Disclaimer! Because it's gotta be here: I have absolutely no right to break other people's toys.

A/N: This story takes place between the end of Season 1 and the beginning of Season 2. As such, spoilers occur.


The first time he saw it, it threw him. It was strangely innocuous, appearing and flickering away. It stayed in his head only because he couldn't quite place it-- he'd never seen it on her face before.

The eyebrows slightly knitted, slightly raised, as in fear. Her lower eyelids raised, top eyelids relaxing, as in anger. Lips parted in disbelief, but jaw tense and ears pinned back: fear again. It all seemed so vaguely familiar. He sat in his office, wearing the expression, practicing, trying to evoke a response in himself.

"Cal?" Her face appeared at the door, free of nearly any expression but her business mask.

"Yuh?" He let the expression fade, but not quickly enough. She looked at him oddly.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

She entered with files to discuss. He barely listened, staring at the fine musculature of her face. Slowly, without realizing, he leaned into her, scrutinizing. She was used to it, of course, but usually it happened over a larger—though still awkward--distance. Her eyes turned to Lightman.

He hesitated a moment before removing his gaze, and saw her eyes tighten. That expression... And then, just for a second, he saw the quickening double-time of her pulse in her neck, heard a slight jump in her breath, saw the pink rise in her cheeks. When he dragged his eyes away from her skin, he watched her pupils dilate right in front of him. And he knew instantly.

He didn't know what to say, and instead he mumbled something arrogant about the files strewn on his desk. She licked her lips uneasily. She knew he was thinking about something else, and that he was staring at her, and that she had missed something. She had given something away, she had let something slip and she didn't know what it was. She reached for the files, to retreat, to leave the room and the circle of his speculation.

"Hold on, luv," he said quietly, and his hand shot out and covered her wrist, holding it only just enough to still her movement. He could feel her hairs rising against his palm. His thumb by no accident rested beneath her wrist, against her pulse. She looked down, let her hair fall over her face, closing the curtain. Read this signal, Cal. He read it. He released her, and watched intently as her hair fell back when she raised her face to him. He watched the head tilt of embarrassment, the pursed lips of frustration. But most of all, that original, perplexing expression. It was all over her.

"I have to make these calls," she said.

And then she had gone from the office, files in hand, her steps measured and steady and no tell-tale manipulators for him to read as she went.

Cal watched her go. Then he sat back in his chair and tried on the expression again. He let it settle into his features and took a few shallow breaths, trying to match her breath patterns. He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten, the muscles in his lower back loosen and warm. Something fluttered in his chest, a sensation he recognized as an adrenaline release. He was right, then. Arousal.

They had an agreement, certainly. Boundaries, and all that. He could understand why she needed it. Foster had always been terrible at hiding. Cal had been hiding for so long that it wasn't even second nature, it was his first. He didn't even know if he could have spontaneous physical expressions anymore. Even while he realized that person after person perceived him as cold, unfeeling, invasive and brutish, he believed it to be an infinite improvement to the terror of being exposed to the world. And it gave him the advantage when others exposed themselves to him, agreement or no.

Suddenly, he felt something painful and ugly creeping into his chest, felt his shoulders rise and tense. That she should have such feelings, and not share them...it felt like a lie. It felt like a lie, from her to him. Cal frowned. To him, a lie was more than a lie. It was a malicious act, and unfair act, a measure undertaken to shut him out. Suddenly he felt awash in anger and resentment. Even as her body demanded him, Foster didn't want him. Not in her head, not in her bed, not in her emotions, even though they spoke directly to him. It wasn't fair. He could understand Foster's need for privacy, given the line of work, but had he ever been anything but open with her? Of course he'd lied, but for the case, always for the work. This was personal. This was incredibly personal. This was for him. And she was keeping it, expecting that it would be ignored. Expecting him to ignore a lie.

She should know him better than that.


Foster was on the phone, her back to him as he entered her office. He noticed, as if for the first time, the lack of her personal effects. The art on the walls was the same now as when he had hired her-- cheap, mass-produced prints. Where was Foster in this room? It was like a riddle. The whole room was lying to him, lying about her and her reasons for working here, lying like she was to him.

Abruptly, he removed one of the cheaply framed paintings from the wall. Foster turned. Cal stood there, painting in hand, staring at her.

"What are you doing?" she mouthed, covering the phone.

"Never liked these," he said. "Rather have your own?" Foster held up her finger at him and continued to speak into the handset. Lightman sighed and wandered to her desk as she finished the conversation. At the click of the receiver into its cradle, he was beside her. Awkwardly close, as usual, peering up at her. "Ever thought about decorating the place?"

She looked back at him, her face absolutely straight. "I'm not really the decorating type. I'm more the 'I work here' type."

"Hm," he hummed. "Right, then." He sat on the edge of her desk, making himself unavoidable. She crossed her arms and tilted her head at him.

"Cal?" she said, lowering her chin. Lightman gestured lightly with his hand, looking up at her.

"Doesn't feel like you in here," he said.

"How would you know what I feel like?" she asked.

"Dunno," he said. "Guess I wouldn't." He got under her, looking up into her eyes; she looked everywhere but into his. He made a small, pensive sound and huffed off into the hallway. She watched him go, leaning against the sharp edge of her desk. She felt as if she had just barely escaped something.