This story is set in Vegas around episode 209, "Fold Equity." A lot of stories for this pairing's confessions are very natural and romantic (and they're lovely), but I thought I'd write something that unfolded rather messily, as if Cal's worst fears, the things that keep him from acting on his feelings, unfolded in reality (but not forever). Rated M for later chapters, I own nothing. Enjoy!
Chapter One
When you flop a set but there's a flush draw possible, you have to play it fast.
"Double zero or nothing, Ben. I mean it."
As soon as he heard the door click firmly shut, Cal looked up at Gillian. She was staring intently at the monitors, her fingertips brushing the track pad, zooming in and adjusting the focus on Poppy's face. It was cold, she noticed, like a figurine; her waxy peach lips set on matte skin. She felt the urge to drag her nails against it, collecting the wax underneath.
"Foster."
She squinted her eyes, leaned in closer to the screen, and made a note.
"Foster."
She crossed out the earlier note and made another.
"I can do this all night," he said, kicking his legs up onto the couch.
Nothing.
"You're upset. About Poppy."
"Gosh, you're perceptive," Gillian mumbled, typing at the keyboard, eyes trained in front.
He sighed loudly and got up, grabbed the back of her barstool and spun it around.
"Cal!" she yelled, pushing him backwards so he tripped over the arm of the couch. An anger Gillian rarely saw when he was around her flashed briefly in his eyes.
"All right, all right," he said, brushing himself off and moving toward her again, reaching for her. She jumped off her seat and stepped out of his grasp, but he was just as soon back in her personal space, undeterred. She pressed her hands flat against his chest and pushed him back again. Once, twice, three times, with increasing force.
"All right!" Cal repeated. He held her smaller hands tightly in his and stared at her with his head tilted, licking his lips.
"Oh, don't do that with me," Gillian pushed him backwards again, the power coming through her restrained hands. "You don't think I know all your tricks?"
Finding his balance, he stood for a moment, just looking at her, a question on his face.
The irritation cloaked her features. "Smothering?" she spat his word back at him.
She held his stare for a moment before turning away, sighing for what he presumed was everything he'd ever done, walking to the opposite couch, laying out, and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
"Look, we never said…" He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, weighed the air with his hands, more disgusted with himself each second. "We never said we were… exclusive."
She was silent. He felt sick.
He turned to shut off their eyes on the other rooms, one screen at a time. Four clicks and the mechanical whine died down until the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the air conditioning and her irregular breathing.