the blanket of bubbles, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at her.  "Hungry?" he asks belatedly, offering the bag even though she's got her eyes closed.

She doesn't open her eyes when she answers, "No, thanks.  Maybe later.  You're a peach for bringing me food."  

Luke leans out the door and places the bag on the floor, kicking it farther away before turning back to her.  "You okay?"

"Fine," she answers immediately, and he knows she's lying.

He also knows better than to ask direct questions.  They're still figuring how to talk about the big stuff (unless they're shouting, in which case, they both say far more than they probably should), but he's learned that if he asks the right questions, she'll usually circle back around to whatever's bothering her.  "How's Rory?"

Lorelai's tired smile turns brittle, and her eyes squeeze shut a little more tightly.  "She's fine.  Dinner was lovely.  My parents are thrilled by Logan's pedigree."  

Luke can't tell if her sarcasm is aimed at her daughter, her parents, herself, or some combination of the three.  He shifts his weight, feeling a little silly standing there leering at her while she's upset, and he's still not sure she wouldn't rather be alone.  So he lets her comment go for the moment.  "Do you want a glass of wine?"

At this, she opens her eyes and looks at him for the first time, and he knows immediately that she's been crying.  "I probably shouldn't," she answers, a bit wistfully.

He nods and gestures toward the stairs, because at least this is something he can do for her.  He's got pretty good shoulders, but she's never been that comfortable leaning on them, so he's left doing whatever he can to help, even fetching wine.  "I'll be right back.  Red or white?"

"Not red.  I already have a headache."

Luke finds a bottle of white wine in her refrigerator (beside four takeout cartons and a pitcher that probably used to hold lemonade).  He climbs back up the stairs and offers her a wine glass and a small bottle of Advil.

"You really are a god, you know that?" she asks, popping two pills into her mouth and taking a generous sip of wine.  "Geez, pills with a liquor chaser -- this could be a scene straight out of the Marilyn Monroe story," Lorelai says.  "Maybe I should dye my hair blonde."

"Please don't," Luke remarks, wincing at the thought.  His gaze shifts to her hair, pulled back in a messy knot and secured by a pink Hello Kitty clip.  It disturbs him that he can now name several characters in the Hello Kitty line of products.

Lorelai sets the glass down on the ceramic edge of the tub, slipping a bit lower in the water.  The bubbles are starting to dissipate, and Luke can see tantalizing hints of her body.  "Miss Patty's dance recital crowd?" Lorelai asks, a smile flirting with her lips.

"Don't get me started," he grumbles, settling in with his hip against the sink.  He knows she enjoys a good rant, and if that's what it takes to cheer her up, well, his evening gave him enough ammunition for a good, long, throat-clearing rant.  "All these children and their idiotic parents too busy fawning over their latest LL Bean catalogue to pay attention to their little hellions, so the kids run all over the diner and knock stuff over--"

"They knocked stuff over?" Lorelai interjects.

"Mostly they knocked each other over," Luke admits.  "But that just made it worse, because then they'd start crying," he explained with a small shudder.  "Little girls scare the hell out of me."

"Wait," Lorelai tells him, lighting up the way she always does when she senses new mocking material.  "You're scared of little girls?"

He realizes that particular admission might not have been the best tactical move he's ever made, but at least she's smiling.  "Well, not scared," he backpedals.  "But they're always crying.  I don't deal well with crying."

"That's not true," she scoffs, studying him now, her blue eyes intense.  "All kids cry, even tough little boys."  She raises an eyebrow at him.  "And you were never scared of Rory."

"Well, yes," Luke answers, exasperated, "because Rory has always been a sensible kid, and she never cried in my diner."  Lorelai's eyes are closed again, and she turns her head away, leaving him to study her profile.  She doesn't answer, and he realizes he's said something to chase away her brief good mood.  With a sigh, he crosses his arms.  "Lorelai?"

"So the diner was overrun by a bunch of hungry little ballerinas, huh?" she says, keeping her face averted.  "I'm sorry I missed it."

Luke frowns.  "Lorelai, really, how'd it go tonight?"  Because he's imagining all sorts of horrible outcomes -- Emily and Richard berating their daughter for any perceived mistake, Emily and Richard whiling away the time pointing out Luke's ill-breeding, Emily and Richard reciting epic poems in praise of Christopher.  Or worse, a disagreement between Lorelai and Rory.  Honestly, the only events that have ever truly shaken Lorelai have been Rory-related.

"I don't want to talk about it," Lorelai whispers.

"That bad, huh?" he asks, and he's a little worried about Rory himself now.  "I'm sorry."

She glances at him and away, but not before he sees a suspicious gleam in her eyes.  "Not your fault," she says, but she can't quite mask a sniffle.

He moves closer.  "Lorelai--"

"Really, Luke, I don't want to talk about it."

Luke can recognize a dismissal when he hears one, and he stops halfway between the sink and the tub.  Still, he's reluctant to leave her alone and wallowing.  "I'll go put your dinner away," he tells her, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"Luke, it's not you, I just..."  She doesn't finish the thought.

With a sigh, Luke says, "I know," and leaves her alone.  Thing is, he does know.  He's not a big sharer himself, and he can certainly respect that she prefers to deal with things on her own.  She's one of the strongest, most independent people he's ever met, yet paradoxically, he wants to solve her problems for her, just because it bothers him to see her upset.  She doesn't deserve to feel like this, and his anger at Emily intensifies.  He can handle Emily treating him like shit, but the way she treats her own daughter makes Luke utterly insane.

He puts the food away and then starts to clean up the kitchen, letting the familiar, repetitive motions release some of his anger.  Lorelai's not the tidiest person in the world, so he starts by wiping down the counters.  He's muttering to himself and scrubbing the burners on her stove when he hears her behind him.

"It was awful," she says, her voice shaking.  "It was -- What are you doing?"

"Cleaning your stove," he answers, glancing at her over his shoulder.  She's wearing his green flannel shirt that went missing a few weeks earlier, and the cotton shorts that say JUICY on her ass.  "Thief," he comments.

She manages a weak grin, still finger-combing the hair she's taken out of her clip.  "It looks better on me."

"I'll say."  Luke moves to the sink and rinses off the sponge.  "Dinner was awful?" he prompts.

Lorelai leans against the counter, arms crossed beneath her breasts and says, "I think the least horrible part was when my mother implied that I'm a whore, because at least that's nothing new."

Anger burns in Luke's gut, but he swallows it down.  "What?" he manages, sounding only moderately furious instead of full-out homicidal.  He considers this a personal triumph.

She gives him a tight smile.  "I tried to explain about Rory's little incident at their vow renewal without going into the details, and instead of appreciating my decorum -- a trait, by the way, that she always, always, always says that I am completely without -- my mother said, 'I never thought of you as a prude.'"  Lorelai's eyes sparkle with tears, but she shakes her head and turns away when he reaches for her.

"Lorelai--"

"I mean," Lorelai continues, starting to pace now, anger and hurt evident in her voice, "they adore Logan, just because of his last name.  They sang a little duet about his lapels and then insulted my intelligence for not being able to understand the sheer gloriousness of said lapels."

Luke squints, leaning back against the counter, knowing she needs to get this all out before she can accept comfort.  "Lapels?" he asks, because -- "They liked his lapels?"  It seems too ridiculous even for the image-obsessed elder Gilmores.

"Oh, yes," she tells him, nodding rapidly, winding into full rant mode.  "And the way he parks.  And the cute little car he drives.  And how he can shoot my mother an email.  And the way he's going to follow in his father's footsteps.  But that wasn't the worst part."

Luke steals himself, because every time he's convinced he's seen the worst of Emily Gilmore, she manages new heights of cruelty toward her daughter.  "What was the worst part?"

"They were trying to marry Rory off to Logan!" Lorelai says.  "My mother gushed over Cape Cod, and Cape Cod weddings, and Cape Cod babies -- It was sickening.  I would've been embarrassed for them if I wasn't already furious.  Can you believe their audacity?  Can you believe she would do that right in front of me?"

It takes Luke a moment to understand what she's saying.  "Oh."  Meddling.  A couple months after her meddling caused her daughter to break off all contact, Emily promptly begins to meddle in her granddaughter's love life.  Nice.

"Yeah," Lorelai agrees, nodding emphatically.  "She knows how angry I am at her, and she knows the only reason I went tonight was to get to know my daughter's new boyfriend -- who, by the way, actually stole from my parents--"

Luke blinks.  "He what?"

But Lorelai doesn't even pause.  "And Emily doesn't even care!  She has never cared how I feel, and she thinks she's winning with Rory, that Rory will finally fulfill the great Gilmore destiny of marrying some rich, arrogant, society snob, since I fucked everything up by getting pregnant at sixteen."

She's crying now, but she's still pacing, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection.  "I hate that she can still do this to me," she practically shouts.  "I hate it."  She stops at the back door, looking out into the darkness, and lifts one palm to the window pane.  Lorelai leans her forehead against the glass.  "I wish I could hate her."

"No, you don't," Luke answers quietly.

Her laughter is bitter.  "You have no idea how wrong you are, Luke."

"I'm not wrong," he counters, still burning with anger for the woman who hurt Lorelai.  How could anyone want to change her or make her think that she's less than she is?  This is something Luke will never understand, because she's loud and crass and silly, but she's also kind and generous and incredibly sensitive.

"I know my life would've been different without Rory," Lorelai says, her tone quiet now, "but it would've been without Rory.  I'll take the rest of it -- my GED instead of high school graduation, working as a maid instead of Yale -- I'll take all of that as long as I have Rory.  What kills me is that my parents adore Rory nearly as much as I do, but they are still so angry at me for not being the perfect daughter they expected."

"They're old-fashioned," Luke answers slowly.  He has tried to imagine how he would react if his daughter came to him at 16 and announced she was pregnant (oddly, whenever he imagines his daughter, he always sees Rory), and he knows he'd be furious.  He'd rant and rave and threaten to kill the irresponsible boy.  But he can't possibly imagine himself cutting her out of his life.

"I'm not asking them to approve or," Lorelai shrugs, shaking her head, "I don't know, give me their blessing for sleeping with Christopher when I was sixteen.  I just need them to stop punishing me for it."

He has no idea what to say, so he stays silent.

She sighs.  "If I could just walk away from her, she couldn't hurt me anymore," she whispers, and her tone is so broken, so forlorn that Luke can't stop himself from going to her.

He brushes a hand down her back, around her hip, nudging her toward him, urging her to turn, and then she's in his arms.  She squeezes him tightly, burying her face against his neck.  Closing his eyes, Luke just holds her, feeling her relax in increments until she sighs, her warm breath puffing against his throat.

"They kept referring to Rory and Logan as a match," Lorelai says bitterly, "like they're a damn sweater set."

Luke frowns.  "A what?"

"Bookends," Lorelai suggests.  "Salt and pepper shakers.  Whatever.  But they're young and they're..."  She stops, pulling back and looking up at him.  Shaking her head a little, Lorelai's gaze slides away from his as she says, "They're wrong, Luke.  Rory's..."

His gut knots up again, and Luke's hands tighten on her hips.  "Rory's what?" he demands.

"She's running away from me," Lorelai answers, her tone dull and sluggish, her shoulders slumped.  "Away from this."  She gestures vaguely at the kitchen.

"What are you talking about?" Luke asks, running his hands up and down her arms, urging her to meet his gaze.  "Rory's not running away from you."

"She is," Lorelai answers, staring blankly at something past his shoulder.  "It took me a long time to see it, and to admit that my mother was right.  I ran away from my parents and that life, and now Rory's running away from me to that life."

"I'm sure you're wrong," Luke tells her.  "Just because Rory's dating some rich guy's son doesn't mean she's running away from you."

"This Logan kid..."  She shakes her head.  "He's me when I was fifteen, Luke.  Spoiled and arrogant and thoughtless and reckless."

"Rory will figure it out," Luke assures her.  "Rory's smart."

"Not about boys," Lorelai answers.  "No, Luke," she adds quickly when he stiffens, "don't.  I'm not talking about Jess.  I just mean...  She doesn't understand boys, and she's fallen into this whole relationship backwards.  I mean, my daughter having casual sex?"

Luke freezes, completely uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.  He has no idea what he can possibly say, and he also really, really wishes he'd killed that arrogant kid at the stupid wedding when he'd had the chance.

"She just stood there on the street," Lorelai continues, oblivious to his discomfort.  "You should've seen her face when she saw Logan with some other girl, Luke.  She was crushed and trying to hide it, and you know how bad a liar Rory is."

Luke manages a strangled noise that passes for agreement.

"Rory.  My sensible daughter."  Lorelai shakes her head, looking as lost as he's ever seen her.  "She was drunk and sobbing on the bathroom floor, just destroyed because she couldn't figure out what she'd done to make Logan lose interest."  She pushes away from Luke, pacing angrily, her own voice shaking with tears as she recounts the story.  "I have held my daughter when she cried over a broken arm, and when she cried over her first love, and when she cried over the worst mistake she's ever made, but none of it was like this."

Luke can't speak, can't get past the heartbreaking image of Rory curled up on the bathroom floor, doubting herself because of some punk, while Lorelai could do nothing but watch.

"And now they're 'together'?" Lorelai continues, using sarcastic air quotes.  "How can I accept this kid who made my beautiful, smart, funny, perfect daughter feel like that?" Lorelai asks, tears running down her cheeks now.  Her voice is high and tight and trembling with tension, and Luke knows she's about ten seconds from losing it when she demands, "How can I accept a kid who steals from my parents while my daughter -- who loves and respects her grandparents -- just stands there silently?  I didn't raise Rory to be like that."  Lorelai collapses, crouching on the kitchen floor, her face in her hands.  "Where is my daughter?"

Luke's beside her immediately, his knees grinding against the floor as he shifts, pulling Lorelai into his arms.  There's nothing he can say that will help, so he just holds her while she cries, shushing her and rocking her.  He's still a bit stunned by her revelations, and can't quite corral his thoughts.

The confused, poisoned relationship among Lorelai, Rory, and Emily is still something that Luke doesn't quite understand.  He wants to sit Emily down and give her a talking to, but he knows that would only make things worse.  He wants to encourage Lorelai to never set foot back inside the Gilmore house, but he understands that you don't choose your family.  He wants to lock Rory in an ivory tower somewhere with all the books she could ever want and then handpick the guys who are allowed to court her, but it's not his place and it's far from realistic.

What he can do is help the woman he loves put herself back together after the double blow of her mother disrespecting her and her daughter disrespecting herself.

"Lorelai?" he murmurs, pressing his lips to her hair.  His hands slide along her back, soothing her with slow, soft movements.

She sniffles and wipes her eyes.  "I'm sorry," she mutters, turning her face into his shirt, grabbing fistfuls of his flannel.  "I know you're scared of crying little girls."

As feeble as the joke is, it reassures him.  He tightens his arms around her briefly.  "I've never been scared of you," he murmurs, kissing her hair.

"Liar," Lorelai whispers, tilting her head back to look at him.  Her eyes are red and swollen, and the tip of her nose is pink, and she's still the most gorgeous woman he's ever seen.  "I don't deserve you," she tells him.

"Not true," Luke answers.  "Listen--"

"No," Lorelai interrupts, the edge of her mouth turning up in a tired smile.  "Don't worry about it.  I'll be fine."

"I know you'll be fine," he tells her, shifting a little to lean back against the cupboards.  She follows him, still curled up against him like a cat.

With a nod, Lorelai says, "So then you don't have to try to make me feel better.  I absolve you of your boyfriend-ly duty."

"I thought we talked about that word," Luke grumbles.  He's not into labels in any case, but "boyfriend' makes him sound like he's still 17 and running track every day after school.  Plus, it doesn't come close to capturing this thing between them.  

Of course, Lorelai's suggested compromise ("I'll just call you my man, and I'll load up on the mascara so you can call me Tammy Faye") didn't quite capture it either.

Lorelai smirks and says, "Yes, but I don't want to absolve you of your manly duties, my man.  That would leave me far from satisfied."

With a roll of his eyes, Luke drags the conversation back on track.  "I know it doesn't seem like it, but your mother loves you and she loves Rory."

"I know that," Lorelai answers, all traces of her smile gone.  "But her iron fist version of love isn't the most fun thing in the world, as you probably know."

"I'm not making excuses for her, believe me," Luke answers with probably more feeling than he should.  He doesn't ever want Lorelai to stay away from Emily because of his own burning anger, so he tries to modulate his tone when he continues, "And I think your mother owes you about forty different apologies.  But her intentions are usually good."

"Maybe they're good in Emily World.  But down here with the rest of us plebeians..." Lorelai shrugs.  "I'm less worried about her than--"

"Rory," Luke tells her, "will make mistakes.  We all make mistakes, even a kid as smart as Rory."

Nodding slowly, Lorelai says, "I know, but I don't want anything to hurt her, ever.  I don't want her to fall for someone who can leave her crumpled on a bathroom floor."

"I know," Luke murmurs, rubbing her back slowly.  And he does know, because he's watched Rory grow into an amazing young woman, and he would gladly tear limb from limb anyone who hurt her.  "She's smart enough to figure out if this Logan kid is a putz."

"He is," Lorelai answers swiftly.  She looks up at Luke for a long moment.  "But you're right.  She'll figure it out.  I think.  I just hope she does it soon."

"She will."

Lorelai loops her arms around his neck and hugs him fiercely.  "God, I'm glad we worked things out, because I'm not sure I could deal with this myself."

"That's not true," Luke protests, even though her words warm him.  "You've made it just fine on your own for 20 years."

Shaking her head, Lorelai pulls back to press a kiss to his lips.  "That's not true.  I've had you for 8 years, mister, even before I had you."  She waggles her eyebrows at him suggestively.

Luke holds her gaze and answers seriously, "Yeah, you have."

Her smile is glorious, like the sun breaking through the clouds on an early spring day.  "I really do love you, Lucas Danes," she whispers, pressing a quick, heartfelt kiss to his lips.

He can't help but smile back.  "If you loved me, you wouldn't call me Lucas."

"Spoilsport," Lorelai shoots back, leaning in to hug him hard.  "Now make me some food, burger boy."

Chuckling, Luke takes her shoulders and holds her away from him.  "Oh, now you're hungry, huh?"

"Yes," she tells him.

"I put the food away."

With a serious nod, Lorelai says, "Good point.  Oh, well.  Cold French fries aren't the greatest, but cold burgers are yummy!"

Groaning, Luke pushes himself to his feet and reaches down for her.  "Sit down," he tells her, pulling her toward the table.  "You are not eating a cold hamburger."

"You say this like I haven't eaten hundreds of cold hamburgers in my life," Lorelai says, settling into her seat and propping her chin on her hand to watch him.  The sleeves of the flannel slide down and leave her forearms bare.  "Not as good as cold pizza, but not nearly as disgusting as cold rice."

"Cold rice?" Luke echoes, mildly surprised that she eats rice at all.  "That is disgusting."

He pulls the carton from the refrigerator and starts to unpack it.  The French fries will be soggy if he uses the microwave, so he preheats the oven.

"Hey, Luke?"

Luke disassembles the burger, leaving the lettuce and the tomato on the plate and placing the meat and French fries into the oven to warm up.  He puts the bun in the toaster.  "Yeah?" he asks.  When she doesn't answer immediately, he stops and turns with an expectant look.

Lorelai smiles at him, her blue eyes sparkling.  "Thank you," she says softly.

With a brisk nod, Luke answers gruffly, "Any time."

THE END

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