Summary: Can Luke get Grace to open up and share her feelings? Does Grace want to share her feelings?

A/N: Unfortunately for me, I do not own Joan of Arcadia, or any of the characters. Some of the scenes you may recognize from the TV show, but the overall plotline is mine. Yes, I am well aware that if anything of this sort happened actually in the show, they would have showed it. But this is my imagination – just me taking a situation and typing out what I'd like to see.

This is my first JoA fic... so please, r&r.

To Diminished-9th for the inspiration! (By the way, check out her fic "Beneath the Surface, Above the Core" – excellent reading.) I've stolen a couple of her lines in this fic. Kudos to whoever spots them!

His eyes.

Oh, holy cow, his eyes. They looked up at me from where they sat at our hiding spot, surrounded by a pale face that'd seen a computer more than the sun. Crowned by the sandy blonde hair that was the minority in the Girardi family, his eyes were filled with deep concern. I hated it when people were worried about me. Hated the fact that he cared.

I mean, who needed Alateen? Weren't the people there just a bunch of whining idiots who couldn't take care of their own problems? Honestly, I've been doing fine for who knows how long... why did all of the sudden Luke seem to think that I needed a bunch of drooling twits greeting me in unison "Hi Grace..."? I was so not going there. At all.

I shook my head. "Dude, have you been inhaling the formaldehyde? There's no way I'm doing this."

"Go to one meeting." He looked really determined now. I'd never seen such a mix of compassion and fire in one person. So very kissable. But kissable or no, there was no way I was going to a meeting to talk about my feelings.

"I've been through it all, Girardi. There is nothing new they can tell me."

"You've been through it by yourself. It doesn't have to be that way anymore."

Why would I want it any differently? Obviously I was doing ok the way I was. I didn't need to uproot my entire way of thinking just for the "power of healing". I didn't even know I was wounded. It was like having surgery for cancer that wasn't there. Completely unnecessary.

I stalked back home, my head whirling with different thoughts, all of them including Luke. Had I made a mistake in telling him? That was the question foremost in my head. If there was anything I hated, I hated people simpering after me, worrying and trying to act all concerned.

Part of me wished I'd talked with him. Telling him everything, the long nights, the fighting, the vomit all over the floor. Part of me wished that I hadn't just left him – he deserved more than I was giving him. But, realistically speaking, I couldn't give him that. I wasn't a lovey-dovey person.

Oh, sure, I could be if I really tried. But it wasn't me. I don't like being not me.

I opened the door with my key. I regretted it immediately. A stench like no other greeted my nose that made me want to vomit and run out of the house. But a stench like that could only mean one thing: Mother.

I raced around the house, trying to find where she had most likely fallen and thrown up. Panic filled my veins like nothing else. I couldn't find her. Where could she be? It's not like my house was that big. White, yes, but not big.

I finally found her. She was in the broom closet. Why, I don't know, but I stopped asking myself why a long time ago. I felt for her pulse – it was there, luckily, but I didn't know how many of the thousands of bottles around the house had been drunk that day.

Someone knocked on the door.

Oh, blast. It had to be just now? When I was about to run for the cordless and call 911? I sighed, and sprinted for the door, skidding on my stocking feet as I reached the door.

Blast.

Luke was there, standing, holding a card of some sort and looking awfully nervous. His eyes dodged around, looking for something to focus on.

Blast. His eyes.

Snapping to, I slammed open the door. He looked startled.

"Can't talk now, Girardi. Come back later." I started to close the door, when he stuck his hand out to hinder the door.

"Grace..." he looked uncertain. "I know, it's not like you're secret's going to be out any more than it already is."

I started. "What do you mean by that...?" I almost yelled. But now was not the time to have a fight with my... boyfriend... I needed to get that phone and call fast. Who knew how long she'd been lying there?

"NOT NOW GIRARDI." I stated firmly, slamming the door successfully this time.

I ran back to my mother, and felt for a pulse again. It was still there. I took the cordless in my hand, and dialed 9-1-1. I'd hoped that I never had to do that.

"911 Emergency Dispatch. Please state your emergency."

I went through the whole emergency and location deal. Ignoring the vomit, I knelt next to my mother and held her hand. Dispatch had given them an ETA of about 5 minutes. I hoped that my heart wouldn't beat out of my chest before then.

A door opened.

Had perhaps, by some miracle, my father come home early? Would he be forced to see what his ignorance and workaholic nature had done to our family? I peeked around the corner, expecting to see the old man's shoes being slipped off and a coat being hung up.

It was those pair of eyes.

Luke's eyes met mine. He couldn't see my mother; he could only see me kneeling. I got up, and went over to him.

"Nice place..." he said.

"Girardi. Do you not pay attention?" Panic and fear was seeping through my skull. I opened the door and tried to push him out, with no avail. "Now is most definitely not a good time."

He was almost wordless. "I don't know. Maybe. I didn't realize that it was against the law for me to worry about you. Considering I'm your boyfriend."

I was shocked. He'd said the b-word. Aloud. I'd said it plenty of times in my head, but this was different. He'd said it aloud. Not exactly my idea of how this would play out, but if he wanted to go there, he'd have to wait. The ambulance was going to be there soon, and I was not having him around for this.

Too late.

EMT's ran through the open door. I pointed half heartedly where a hand stuck out from around the corner. I didn't dare look Luke in the eye.

"There... she's there. I don't know how much she drank."

One of the EMT's nodded in my direction and went and knelt down by her. Another one steered me outside. "Go get in the ambulance... we'll have her there in a minute. Her detox is gonna be really bad... if..."

I didn't want to hear it. I walked out to the street, and started to get into the ambulance.

Luke grabbed my shoe before I could fully get in. Blast. I'd forgotten that he was there.

"What happened, Grace?"

I turned and looked at him. Big mistake.

He was so full of concern and his eyes seemed deeper. But love poems and simpering from him would have to come later. I was not going to have him around to see me falling apart at the hospital, trying to reach my dad. I had done it on my own for long enough. I didn't need any more help.

"Later, Girardi."

He attempted to climb into the ambulance, his feet and hands not built for climbing. It was rather cute. He looked up at me with disdain.

"A little help, Grace?"

"No one ever said you were welcome to come, Girardi."

He stumbled backwards like the car was suddenly made of the stuff from the sun. He looked wounded. Who was I kidding, he was wounded. But I wasn't ready to have him see me like I would be in a few short hours.

"Please?" he asked, his hands wrapped around my ankle again. My thoughts shot back to that day in PE when he'd been fondling my ankles. His touch entranced me, caught me off guard. My muscles stopped, I couldn't move. I couldn't think. It was like I was stuck in one of those voids that he was always going on about. Like, where time supposedly stops...

Those eyes.

I held out my hand.

He climbed in.

I was in for one heck of a week.