Title: Upon Waking
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: C/G are not mine
Summary: Cal Lightman imparts some wisdom to all of Foster's potential suitors.
A/N: I'd call this crack!fic if it weren't so freaking awesome. So, it's awesome!fic, because it needs to happen in canon. And then the world can end. No beta, all mistakes are mine.
.::.::.
This is for all you men out there, and I guess some women, who would like to be one of Foster's suitors. I've got a couple insights, tips if you will, for what may help you along in winning her heart. For the truly serious, I've got some helpful hints about spotting her warning signs and how to manage the fallout.
First off, this one will come as a complete surprise to all of ya, but Foster does not like to cuddle. In fact, she's a blanket hog. Good bedmate she is not. She will kick you as she turns, warm her icy toes against your calves, and ever so unstealthily try to steal your pillow. I kid you not. There's been many a morning that I've woken with out a stitch of clothing on, nary a sheet, and my head flat against the mattress.
She's ruthless I tell you. Ruthless.
Beyond that, Foster is not a morning person. No sir. Maybe after drinking a pint of coffee-infused chocolate, but otherwise, you better get scarce. Always let her take the first shower. Do not, DO NOT, try to join her. She will find perfectly adequate places to put that soap and none of them are pleasant.
True story.
Next up, you should know that Foster has a huge heart. No seriously, it's medically documented that her heart is extra big. Know what that means? She has to share it. So if you're driving along and you see a puppy, a cute homeless man, or a lost Loker on the side of the road, floor it. Otherwise, she'll demand that you stop and take them in. Fantastic psychologist? Yes. Dr. Doolittle? Not so much.
Foster likes to cook. We both do, actually. The problem with cooking is that especially with Foster, it can get very sensual, very fast. I can't tell you how many times we've burned a meal because we were distracted by testing out our theory that her kitchen table could only withstand… well, you know. It was all in the pursuit of science, I assure you. Still, we've adapted along the way and started making meals that would reheat later.
Have to keep up our energy you know.
That reminds me. Foster is an insatiable lover. Which is absolutely fantastic, as long as you aren't trying to get work done. Trust me, if you're busy at the office late at night and then suddenly you hear her heels clickity clacking down that hall, you might as well close up shop for the night. All bets are off. I can tell you though, she has this long black beaded necklace that she'll sometimes wear with those heels. It doubles as a nice set of impromptu handcuffs.
So, what to do when you have an angry Foster?
For a fast save, you can always try appeasing her with an orange slushie. However, this will only get you enough time until she reaches the bottom of her cup. So make sure you get the big gulp. Actually, the 64 oz should do the trick, because then she'll have to make a trip to the loo a couple times as well.
If you are out of range of a slushie machine, then I suggest chocolate or anything sweet. Hell, when you're desperate try a sugar cube. Not that I'm calling her a horse, but she will pretty much do your bidding if you hold out one in front of her. It's quite amusing.
Uh-oh. You've gone and risked your life, haven't you? Possibly got yourself blown up, or shot? First question you need to ask yourself, Is Emily all right? Never mind that she's not your daughter, but for the safety of everyone involved, make sure Em's okay. Then, are Foster and all her lovely pieces still intact? Yes? Good. Then I don't have to find a place to stow your body.
Now she's looking at you like she wants to strangle or hug you, but she can't decide between the two. She wears this look quite frequently around me, so I'm pretty familiar. Your best bet is to shove off for a bit, grab some crisps and a pint and drink to your health or other such rubbish. Then, when you know she'll have cooled off some, go knock on her door. Make a quick joke. If she at least gives you a pity smile, then you're okay. But if you get the You just ran over my puppy look, then you've still got to do some groveling and I hope you have back-up chocolate somewhere. Let her decide when she's ready to initiate contact, because my Foster does NOT like to be rushed. Not one bit. Don't even bother hoping for a spot in her bed that night. She'll have the spare room already made up for you, because even when she's angry, she's still thoughtful.
One thing you should know, Foster is a twelve-year old girl trapped in the body of a goddess. She can be insecure and will hardly ever take your compliments seriously, no matter how sincere. Give her a look though, and she'll shut up real fast, because those are hard to fake. Also, remember that she still believes in happiness and rainbows and goodness and other foolish things. Don't make her stop. It's one of her best qualities, and I'm pretty sure fairies would die around the world if you ever made that inner joy of hers go away. And then I would resume looking for places to stow your body.
I've realized that this letter could actually turn into a book, and I fear that Foster would not enjoy me revealing all her secrets. Therefore, I will leave you with one last fact.
Even when you're shivering beside her in bed and she's snuggled up peacefully with all your blankets and pillows, you won't be able to quash that unmitigated desire to elicit a particular smile on her face. You must reach over and sneak your hand under the covers. Trail your fingers along the small of her back. She'll arch towards you like a cat and the most beautiful smile will bloom on her face. No matter that she's still asleep. Sometimes, she'll even let you underneath her covers so you can continue rubbing her back. Hardly innocent, that one.
Note that upon waking, this smile will remain and she will literally steal the air from your lungs with her beauty. It's become my favorite time of day, that moment before she's fully awake and unhappy to part from her dreams. Though, she's waking up with me, so what could be wrong with that picture?
Wait a second. You bloody wanker, why are you even reading this? Foster is my Foster. No one else's. Trust me, I've got the FBI on retainer, I'm contracted with DCMPD, and I'm British. And look here, I've managed to find a place to stow your body. Marvelous. Fancy a tour? No? Excellent. Now shove off, you sod.
Thankyouverymuch.
"Foster, why are you wearing my tie? Oh. Right then, not like you need to wear much else when you've got on my tie. C'mere, you."
.::.
FIN.
A/N: Goofy Cal is goofy. Y/Y?