A/N: I just wanted to say that for any of you that are following my other story, "Take the Long Way Home," rest assured I am still actively writing that one. It's not on hold at all. The idea for this fic simply cropped up out of the blue, and refused to leave me alone until I wrote it down. So... I did. :)

This one will be 4 chapters in length, and it's told entirely from Cal's point of view. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

He's dreamt about it no fewer than three thousand times. The beginning, you know? The way they'll finally… evolve… past 'friends' and into 'lovers,' in the span of a single breath. It's long been his favorite type of fantasy. And while the scenario isn't always the same, it does tend to carry a bit of routine: evening hours, perfect timing, and an all-consuming desire to finally, finally, stop dancing around the inevitable and just embrace it, head on. His office, her living room, in a bed, on the floor – he never quite 'sees' the location, but he doesn't really need to, either. Because that part isn't important. Gillian is. And he can see her with perfect clarity.

In his mind's eye, it has always seemed like such an easy step to take. Nerves and risk are both non-existent, each and every time. And in that world, he instinctively knows exactly how to please her; what places make her moan, and which ones make her pull fistfuls of his hair in eager, grasping palms, as her thighs tremble beneath him and she whimpers his name.

In his mind's eye, there is never a chase. Never any chance of refusal. No awkward hesitations, or first-time fumbling, or anything complicated at all, because that version of Cal knows exactly what he wants. And so does Gillian. Mostly because their fantasy-selves are tired of waiting, tired of denying the inevitable, and so goddamn ready to take this particular step, that when it finally happens… it's easy.

All of it.

Two… three… four… call him arrogant if you must, but his imagination has always known what to do – how to trigger multiple releases that make her writhe and moan. Stereotypical, right? But he can't seem to help himself. In that world, he is well-versed in everything "Gillian," and is always eager to show her what he can do. All the ways he can please her. All the ways he intends to please her, if given enough time.

(And in his mind's eye, there is always enough time.)

His dreams of her have long been extremely detailed. They are all powerfully erotic, and the ease with which their bodies crash together never fails to leave him gasping in his empty bed. In that world – in his fantasy – it's easy to get lost in her; to blur the boundaries between the place where he ends and she begins. And it's easy to control his response to the stimuli – to drive harder, faster, longer, unbothered by the strain in his thighs or the ache in his groin, or how every inch of her welcoming heat makes him crave release even more.

Actually, on second thought? Maybe he doesn't have a favorite type of fantasy.

Maybe all of them are his favorites.

Their sexual relationship would be fantastic – of that much, he is absolutely certain. Loving her in that way would be easy, and the addiction to it would be all-consuming and immediate. Regrets would be non-existent, and the toughest question they'd need to answer in the bliss of afterglow would be why in bloody hell they waited so long to cross the threshold.

But.

In his conscious thoughts… in those that exist outside their imaginary sex life… he can't decide if 'easy' is what he wants. After all, Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster have never had that type of relationship. The mere idea of it feels foreign to him.

Parts of it?

Alright, alright – he'll admit that yes, parts of their relationship could be considered 'easy.' Some very important parts, as a matter of fact. Like the way he's never felt pressured to fill silences around her; to talk and talk and talk, just to avoid the awkward tension that is born during quiet moments. Because with Gillian, he's always loved the quiet moments. He's always thought of them as tiny little slices of time, in which he can study her face, or her hands, or the way sunlight and emotion compliment the color of her eyes and the wisp of freckles on her cheekbones.

And he thinks it's worth noting that with Gillian, there has never been any awkward tension during quiet moments, because there has never been any awkward tension at all. Ever. Not even from day one, when he behaved like a bit of a boor, and she refused to be intimidated by his unconventional approach to adult conversation. Instead, she'd been genuine and welcoming… hadn't behaved like someone who was being paid to indulge him… and he'd felt a little flicker of something start worm its way into the stubborn cackles of his defensive heart, and shake the walls that surrounded it.

Love at first sight?

No, not really. His inter-romantic has never gone quite that far.

But he has always felt it, you know? Even from day one. The 'thing' – the energy that pulses between them makes him feel hot and cold and safe and vulnerable, all at the same time. Quite a talent, that. Not many people have ever been able to affect him so quickly.

(Or so deeply.)

Their banter comes easily, too. Gillian has always known when to take him with a grain of salt, and when to volley back at him – to push him outside his comfort zone, for the sake of his sanity as well as hers. She has never seemed to mind it when he swears, and she's even been known to toss around a few rounds of "plonker" or "wanker" herself, on occasion. And bloody hell does he enjoy sharing scotch with her. The good stuff, too. No expense spared. She's always been worth it.

Thanks to him, she now knows how to throw a proper punch, how to change a flat tire, and how to dance the waltz. And in return, he now knows how to swear in French, how to shoot a proper layup, and how she likes to be kissed. And yes, those things had been easy to learn, too. Especially the kissing. While he's unlikely to ever admit it aloud, the thrill of her tongue darting past his lips had nearly left him spent and panting, right there on that porn director's floor.

Gillian gives brilliant hugs, has a wicked sense of humor, and knows how to handle herself in almost any situation. She is strong, gentle, tough, feminine – just as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside – and she is still so bloody loyal that it makes his head spin. Almost ten years together, and his madness still hasn't driven her away.

But in many ways, 'easy' has never been their trademark.

When he fell in love with Gillian, she was still in love with someone else. She was still married to someone else, even. And that part damn near killed him.

For years, he watched her struggle to realize the dream of motherhood… only to have it yanked from her grasp after a mere fifty-seven days. And he gladly let her cry on his shoulder when her husband – a man who didn't even deserve to have her in his life at all, much less in his bed – cast the stones of blame, guilt, and self-destruction from every possible angle.

Easy?

Not even close.

That portion of their past was fraught with pain. Bittersweet memories that always reminded him how far they'd come, how much they'd learned from one another, and how lucky they've been to know the type of trust that many other couples never seem to find.

(Yes, 'couples.' That wasn't a slip of the tongue.)

Now. He's never admitted this next bit to anyone but himself, but yes, he has always assumed that "their time" would someday come. His and Gillian's. That once all the distractions were finally gone… once the moment was right… once there was nothing standing in their way anymore… things would click. A touch would linger, or the aim of a side-of-the-mouth kiss would falter – something, anything, would break the ice in which their "line" had been frozen, thereby allowing fate to take over.

But that word, yeah? 'Assume.' There's a reason it comes with such a nasty reputation.

Indulge him a small confession?

He knows that Dave "Captain America" Atherton (aka Marco, aka 'Rat Bastard Who'd Swept Foster off Her Feet') had been, arguably, exactly the type of torture he deserved, for behaving like too much of a chicken shit to actually tell Gillian how he felt. With words, instead of facial tics. Which was doubly bitter, because – brace yourself for this one – he had no doubts about which ones to use.

That part (the words) came together sometime between Matheson's gun and his return from Afghanistan – after his horizontal tango with Poppy, and before the mess with Clara left him feeling like a weak-willed, testosterone-fueled louse. Regrets? Yes, both of those experiences made the list. As did several others.

But back to Gillian, though. In his head, the speech was practically perfect. Heartfelt and genuine, it included everything from how the press of her fingers against his palm felt like coming home… to how she made him want to be a better man.

But in reality, he understands that he's long been stumbling.

And that he's certainly anything but perfect.

Though he has always been ashamed to admit it aloud, everyone who knows him also knows that he has a terrible habit of testing Gillian's loyalty with cruel stunts. And in their aftermath, he often tries to convince himself that casual, risk-free sex is (or was – past tense) an acceptable substitute for making love to the only woman he truly wants. He's spent too much time relying on phrases like "spare bedroom" or "not when it comes to you" to serve as a continuance; as an ellipsis, of sorts, to represent all the things he still can't quite bring himself to say aloud.

I love you.

On paper, those three words look deceptively simple. They are straightforward in a no-holds-barred type of way that both excites and terrifies him. And on paper… they're easy.

But in practice?

In practice… on each of the three (yes, three – he isn't a total coward) occasions when he's almost spoken those words… it's felt as though he's been strapped into the world's wildest roller coaster. That with one wrong move, his harness might slip and throw him into a tangle of heartache and hindsight, somewhere on the smooth, metal track.

That's not to say that he plans to stay silent forever, though. He doesn't. Sooner or later, it will be his moment to step up to the gate – to take a deep breath and strap himself into that roller coaster, yeah? His moment to embrace the exhilaration and adrenaline… open his mouth… and speak.

When.

Not if.

As far as he's concerned, that distinction alone is progress.

The waking hours are, unsurprisingly, the hardest. They represent time when he's been forced to mask the depth of his emotions, and allow his feelings for Gillian to take a backseat to the tasks at hand: cases, clients, staff members, meetings, responsibilities… etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Lather, rinse, and repeat. For years. Almost a full decade, even. During which time he's seen their trifling, previously-encased-in-ice "line" become thinner and thinner.

Change. Evolution. Progress. The world hasn't much cared that they are still stuck somewhere between neutral and reverse, because it (life itself) is ever-changing. Just consider the past three years. A mere thirty-six short months in which Captain America left, Claire died, and Wallowski got transferred. Weeks that saw Emily preparing for college, Zoe become a bride again, and – slowly but surely – Gillian's smile return. Happiness has led to comfort, and comfort has led them back into a routine… and he bloody loves the fact that it managed to bring them a bit farther than full circle. To the point where they are once again content to spend their days immersed in cases, while he hopes (desperately) to avoid many (most) of the 'unnecessary risks' that mar their past. Or in other words… he's been trying.

Consciously.

He's been trying really bloody hard.

In the evenings, they often go to basketball games and movies. It takes Gillian only two attempts to learn his curry recipe, and it takes him twice as long to learn the joy of sharing an ice cream sundae (two spoons, extra whipped cream, caramel sauce on his side – chocolate on hers) on a warm summer evening. They serve as each other's "Plus One" at three different weddings, and she holds his hand… introduces him to her university friends… blushes, and smiles, and turns twenty different shades of beautiful when he opts to bring her flowers before the third.

Inevitably, their friendship grows stronger. Rules begin to change. And every step forward slowly breeds a new degree of normalcy – a new set of circumstances, by which he learns to hide his feelings. (But give him credit for this one, yeah? At least they aren't buried so deeply anymore.)

Sometimes, if their evenings drag on long enough and they become too distracted to notice the time, Gillian falls asleep with her head on his shoulder. And then he wrestles with the decision of whether or not to wake her – to try and maneuver her upstairs and into bed (his or hers, depending on the setting), or to just stay put. To close his eyes and fall asleep right next to her, with the scent of her soft, sweet skin in the air, and the feeling of her body pressed solidly against his.

And sometimes, when the cases are exhausting and their emotions run high, he pours an extra few fingers of Scotch… plays that Sinatra song that served as the soundtrack to an evening of flirtatious apologies and dancing on the balcony… and he forgets that emotions are sometimes complicated. He pictures what it would feel like to kiss her, to slide her dress to the floor and then drop to his knees, as hands and lips cover parts of her body that he's only ever seen in his fantasies.

But back to the beginning, though.

Easy.

Even after all they've been through – after all the tiny steps forward countered by full strides back – he still isn't quite sure if 'easy' is what he really wants.

What he does want is Gillian. No surprise there, right? And he wants her in all senses of that word: romantically, sexually, sinfully, permanently. Hard, fast, slow, sensual, rough, raw, real – he wants to strip away the last of his defenses and bare the parts of himself that even she has never seen. But mostly…

Mostly… he doesn't want to take anything for granted anymore.

He is a firm believer in the concept that anything worth having is also worth fighting for. And he has been, yeah? He has been fighting. Fighting to be a better person, and a better partner – the kind of man who doesn't throw himself in front of bullets just to prove a point. The kind of man who doesn't try to push Gillian away, just to circumvent an inner demon who tries – even still – to convince him that she might leave.

He knows that particular demon will probably always be with him, but hey – he doesn't pretend to be perfect. Which is good, because Gillian has never really expected perfect. She is both a realist and a romantic; the perfect counterweight to his pessimistic but oh-so-wicked imagination. Demon or none, he is slowly learning to channel his energy in a more positive direction. To continually push himself outside of his comfort zone, for her sake as well as his own.

Years earlier, if Emily had asked about his feelings for Gillian, he would have denied them. He would've changed the subject, walked out of the room entirely, or laughed at the absurdity of such a question, just for the sake of appearances.

"Gillian. Do you love her?"

But the way in which she'd asked – the timing and the absolute honesty of the moment – caught him by surprise. Still did, in fact. As if maybe… maybe she didn't actually know the answer. Which was crazy, because… didn't everyone?

When he looks back on that night now, he remembers weighing his options and finding only two: the truth, or a lie. And then he remembers what it felt like to hesitate, as his brain tried to wrap itself around each possible outcome. As it tried to 'see' how his life would change if he went with his gut, rather than his fear.

It was bloody suffocating, you know? The fear.

Trust him, the very last thought in his brain – before he spoke that single, exhilarating word to Emily – was that he was tired of dragging it around, like some sort of twisted, self-imposed albatross. And he was tired of letting it win.

"Yeah."

There it was: the truth he'd long kept buried. Spoken aloud. With words, even. Or rather, with one word. Just one. But hey – all journeys start somewhere, right? They all begin with a single step, and are fueled by both faith and perseverance. One foot in front of the other… one man, flawed but not fragile… one last step he is almost ready to take.

Easy?

Perhaps not.

But he'll be damned if he lets self-doubt and circumstance hold him back much longer.

As days turn to weeks, and weeks become months… as high school graduation leads to dormitories, packing, and campus visitations… Emily inevitably grows tired of waiting for his follow-up answer. The one in which he will finally tell her – with certainty – why he's still being so stubborn. And why he continues to make everything harder than it needs to be.

'What are you waiting for?'

Trouble is, he doesn't have it yet. The answer. Parts of it elude him – hiding in the shadows of his mind, teasing and taunting on an endless loop. Which is bonkers, right? Of course it is. He knows that much.

He is a creature of habit, though. Progress – though a bit more tangible as of late – is slow moving. There are adjustments to make, and new routines to develop… a disturbing sort of emptiness in his chest, caused by the realization that his daughter is about to leave the nest… and the sum total of changes in his life sometimes seems overwhelming. He's never known it possible to feel so many things, all at once.

In the downtime – in the silences – his mind is always working. He thinks about Emily, of course. And Gillian. And both of them, together. His family. It's non-traditional, but also not dysfunctional, either. It works for them. It's… safe. Comfortable.

Easy.

There's that word again, yeah? And even now, it throws him. Makes him second-guess everything. Makes him wonder which mindset is correct: the one that just wants to fall into romantic life with Gillian… or the one that wants a challenge. Like roulette. Or maybe even poker. There are high stakes involved, after all.

What is he waiting for, anyway?

Talk about a million dollar question.

To be continued...