Title: So Cold (Chapter 1/?)
Author: Kat
Rating: T (PG-13)
Genre: Angst/Mystery
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.
A/N: This is my first Lie to Me story, so please be gentle! And of course it's multi-chapter and attempts at an in-depth plot. I just cannot start small, can I? =]
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.
Chapter One
Cal Lightman shifted from right to left, antsy, tapping a blue file against his leg at a sporadic pace. His eyes scanned the hall as, with growing irritation he pulled his lower lip in his mouth and adjusted his side-to-side shifts into a back and forth sway. He was not at all the patient type, and the new case he had clutched in his hand only exacerbated his anxiousness. With a last, decisive slap of the folder, off he shot from his waiting position.
"Heidi, when Foster gets in, can you send her my way?" he asked over his shoulder as he breezed by the front desk and made his way towards the lab. Restless as he was to begin his newest case, sent from the governor of Maryland, no less, he decided he could bide some time for Gillian's arrival with one of his favorite pastimes: torturing those below him. Since this was his company (he did, after all, have his name on the wall), 'those below him' technically meant everyone except Foster. But for the sake of company morale and not being a complete bastard, 'those below him' generally meant Loker and Torres.
"Oi! You two!" Cal swung into the lab entrance, leaning heavily on the door frame, pointing with his free hand. "I've got a job for you.'
Ria Torres looked up from the computer monitor where she had been going through old video files, working on refining her raw talent at detecting deception. Eli Loker, however, had his back to the doorway and was sporting a pair of large, noise-reducing headphones. He had two monitors occupied: one with a word processor loaded, and another with a video of a crowd of people rioting in a street. Noticing Loker's preoccupation, Cal dug into his pants pockets urgently, finally producing a small peppermint he didn't even recall stashing there. With eyes narrowed in concentration, he cocked his arm back and chucked the small candy at the back of Loker's head.
"Ow! Hey!" Loker ripped off his headphones and spun around in his office chair, eyes large. "I don't get paid to be your personal punching bag." He rubbed the back of his head, shooting a glare at Torres when he heard what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"You don't get paid at all," Cal reminded him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smug smile. It had been a damn good shot.
"Well, then it's not in my job description," Loker amended.
"An internship's not really what I'd call a job.."
Torres, still enjoying the high of her recently-acquired, highly-regarded career, immediately noticed the file in Cal's hand. "Is that a new case?"
"Yes, actually, it is. Lot of rubbish, though, really. Nothing you'd be interested in," he lied, waving his hand as if dismissing the idea. "I've got something much more interesting for you lot." Cal was momentarily distracted by a loud series of crinkling noises. Loker had discovered the peppermint-turned-projectile and decided a mint seemed like a rather tasty idea.
Cal chose to ignore him. "There's a woman who's claiming her husband's cheating on her."
"I thought we weren't going to do cheating spouses cases anymore," Torres pointed out, brows drawn together in confusion.
"This isn't one of those, uh, rich people, gold-digging type situations," Cal explained, but he didn't try to hide the slight upturn of his lips. "This is a kind, seventy year-old gran who's concerned her husband of fifty-some-odd years has been givin' it to their next door neighbor for the past thirty."
Torres shrugged, muttering, "Whatever."
Loker stood and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. Cal heard the distinct, quick click of heels from the hall and popped up from the doorframe. As he dashed from the lab, he called back, "Heidi will give you the details. Just ask for the parrot case."
Loker stopped with one arm in his jacket and, mouth slightly agape, looked over at Torres.
"Did he just say 'parrot case'?"
~*~*~*~*~
Gillian Foster half walked, half jogged along the sidewalk outside on her way to the Lightman Group building. She balanced two paper coffee cups in her hands gingerly, winter coat flapping open behind her, allowing the sharp breeze to chill her to the bone.
She was late. Again.
One great thing about being your own boss was that you had the privilege of dictating when you arrived at the office. This, however, was not the case for Gillian Foster, co-owner of the Lightman Group. When you were Gillian, you had a certain nosy partner sticking his cute British nose where it just did not belong...
If she were completely honest with herself (something she rarely was: psychologist in her, be damned), she would be able to admit that talking to Cal about things would more than likely aid in her healing process. But including him would also put a dangerous strain on the tenuous, platonic situation that was their friendship, and so she did not dare to take that risk.
It had been nearly two weeks since Cal had returned from Afghanistan, nearly two weeks since she had heard the explosions, the gunfire, and had been thousands of miles away, utterly powerless.
She hated to think about it, and usually she was successful at avoiding these worries during the day; cases to study, friendly faces surrounding her. But when she was alone, she was helpless to stop her frantic thoughts. With her anxious mind working at double-time and her chest seized tightly with fear, she could hardly manage to draw deep breaths, and sleep was an impossibility. More often than not, it would be near dawn before she finally fell into a fitful rest, and then she ran the risk of sleeping through her alarm.
Like today.
She used a hip to open the door, the warmth of the building a very welcome relief from the frosty D.C. air. Scooting fully into the building, she made a bee-line for her office, only to be intercepted by the human whirlwind that was Cal Lightman.
"Where have you been, Foster?" he queried, a firm hand around her arm leading her away from her office and towards his. It must have been a rhetorical question, because he did not wait for a response before continuing. "The governor of Maryland wants us to take on a case. Very politically motivated, very high-profile."
"Potentially great for the company image," Gillian supplied, interest piqued, adding, "And good morning to you, too." She struggled to maintain control of the cups she was carrying as Cal led her to a seat across from his desk, even pulling out the chair for her. He stood in front of her, leaning back and resting against his desk.
"You seem to be in a good mood," she noticed. At his small, cheeky smile, she worriedly asked, "Uh oh. What'd you do, Cal?"
"Can't I just be happy to see you?"
"You can be, but you're not." Her eyes sparkled with her wry smile. She leaned forward to place the coffee cups on his desk, brushing against his arm as she did so, trying to tamp down the relief she felt at being in his presence, having tangible proof that he was alive and as ornery and stubborn as ever. Deftly, she removed him of the file, opening it across her lap. He summarized as she skimmed through the papers.
"Last night, a man by the name of Daniel Stewart was shot. He was found in a park; the large amount of blood means the sorry sod was shot there and died there sometime during the night."
Gillian stopped flipping through the file, deciding to focus on Cal's abbreviated version instead. Seeing her look up, he uncrossed his legs and sat a little straighter. He enjoyed having her full attention. She noticed the change in his posture, clinically filing the action away to his growing excitement about the case.
"Now, the governor has shown an interest in this case and his interest, of course, is politically motivated. Elections coming again in the fall and all that."
She didn't try to conceal a flash of disdain. "People are killed everyday, and it takes something like politics to generate interest."
He looked thoughtfully at his partner. "Well either way, a man is dead, love."
Gillian, for her part, did not look at all contrite, but did give him a sad smile. "I know."
The exchange afforded Cal time to study her closely, and his scrutiny had her fighting to keep from squirming in her seat. Cal had a fierce intensity about him, and his severe, undivided attention had a way of getting under the skin of his chosen subject.
She knew what he was observing and mentally cataloguing. Her hair fell in messy curls, framing her tired, pretty face, the late morning leaving no time to straighten it after her hasty shower. Her glances in the mirror had revealed a face drained of its usual color, dark smudges under her eyes. Gillian Foster was never sloppy, and to the untrained eyes, her hair, make-up, and outfit were impeccable.
Cal, however, was most definitely not an untrained eye. She pressed her hands across her dress, self-consciously smoothing away imagined wrinkles.
"How're you doing?" he asked after a torturous silence. "Everything alright?"
"I'm fine."
"Been late twice this week, have you?"
"I know, but I picked up a tea for you on my way here." She reached for the coffee cups, this time taking great pains so as not to brush against him. He took the proffered drink soundlessly, leaving her no clues as to what he was thinking because she could not bring herself to match his eyes.
She knew she was deflecting. Moreover, she knew that he knew she was deflecting. But years of partnership, of firmly defined boundaries, of half-truths, pathetic rules and poorly concealed pains were enough to keep Cal from voicing his concerns and prodding too far into her personal life.
He continued to study her as he spoke, pushing up from the desk. "Right, then. Well, we'd better get going, since we've got a bit of a late start. We'll, ah, discuss the case on the way there, yeah?"
"Okay," was what she managed, stifling the sigh of relief she wanted desperately to breathe. She made to follow him when he stopped in the doorway, free hand pressed against the frame, using it as leverage to whip around.
"Okay?" he mimicked, turning to face a surprised, slightly bewildered Gillian. "No...no, I don't think it's 'okay'."
Gillian was nervous, caught a bit off-guard. His stiff posture and searing looks could only mean one thing: he was upset. Whether it was anger or frustration did not make much difference. Of course he took notice of her discomfort and placed a warm hand on her arm as a sort of apology, and even his tone softened.
"I worry about you. I know it's your personal business, and I know you want me to just bugger off. I don't care that you're late, love. You could wait 'til after lunch to come in, if you wanted. But that's not you, not the person you are, is it?"
She saw his eyes drop to her throat as she swallowed, and his hand squeezed her arm, tacitly acknowledging her anxiousness. But he ignored it and continued speaking. "You love your job, I know you do. Sometimes I gotta beat ya out of here with a stick, yeah? So when you're late twice in one week, I start to notice."
Gillian looked down at her shoes, black boots she'd worn to help keep her feet and calves warm. He was prying, and it terrified her to realize how much she wanted him to keep digging. Isolated, she was heart-breakingly desperate to share her pains.
'I was afraid you'd die,' her mind cried.
'You were so far away.'
'There was nothing I could do.'
But that would violate their fragile partnership. That would let him in so deep, there would be no escaping to their status quo. Not the fact that she'd been worried about him, that was no new revelation; but the ferocity with which she cared, and the raw, unguarded need to be cared for in return. How could she possibly expect him to ignore that, even for her sake? No, let her be the one to force down these feelings. She had a great capacity for ignoring the painfully obvious--Alec was a testament to that. She was pulled from her thoughts when Cal dipped down to capture her gaze.
"Hey," he said as their eyes met. "I worry about you, you know. Worry you won't come to me if you need me."
Seeing her opportunity, she replied, "You just have to trust me." She straightened her slender shoulders and gave him a small smile. The seconds he studied her seemed to drag slowly until his hand slid up her arm. He patted her shoulder a few times and returned her smile before dropping the subject.
"Alright. Well, c'mon then. I drive, you read."
The confrontation over, Gillian was able to fall beside him with their usual friendly closeness as they walked towards the exit of their company.
A/N: I have part of chapter 2 typed. I've been scrawling out my ideas on paper, and then attempted to find time to type them into something a bit more readable. Please let me know what you think. =]