You’re disheartened a little when your permission to use you as a sausage corpse gets nothing more than a small smile, but you aren’t surprised. The familiar look of loss and uncertainty in her face breaks your heart. Again.

You realize, suddenly, that you have once again been paying more attention to the woman next to you then you are to the road and as you reluctantly return your gaze to the moving taillights in front of you, a smile flits onto your face when she slips her fingers into yours, resting them in her lap.

*****

You stand behind her as she unlocks the door; she’s so tired that she can barely get the key in the lock. Gently, taking the key with one hand, and wrapping the other around her shoulder, you unlock the door, guiding her inside.

Toeing off her shoes, she moves away from you and plops down on the couch as you take off your jacket and tie, placing them over the back of the nearest chair. When you walk to the couch, she automatically lifts her legs up in the air for you to slip under them so her smooth calves lay across your lap. On any other night, you would have made a lewd comment of some sort (she is wearing a dress, after all), but you know that’s not what she needs right now.

The silence is uncomfortable, but only because you want so much to comfort her, to get her to talk to you so that she can feel better.

“I think that was a good idea.”

You stopped being startled by her random outbursts long ago. You want her to open up on her terms, just like she did on the porch with the story about the plans for Rory's twenty-first birthday party, so you simply answer, "Why is that?"

“Going to the party. I think…I think it created a bridge, a tentative one, at least, but a connection none-the-less.”

You hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but you can see what she means. Mother and daughter hadn’t talked since the fight at the side of the interstate (a night closely similar to this one had follwed after she had returned from a rather…long drive with Paul Anka afterwards). The realization comes that this is what the look of uncertainty had been about in the truck. She hadn't been able to decide whether going to the party had been a blessing or a mistake.

“What do you want to do?”

She sighs. “I don’t know, Luke. I miss her, though. I miss the jokes and the real conversations and her pretending to be sick when I sat next to you on the couch (you were really bad at hiding from the pillows, you know) when she would come home from…” her babbling ends there.

“You know my solution to that,” you reply somewhat tentatively.

“I thought you said you were going to say nothing else about your ‘solution to that’.”

She’d said it harshly and you can tell she regrets the comment as soon as it comes out of her mouth. You forestall her coming apology.

“I did say that. That comment was my last on the subject.”

She smiles at you softly. “Sure it was.”

You smile back at her, squeezing her calf as the mood in the room lightens, even if it’s only by a small fraction.

“Oh, hey,” you begin, “if you want, I can pretend to be sick when you sit next to me on the couch.”

You had meant that as a joke, seeing as how she’s halfway in your lap, but instead, any lightness that had been on her face slips immediately and you realize how that must have sounded. “Lorelai-“

But she interrupts you. “Luke, you aren’t my…replacement for her. You know that, right?”

This blows you away. Here, you were thinking that she’d think you were trying to replace Rory, not that she was trying to replace Rory with you.

She seems to sense this and half-grins at you. “You and I are truly made for each other, huh?”

You groan, though you both know you’re fooling no one. “Dammit.”

She smacks you lightly on the chest anyway. “Hey, mister, watch it. Or, those sausages are so gonna turn into…into…”

“You got nothing?”

She sighs in disappointment. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

She’s silent for a moment, before saying, quietly and unnecessarily, “Thanks for cheering me up.”

“Anytime.” You pause. “Do I still have to do that stupid skit of yours?”

She leans back from your chest to look at your face. “You don’t have to do it. I know you were just trying to cheer me up.”

You sigh. “I'll do it.”

“Man, I am so good at that. I didn’t even have to do any of my little tricks.”

“You haven’t needed those ‘little tricks’ for awhile.”

She looks at you tenderly and you can tell that she’s remembering how she had talked you into going to the Wedding-From-Hell. She hadn’t needed to do much persuasion on that or any thing else later. “You know, I’ve noticed this,” She says pensively. “I’m totally telling the town what a push-over you are.”

“I’ve been with you long enough for them to know that I’m a push-over,” you say sardonically. “Babette is your neighbor, remember?”

“Ya got a point there. Damn, I was looking forward to using it as blackmail.”

She pushes you down on to the couch, climbing on top of you, she still in her dress and you still in your uncomfortable suit, though it is a little better without the equally uncomfortable tie and jacket. You can tell that she is becoming restful by the contented sigh that floats across your neck, making you relax even more into the cushions.

“So, about that skit," she begins, ignoring your groan at the timing of this conversation,“Sookie had some great sausages we could use...” you know exactly what’s coming when she smirks at you.

“Nice, big, juicy ones.”

And there it is.

End