TITLE: Pop
GENRE: Drama
CHARACTERS: Gillian, Cal
PAIRING: Cal/Gillian
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
WORDS: 2,500
SUMMARY: And the bubble burst.
A/N: Written for CommonFlower's LTM Fic Challenge 'Melody and Phantasy in my Mind'. Thank you so much for organizing this challenge! Title prompt 'Pop' by madmother2. It wasn't easy, but I hope you like what I did with this!

1) pop in—verb, /pɑp ɪn/
to visit briefly, come, or appear suddenly

It's how it all started. With something so usual, so common, so ordinary that nobody could have ever guessed where it would lead. Certainly not her. Him maybe, but she liked to think that even he was taken by surprise and the greater vastness of things.

Truth or happiness; never both.

He came over to her office with a case file in the middle of the afternoon. He dropped down on the chair in front of her desk. He looked at her. He grinned. It could have been any day and it had happened a million times before. Just like that.

She smiled back at him, taking in his slightly disheveled appearance that reminded her of last night. It made her smile even more. One thing he would always be able to do.

Then she grew curious and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

But he just kept sitting there, watching her, the grin slowly fading from his face, revealing something else that wasn't easy to read. One second, two seconds—something that felt like a silent eternity.

"I'm in a bit of trouble, love," he then finally said and looked at her with a sudden expression at the crossroads of total helplessness and vast hope.

Then he handed over the fatal document.

2) pop—noun, /pɑp/
a sharp explosive sound

And the trouble came haunting her. Just two days later and in the perceived safety of her own office late at night. It was a false illusion, but it was a good one while it lasted.

He had said he would handle it; that she shouldn't be worried. She was sure that he had tried, but she was also sure that he had failed.

It was two of them and as one moved out of the shadow of the other, entering her office, leaving her with a gasp of shock and terror, she was reminded of the final days at the Pentagon. It was meant to be just as intrusive as back then and there was no doubt about whether they had already achieved what they wanted.

She looked for her cell phone in the purse below the desk while keeping both eyes on the strangers, but her hand couldn't grasp anything to save her. She was alone and she would remain it, the panic ringing in her ears.

The pinstripe-suited man sat down on the same chair Cal had occupied while telling her about the storms about to hit. This fact alone made her want to vomit. He crossed his legs, held on to his knee with both hands, and tilted his head. Then he just watched her and waited. The other one remained at the door, simply reminding her that there was no escape.

"I'm calling security. There are cameras everywhere here," she said and put her hand on the phone on her desk. As if it would help.

"We know and you can do that in a minute. We just think that you should hear what we have to say." Calm and collected, with the crooked kindness of a serial killer.

Her hand remained where it was and her thoughts went to Cal. This was the last thing he would have wanted to happen. Protecting her was his first priority; now more than ever.

"Then say what you have to say and leave," she stated, the tremble in her voice betraying her. For a second her eyes caught a glimpse of the picture frame on her desk—them, smiling, happy. Then it was the bleak reality of the moment again.

"You know that the mayor will run for the president's office. With one of the biggest campaigns this country has ever seen. With all of the most important people and all institutions in this city and its periphery endorsing him. It will be massive and it will happen."

"Are you threatening me?"

A short burst of laughter echoed through the room, startling her, but leaving the other guy by the door smiling mischievously . "Threatening you? With what would I be threatening you? It's just a simple equation: It's our truth in exchange for your truth."

"You mean: Your lie in exchange for our lie. If we let this go, you make nice and let us get away. This is not how we work here. We work for the truth."

He sighed, his eyes remaining unimpressed and empty, arms moving up to cross right in front of his chest. "Dr. Foster, let me ask you a question. A simple one, really. Do you think that Dr. Lightman can be trusted?"

"Yes, I do." No hesitation.

"Without exceptions?" He waited for a bit, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. "When it comes to his science, or his case assessments, what he might have seen?" Another two seconds went by and it was then when she knew that this was all part of something bigger. "Or when it comes to anything personal?"

Her heart skipped a beat, but it was only when the guy sitting requested an envelope from the other one that her eyes widened slightly. Moments later the envelope had revealed a stack of photos that the man positioned on her desk with meticulous detail.

The one on top showed Cal with his arm around a blonde woman leaving a restaurant, looking pleased with himself and the world. It's what undid her world, but those strangers didn't need to know that. Her eyes went to the timestamp in the corner—about three months ago—but then her eyes were back on the intruder looking just as pleased with himself as Cal.

He took the picture on top and put it aside, revealing the next one and the one after, slowly objecting her to the pain holding out for her under his fingertips. Cal and the woman laughing. Cal and the woman entering a bar. Cal helping the woman out of her coat. Them sitting close to each other. Him whispering something in her ear. His hand on her bare thigh.

She threw a glance at every photo for just the tiniest of a moment before giving her counterpart a look devoid of the emotions that were sizzling underneath the cool surface.

It went like this until he got to the last picture. Cal and the woman kissing, her hands in his hair.

She just breathed. And breathed. And went on breathing while staring at him. "So?"

He shrugged his shoulders and got up. "If I were you, I would assess my trust again. And ask myself if I really wanted to back up everything that might come out of his mouth in front of a jury."

And then they slammed the door shut, leaving her alone with the pictures and a single tear running down her cheek. It was like a short, sharp explosion you might have missed if you blinked. But it was there and fatal nevertheless.

3) pop off—verb, /pɑp ɒf/
to say something quickly and without thinking, esp. because of anger

The remnants of the explosion were still torturing her, following her through the streets of a dark and misty city with nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. Her hands were shaking and her world was too.

But when he opened the door and panic flooded his face faster than she could have said anything, she just wanted to give up. No harsh words, no blatant, well-directed anger. "They came to the office," she said instead, so quietly and so defeated.

He cursed under his breath and came closer to hug her, but she didn't let him and used the envelope to build a barrier of feelings between them. He looked at it, alarmed.

"What's that? Did they threaten you?"

She let him uncover the photos inside. During that she just watched his face and grew more angry with every moment she realized he had put up his façade, keeping her out of whatever was going on inside.

He went through all of the pictures, right up to the last one. Then he searched for her eyes. "The timestamp is forged. This happened before we got together," he said calmly, probably knowing now that the storm was much bigger than he had predicted.

She looked for love on his face and instead only found a guarded expression. A pained one, yes, but not the one she was looking for.

"They are trying to turn you against me," he explained what didn't need explanation.

She had to look away for a bit when it was all too much. Just three days ago life was good and they were happy, dancing through the rain after a lovely dinner, feeling each other's breath on exposed skin under the warm sheets of her bed.

A tiny step and he was in her personal space. "You have to believe me. I would never do that."

She took the same tiny step back and shook her head. "I know that the timestamp is forged. It's the day of the FBI summer luncheon. You're still wearing your name tag in the pictures."

He looked at her and tilted his head, reminding her of the stranger sitting in the place in her office where only he should have been. "Then why are you so angry?"

No, he wouldn't understand.

"This was barely two weeks before we got together. Before you told me that you've loved me for a long, long time already. That I'm the only one you want to be with." She stared at him with raging eyes. "Really, Cal? You fuck a random blonde two weeks before that? Or did you need her to build up the courage?"

All that was left of him was a man who looked like he had just been slapped hard by his own demons. He instinctively tried to go for her hand and catch it before she pulled it back, but he gave up soon after.

"You know, we don't even need them to destroy us. You're doing a perfectly good job at that yourself."

And then she turned around, letting the fatality continue.

4) pop—noun, /pɑp/
a sweet, fizzy soft drink or shot of alcohol

Of course it was a bar where she found him. Not as shady as she had expected, but a bar nevertheless. There was an empty shot glass in front of him and a wallet bulging with money, suggesting that there was a higher amount of empty glasses he aimed at.

She slid down on the stool next to him, putting her arms on the wooden counter and looking over to him. He looked back surprised, but also defeated. He managed a small smile that told her enough.

"I'm sorry about the things I said yesterday. That wasn't fair. I was angry and still shocked by them simply strolling into the office."

He just shook his head and let it hang low. "No, you were right. It's tacky and you don't deserve that. It's just the stupid idiot I am. I'm sorry. About that and about them coming to you." Then he faced her again and this time not one guard was up. "But I stand by the truth I told you back then: I love you and you're the only one I want."

A small sigh escaped her and she touched his arm. "I know that."

The bartender came over to them and she ordered a coke. She saw Cal smiling about it and how he probably thought about the combination of sweet and abrasive even reflecting in their choice of drinks tonight.

"So can we talk about how we're handling the other truth?" she asked, all fierce and determined Foster now.

"If I leave the report as it is, they will fight it long and hard. Should we not get anybody else on our side, then I'm afraid it's looking bleak. With their connections, they will slowly run us dry, make sure we don't get any cases from the federal authorities or any big businesses anymore."

She thought about it, his words reverberating in her head. "But we're here for the truth, right? We're the people defending it, 'cause nobody else will in this case. I rather go down fighting for it than letting this lying bastard simply get away with it."

His eyes were dark and meaningful, his hands slowly enclosing hers and not letting go. "They will do everything to discredit me. Hell, they will probably try to discredit you as well. They will lie and cheat and it's gonna be ugly. You're sure you're in for that ride?"

"With you?" she asked and he nodded. "Always."

Nothing could be more fatal to others than the two of them together as a team.

5) pop—noun, /pɑp/
popular music

Soft music, echoing from the exposed edges of everything that used to be. The memories, the good days and the bad, the beginning, the end, and everything in between.

"You remember?" was all she asked while they swayed through a devastatingly empty office, only a lone, old chair left where his cell phone now rested, playing Sinatra songs and slowly running out of battery.

"I'm surprised you remember." He laughed and held her more closely, if that was even possible. "After this whole bottle of scotch. One beauty of a bottle, that was."

"You're saying it could compete with me?"

"I've never tasted it, so I'm not qualified to tell."

She playfully slapped his arm. "You're supposed to say that I'm the most beautiful thing in the world."

"You're the most beautiful thing in the world," he whispered in her ear and she could hear him smiling.

"You didn't lie there."

It had been four months. Four months of reports and assessments, of hearings and trials, of less and less cases coming in and books never getting out of the red again. It was a fight they had committed to, but one they lost early on and they both knew it. The truth of that was as harsh as the one they defended.

But now they were here, left with what remained and everything that didn't.

"What now?" she asked, her head against his shoulder, eyes closed.

"We wait until the music stops and we go home," he answered.

"Is it that easy?"

"No." Sadness resonated in his voice, deep and low and somewhere where he could normally hide it. But he didn't want to do this anymore. She thought back to the day when they had told their staff that it was over. Thought back to his words, his honesty, and the tears he had fought back when leaving the room. Nothing was easy.

"But it's the truth and we'll always have that." He meant their truth, she knew that.

"We do."

"It's not the end," he concluded and engaged her in another round of dancing in step with the music echoing through what used to be his office, his life, his dream.

They were floating in space and time, now that the bubble had burst. And maybe that wasn't even as fatal as it sounded. Not as long as it was the two of them.

THE END