A/N: This one-shot was written for whatobertie's #Post Secret Challenge, and it is based on this prompt: 'The worst part of traveling is going home.'

Thank you to all the fellow fans who still keep this fandom alive, and thank you to whatobertie for organizing this challenge – it was fun!

He downs the last of his too-strong coffee and paces in front of the window, waiting for his flight to be called. It's early. He hasn't slept well in nearly a month, and there are dark, semi-permanent circles beneath his eyes. His appetite is total crap as of late, his patience is wearing thin… and he isn't looking forward to this trip at all.

Coach seating.

Crowds.

Turbulence and bad food.

Making small talk with strangers, while trying to ignore whatever their faces say.

Endless lines and endless paperwork, and endless, irritating delays to mark the route from Point A to Point B.

He's dreading all of those things, yeah? His nerves are frayed. He's not even on the sodding plane yet, and he's already irritated. And brooding. And sulking. And quite sure that the gods of travel and tourism have banded together on this day, in this airport, just to make sure this trip to California goes about as smoothly as a drunken camel trying to skateboard across an oil slick.

His head is throbbing, his stomach is growling, he has no bloody clue where his glasses are… and if the boarding call doesn't come soon, then he will likely lose his mind.

How pathetic.

It's just…

He's never left like this before – without saying goodbye, or without an 'I love you' to help send him on his way. Home doesn't feel like home anymore, and he's surrounded by denial and grief. Her clothes aren't hanging in the closet, and her wedding ring rests atop his nightstand. And for as much as he's trying to act like this whole thing isn't tearing him to shreds, it's a lie.

He's a liar.

She doesn't want him anymore.

And yet he still can't bring himself to take the next step.

The sun is barely breaking over the horizon when he hears his flight called, right on time. There are a handful of couples kissing goodbye, a few parents strolling toward the gate with their young children… there are friends hugging and tourists smiling, and then there's him. Entirely alone. Checking his phone for the twelfth time, and then berating himself for being so naïve.

She isn't going to call, see? He knows that now.

And twenty-twenty hindsight stings like hell.

He hoists his carryon across one shoulder, curses the grumbling in his empty stomach, and then files in with the rest of the crowd. He's distracted and depressed. He's in no mood to talk to anyone about anything, and if he doesn't have to interact with another living soul for the rest of the day, then he will die a happy man.

Just before he crosses out of public sight completely, though, comes a sound he knows all-too well: the unmistakable click, click, click of tall heels on a polished floor, heading right in his direction. His heart starts to pound, and then he freezes mid-step – right in the center of the walkway, like some ridiculous cliché – as his gut drops all the way down to his toes.

It's Zoe.

Of course it's Zoe.

He has no idea how to do this here, of all places, with the weight of a thousand broken promises slung over his shoulder, and his insides tied in knots. The stakes are impossibly high. He has both everything to lose and everything to gain, and he's running out of time. He takes a deep breath and wills his nerves to settle, then turns on his heel and comes face to face with…

"Gillian?"

Not Zoe.

…which doesn't make sense to him at all.

He cannot think, and he cannot focus. He needs a moment to regroup. To get his head straight. To accept that it's his friend who raced across an entire airport at the crack of dawn, in heels, looking entirely graceful and well-rested, which everyone around her looks like day-old death. And it's his friend who is smiling at him, as she tries to catch her breath.

It's his friend. Not his wife. Which pretty much speaks volumes.

"You wanted to take the Morrison file, remember?" she tells him, cutting right to the chase and not seeming to care that he can't find his words. "You mentioned it at least twenty times yesterday, but then you left it on my desk – along with your glasses, which we both know you need. So here I am."

She tucks the file under his arm and slides his glasses into his shirt pocket. And then before he can manage so much as a proper hello, she says…

"I know how much your work means to you, but please don't spend the next seventy-two hours wrapped up in this case, okay? Do the lectures and meet with the investors, but then breathe. Unwind. Get some rest. Because you can't keep running on fumes like this, Cal. You just can't."

See?

Volumes.

She pulls him into a hug before he has a chance to object – and without thought, his arms wind tightly around her shoulders. He sighs. He feels his nerves start to settle almost immediately, and he finds it odd that such a personal gesture comes so naturally for them, while things like conversation, apology, and mutual respect have long felt far too foreign in his marriage.

"Thank you, love," he finally tells her, as she slips out of his embrace. She blushes and shrugs, then retrieves something from her bag and presses it into the palm of his hand. Something… soft. And round. And plastic-wrapped. And he has to laugh, you know? Because it's a cookie. A huge, homemade, oatmeal cookie, by the looks of it. Which is so very 'Gillian' that he almost hugs her again.

His stomach is growling. His heart is broken. His head aches, and his insides are still tied in knots… and yet he's smiling.

Because of her.

"I made them yesterday," she offers – as if that explains everything, and it's perfectly natural for someone to eat a cookie the size of Manhattan this early in the morning. "I knew you wouldn't bother eating breakfast, and since I was coming down here anyway, I brought you a snack. No big deal."

One cookie.

One pair of glasses.

One forgotten file.

One very dear friend.

There are a hundred different reasons why he trusts her completely, and another hundred reasons why another simple 'thank you' doesn't even begin to cover what he wants to say. So he just smiles again and shakes his head, undone by how simple everything seems when she puts it that way. 'No big deal.'

… except that it is.

It's roughly as hot as the surface of the bloody sun, and the humidity chokes him half to death every time he steps outside. His back aches. He's lonely and dejected, his hotel mattress could easily double as a spinal torture device, and he's just about ready to kick California in the balls.

His lectures were finished hours ago. The business cards from a dozen potential investors are tucked into his wallet – along with another handful from prospective clients, wannabe interns, government contacts, and the like. And as far as 'business' goes, he is doing rather well. He is selling the science and promoting the Group, and it feels good to be proactive. To find control. To put his energy into something positive for a change, rather than continue banging his head against the proverbial wall.

But from a personal standpoint? He feels like an utter failure.

They haven't spoken in more than a week, and he misses her. He's still wearing his ring, still thinking in terms of 'we' and 'us' and 'married,' and yet… all of that is a lie.

The divorce papers are tucked into his carryon, between legal pads and a few crumpled envelopes. They laugh in the face of everything he once thought his marriage would be, and they serve as a constant reminder that this is what she wants. That this is the quintessential 'Next Step.' That it's already over, and that she doesn't love him anymore. And for as much as their words feel like salt in his wounds, he reads them often. He obsesses and analyzes and picks them apart, in hopes that he can somehow come to terms with the next chapter in his life.

He hates to lose. He's stubborn and abrasive, and he rarely backs down from a fight… but he doesn't know how to play by these rules. The game is rigged, see? No one can win. There's no magic answer, no perfect play, no possible way to fix it so that everything fits.

So.

He pours three generous shots of whiskey, downs each of them in seconds, and then curses as he pulls the papers from his bag. Postponing the inevitable is a waste of his time – and even though it's bloody killing him, he needs to let her go. He knows that, now. They share a daughter and a host of memories, but they do not share a life together anymore.

He loved.

And he lost.

And now it's time to move forward.

But. Just as he starts to scrawl his name – just as his gut starts to crave shot number four, and his inner bastard threatens to tear the pages to shreds just for spite – his phone suddenly roars to life and grinds his momentum to a halt.

His reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, and his mind isn't switching gears as quickly as he'd like. He is eight hours from a crack-of-down flight back to Washington, and the thought of having yet another argument makes him want to claw at his skin. But ignoring her? Ignoring everything he still feels, when he pictures her in his mind? Seems equally wrong.

…so he answers.

And as soon as he does, it hits him that the voice he hears on the other end of the line – the one speaking so gently and so sweetly that it sparks a whole new tangle of emotions to bubble up behind the tendrils of depression and grief – isn't Zoe's voice at all.

It's Gillian's.

Oh.

She says something about wanting to double check his flight number, mentions landing some new clients and booking a lecture in Virginia next week, and then she says that she misses him. That she can't wait to hear about his trip, and suggests that they catch up "…over lunch tomorrow, okay? My treat."

They talk about work. About Emily and Isabel. About nothing and everything, all rolled into one – and the longer it goes, the better he feels. His head starts to clear. His body relaxes. His gut isn't craving that fourth shot anymore, and the sight of those unsigned papers no longer makes him feel caged.

It's past midnight in Washington by the time they finally say goodnight, and her parting words linger in the silence long after the call ends. 'Sleep well, Cal,' he remembers – over and over and over again, as he stares up at the ceiling and thinks about how much his life has changed in the last few months.

Without Gillian there to push him? To listen? To steer him away from self-destruction, at times when he'd otherwise fall? The days would seem… empty. They'd be hollow, and lonely, and dim.

But he isn't alone, yeah?

And he doesn't have to do this alone.

…which means more than he can possibly say.

He dodges two luggage carts and an irritated security guard, then slides into the only available seat as he tries to catch his breath. It's wickedly early and far too crowded. He's flanked by a young man with purple hair and facial piercings, and an older woman wearing cartoon turtles on her jumper – and neither seems the slightest bit familiar with the concept of 'personal space.'

Full disclosure?

He's fresh out of patience, his body feels like it's been trampled by a bull, and there isn't enough whiskey in the entire state to make him comfortable with the part that comes next: finality. In the form of lawyers, custody arrangements, and trying to start over again.

The boarding call comes right on schedule, and he grudgingly lumbers toward the gate. He has a window seat and a perfect view of the sunrise… and he has roughly four more hours to find the courage that somehow escapes him every time his pen is poised. The hardest moments are over, see? The endless arguing. The accusations. The shouting and the tears, the giving up and the growing apart. All he needs to do now is sign his name, but his heart still isn't ready to let go.

Gillian tells him that it's either hope or fear: that those are the things holding him back and tying his hands. And she's right, yeah? Of course she's right. The hope lives in his gut, where memories still churn and echo and prod at his limbs. And the fear lives in his head – where his demons tell him that he's an absolute failure; that no one will ever love him again, and that his daughter will blame him for everything that's gone wrong.

It's hope.

And it's fear.

…but then again, maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

Maybe it's supposed to hurt like hell.

The turbulence is absolutely horrid. He's a veteran traveler and has seen his fair share of difficult flights, but this is like nothing he's ever experienced before. Many people start to pray. His seatmate dry heaves into a paper sack, a few of the flight attendants are near tears, and it's all he can do to stay calm. Up and down, up and down, they go – rising and falling in unpredictable arcs that leave him sick and panting, and white-knuckling his knees. All his thoughts are of Emily… of Gillian… of Zoe, and Isabel, and everything that he loves.

But it passes, though. Eventually. And by the time they're high above the Appalachian Mountains – surrounded by sunshine, beauty, and absolute peace – his perspective has changed.

Three days ago, he left Washington as a broken man: one who was desperate to avoid the inevitable, angry at everything, and determined to control his own fate. He felt alone. He was defensive and antagonistic, yet hopeful that if he tried hard enough… if he threw himself into his work, and filled the silence with logic and fact… that reality couldn't touch him. That he'd be safe. That maybe Zoe would realize her mistake, and she'd stay.

But now…

He's still defensive, yeah? It's in his nature to be antagonistic; to accept challenges and balk at defeat. He's still hopeful and wounded and controlling and sad. He embraces his work with a passion that comes straight from his soul, and the messy edges of his past will likely always fall imperfectly in step with the inevitabilities of his future.

Those are the things he sees, now.

Many truths.

Including this:

The thought of letting her go makes his heart ache. It literally hurts him, in every possible way. But. He needs to make peace with her decision, rather than waste his life creating turbulence of his own.

The Washington skyline is just coming into view as he finishes signing the papers and settles back to stare at the clouds. His stomach is in knots, and the ring on his fourth finger feels like a perfect, golden lie…

But he's still breathing. He's strong enough to get through this. And he knows he isn't alone.

They meet for lunch at her favorite coffee shop, shortly after his flight lands. She orders a garden salad and a slice of chocolate pie, then stares at his burger like it's a long lost friend – which is so perfectly 'Gillian' that he has to laugh.

He missed her.

He missed this.

It's only been three days, but somehow it feels like far longer.

She patiently listens as he recounts everything: the flight, the surface-of-the-sun California heat, and the hand-shaking, arse-kissing, science-selling extravaganza that sent him west in the first place. And then she tells him about the new clients she landed, the case she closed, and the thousand-and-one other things she did to help keep their company afloat while he was away. She does not gloat. She does not brag. She's genuine and gentle, and she's so bloody supportive about everything that it momentarily steals his breath.

They argue over who will pay the check, she loses, and they take their time strolling through the city as the midday crowd bustles all around them. There is no pressure, here. No risk, no regrets, and no broken promises to mend. They talk about life and love, about family and failure… about fresh starts and saying goodbye.

"Does it feel different?" she suddenly asks him. Afternoon is slowly fading into evening, and her hair is blowing freely in the breeze. Her skin is pale and perfect, her eyes are a shade of blue that he's never quite seen before, and she's…

"Coming home, I mean. Is it harder than you expected, knowing everything is about to change?"

…she's beautiful, yeah?

She's absolutely beautiful.

And for the life of him, he can't seem to find his train of thought.

Noises are everywhere. Tires screech, people shout, doors slam, and life moves forward. The sun's rays cast the foreground in a warm, golden glow, and she smiles up at him as she waits for his answer.

Vulnerability has never been his ally. He is strong-willed and often cynical, and he certainly isn't a man who wears his heart on his sleeve. But he trusts her, see? In all ways, and with all things. And he's so bloody tired of living a lie.

"I thought it would be," he tells her honestly. "I was a mess in California. Hell, I've been a mess for weeks. And coming home again – dealing with the divorce, and saying goodbye to a part of my life that was supposed to be permanent? I thought it would kill me, love. I couldn't even sign the sodding papers until a few hours ago. But now…"

Her hand lands on his forearm and she squeezes. Gently. Softly. Her touch is innocence personified; it's platonic and lovely, and there isn't anything about it that crosses the line, because Gillian Foster simply isn't wired that way.

It's just…

He's never seen things from this perspective before: as a man who loved and lost and now has to pick up the pieces, while still being vulnerable enough to let someone else see his deepest truths. He's never needed Gillian in this way before, and it's difficult to put what he's feeling into words.

"'But now' what, Cal?" she offers. "What are you trying to say?"

None of this comes easily for him, you know? Even now. Even with her. But he doesn't want fear to have a central place in his life anymore, and she certainly deserves the truth. So he sighs, and he squeezes her hand, and then he says…

"Change is inevitable, Gill. It's everywhere, in everything, and I'm tired of trying to fight it. And although a part of me still wishes I could go back and fix the past, I think it's time to see what the future holds."

FIN