A/N: So, here's my second installment for whathobertie's #PostSecretChallenge. The secret I've chosen for this one is: "I fantasize about rejecting the apologies that I know will never come." Timeline-wise the story takes place in Season 3. Well, I think you can tell that this is not going to be as light-hearted as the first one. Hope you'll enjoy it, anyway or on that account.
Disclaimer: LTM and its wonderful characters belong to FOX, not to me. Otherwise, Season 8 would be airing by now.
Cal
I love her. I do. And I know that she loves me. Well, there is a remaining risk that I'm wrong, she being my blind spot and all that. But yes, I think she does. And yes, I have this commitment phobia thing going on as she told me once during one of our arguments. We argued about a client, of course, not about us. Never about us. But those two things are not the reason why we are not together, why I hesitate to make the first step. They are my comfortable pretense to remain here when we could be there, could have been for years by now.
Albeit comfortable? That's not what it feels like at all.
Don't get me wrong. I didn't make her fall for me on purpose. I was attracted to her from the start, no objection here, but we were friends. Are. It just has become complicated. I have my way with women, some even say I'm a womanizer although I despise the word because it feels as if it belittles women. I might have my way with words to talk me into their bed or even lives, but they still have an active part in all of it. Action. Reaction. With her, it's a gridlock. And it's my fault.
I never expected her to fall in love with me. It just happened. Going such a long way back as partners and friends, I can't even pinpoint the moment it happened. One day, it was just... there. Because that line we talk about? Another pretense. The most comfortable BS ever. Neither of us respects it. I start to read her the moment she comes in at the door in the morning and she does the same, even though not as relentlessly as I do it. And I am aware of what I see. Love. Longing. It sticks to me whenever I'm near her like a second skin. She wants me to say something, to do something, anything. On some days the physical attraction is so palpable that the air around us feels like water – thick and suffocating.
So why don't I act upon it? Why don't I at least say something?
The ugly truth is that I enjoy it. Those moments are the best adrenaline rush that I have ever experienced. You can't get there with a stranger because a stranger doesn't know you, doesn't love you, with a stranger it's just lust. With her it's so much more and I have become addicted to it. I missed the point when I should have acted, and unintentionally, heightened the dose of my daily fix thereby.
Again, don't get me wrong. Being in a relationship with her would be great; I'm sure about that. But it also would be different. Real life. Daily routine. Better in so many ways, and yet, it would take the magic away, this magic of being almost there, of teetering on the edge in the best possible way. I am not able to break this unhealthy cycle. I don't even know if I want to. That's why it's called an addiction.
The way out? I don't know if there is one.
I've started to test boundaries recently – physical ones and others. And by testing I mean behaving even more erratically than usual. We have always had a physical closeness. Tight hugs. Kisses that almost touch lips. Another almost. We have perfected the in between as an art of living. But these days she sometimes has to literally push me away, both of her hands against my chest, no real pressure, just a reminder what we are and what we are not. It irritates her. She is so used to me being a loose canon ball, though, that it doesn't even seem to strike her as odd. Howsoever, it's the emotional boundaries I test that are the dangerous ones. I hurt her. On purpose. She has to have a point when she just snaps, doesn't she? But she rarely takes up the issue, if ever. And she still shows up. Every day. No matter what I said, no matter what I did.
Even if I do those things deliberately, it's my subconsciousness that started it, trying to stir us enough to make a change. It has taken me a while to figure that out; I read faces, but I'm a bloody enigma to myself most of the time. This is not meant as an excuse. I just paint things as they are. So what I do are pathetic efforts to make her so angry that... What? That she will leave and I will be forced into a confession of love to make her stay? Or that we will eventually have that long overdue fight ending up in an anger fuck just to release the tension? Both variants imply the risk of damaging whatever shot we might have at a relationship for good. I don't want that, but I'm unable to stop what is going on.
I love her. I do. And I know that she loves me. And I need her to save us from me.
Gillian
He loves me. I know. But I don't know whether I love him or not. No, I have to correct that. I don't know whether I still love him or not. The way he has been treating me lately... Sorry, I have to correct myself again. I know that I still love him. What I am uncertain about is whether I still want to love him or not. As you can see, I am quite upset when it comes to that particular subject – him.
Why I am dead certain that he loves me?
Because I am a psychologist. I read people for a living. He is the first in the field of micro expressions, his estimation seldom wrong, if ever. But a facial expression is a snapshot in time whereas my profession allows me to understand the personality. For me, it's not about the moment; it's about the big picture. I observe, listen and collect facts for a while until I am able to make an educated guess. And I am seldom wrong either. I argued with him about it several times. God, how I used to love our arguments. Back then that is, when they weren't tainted with regret and everything else that has started to pile up between us long ago. We argued about what was the better scientific approach for an evaluation – to narrow down the time frame to micro seconds until there is literally no space left to hide something or to give the lies room to unfold, so to speak, by being patient, sitting tight, waiting for the truth to unravel itself. Those arguments reflected us and what we stand for regarding our scientific fields. We both want the same. Save that his reading of micro expressions often reminds me of a forced confession (what it basically is, a confession without words) while I prefer the confession to be told of one's own accord, in their own words, at least whenever possible. Unlike him, I am not satisfied with the truth; I need to know the reasons behind and this is the only way to get to know them.
But I digress. I know that he loves me because I know him. I have been observing him, listening to him and collecting facts about him for years. Working so close together, it has been unavoidable. For both of us. That line we invented? That was nothing more than our intellect trying to play us for a fool when we realized things were about to get complicated. Neither of us has ever obeyed it although we still pretend that we do.
When we met, he was as attracted to me as I was to him. A physical thing. Chemistry. It happens. Some people confuse it with love. Neither he nor I did. Slowly but surely, though, something else has gotten into the mix. To this day, I've never seen it in his face when he looks at me. I've seen the deep affection of a friend, but love in the narrow sense of the word? Never. He has become an expert when it comes to hiding the depth of his feelings from me. I've seen it everywhere else, anyhow. Whenever he slouches his shoulders after a fight, hesitates to leave my office, reaches out to touch me in passing. It's the little things. And his voice, of course. It's in his voice. Not all the time, but in the moments when it matters. You're supposed to take unnecessary risks. - Not when it comes to you. When he said those words, I just knew.
He loves me and since I love him, I was naive enough to believe it would only be a matter of time. Naive, indeed. This is him I'm talking about. By now, I don't believe anymore. At least not that. On some days not anything. I wouldn't portray myself as broken, but it's the only word that comes to my mind when I think about the state of our relationship and it is becoming increasingly difficult to draw the line and let this word not define me. Life is cruel. The power rush that came along with the realization that he loves me is long gone. The craving and longing, though, are still there, taunting me.
So, do I still want to love him?
The painful and honest answer is no. However, it's a rhetorical question. Love is no choice. You might wake up one morning, convinced that it does not do any good to love someone, that it's better to stop. Yet, your heart will beg to differ.
The ugly truth is that I am not strong enough to end this. I can't make myself unlove him; he has to do it for me. That's why I let him behave the way he does. Unfortunately, it seems to be wasted time. My feelings are obstinate. Albeit he does a heck of a job trying to destroy whatever is left of us these days, they refuse to let go.
The tragic irony is that I am dead certain that his love for me never wavers, no matter how bad he treats me, whereas he has to keep looking for my love in my face every day anew. His science is quicker, leads to immediate results, but mine is more reliable in the long run. The recognition of a moment versus the comprehension of the whole person. I'd lie if I said that I don't enjoy making it hard for him to find what he is looking for.
Don't get me wrong. Part of me still wants us to work out. I would never stick around if I didn't know why he behaves out of control like that. In fact, he is not. Out of control, that is. Every verbal attack, every insult is planned, perhaps not meticulously, but he has a rough plan; I'm sure of that. A rough plan that is supposed to force me to act although he should know better, should know that I need it to be him who addresses the truth of his own accord. I can't count how often I imagined him apologizing only to reject him. Could I be that cruel in real life? I don't know. Needless to say that I've never gotten the chance to find out so far. It's a stalemate. I am stuck. We are stuck. I don't love him enough anymore to call him out on his behavior, but my love for him is so strong to this day that I can't walk away.
Unlike him, I don't have a plan. People think of me as structured, organized. It's true. For once, though, I'm not. I just show up at work every day, sitting tight, waiting for the truth to unravel itself while he is waiting for me to save us, to clean up his mess another time. But I won't. Not this time. Not when it comes to us. This time he has to do it.
The end
Addendum: I wrote the draft for this story weeks ago and only realized now (when I edited and posted it) that it's similar content-wise to the last chapter I posted for "Stories Untold" although it is a completely different approach here. I hope you don't mind. It's probably proof how much this development of the show concerned fans (including me, obviously).