I had a dream about writing this exact storyon Monday night and I decided it was fate telling me to write a one-shot Java Junkie from season 1. Well, I listened to fate. So here it is- insert this into ep. 1-21 after Luke gets back from Lorelai's. Enjoy, and please review.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

He studied his hand as he wiped- the tiny crevices between the joints in his fingers, the slight flush in his upper palm, the tan broadness of the top, covered with thin black hairs, roughened with its share of shiny burns. It became almost grotesque to him, too big, too clumsy, too much like his father's hand- a mechanic's hand- his fingernails coarsely edged but short.

His hands were probably smooth and pale and soft, with little paper cut scars from when he read those long, complex novels of his. Yeah, women probably swooned over his hands.

He sighed as he completed the circular motions, over and over, routing the same course it had taken every day for eleven years. It was tiring, thinking of those thousands of nights spent with his palm pressed to the same rag- moving mindlessly until his eyes began to droop, or the counter stopped feeling as he imagined Kirk's hair did- or Lorelai came in and made the counter sticky again with the shallow round puddles her coffee cup always left, by which time he'd forget about cleaning and just stare at her retreating back- moving away from him, from her coffee, from that sweet lingering smell she always left when she'd just showered. That had become almost routine, too- as sure as the firmness of the counter beneath his fingertips and the low gurgle of the coffee maker behind him. But she always returned the next morning, unless they'd shouted at each other; then it took awhile. Eventually, always, she came back.

That was a more welcome reality.

He peered into the cloudless dark outside and wondered- unwillingly- what they were doing. Their date had started at seven; it was now nine thirty, the time the 24-hour grocery store closed, when the many Taylor's of Stars Hollow were retreating into sleep. They were probably- his hand stopped abruptly and clenched when he thought about this- having sex. Or desert. Or both. Shuddering, he moved on to one of the tables near the door.

But why did he care?

Because of what Rachel said.

It was the annoying¸ insistent, genuine voice in his head that, despite mental flogging, refused to shut up. It had existed before what Rachel said, but now it had ammo rather than a vague flickering circumstance, and he could barely drown it out with the ever-present baseball standings in his mind he'd built up just for a problem like this. The Angels are up. Red Sox are losing. Yankees are out, thank god.

But you went to her house. It was getting wise-crack-y and cocky; it had the tone of a real smart-ass. Great, now he was going insane.

To get Bert, he maintained, irritated.

I think it was more than that.

He had a few stubborn insults for it (many including profanity), and he used them, but the voice had done its job. Hot, angry, desperate dread was crawling over his skin like diseased water- pooling in his pores, choking him, invading his sinuses. He tried to wave it away, and kept his expression stoic to fool his eyes glancing in his reflection in the window. That's all you're doing; fooling yourself.

He dropped his rag and slumped in his chair and kicked at the seat next to him, using half his strength because all of it would be too much- like admitting it. He wasn't admitting it. He wasn't giving himself up to it. He asked the voice to define it, and the one swooshing feeling that overcame his mind was the sweet, simple bliss as he'd leaned in to kiss when Lorelai had come over to help him pick out paint samples (somehow he'd blocked that moment out)- and then the much more complex disappointment and anger when it hadn't happened- when, by some twist of destiny or fate or all that crap, the moment had changed. Had been obliterated. Lost. And then he found himself shaking in his chair because of it- but the face in his reflection looked still. Still but tattered, if that were possible.

He whisked around as he heard frantic tapping on the door. He didn't bother pointing out the 'Closed' sign- he knew who it was, though he wasn't sure if he should be glad or depressed.

Be both.

"You really need to lose a few hammers, buddy," she said by way of greeting, rushing in and pointing at the toolbox on the sidewalk. "It weighs, like, five million tons."

"Eighteen adult killer whales don't weigh five million tons," he grumbled, and she rolled her eyes.

"I had to take it in the jeep after discovering my five-hour-a-day weight training hasn't been paying off. You can imagine what a blow to my ego that was. And Rory's. She's always wanted to meet Arnold Schwarzenegger, and now, what do I tell the kid? Her dreams, crushed. My abnormally large muscles, useless. And all because of you. I would go emo but excessive eyeliner freaks me out."

She pouted, and he smirked painfully. "I never thought a small metal box would be the one to break you." His heart was thudding, and it was hurting his skull.

"Oh, it's always the inanimate things that get me in the end." She smiled, but looked distracted.

"So I'm going to-" he motioned toward where Bert was next to her car.

"Oh, oh, right." She sidestepped out of his way and whisked around as Luke shuffled outside.

He could feel her soft blue eyes on his back, watching him bend down, watching his muscles strain slightly through his flannel as he lifted Bert- he wasn't sure if she was watching for the same reason he might watch her, and still he was uncertain whether he liked the attention. His feelings bounced from anger to subdued joy like a broken pendulum, inconsistent with the steadiness of his heartbeats, lingering on one side longer, then the other shorter until he was safely back inside.

Lorelai gasped at Bert in his hands, his rough, large hands. "Are you Superman? Are you Wonder Woman? The only sensible answers to these questions, folks, is no. And yet…" she gestured toward his still-standing figure.

"It's not that heavy."

"Are you implying that I'm weak?" She asked, in mock outrage.

"I'm implying that this-"

"Bert-"

"Fine, Bert… Is not that heavy."

"For the sake of my own sanity I'm not going to spar with you on this."

"Thank god." His mouth twisted into a familiar setting- a wry smile- though he would have to analyze it to decide whether it was genuine. A clock ticked, a townsperson walked by, whistling, and silence settled on them. It was as heavy and sudden as the dread, but far more pleasant. From here, at least, he was at arm's length and comfortable.

Tell her.

His feet shifted, he looked down on his grotesque hands, he scratched at his arm.

Coward.

She opened her mouth to speak, and faltered, looking confused at the expressions flickering over Luke's face. Luke had expressions? Apparently.

Damn it, just-

"So Luke, I think I've gotta go. You know, console Rory."

"Right. Yeah. You should leave." He almost laughed to himself, in a self-deprecating way, scuffing his shoes together and wringing his hands out, looking up at her eyes. His body burning and pushing and resisting all at the same time, the voice urging, his brain stubborn. It was exhausting, all of this resistance.

"So…" she paused, broke eye contact. "Bye, Superman."

He noticed the rag near her feet and bent to pick it up. It was the only thing he could do to prevent himself from ramming his fist through the window.

"Yeah. Bye, Lorelai."

She smiled at him and left him to stare at her retreating back and then her retreating car, the exhaust blurring his vision but he could still see her hair, from the back, bouncing with every slight hop. He smelled her still- her shampoo, apple, winding up his nose and alighting his senses. It clung to his brain like smoke to cloth, and left him with the rag limp in his grasp.

She'd be back tomorrow; he'd be here tomorrow, serving her coffee. He was her coffee man.

She was the voice in his head, the pressure in his chest, the back he watched walking away.