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: don't own it. Sigh. Story title courtesy of Snow Patrol, chapter title belongs to Band of Horses, my new favorite band (of course you care).

A/N: So…me having a little trouble with third chapter of Lost, Without a Doubt + nonstop listen to Band of Horses/Snow Patrol/the Bravery while staring at my blank computer screen equals this.

Enjoy!

I could sleep

When I lived alone

Is there a ghost in my house?

You can't sleep.

You want to blame him (but how can you blame him?); you feel him here, think of him here ("What are you doing? This can't be what you want."). You imagine him here, telling you all of the things that you've heard him say before but can't seem to get enough of hearing, although you're still not sure why it is that you're thinking of him, tonight, of all nights.

(God, what a great liar you've become.)

You'd trained yourself, conditioned yourself to stop thinking of him, to stop using him as your lullaby for sleep. It's wrong and it's strange, especially with Logan lying right here beside you. It's almost as bad as cheating, you think (although face it, Gilmore, you've done worse).

You haven't stopped thinking about that conversation, in the room that should have never been yours, in a house you were never destined to live in, his accomplishment and all the potential you knew he had laying in your lap in the form of your (both his and yours) greatest treasure.

(Although, if you're honest, you haven't really stopped thinking about him since the night you met.)

In good times and bad, Jess Mariano has never been someone you can just ignore.

The decision to see him is decided long before the Costa Rica Stint (you just don't realize—or admit it— until later). His invitation to Truncheon's open house only provides an excuse, and Logan's absence opens the door for opportunity. The address is already ingrained into your memory by the time you leave Connecticut, and you know the directions so well, driving to Philadelphia almost feels like going home.

Truncheon is a sight to see (you can't believe he did all this—well, actually you can) and his book is the second thing your eyes settle on.

He is the first. (And you can't help but give him a little smile)

Your fingers, nimble and searching, grip the edge of the blanket pulled up to your chin, a protection as artificial as the arm slung across your waist. It's quiet, all too quiet, and the only sound in your ears is of Logan's breathing, the echo of his every inhale and exhale. His breath tickles the back of your neck and you shiver, but it's more of a physiological thing - cause and effect; your mind is somewhere else. The room isn't cold but he clings to you, an unsettling first, and you make no move to untangle yourself from him.

You figure, you owe him that much.

It doesn't take long for you to settle back into your old routine of banter and witticisms. It's all too easy, comfortable, getting to know each other again. You (almost) wish that's all this comes down to, just two old friends catching up on old times.

But, you know the two of you could never be that simple.

He doesn't ask why you came here and you don't offer up any explanations. You only talk about the lighter things, and the "L" word is not one of them.

In a bold move, you rest your head on his shoulder. If he is surprised by your forwardness, he hides it well. (Then again, that's always been a talent of his.)

He is, tentative, hesitant. "Rory…"

"Jess." You love the way he says your name, love the way his fits perfectly on your tongue. (Always have.)

You lean forward, knowing but not caring about what closing the space between the two of you could mean: solid proof that you are not the same girl he's used to—at least, not completely.

You wonder if he can feel that in your kiss, if he can sense it in the hurried way you pull him towards you, lifting his shirt while trying to unbutton your own. You think he's starting to see the difference—he takes a break from fevered kisses and eager hands to look at you—but you try (so damned hard) not to let him see it but suddenly his lips are gone and you are cold and he's pulling away, putting himself at a safe distance: far away from you.

There is a difference, and you know he can't ignore it.

Phantom fingers trail lightly, hesitantly, along your hip. You roll over, eyes closed, thinking of olive skinned hands, assertive but gentle; truthful brown eyes that know you, would never look at you like less than you are; soft, soft hair, a safe haven you've come to know well. A chill runs over you. Eyes open, you are hit with a harsh reality.

(Wishful thinking.)

Ok so, I hope it made sense. I wanted to show that even though Jess is in love with Rory he's not so desperate to be with her when she's clearly not in the best state of mind. At least I think he wouldn't.

Anyways, wrote this on a whim, edited towards the end of a 12 AM coffee buzz, but it has potential. Maybe. I think. Does it? (Hint, hint, nudge, nudge, awkward wink) Review, please.