A/N: This story is brought to you by a bunch of lovely ladies on Twitter, who are just as crazy about this show as I am. The idea behind it is a collective one, and I very much hope that I can do everyone's imaginations justice with this. Special shout out to Lysa and Dee for brainstorming with me, to Steph for the original post that brought all this to life, and to Cee & Monika for keeping the ball rolling. You ladies are awesome. :)

This will be multi-chapter, but likely not very long. Since it's Halloween-centric, I want to wrap it up soon - or at the very least, get to the "meat" (no pun intended, I swear) of the story by October 31st. And lastly, I'll still be posting updates to my other work-in-progress, so please don't think I've abandoned it. I haven't. This little fic just popped up out of nowhere today and I had to follow where the Muse led.

Enjoy!

Emily liked to use the term "chicken," but Cal didn't much care for that one. He preferred "creature of habit," instead, mostly because it didn't make him feel like a giant wanker or an overgrown child. Which he kind of was, but still…"chicken" was insulting. As was the smug little laugh she always failed to hide whenever that term came up in conversation. Which was often.

Really bloody often.

And she was wrong anyway, because he was not afraid, he was… patient. He was not blind, he was… preoccupied. Big stakes, and all that. It didn't hurt anything to pace himself.

In truth, Cal knew exactly what he was waiting for, thank-you-very-much. He had a plan. And long-term though it might've been, it still counted. His plan was still sound. He was ready for whenever the magical "Right Time" fell out of the sky and into his lap, and well… the same could not be said about chickens.

Score one for procrastination.

(Not fear.)

Seven months. Claire died in March… October would soon be finished… and on the grand scheme of things, he decided that seven months was really just a drop in the bucket. A blip on the radar of their long-term relationship. A period of grieving and readjustment; of second chances and new beginnings. Who was he to rush things forward?

Seven months since Claire… four months since his accident… three months since Emily left. Berkley. California. Bloody hell, he missed her – and all of her prodding.

It alone (the incessant prodding) was responsible for most of what had happened in the post-car crash days of summer, when one broken wrist, two broken ribs, and a maddening mix of physical therapy visits, doctor visits, and x-rays, had quite literally led Gillian to become his right hand woman. Simply put, Cal hadn't been able to dress himself… shave… cook… or drive (among other things) without someone's help. And since he'd driven four private nurses to the edge of sanity in only five days, Gillian took pity on health care professionals everywhere and volunteered for the job. She'd seen him with his walls down, his shirt off, and his emotional mask temporarily shattered by pain killers and fatigue.

The woman was nothing short of a saint. A beautiful, chocolate-loving, gave-him-hell-whenever-he-needed-it-and-refused-to -take-any-of-his-crap saint. And she smelled good, too. Like vanilla, or strawberries, or vanilla and strawberries. Sweet and familiar, in a way that left him salivating and made him wonder if she tasted just as good.

She'd driven him to countless appointments… worked through lunch and stayed late, just to keep up with their case load. She listened to him whine about boring, repetitive exercises designed to strengthen his muscles, and she forced him to do them, and sometimes – when the days ran late and exhaustion ran high – she even fed him. Literally, fed him. By hand. Without complaint.

Granted, he was somewhat less of a pain in the arse while chewing – mostly because he was silent – so it might've been a bit self-serving on her part. But still. It certainly went above and beyond the whole "best friends and business partners" arrangement they'd had for the better part of a decade, and he knew it.

As did she.

He could tell.

An interesting note? They both rather liked their new arrangement – or at least, they liked parts of it. Companionship and conversation… never coming home to an empty house… those things were aces. Gillian could've done without his grumbling over medical bills, and he could've done without her habit of keeping the thermostat set too high, but they compromised. Give and take, yeah? It was a fifty-fifty arrangement.

Gillian and Cal were happy. Emily was happy. Everybody won.

Scratch that: Emily won. Everybody was happy… but Emily won. It was that prodding thing of hers, again. The girl knew how to use it like a weapon, and when she coupled it with those giant, puppy dog eyes, Cal could hardly refuse her anything. And there were only so many times a man could hear the phrase, "Suck it up dad… the woman loves you," via text, email, video chat, and long-distance phone calls before he crumbled. His ingrained, stubborn pride was knocked out cold by the romantic ideals of one Miss Emily Lightman; who would've guessed?

(And incidentally, that bit was not fifty-fifty. It wasn't even a fair fight)

Still, though… Cal knew that Emily had a very point. She was the only one in the entire world who had ever heard – in actual words – the truth of his feelings for Gillian. She was invested. Wanted him to be happy. So he let her prod the hell out of him, until he finally gave in and packed a suitcase (with Gillian's help), and temporarily relocated to her place instead. He ate in her kitchen, and rode in her car… watched her telly, and napped on her couch. And it was all very comfortable; it was familiar, and inviting, and real.

Gillian's fingers were warm in the morning as she helped him dress, yet cold in the evening as she moved in reverse. Her voice was soothing when she first woke, and she didn't smack the snooze alarm fourteen times like he did, and she didn't even mind making his beans… so long as he didn't grumble too loudly about the fact that she occasionally bought cereal that came with marshmallows. Or prizes.

And her skin was soft as his lips brushed against it – delicate and delicious, in a way that made him want to taste all of her at once. So he breathed her name and let his imagination play with the idea of what it would be like to dip his mouth lower… down the slope of her throat, past the curves of her chest, and beyond. He wanted to linger; to memorize the feel of her against his body. The soft sounds she made as she breathed in total relaxation… lost in sleep, even as he was lost to something entirely different.

Gillian had slept right beside him. In the same bed. For seven nights. They'd both been fully clothed, but still… that counted for something. Didn't it?

He'd kissed her cheek and her forehead and her hand, but always – always – while she was sleeping, and so all prodding aside, he hadn't told Emily about that part. Not a single word, lest she send him a giant bag of feathers and a beak via overnight delivery, just to prove a point.

Deep down, he knew she was right.

Fear… procrastination… the label didn't much matter. Cal knew that he was staring his future square in the eye, and instead of reaching toward it – toward Gillian – he stood still. Bound by habit and routine, and thrown off track by his injuries. He'd grown complacent. Became temporarily willing to settle for "most" of what he wanted, rather than take a leap of faith and try to grasp the brass ring.

On paper, the answer was simple: what Cal Lightman really needed was a good, swift kick in the arse to knock him off his center and inch him toward Gillian without – and this part was key – making it completely obvious. He needed someone who knew how his mind worked… who could circumvent his excuses swiftly and completely. Someone who was willing to be even more stubborn than he was. Someone who could prod him all the way from… oh, Berkley for example… until he finally saw the light.

Because complacency sucked.

And it was time to reach for that ring.