Title: How Far We've Come
Author: Kat's in the cradle
Pairing: Cal/Gillian
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Sadly. Title borrowed from the Matchbox 20 song of the same name.
Summary: "So all that talk about you being a bad liar, that's just an act, right? That's a lie." Cal/Gillian, continuation of 02.11- "Sweet Sixteen"
Spoilers: 02.11 "Sweet Sixteen." Very vague spoilers for "Beat the Devil"
A/N: So, I adored this episode.
How Far We've Come
Cal stood, shifting slightly with a combination of anxiety and, if he were completely honest with himself, fear. He felt two ferocious, warring desires within him: wanting to know what Gillian had kept hidden from him for seven years, but not wanting to ruin their priceless, irreplaceable friendship. He calmly asked, "So, are you ever gonna tell me?"
Gillian was also having trouble standing still. She refused to meet his gaze, and her obvious and overwhelming nervousness thickened the air around them. Her slow steps caused her heels to click against the floor, but the sound was muffled, the palpable tension swallowing the noise.
Cal concentrated on breathing, trying to remain level-headed even though the trauma of the past day was threatening to overwhelm him.
When she finally stopped moving and met his gaze, his expression was schooled into a carefully placed mask of somber patience.
"He came to me," she finally broke the silence, "in the middle of the night. Before our first session." Her voice was steady, but her eyes were so bright, glimmering in the dim light of the room.
His emotions were rocky, and he had not yet decided whether he should be angry or not. But every time she met his gaze with those tortured, moist eyes, he knew that he would forgive her for anything.
But he had to know, so he kept quiet.
"Not to my office," she continued without pause, shaking her head. "But to my house." Something within her must have broken at this memory, because her voice lost its even tone and a swell of tears flooded her eyes. She looked as though she desperately wanted him to understand, and so she repeated, "My house."
Cal felt his jaw clench with this. The need and desire to protect her had become so innate that even the memory of such an invasion of Gillian's safety caused a brief flare of anger.
She didn't notice his short surge of emotion, too focused on relaying her story. And Cal was determined not to talk until she finished. She squared her shoulders and went on, "I-I'd never seen him before, and I-I never saw him again. He told me to do what I had to do to keep you quiet." She met his stare. He could tell this was important to her. She explained, "Or Doyle wouldn't be the only man to lose his wife and daughter."
Cal took several steps towards her, absorbing her words slowly, without judgment. He could feel the bland, placid expression on his face, but could not muster the desire to give her any reassurances yet. He saw her growing fear, heard it in her panicked voice, saw it in her red-rimmed eyes.
She reached towards him, explaining, "If I'd have told you that, it would've been proof-positive of a cover-up, and you would've never let it go."
His best friend had been lying to him for seven years. He felt as though he were once again lying on the pavement, winded, after diving from the C-4 explosion. He felt as though he were bound tight to a table, struggling, spluttering, and drowning in spite of it all.
Her lips were down-turned, but she still took a step towards him, unrelenting, sad, but unapologetic. "So...I couldn't let you do that." Her voice was so soft. "To you...your family. You'd never have gotten to blow the whistle. They would've cut you down." Her breathing hitched, briefly. "Before you put it to your lips."
This was not some small lie she had kept hidden. This was a monstrously huge lie: the story of how Cal and Gillian had met, the deaths of a wife and daughter that had haunted Cal for seven long years. He looked at the woman standing in front of him and could not recognize his trusted friend. The cheery, wonderful, absolutely beautiful woman had been replaced by a stranger.
He found his voice. "So all that talk about you being a bad liar, that's just an act, right? That's a lie."
Something must have shown in his face at that last word because he could see her breath catch, eyes frightened. Her head moved back and forth slightly, unconsciously. Her voice was almost a whisper as she answered, "Depends on the lie."
He was only a foot away from her. His eyes roamed over her face with quick and analytical precision, but his heart was beating fast and loud with a sense of desperation.
But in his search, he found his friend. She was scared and achingly sad with her tearful eyes, shaky voice, and broken breathing, but he could tell she would do it all again, without a doubt. And he thought about the times she'd dragged his ass out of the fire, followed his leads, backed him up.
She was still his Gillian: his fiercely loyal, heart-breakingly gorgeous Gillian. And as long as she remained so, he couldn't hold such a grudge against her.
Gently, Cal reached out and pulled her into his arms, and she instantly held him against her. She let out a sigh, and her entire body relaxed, pressing against him. Her breath was warm against his neck, and he couldn't deny the sense of security he felt. They had been through so much together, always emerging stronger than ever. Her thoughts must have been mirroring his own, because her grip on him tightened.
"We're fine, darling," he murmured encouragingly.
She pulled away slightly to look at his face, and he assumed she needed to visibly observe his forgiveness.
He repeated, "We're fine."
Her eyes darted away from his, looking towards the ground. He knew that look all too well.
"What's this? What's wrong?" he inquired, using the position of his arms around her to squeeze her shoulders lightly. "Still feeling guilty?"
Gillian pulled away from his grasp, and the three feet of space she placed between them might as well have been a brick wall. "It's just been a rough day, Cal."
"No, no. Don't do this now," Cal implored. Things were going so well. She'd explained herself, he'd forgiven her. Why did she feel guilty, and why wouldn't she speak to him? "Why're you closing off now, huh? We've come so far, haven't we? From me, the sarcastic, unstable patient and you, the ever-charming psychologist. Look! Look at where we are now!"
She gave a small, genuine smile at his words, reaching out to touch his arm fondly, agreeing, "We have come a long way."
The vice around his heart eased. She was ready to cave. He said, "So talk to me."
Gillian shifted, gathering her thoughts before responding, "I've always thought that the way you are now-the things you do these days-are because of what you didn't do, back then. In 2003."
"The way I am now? The things I do?" Cal wondered, confused, eyebrows pulled down.
"Your," she struggled for a moment. "Your tenacity. Your relentless pursuit of the truth, at all costs."
Cal shoved a hand through his hair roughly, letting loose a short sigh. He thought about her words, about their years together. He would chase down lies, hunting tirelessly for the truth, often going off half-cocked, utterly uncaring about placing his life in mortal danger.
"Is that why you've stayed by me?" he abruptly asked. "Because you feel guilty?"
"What? Cal, I love our work-" she hastily defended. But it was not what he wanted, not a good enough answer. His brash tactics, the number of perilous positions he'd placed them in. He wasn't a complete idiot. He knew this way of his was hard on Gillian, and he could never quite understand, never completely pin-down, why she put up with him.
But now he knew. She felt she had made him this way. This was her penance.
"You're punishing yourself," Cal bitterly accused. "You pick up the pieces, hardly complain, take care of me when you bloody well know I don't deserve it!"
"No, Cal," Gillian's voice was stern, loud. Gone was her shaky, soft, near-tears voice. "I do feel guilty for my part in making you so reckless. I do."
She took a step towards him, her stare electric. Her voice quieted in volume but rose in intensity when she said, "But that is not why I stay with you."
He could sense that she was on the edge of a precipice, on the verge of toppling into previously uncharted territory. He asked, "Then why?"
He saw her eyes drop to his nose, his cheek. This time, when she reached a tender hand to touch his wounds, he did not pull away. He could no longer count the number of times he had come back, injured, to face her worry and concern. She cupped his cheek.
"Because I care, Cal," was her open, honest response. But her smile was tinged with melancholy. She continued, "I could never leave you alone. I couldn't even consider it."
She dropped her hand, but he caught it with his. The stress of the past day was weighing heavily on his shoulders, but she took his accusations in stride.
He tugged on her hand, pulling her against his chest in another embrace.
"What did I do to deserve you?" he whispered into her hair.
Her only response was to tighten her arms around him.
A/N: I borrowed the starting dialogue from the episode, if you didn't notice. I felt this notion about Gillian blaming herself for how Cal is now needed addressed. I'm sorry if I didn't do this scene justice, but I just had to ruminate on it, if just for my own satisfaction. Feel free to let me know what you think. =]