Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: not mine. Chapter title belongs to The Killers; story title is Snow Patrol's.

A/N: So, I guess I kinda lied. :) Not intentionally...this just snuck up on me. So, here's the ACTUAL last chapter; an epilogue, of sorts. Enjoy.

No it doesn't even matter don't you worry what it's all about
We hope you enjoyed your stay
It's good to have you with us, even if it's just for the day
We hope you enjoyed your stay

Outside the sun is shining, seems like heaven ain't far away
It's good to have you with us
Even if it's just for the day.

Sometime in the middle of the night, his hand comes to rest on the bare skin at the curve of your hip. It calms you, stops the restless tossing and turning that you've grown so fond of lately.

"Go back to sleep," he orders groggily. His eyes are still closed but he inches you closer, using his arm wrapped around your waist to rest your back against his chest, his nose nuzzling the dip where your throats and shoulder come to meet.

"Sorry."

He tightens the grip around your waist and you turn so that you can face him. The position is awkward, but ultimately worth it, you figure. "What did we say about the apologizing too much especially when it's unnecessary thing?"

"Right. I forgot. Sorr—" You smile through the kiss you press to his lips when he opens his eyes. "Go back to sleep."

"You first."

Morning comes faster than you expected. As always, he is awake before you.

After three gulps of coffee, you take a deep breath and hold it down somewhere in your chest. You're trying to go for casual, aloof, but you have never really been able to pull that off successfully. ("You're an open book," he said once.) "So, uh, can I— do you... need your car today for anything important?"

"No." He's curious, you can tell, but he won't bite unless you feed him the line.

"Okay. Well…good."

"I'm guessing you…need to borrow it?"

"That would be nice. Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Did you want me to say 'no'?"

"No, 'okay' is fine. You're not—you're not curious about where I'm going?"

He shrugs. "You'll tell me eventually."

You can't help but smile at that. "Yeah."

"I'm going to need a list." This is how Andréa greets you at your next scheduled meeting— sans Logan, of course. ("Things go smoother that way," she assured you.)

"A list?"

"Yes. A list," she repeats impatiently. Andréa is not the kind of person to waste time on simple things like explanations. "Of potential guests."

"Potential guests?"

"You know," Andrea mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose, "of people you want to invite. To the rehearsal dinner. And if that goes well, then to the wedding. Think of it as a dry run."

You know she's aggravated with having to repeat herself; time is money and she doesn't have the kind of time to go over and repeat simple instructions. You try to make this whole thing easier for her. "I don't, uh…" It takes you all of thirty seconds to write down the names of the people who will actually show up. Who aren't still (justifiably) pissed by the way you've treated them.

Andréa frowns at the piece of ripped up napkin you thrust in her direction. "Is that it?"

"That's it."

This time, when you see the sign you keep on going— no stopping to reacquaint yourself with its etchings, or the curve of the dirt road. This time when you pull into the driveway that leads up to your home, you don't feel the need to justify anything. You feel at peace.

(And maybe just a little nervous.)

You pause on the steps to press your shaking hand over your chest in a vain attempt to calm your pounding heart. You're thankful, that at least for today, Babette hasn't decided to play I Spy from her front porch.

Your raise your hands to knock on the door, but you're saved from doing so when it opens. Shock freezes you when you find yourself staring at your mother. Your oddly round mother.

"You—you're—"

You're fumbling, trying to figure out why it's so hard for you to say this word.

"Huge? I know." She's falling back on her jovial humor, but you can tell she is just as surprised to see you as you are by her…condition.

Pregnant. You want to be angry, want to yell at her for keeping this from you but you realize just as soon as you open your mouth that you don't have the right. You don't get to shut her out and expect her to still try to connect to you, keep you informed.

Your anger dies with a meek little thud and you close your mouth.

"So, are you still…in Philadelphia? With Jess?"

"Yeah," you say. You don't ask how she knows, you were kind of depending on Luke's slight tendency to blab, your cowardice keeping you from bridging the gap yourself.

You stare at the floor before bringing your gaze to your mother's face. In spite of everything, she still seems happy to see you.

You think you might cry.

"Mom, I—" You don't know which words are the right ones to say, although it doesn't really matter since you've never really been able to communicate while crying hysterically. You hope she's still fluent in translating the meaning behind tight embraces.

"I know."

(She is.)

fin.