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Blame It on Speculation	By : Starlyn Category: G through L > Gilmore Girls Views: 7311 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Gilmore Girls, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Blame it on Speculation

Author: Starlyn a.k.a. SassyPlatypus

Rating: R for now but NC-17 later on. (Consider yourself warned.)

Setting: Episode 414 �The Incredible Shrinking Lorelais�.

Spoilers: Anything and everything up to that point, I guess.

Disclaimer: Amy and Dan rock! (As does Lane.) And even though I don�t own Gilmore Girls, I rock too.

Synopsis: After watching Dean and Rory commit a mighty transgression in the season four finale, I started to wonder what it would take for Luke and Lorelai to do the same. Moreover, I pondered over whether the act was even feasible being that we�re dealing with two responsible 30+-year-olds, and not a couple of horny 19-year-olds, such as myself.

A.N. This is the first fanfic I�ve ever written so any constructive criticism would be much appreciated. Suggestions ahoy, folks! Flames suck but diss �em out if you have nothing better to do.

Ch 1: Drama Mama

�It�s okay,� Luke murmurs.

Even though the words seem ludicrous in the midst of all my problems, they�re still wonderful to hear.

And it�s probably the way he�s talking to me that does it, because let�s face it: Luke�s using a tone more paternal than anything Richard Gilmore has ever bestowed upon me. Very comforting� you know, in spite of the circumstances.

So I let him hold me. For some reason, while Luke�s holding me, time stands still. It�s an entirely different calm than the kind I achieve with Rory, who would�ve sat me down, strategizing several ways out of the wormhole.

No, this has less to do with logic and more to do with reassurance. Luke is here and he won�t let anything happen to me. He won�t let me fall. The very fact that my legs are jello and I�m not sliding off the bench attests to that surety.

And for a little while, inexplicably, that�s all that matters.

(Until I get a good whiff of the inexplicable, that is.)

See, I�m digging my make-up muddled face into his chest and inhaling the subtle byproduct of hair mousse and cologne when, suddenly, I feel the teensiest ounce of pressure on the top of my head.

Huh? I stir slightly.

�It�s okay,� I hear again, softer this time, and am gathered tighter. I quickly realize that that touch was no ordinary touch�it came from Luke. He was kissing me. And if that isn�t strange enough, I think he smelled my hair as he did it.

The awareness of such sends a shiver down my spine.

But why? I mean, big deal, right? I�m upset, he�s trying to comfort me, we�re not talking �When Harry Met Sally� thus far. And so what if he smelled my hair? It�s one of those things that can�t be avoided what with those crazy ass pheromones leaking out left and right. Hell, it wasn�t even a real kiss. The equivalent to a pat on the back, some might say.

It was nothing. At least, I think it was nothing�

Cripes. I�m reading way too much into this, aren�t I? See, this is my problem. Why am I so prone to over-analyzation? Moreover, why am I prone to over-analyzation of my over-analyzation? Why do I invent words? Why can�t I simply let my mind go blank like normal people? Maybe tap into that hidden realm of Zen or Kabala or whatever the hell it is Madonna�s raving about this year.

Great. Lord knows I�ve got enough problems without throwing my chaotic psyche into the mix. But I guess I have a legitimate excuse to be feeling this way. It�s been an unusual night, come to think of it. Weird enough to make me wanna say: Pigs really can fly, Lorelai, so start scarfing.

Ooo, food.

A cheeseburger sounds really good right about now. After all, dinner never did make it to the table and I wasn�t able to eat a thing at the Amityville Horror household. I wonder how long we�re going to sit here anyway. It�s been a sound five minutes, hasn�t it? Interesting� that this rapt and sensitive mutation of Luke seems bound and determined to wait it out with me. Hehe. I rather like his softer side. I bet if I whimpered or something he might even feel compelled to kiss me again�

Aww, crap!

What-in-the-name-of-Jude-Law-and-all-that-is-holy was that?! Have I gone completely insane? Nevermind. I�m fantasizing about Luke kissing me so that goes without saying. But hey, is it my fault he looks especially good tonight?

Kinda, my inner voice replies.

Oh, right. I guess it is. Because I asked him out and duh, Luke primped for me.

Wait a second, Luke primped for me�

Come again?

Oh my God, Lorelai, Luke primped for you.

Shut up! �really?

�Fraid so. Ouch. This is bad. This is very bad. This is oh-so-bad. This is outer-limits-y!

Okay. Admittedly, most people wouldn�t think too much of such a meager gesture but then again, few have come to know the Monosyllabic Diner Man the way that I have. And if there�s one thing I know for certain, it�s that Luke hates primping. Anything more than zestfully clean is downright fruity in his book.

What tipped me off, you ask? Might have been the sole bottle of shampoo+conditioner sitting atop his bathroom shelf. Or maybe it was the excessive lecturing reserved for Rory and me after our expensive outings to Sephora. Oh, and not so confidentially, I once gave the guy a bottle of Stetson Man for Christmas and he refused to serve me coffee well into New Years.

And sure, I suppose I have had some leeway with the wardrobe, but I had to acquire through a pretty extensive amount of nagging. A tie here, a shirt there� This may even top the time I chased after him with the pretty pants and the slinky sweater. (Although whipping that belt in the air and scaring the diner patrons sure was fun!)

But I digress. This is an occasion in which Luke chose to go all out voluntarily. Well, not all out, I remind myself. At least he didn�t shave. Even so, I musn�t forget that Luke�s always willing to go that extra mile for me. He�s genuinely the bestest of all my friends who pee upright.

i.e.:

I ask him to fix a leaky faucet, he upgrades the shower head. I order regular pancakes, he brings me blueberry. I say dinner jacket, he goes metrosexual.

Why is that? Why is he such a great guy? And why don�t I ever tell him that? What, is my inn schedule soooo massive that I can�t even take a second to say, �hey, you�re a pal�?! �Thanks for keeping me afloat�? God, I�m shit. I�m shit, I�m shit, I�m shit! I bet the last thing Luke expected when I asked him to Sylvano�s tonight was a reenactment of �Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.�

And on that note, I really should apologize.

�I really am sorry, Luke,� I choke, raising my head and bumping my nose into his chin. His scruffy chin, I wince.

Luke pretends not to notice the heightening of awkwardness. �About what?�

�This!� I gesture at my weepy self. �This whole thing. This big fat ball of hysterics that Lorelai Gilmore, Stars� Hollow�s very own Drama Mama, has dragged you into."

"You're far from hysterical. I�ve seen worse."

"So not the point. I mean, first, I cancel our dinner aft after carelessly severing you from your flannel, might I add--� I hold up one finger to illustrate the beginning of my list.

�Then, I drop a major guilt bomb on you by letting it leak that I was desperate and planning to ask for that gi-normous loan--� Second Finger.

�And finally, poor you, having to sit here and waste all your time talking me down from the ledge!�

Before I can raise the third, Luke grabs my hand and sets it down.

�Lorelai, we�re in the park.� He�s giving me that exasperated �I�m not indulging you today� face. �There is no ledge.�

�Oh, there�s a ledge!� I fire back, the impending waterworks just a hop and a skip behind me. �There is always a ledge, Luke, believe you me. And maybe it's not quite Grand Canyon-Mount Everest-scale but I like to think it's pretty respectable in its own right because it's the Lorelai ledge. The one that just keeps on going. Hell, I've been dancing around it for nearly thirty-six years but today,� I sigh, �today I finally lost my balance. I just--I have hit rock bottom.�

�Oh, you have not,� he grunts, patting my knee half-heartedly.

�Yes, I have. No, wait,� I let out a mirthless chuckle, �I forgot. No matter how bad this Gilmore�s predicament, she hasn�t quite hit rock bottom until her loved ones get wind of it. And what an unveiling that�ll be! After tonight--after my father defended me to Gran and everything, God, what are they going to think of me?�

And much to Luke�s dismay, I�m crying again.

�I�ll tell you what they�ll think! They�ll think �baah!��there it is, the black sheep has dashed her dream, yet again. They won�t understand it, Luke, because I should�ve been able to handle this. It�s in my genes, it�s in my�� I drop my head. �I am an enduring embarrassment to the Gilmore clan. I�m like Neil Bush, you know, I�m� I�m Michael Skakel!�

Ever on cue, Luke slips his fingers between my own, lacing them tightly.

�Hey, now,� he squeezes dutifully. �Don�t be ridiculous.�

�And then they�ll bail me out. They�ll bail me out like they love to do what with the guilt and rocks in the stomach and the strings tied onto the rocks and the innuendo and the� and��

�Ah, jeez, Lorelai,� Luke is beginning to sound worried. �Don�t do this.�

�I have no excuse! I can�t cry Chilton or termites or... Chiltonian termites thime ime around! This time it�s all me. And what sort of an example am I setting for my daughter? Remember my baby's graduation, Luke? She called me her role model and--and she admires me and if Rory were to be disappointed in me too, I just--how did I ever think I could handle this much this soon? I can�t!�

�You can. You can do it,� Luke lets go of my hand to grab ahold my shoulders, forcing us to see eye to eye. �I�ve told you that you can do it a hundred times.�

�But I can�t!� I shake my head vigorously and watch one of my unmanageable locks slap his cheek. �It�s too much pressure all at once and I thought I was doing okay but I�m not and it sucks that I�m dumping this on you and beating you with my hair but Rory�s always out of reach and Jason�s--�

I�m cut off by Luke�s eyebrows, which are arching pretty profusely. It occurs to me that he has no idea who I�m talking about.

�Jason, my boyfriend,� I clarify, biting my tongue as he looks away in discomfort. �I, umm, I couldn�t even begin to tell him about this without it sounding obligatory, you know. Plus, we�re still in that early relationship stage where I want him to think the most of me.� Luke�s head snaps up.

�You telling me this guy would actually be ashamed of you if he knew?�

�No! God, no. Jason�s not like that. Really, he�s not. But� I�d like to keep up the pretense just a little bit longer for him�for everyone, so that they�ll keep on assuming I�m the successful together woman I always put myself out there to be.�

There. I said it.

As the newly established lowest of the low, I slap my hands back onto my knees and rock forward to suck in some chilly night air, thoroughly exhausted. Exhausted and miserable. I can�t believe that I went to all the trouble of ranting my little heart out and I still don�t feel any relief. Matter of fact, I think I feel worse.

Figuring I�ve exposed far too much of my quivering underbelly as it is, I move to lean on Luke again. But then he does the unthinkable--he pushes me away. Luke pushes me away. And none too gently.

I stare at his riled expression with hurt and confusion. Is he angry at me? Please don�t let it be that. The possibility that I pissed off what feels like my only friend in the world right now is too much to bear.

�You know what?� Luke begins flatly, and I cringe because he�s graver than I have ever seen him. �This isn�t you.�

Eh? I narrow my eyes. Is that good or bad?

�This is not Lorelai Gilmore.�

O-kay� He pauses briefly in anticipation of my forthcoming quip but, for once, I�m at a loss.

�This is not the sharp, confident, beautiful woman with whom I trade wisecracks every day. It�s not! It�s not because the Lorelai that I know wouldn�t give up like this. The Lorelai that I know wouldn�t collapse. Damn it, the Lorelai that I know never lets up! Would�ya look at yourself?

�It�s like where did the light go? Where are the jokes and the songs and the quotes and the� obscure and bizarre references to movies and books I�ve never even heard of?�

You should get out more, I think, but don�t say.

�This is not that person, this is not the chronic smartass who has in-depth conversations with finger food and who�who plants Canadian coins in the cash register while my back�s turned.

Hah. Now how�d he know it was me?

�This is not--� his hands are on my shoulders again, �the selfless friend who sews a dozen freakin� fairy costumes for every hokey town theater production no matter how lame it is and drags me kicking and screaming on opening night. Or how about the time she--you ran that three legged race with Kirk to benefit Stars� Hollow�s annual petting zoo, huh? He nearly bagged the both of you trying to leap over that squirrel.�

�I actually did that for fun,� I interject weakly. (Plus, they�d offered me free pellet food.)

�Whatever, then.� Luke cups my frozen face, and though I started staring at my lap about three this-is-not-Lorelai-agos, he�s leaving me no choice but to meet his gaze.

His sexy, sexy, smoldering gaze.

Uh oh.

�But the thing is that this is not you, Lorelai, the woman who built a successful life out of scratch and wound up raising the greatest kid in Connecticut.�

�

The wind is blowing. The trees are rustling. And I am blushing, genuinely blushing, for the first time in two decades.

And this is no mere damsel in distress, oh-I�m-so-flirty-kind-of-a-blush. This is no trick. I haven�t blushed like this since the first time Christopher saw me without my clothes on.

And boy, does that bring me back�

I remember how stupid I felt, lying there across from him in his acid-washed jeans and Skid Row t-shirt. I remember wishing that I had a little bit more breast on top and maybe, you know, just a few more curves down below. I remember I was actually in the process of apologizing for my adolescence before Chris shushed me, bringing a finger to my flapping lips. And once I�d piped down, he kissed me. God, he kissed me so sweetly, and told me that I was gorgeous. Absolutely the most beautiful thing he�d ever seen in his entire life.

Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Luke has made me feel. Naked and beautiful.

Before I know it my heart is racing a mile a minute, as is my mind. I open my mouth repeatedly to pay my respective dues but the words won�t come out. They�re stuck. Lodged in my throat along with so many other coulda, woulda, shouldas asatedated with Luke. And in spite of my internal conflict, I figure it�s just as well. Because how could a simple �thank you� ever be enough to repay Luke for what he just said? What he just did for me?

Aggh, but I have to say something!

So I opt for the foot-in-the-mouth alternative:

�Can I get some coffee?�

I study him intently, my cheeks still hot as I watch him blink and struggle to put on a poker face. Gone is the tender and telling countenance he bore just a minute before. For a moment it looks as though he thinks he�s embarrassed himself but apparently thinks the better of it.

�Well, the diner�s technically closed,� he shrugs, finally letting go of me as he moves to rise from the bench. Something about his movements reveal he�s a tad shaken up. You and me both, buddy. �Caesar�s son has an early christening tomorrow so I gave him the night off and Lane, umm, doesn't usually work this shift.�

�Oh.�

He probably hears the disappointment in my voice.

�But if you want, you know, maybe we could hang out at my place. After all, the night is young and I�ve got a TV set and a couch and a fridge full of beers if you want to just� hang.� Luke peers at me nervously. �Only if you want to, of course.�

There�s no pressure in the proposition. Only the obvious incentive of spending time with a man who, although I hadn�t realized it until a few minutes ago, adores me. A man I am worried I may have overlooked. A man I think I�m rapidly falling for. A married man.

�Can I stay the night?�

The question throws us both for a loop. Where did that come from?

�On the couch,� I hastily add, my thoughts still ringing with panic as I get up.

�Sure. Actually, no, I mean, you can have the bed if you want.�

�Cool.� Silence. �Thanks.�

And then we just stand there, stupidly, as if there�s nothing more to say.

When all the while I�m thinking--there�s so much more to say.

There�s an energy between us. I can feel it. I suppose in a way I�ve always felt it. Luke must be able to sense it too. After all, a person does not emit electricity of this magnitude without being conscious of doing so, right? This can�t be totally one sided, not with the ongoing precedent of �it�s right there�s and �Luke�s got the flaming hots for you, doll�s and �he�s flirted with you numerous times�z.

I don�t know. I won�t dwell on signals. Not with that towering love fest the man just dropped in my lap. Instead I think about the proximity of Luke�s warmth and how if he were to take one step forward, we�d be close enough to do very naughty things. Things I�ve always secretly known he�d be good at.

Here. Outside. In the middle of the town square. Taylor�s candy coated ambience, be damned!

Fervently and unabashedly like in the scrappy little romance novel Mrs. Kim caught Rory and Lane giggling over in junior high. (We hadn�t seen Lane for a good two months following the Harlequin incident.)

But then Luke coughs, uncomfortably, not unabashedly. He�s very squirmy and nodding towards the diner. Reality seeps in.

�So,� cough, �are we going to go in or what?�

Oy. I can�t back out now.

Whatever then. Take the high road. Restrain yourself. I want beer.

Are you sure about that?

That we want beer? It�s a consensus.

All right then�

�Of course,� I chirp, flashing him forced teeth. �Just waiting for you to drop the act, Marcel Marceau.�

Luke smiles back, seemingly relieved. It�s sincere. I can tell. Luke rarely smiles but it�s always sincere. And wow, does he look gorgeous. How is it I�ve never noticed before just how beautiful he can be when he�s happy? Is he happy? Is the fact that I�m coming up to be with him making him happy?

Do I make him happy?

The sheer notion of it is enough to make me smile for real.

�Come on, mister,� I walk with unsubdued strides. �As a world renowned though bizarrely obscure to your knowledge-ed novelist would say: �The evening glitters before us.��

�Hemingway?� he questions, following my lead.

�Close. Stephen King.�
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Blame It on Speculation