The first line is based loosely on a line from Snow Patrol's Open Your Eyes. Excellent song.

Disclaimer: I own Lie to Me and everything to do with it. Or is that a lie?

Open Your Eyes

"Tell me when you decide to open your eyes."

He turns the words over, his mouth feeling as dry as it had earlier, when he first heard her utter them.

"Tell me when you decide to open your eyes."

He'd stood there, motionless, mouth slightly agape; what response could he give? What response did she want him to give? Was he even supposed to say anything? Or stay silent, until the moment when he was ready to abide by her request?

"Tell me when you decide to open your eyes."

He thinks back to the conversation that preceded that moment. He tries to remember what they were talking about, but his mind has chosen to remember other details instead. The peacock blue shade of her dress; the delicate silver pendant bouncing softly against her skin as she moved; the sweet smell of her perfume – jasmine, he thinks, and something else.

They'd been talking about the future. About where they saw themselves in ten years' time. At least, he had. She'd been reluctant to participate. He remembers her making a joke; "Ten years ago if you'd asked me, I'd never have said I would be working here, with you. Do you think I want to be making those kind of predictions?"

He'd swapped her good-humoured sarcasm for something he hoped was a little closer to the truth. "You'd never have said that because you never thought you could get so lucky." He remembers winking, but the words that came next are staying just out of reach, for now. He inhales and can smell her perfume, even though she's no longer here; he closes his eyes and sees the colour of her dress, how it compliments her eyes; but when he tries to hear her speak her next words, it's gone.

He does remember telling her she'll probably be married again in ten years; he made a joke of it, too, because it was too painful to discuss with any real honesty. He'd made wild guesses; "a senator. No, a brain surgeon. No, an astronaut." She'd laughed, and shaken her head, and said that she'd never date any of those people. He can't remember the exact words, but he knows he told her she'd find someone else to love. "It'll certainly be easy for you to find someone else to love you," he'd told her, and now he cringes at the brutal honesty he displayed in that moment. Did he have to be so open with her, then? Did he have to display his raw feelings like that?

The rest is jumbled. There's her perfume, there's the peacock blue dress, there's the gentle thud of her pendant because she's moving... He closes his eyes and sees it all, but there are no words. There's a gentle hum, like background conversation; he recognises his voice, and hers, but they might as well be speaking underwater – he can't understand a word.

Then he hears it again, with perfect clarity, her melodious voice wrapping itself perfectly around the words he has, by now, memorised. "Tell me when you decide to open your eyes."

Open his eyes and see what? Her? Her future? She won't marry a senator; he knows that. She'll find someone to love, though; he does know that.

He sits back with a frustrated sigh, runs his hands along his stubbled jaw, wishes he could rewind time to the moment she swept out of his office, so that he could grab her wrist and pull her back, and ask her to tell him what the hell she meant.

But he knows she wouldn't have. She told him to tell her when he'd opened his eyes; clearly, she wasn't going to spell whatever it was he was supposed to see out for him. It's something he has to see for himself. But what?

It's then that he catches sight of the photo. It sits on his desk; it has done for almost two years, since it was taken. Emily took it one Christmas; he can see the fairy lights in the background, can remember the smell of eggnog and cinnamon wafting through the air. His arm is around Gillian, they're both laughing; he's looked at it a thousand times. But now, he looks. He really looks. She's looking at him; he has a vague memory that he'd just said something which had made them both laugh. He's looking at the camera, at his daughter clicking away and saving that image forever, but she's not. She's looking at him.

And now he sees.

The look on her face, the light in her eyes, the ease of her smile; he sees it a hundred times, a montage of images in his mind, all carrying one clear message.

Part of him thinks How could I have missed it? while another part is still dumbfounded by its incredulity – she can't! Surely – surely that can't be what she wanted him to open his eyes and see?

He reaches for the photo, traces his finger lightly over her image in the frame. Lovely, beautiful, perfect Gillian – her eyes wide open, while his might as well have been glued shut. How long, he wonders, have I been missing this?

He stands, the photo still in his hands, mulling over her words again.

"Tell me when you decide to open your eyes."

Clumsily he replaces the frame on the desk, abandons his office without even taking his jacket, and within minutes is in his car.


She opens the door, her eyes widening slightly as she sees him there. There's a quick intake of breath before she smiles gently and raises an eyebrow as she asks calmly, "Can I help you, Cal?"

"I've opened my eyes," he says simply, and watches the recognition wash over her face.

"You have?" she asks, and he can see her lingering doubt and reservation; has he really opened his eyes, the way I want him to? Are we really talking about the same thing?

"Yes, I have," he replies, trying to allay her worries and answer the questions she hasn't even spoken aloud. "Want me to prove it?"

She smiles, bites her lip lightly; he sees a glimmer of shyness amongst a multitude of other emotions – excitement, hope, relief, happiness. Love.

"Is that a yes?" he says, gesturing to her face, and she nods, her smile widening a little.

He steps closer to her, places his hands on her shoulders, then trails one up slowly, tracing a path up her neck to cup her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed at his touch; he smiles as he gently runs his thumb against her soft skin. She still smells of jasmine. "Gillian," he whispers, "open your eyes."

She lets out a soft laugh, and her eyes open to lock on his. She swallows at the intensity of his gaze, at the expression on his face that she was starting to think she'd never get to see. "I'm sorry it took me so long to see," he murmurs, moving so his lips are millimetres from hers. "But now I see, Gill. I see everything. I see us; I see you. And you are more beautiful than ever."

She loops her arms around his neck, stepping into his embrace. The hand that was on her shoulder falls to her hip. He keeps his eyes on hers as he closes the small distance between them, touching his lips to hers.

They both close their eyes as the kiss deepens, but he can still see her. He could go blind tomorrow and always be able to see her in his mind. She may be wearing pink now, not peacock blue, and the silver pendant has become a small, gold heart, but she still smells of jasmine, and she's still devastatingly beautiful, and she's still his Gillian. She's in his arms, she's in his heart – and he silently thanks her for demanding he open his eyes and look at her properly, for the first time.

What she feels for him – the miracle that she could actually love him, the way he's always loved her – is many things. Most importantly, he knows, it's something he'll never close his eyes to again.