Cal Lightman sat at the bar, nursing his neat scotch. After the day he'd just had he could take a bath in the stuff and it wouldn't begin to make a difference, but then again it wasn't the liquor he was here for.
His companion ran a hand through her shiny black tresses and smiled at him. "So, describe your ideal woman."
The words crowded into his mind unbidden. She's smart, beautiful, charming, perceptive as hell. Trustworthy, loyal, sometimes to a fault. Bit of a smart ass when she wants to be. Tolerant and forgiving, with the warmest heart in the world. She's like – sunlight, after you thought you'd never see the sun again.
But that wasn't the difficult question. The real conundrum was not how he felt about her, it was how she felt about him.
The drink relaxed him enough to let the truth spill out. "Well, I could describe her until the cows come home but, the real question is whether or not I'm her ideal man."
"You never know 'till you try, right?"
Until you try. He'd wrestled for weeks now about whether to try. But there had been so many changes in her life lately, and she'd just been through so much grief with Alec – Cal wanted her to have the certainty that she could always count on him as a friend. He didn't want to risk losing the infinitely precious camaraderie that they shared by revealing that he wanted more. It would be selfish – and god knew he was a selfish bastard, but he wasn't that selfish. For the time being he was content for things between them to stay the way they were. For the time being.
It wasn't an appropriate thought to say aloud in this company, so instead he gave a brief nod, conceding the point.
"Why don't we give it a shot?" A seductive smile gleamed on his companion's artfully polished lips. "Order some room service. They serve warm honey here, right?"
Cal took his time considering the offer. She was his type. Tall, dark and sensual, with full wide lips and eyes to die for. Definitely his type.
She was Zoë, all over again.
And he didn't want that, not any more. What the hell was he doing sitting here? He knew where he wanted to be. Setting one hand lightly on her arm, he said, "I shouldn't be here." Watched the inviting smile on her face dissolve into an annoyed grimace. "I'm sorry."
He left the bar without a backward glance.
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He climbed the steps outside her apartment and knocked on the door before he could change his mind.
She answered the door casually dressed in jeans, a white shirt and beige sweater. "Hey."
"Hey."
Now that he was here, he had no idea what to say. They stood awkwardly. The easy familiarity that had always characterized their relationship seemed to have suddenly deserted them, leaving him feeling acutely uncomfortable, almost bereft. Helplessly he fell back on their usual routine of talking about work. "Uh, Zancanelli confessed to Connie's murder, so…"
She nodded, replied quietly, "Yeah, I heard."
Stupid. Of course she'd heard. She'd been at the office all afternoon, helping Reynolds sort out the arrest with the local police. Helping Loker and Torres clean up the mess in the AV lab. Calling the staff to let them know everything was all right. All the things he should have been doing himself, but hadn't.
Then she'd probably sat in his office for most of the evening, hoping that he would come back. Wondering how he was, where he was, yet having the sensitivity not to call his cell, giving him the time and the space that he needed. And he, thinking only of himself, instead of making even the smallest overture to reassure her, he'd bolted to a bar to chat up a virtual stranger he'd only just met that morning. She deserved better from him than that.
But then, that was self-evident. Her eyes were still red and puffy, her cheeks tracked with dried tear stains. She'd been hurting – was still hurting – and it was all because of him. The thought filled him with remorse. "I'm sorry I ran out like that."
She shook her head, absolving him without any apparent hesitation. "Yeah, everybody's dealing with it in their own way." Letting him off the hook, when she should be chiding him for his idiotic thoughtlessness. "I'm just –" a big, relieved smile – "I'm just glad you're all right."
For a moment he just reveled in the light of her smile that seemed to radiate into the darkest reaches of his soul. Knowing he could drown in that smile, in those bright eyes that exuded compassion and empathy like twin beacons of hope and repose.
"How's your head?" she asked, reaching up toward the wound on his temple.
He shied away from her like a spooked horse. "Ah, ooh – uh, fine," he said, too quickly.
"Ok." She slid her hands towards her jeans pockets, her body language withdrawing away from him, away from the sting of rejection. The sad, wounded look in her eyes cut him to the quick.
Cal silently cursed himself in several languages. Yet again he'd hurt her, however inadvertently. He let her down, he disappointed her… it was exactly as he'd told Matheson. Sometimes he felt the guilt like a heavy rock in his gut – guilt that he was contaminating her, that he was dragging her down into his dirty world where violence continually lurked and lies and deceit were the banal currency of life.
But he knew if she touched him now it would be his undoing.
He stepped quickly up into the doorway, trying to reduce the unbearable distance he had just put between them. Eager to atone. He was going to say this to her anyway, but now was suddenly a really good time. "Listen, I was thinking about that whole, um…accounts thing, that whole billing thing, you know. We'd be working out of a shoebox if it wasn't for you so –" he shrugged – "it's all yours. And I'll respect that."
To his great surprise she shook her head in adamant refusal. "No, no, no. No, no, you're right, I mean, cheating spouse cases, you know…we're…we're better than that."
"All right." Her solidarity with him warmed his heart, and all at once it felt as though they were once again in sync, that the vital, vibrant connection that had always pulsed between them had been restored to normal service. It was as if the whole world, for a moment having gone alarmingly fuzzy and out of whack, suddenly snapped back into crisp, sharp focus.
But he didn't want her agreeing with him merely out of sympathy. Her head should make that decision, not her heart. "Well, whatever you decide, all right?"
"Ok," she replied.
"All right, then." Good, that was settled. He turned away from her and started reluctantly for the stairs, feeling with every step a visceral tug back in the direction from which he'd come.
He pulled himself up short. What was he doing? This was Gillian he was talking to, Gillian he was walking away from yet one more time.
Today again he'd witnessed first hand her inner strength, far greater than his own. Strong enough to fight for his life. Strong enough to save it. And yet he could plainly see the toll the situation had taken on her, the exhaustion and strain still etched in her face. He hadn't even asked how she…
He turned back towards the house where she remained framed in the doorway. "Listen, I popped by really just to see how you were doing, yeah?" His voice trailed off as he focused on her properly for the first time since he'd arrived.
She shrugged, tried for a tremulous half-smile. "I'm ok."
He could see in her eyes that it wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't a lie either. He couldn't hide the relief in his voice. "Good."
"Where's Emily?"
Trust Gillian to spare a thought for his family. He felt his mood lift a little for the first time since he'd escaped the office. "She's at her mum's."
A sympathetic murmur, "Mmmm."
"I haven't told them about all of this yet." Dropping his eyes. He wasn't ready. Not yet.
She nodded, her gaze fixed on his face with an open, comforting expression, her blue eyes shimmering in the dim light. Waiting patiently for him to take the conversation in whichever direction he wanted it to go. Silently signaling that she was willing to wait all night if that was what it would take.
Come on Cal, he lectured himself, just tell her what you really want. Well, not everything he wanted, not yet, but what he wanted right now. And what he wanted right now – what he needed right now – was a refuge, a haven, a restful place away from lies, guns, violence and the threat of sure and sudden death. A place, at least for tonight, where he would feel at home.
Normally the office was his home away from home, but there was no way in hell he was going back there now. Nor was he going to go sit alone in his empty house. Oh, he could phone Zoë, ask to have Emily tonight, and she would understand. Probably. But amazingly that wasn't what he wanted either. Finally screwing up his courage to the sticking point, he said, "Can I sleep in your spare bedroom tonight, if it's not too much of a bother?"
She smiled, her eyes still watery. "Of course."
Cal nearly sagged with relief. Even as the words left his lips he'd been sure he couldn't handle it if the answer turned out to be 'no'. "Oh. Good," he mumbled, once again taking the step up into the living room.
This time as he drew close Gillian reached out, laying gentle hands on his chest. The light from the room behind her lit her hair like a halo. "Hey," she said softly, then slid her arms around his shoulders and gathered him into a warm embrace.
She drew him to her tightly and Cal reflexively leaned into her hold, anchoring himself against her slender body. Closing his eyes he just breathed into her, centering on her scent, the sensation of her heart beating strong against his chest, the warmth of her hands resting on his back. Feeling the almost unbearable tension of the day begin to ebb from his body.
Then for an instant she was clinging to him with a fierce, almost frantic strength.
Just as abruptly she released him, and as he walked past her into the living room he leaned in to place a quick kiss on her cheek, grateful to her beyond words. He knew what his coming here tonight meant in the depths of his heart. When he thought of a haven, a refuge, he thought of Gillian Foster. Home was wherever she was.
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TBC