AN: Apparently I'll always want to write post-Limey stories. This is set the night after that episode ends.

Open Your Eyes

He dreams in black and white. Stolen photographs of moments he wasn't present for conceived by his imagination alone; shots that belong in frames, elegant and fierce, hauntingly beautiful. There's no color; only the long, dark length of her body; graceful curves contrasted against the flash of diamonds in her ears, the soft pieces of hair that frame her face. And her eyes, always seeking his; light against the shadows that consume him.

He dreams of dancing. One hand on the small of her back, the other laced with hers. Her skin is warm underneath his touch; and the desire to slide his hand higher, run his fingers up and along the curve of her spine, burns within him. There's the faintest sound of music as she wraps her arm around his neck and whispers against his cheek. He never wants to let her go.

They move across the room to a song of their own, flawlessly in sync. He spins her in his arms, dips her body down gently, and pulls it back against him, reveling in the sharp intake of her breath. He watches as she bites at her lip, the way her face seems to glow in the light; and she tilts her head down for a moment before meeting his eyes again. When she does, there's the shyness he's seen more and more lately. It's a mask for something deeper, something he can't quite put words to, but he knows it's a startling contradiction to all the things he's been telling himself for weeks now.

His body is a war within itself with every touch, every breath she breathes against him. He fights the urge to pull her closer, tangle his hands in her hair, loosen it until it tumbles down in waves, free against her shoulders. He longs to press his mouth to her bare skin, trail his lips across the line of her jaw until she's gasping his name. He's losing the will to hold himself back with every second that passes, drowning in a need so strong he can't deny it any longer. He is hers completely.

But she is not his.

And these are not his memories.

The music stops, transitions before it starts again, and suddenly he's looking from the outside in. Watching her glide across the room in the detective's arms instead. His hands ache with the emptiness of not holding her. His throat clenches when she laughs at Colin Hunt, smiles the smile that's always been reserved for him alone. It's agonizing in a way he's only felt since the day he overheard her confession. The way she doesn't love him back. That no matter how far he believed they'd come, no matter how many unspoken promises they've made, she will never belong to him, never feel the depth of this emotion between them. It stabs him like a knife to his chest, sucks the air from his lungs, and he's suffocating with it.

He wakes with a gasp, drenched in sweat as he claws at empty sheets. His heart is racing as he struggles to sit up, to rest his head back against the headboard of his bed. He forces himself to breathe deeply, squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to erase the images of his dream. But it doesn't work. He's dizzy with it, overwhelmed completely. His mother was right all along. Love isn't a switch. And Kate Beckett isn't just another girl. She's everything.

And nothing about this is right.

He can't erase the thought of her with someone else; visions of the British detective overtake his mind, make his stomach hollow out as the room continues to spin around him. He pictures them coming back to her apartment, tipsy and smiling. He sees the detective's hands making their way over her body, crowding her into the bedroom and laying her down against the bed he's never even seen. And all at once he has to know. Has to make sure she's alone. It's selfish and hypocritical; unfair to her in a way that he can't even begin to defend. But isn't everything he's done lately been that way?

It's 10:37 p.m. when he steps into jeans and sneakers, shrugs on his jacket. Not even all that late but he'd been exhausted, crawled immediately into his bed after another pointless date with Jacinda. He just didn't want to think anymore, couldn't take another night of drinking himself into oblivion like so many others lately. But he also couldn't spend another ounce of strength pretending he was fine. A lot of good sleep did him though…

In the back of his mind he knows this a terrible idea. He doesn't have a plan, hasn't got a clue what he'd do if he saw Kate with someone. Has no right to do anything at all after the way he's acted. But he moves without thought, guided only be an irrepressible need to see her, to be sure of something he can't quite figure out.

The air is cold as he exits his building; wind whipping against his ears on his way to her apartment. He never walks this many blocks but he thinks he might go crazy if he's forced to sit still for any longer. The night is young for so many people in New York, only just beginning. It's one of the things he's always loved about the city. Writing keeps him up to all hours and there's a certain comfort in knowing that he's not alone. That somewhere nearby there are people out having a good time, creating their stories as he weaves his own, fingers typing out a steady rhythm against the keys. He passes by couple walking their dog, holding hands and laughing as the lab jumps and pulls at its leash. For a moment he finds himself slowing down to watch, conceiving their history in his mind, and wishing life could be that simple. As if anything could ever be that simple between he and Kate. He shoves his hands in his pockets and moves along quicker.

Before he knows it he's at her place, standing on a street corner looking up toward a darkened window.

He reaches for his phone, stares at her contact picture for what feels like infinity, his fingers itching to press the call button. For the hundredth time that night, he wonders what she's doing, whether she's already in bed, whether she's out. He doesn't see her cruiser on the street but sometimes she has to park a few blocks away. Suddenly, he feels like a fool for ever coming, for thinking there was something to gain from this venture.

And then he sees her.

His breath catches for a second as she makes her way down the sidewalk, loose curls spilling over the jacket wrapped around her. The necklace she usually keeps underneath her shirt is pulled free and she's playing with the ring; little turns of it with her fingers. She's still wearing the soft, white turtleneck from work today, and he deduces that this is her first trip home since morning.

He can see the way her eyes track her surroundings, ever the detective, and he steps back out of view, watches as she fumbles for her keys. The thought strikes him that she looks sad. He doesn't know how he knows that, how there's any way realistically he could tell in the darkness of the night, but somehow he knows.

He's spent four years observing her, cataloging her countless expressions and this is one of the ones that affects him the most. It's been that way since the day he began writing her story, when he realized how much depth there was to her, hidden underneath the sharp wit and roll of her eyes. She keeps this look carefully guarded but he's always seen it. And the need to wash it away, to comfort her and ease the pain, consumes him now more than ever.

But he won't. Not tonight, when nothing has changed.

Minutes pass and he sees the light in her apartment flicker on, watches her shadow through the curtains before it disappears again. Everything in him aches to follow her inside. To apologize for being the words he's said and didn't mean. For the woman who means nothing that he's flaunted before her for a week now.

But he can't. He's spent four years with her, four years of building toward something that made him believe in magic, that the possibilities were endless, only to realize it was false.

She doesn't love him.

He stands alone on the sidewalk watching her light for a long time.

She's alone too.

Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think.