A/N: This is a one-shot set post series, and is all Callian. I definitely haven't abandoned "Home" - this short piece just popped into my head last week, and my brain wouldn't shut up until I polished it. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
'Passive-aggressive' doesn't fit Gillian Foster very well. It is two sizes too big on her – misshapen and baggy – and it hangs off her slender frame like a heavy, grey shroud. She's still beautiful, though, just like always.
(Not that he ever tells her so in those exact words.)
She moves with purpose. Barely speaks at all. She slams cabinet doors and assaults vegetables, and he wonders if he should've just surprised her with takeout instead. Thai, perhaps? Or pizza? Or maybe sushi from that new place – the one that makes him crinkle his nose in disgust, but that she's mentioned at least twenty-seven times since last Tuesday, while reminding him (all twenty-seven times) that 'It'll probably taste even better if I share it with someone.'
He's shortsighted, apparently.
And a bit of a coward.
Neither of which is helping her current mood at all.
She fusses with the burners. Drops a handful of something into a simmering pot, and then resumes her knife work – chopping and julienning as if everything is perfectly fine, when it's very clearly not.
"Did you not like them, then?" he asks. Mostly because he can't stand the silence any longer, and because he isn't used to being ignored. By her. He isn't used to being ignored by her, and that's why it's different.
She doesn't answer.
She does pause, though – just long enough to look up and meet his eyes. And that's… something, right? It counts for something. But she's quick. She knows exactly how he thinks, and exactly how to hide what she doesn't want him to see. So before he can identify what she's feeling, she blinks and the moment is gone. Close, but no cigar. As per usual.
For the record? He has no idea how things have gotten so far off track so fast. But the flirting has already stopped, and the tension is building up again, and shouldn't they be past all of that nonsense by now? It's the longest friendship of his life – hell, the best relationship of his life – and yet there he is: tongue-tied. Overly analytical. Watching her face like a hawk, hoping it will provide the answers to all the questions he doesn't want to ask.
"The flowers, love," he prompts, because she still isn't answering, and he can't understand why. Don't the flowers count for something, too? Don't they prove that he's been listening? To her? Explicitly? That not a day passes in which he doesn't replay her comment in his head, and then kick himself for wasting so much time being handcuffed by insecurity and fear?
Apparently not.
"Maybe you didn't try hard enough."
…back then, yeah? Maybe he didn't try hard enough back then.
But he's trying now.
(Hence the flowers.)
He shrugs. Shuffles his feet. He gives a lip curl here, and a hand gesture there. Waggles his brows and tilts his head. And yes, part of it is a performance, because he really wants to make her smile. But the other part? It's involuntary, because she makes him twitchy. She makes his heart do crazy things, and then his body can't help but follow suit.
His eyes are drawn to the glint of the knife blade as her hands work – to her slender, manicured fingers wrapped around cold, unforgiving steel. "I never said that I didn't like them," she finally says. Without smiling. And her wording is… off. It feels forced. As though she's trying to tell him something without actually telling him something, and isn't that always the way it works between them? Things are on display, yet guarded. The truth is present, yet shadowed.
But now? He wants to show her that he isn't as selfish as he once was, and that 'risk' is a relative term.
He clears his throat and shuffles towards her, no longer content to do this at a distance. Then he gestures again, too, because he wants to bring his hands closer to her body, and because he's trying to buy himself a little bit of time. She's better at this type of conversation than he is. She's the vocal expert, and he's the quirky one, and for maybe one-tenth of a second he debates calling attention to her words. To her use of a double negative. I never said that I didn't like them.
Subtitle?
'I like them, Cal… I just don't want to tell you how much.'
It was roses from Rader and lilies from Dave… but it's wildflowers from Cal, because Cal is different. That's his logic, anyway. His goal. He wants to show her that he's different. He wants her to see that he's changing. And that he's trying harder, now. A lifetime's worth of stubbornness can't be changed overnight, but it does have to start somewhere.
They have to start somewhere.
"They're pink," he says. Stupidly. He's run out of gestures, and the silence is just getting louder and louder, so he decides that stupid words are still better than no words at all. "Pink. 'Pink makes me happy,' you said – right, love?"
He's rambling. Of course he is. Mostly because he still has no idea why she's upset.
She is, though – that much is obvious. She is upset. With him. For something he's said, or done, or implied… or perhaps all three? Things would be a lot bloody better if she would just clue him in, but she doesn't. Passive-aggressiveness doesn't work that way.
She isn't laughing at any of his jokes, she isn't making eye contact… and she most definitely isn't flirting, either, which he misses quite a lot. And he hates that they're suddenly facing this again. This unspoken "tension" that dances in the space they share, pushing and pulling with invisible finesse and dragging them along the line they continue to straddle. Tension sucks, and flirting is one of their (many) fortes, and if it were any woman other than Gillian, then he'd jump in with both feet without caring about lines, consequence, or blame.
If it were any other woman, he wouldn't care why she was upset. Or why she'd chosen to use a knife that was at least fourteen times larger than necessary. Or why she was wary of even looking at those wildflowers.
But it's Gillian.
And he loves her.
"I'm wearing pink today, Cal – pink. Because I like pink. It makes me happy. Which is something that I've not been for a very long time. I'm divorced, and I'm free, and I'm happy. And if you do something to screw that up…"
That conversation is at the forefront of his mind, and it's the one he's trying – albeit badly – to recreate, here, with a twist. A do-over. And the fact that she's wearing pink right now is a lucky coincidence. It proves that she was happy. That the thought of having this dinner, with him, in her home, on a Saturday night, made her happy enough to don a pink sweater with her tight jeans, rather than something from the Mrs.-Alec-Foster-Navy-Blue collection.
Her hands still as she places the knife on the cutting board and turns to face the burners. She turns… she turns away from him, see? Deliberately. It's a choice. A tactic. One that catches him off-guard and stops him in mid-ramble, because he's seen it before – it isn't new. Pink makes her happy, and chocolate is her favorite food... she reads romance novels, watches basketball, and speaks three different languages… she can drive a stick shift better than he can, knows how to fix a flat, and once went skydiving on a dare… and she ALSO (be patient, yeah? He's about to make a point…) fidgets with her jewelry and avoids confrontation when she's nervous, curses when she's frustrated, and does this self-depreciative little giggle-sigh-slouch combo when she's feeling self-conscious.
And the latter three?
She's doing in spades.
He hears her mutter a near-silent "…son of a bitch…" under her breath, and then add on a "…damn it, Cal…" for good measure, and that's when he realizes that turning around is a self-protection thing, here. Not a 'Lightman Is a Wanker' thing.
"I can't believe you remember that," she says, with her voice still stuck in near-silence. "I mean, come on – I bet you don't remember what happened last weekend, right? So how does an ancient conversation about a pink dress just pop into your head?"
There's too much distance between them.
He thinks better when she's within arm's reach, and he's distracted when she isn't – especially if he can see her, and hear her, and smell her, but not actually touch her. Cruelty, that is. And for all the (valid) reasons he gives himself for needing to take things slow, a dozen other (equally valid) reasons insist that they can't hover in limbo forever.
Her sweater is pink, and her hair hangs in loose curls. She's wearing the earrings he gave her for Christmas last year, and he's wearing cologne for the first time in an age, and he shaved, too. It's a date. Obviously. Because if it were just dinner – if they were just two platonic friends enjoying a meal– then it wouldn't involve pretense. Or costume changes. Or flowers.
A date.
Such a small, stupid, frivolous term for something that suddenly feels much more… profound.
Which begs the question… if he and Gillian are already on a date, then why not place both feet outside of his comfort zone, rather than just a water-testing toe?
He smiles. Walks toward her. Feels the tension drain out of his shoulders, as resolve overtakes fear and all of his jumbled thoughts align. This is Gillian, he reminds himself – purposely speaking her name inside his head, and tasting the weight of the syllables on his tongue. Gillian. He loves her, and she loves him. Which makes them two sides of the same coin.
She startles a bit at the sound of his sudden footsteps. Her arms tense and she turns toward him with a quizzical frown, clearly wondering what he's doing, and why he's wearing such a dopey grin. And then a few beats later – when the dopey grin is even wider, and he's gotten so far into her personal space that she starts to blush – he just lets everything go: the nerves, the logic, and the very flawed theory that truth and happiness cannot possibly coexist.
"Last weekend," he echoes. And mind you, he isn't trying to show off – he's just trying to answer her questions. Plural. Because as it happens, he remembers exactly what happened last weekend.
"I spent Friday working the Atkins case with Loker, hoping those stripes of his would stick. Short answer? They did. And because fate apparently only lets you and I work together now when we're under the threat of death, incarceration, or terrorist attack… I skipped lunch. Deliberately, yeah? I deliberately skipped lunch, so that by the time you and Torres got back to the office, and you – sans Torres – wandered into mine, to share one of those Line-straddling moments over my very expensive scotch… I'd be too hungry to talk myself out of officially asking you to dinner. Which is pitiful, I realize, but then again… you shot me down in flames the last time I asked, so file that one under 'Once Bitten, Twice Shy.' You said yes, though. And then grabbing a pizza with you promptly became one of the best parts of that whole day."
He isn't finished.
He hasn't rehearsed any of this in his head, and he isn't typically this… romantic – but he wants to make one very specific point, and he hasn't gotten there yet. Her face begins to pale as soon as he says 'deliberately,' though, and by the time he gets to 'you shot me down in flames,' she's looking like she might actually faint. Whoops.
One of her hands grips the counter for support, and the other reaches out toward him as she just freezes. And it's rather adorable, actually, because it's just so… "them." His reputation is heavy on bravery, and she's the sensitive one, and yet they are blind cowards when it comes to their own happiness – trying to convince themselves that friendship is enough, when it's very clearly not, anymore.
He's so damn tired of waiting.
She blinks. Shakes her head. Reaches out to grab his shoulder but gets empty air instead, as she shyly starts to stammer. "I didn't… I mean, I never meant to hurt…"
And she doesn't finish. There is no need, really, because he already knows what she's trying to say. He doesn't want to change the subject or give either one of them a chance to sidestep what's coming next, so he waves her off in a single word: "Gillian."
That's all it takes.
Just her name.
Because the way he says it is deliberately… open. It's raw. He holds nothing back. He shows more vulnerability in those three syllables than he has in months, because he wants her to hear every facet of what he's trying to say.
"You were wearing that new red blouse and the bracelet that I gave you a few Christmases ago. And I remember thinking, love – literally thinking this to myself, over and over again on a loop – that you are so damned beautiful."
Allow him to reiterate, here, alright? By nature, he isn't a romantic. He's gruff and impatient. Most times, he has the social skills of a grumpy porcupine, and hiding his feelings is a lifelong habit which isn't likely to change anytime soon. But with Gillian, it works like this: he trusts her enough to be voluntarily vulnerable. With his heart.
(Mostly because it already belongs to her.)
Another step brings him close enough to touch her, but he knows that once he does, his concentration will wane. So he refrains. Keeps his hands to himself. Tries to imagine what it'll feel like to kiss her as himself, and not as an undercover act.
"I don't tell you that enough," he continues, as her eyes darken at the sound of his words. "Or ever, really. But you are, Gill. You're beautiful."
And there it is: his point. Or one of them, at least. Spoken aloud, it sounds smaller than he expected. But her face turns a shade of pink he's never seen before, and she sucks in a breath… and by the time her gaze locks onto his lips, he's doing well to remember how to stand correctly, so he must've gotten something right.
"Pink ribbon and wildflowers," he says quietly – not quite sure where the statement is heading yet. Probably because he's worried? Yes, worried. Not about "them" and not about "this" and not about how he feels, because those things are crystal clear. They're givens. And welcome ones, at that. And he's grateful to find a mindset that tells him the time for games, and wordplay ("…it's cat and mouse, Gill. Not cats and mouse…") and adolescent nonsense is long past.
No, his worry stems from the fact that up until a very few moments ago, she was epically irritated. Which likely means he did something that warrants an apology, and so he wants to give her one. Genuinely. He wants this to be a truth-and-happiness kind of moment.
"The conversation about that pink dress didn't just pop into my head," he continues, treading lightly even though the moment is anything but. "Crazy as this might sound, it actually never popped out. I still 'see' it, you know? In the quiet moments. I can see how beautiful you were that day, and I can see the way you looked at me, too – like you were torn between kicking my arse and kissing me to within an inch of my life. Two parts beauty and one part sass, Gill. Can't imagine ever forgetting a sight like that."
Funny, right? On the grand scale of 'All Things Gillian Deserves to Hear,' he opts to lead with something that makes him sound like the anti-Cal – all saccharine words and exposed heart. It's risky. And although it isn't meant to replace the apology he still intends to give, he worries she will take it as such. That she'll revert back to silence and impassivity, and leaving him standing at the finish line alone. But like he said before… he has no real plan. No grand speech. No ulterior motive. He's flying blind here, save for what he already knows to be true: love.
"It's wildflowers because I'm not much of a 'roses' kind of guy," he tells her. "They're tied with a pink ribbon because I wanted to make you happy. And when I walked in here tonight… when I looked at you wearing that sweater with that smile, knowing that both of those things had something to do with me? Like winning the bloody lottery, it was. In fact, you could be making deep-fried rat with chocolate glaze in those pans, there, and planning to kick me out face-first as soon as it's done, and I'd still be a happy man. Admittedly not as happy as if you'd just let me kiss you already… but happy, nonetheless."
He sees her decision immediately – it's on display just as plainly as his heart is, with the only difference being that Gillian tries not to let it show. Whereas he is being deliberately vulnerable, she is being deliberately veiled. Don't get him wrong, though – she is happy. She's smiling. Her hips are squared with his, and she isn't quite as pale now. Her eyes are still dark and they keep tracking toward his mouth, and he sees enough relief in her face to know that his words hit their mark. That she hears him, loud and clear.
"It's curry, not rat," she says with a tiny shrug. And her voice is so quiet that he probably wouldn't have heard it at all, save for the fact that he's still right there in her personal space. "If I wanted to poison you, Cal, God knows I would've done it a long time ago."
Fair enough, that.
Her smile widens slowly, mirroring his in the way it stretches across her whole face. It's genuine, you know? The happiness they both feel. But even still, she hesitates. Tries to skirt the issue. Pretends that he isn't waiting for a direct response to his "…just let me kiss you…" bit. He has one hand on the counter and the other hovering over her arm – no, he still hasn't touched her yet – and it isn't until she shifts closer to him that he takes it as permission to make contact. Mostly because the point at which she would've typically pushed him away has already passed, and she's right there, and the rest of his body is itchy to backup what his mouth has already said. He isn't a patient man.
(Stubborn, yes. Patient, no.)
"So not death by way of the culinary arts?" he quips.
Her eyes are locked onto his lips again, and his hand curls around her wrist, then slides north – feather light – along her forearm, where it curls again and gently pulls. She isn't close enough yet
(Full confession? She might never be close enough.)
"Not intentionally," she answers. "But it is your recipe, which I suppose makes us even on the whole "risk-taking" front."
Oh.
Oh Christ.
His face burns as her words wash over him, and poof: there it is. An answer to the question he hasn't managed to ask aloud quite yet. In his head, it went something like this: 'What did I manage to screw up this time?' But as soon Gillian says the word 'risk,' he knows. He knows exactly what he said, and exactly why their evening took a pear shaped nosedive shortly after he handed her those charmingly unconventional, tied-with-a-pink-ribbon-just-because-I-want-to-make-you-happy wildflowers.
The short version? It's because he's a shortsighted coward.
The longer version? It's because immediately after handing her the bouquet – when he was emboldened by her side-of-the-mouth kiss hello, and the sight of wine glasses on her counter – he said:
"Took a bit of a risk with these, granted. But when it comes to you, well… not much of a secret how I feel about that."
Idiotic, right? So hastily worded that a face-first kick out the front door probably would've been a fitting response, and yes – he 'gets' that. And if ever there is a time that he wishes life came with an 'edit' button, it's now. Because in addition to having total recall of their infamous 'pink dress' conversation, he also remembers another one in which the word 'risk' became something of a relationship barometer.
Her line? "You're supposed to take unnecessary risks." And his? "Not when it comes to you."
So yes: idiotic.
He's bloody mortified.
Shame scratches its way across his face as regret floods his limbs, and it takes mere seconds before his hands go from their relatively safe counter-and-forearm position to brand new territory. Namely, Gillian's hips. His fingers squeeze there as her breath sharply catches in her throat, and all attempts to keep her true emotions veiled begin slipping further and further away.
His breath? It catches, too. His heart is thudding wildly, and hindsight reaches up to whack him on the back of the head. She deserves a proper explanation, and he is determined to give her the one she should've gotten in the first place.
The one based in truth.
And trust.
"It's not much of a secret how I feel about you anymore – that's what I meant. That's what I was trying, albeit badly, to say. Risk is a relative thing, yeah? It changes. And while it still holds that I will never take unnecessary risks when it comes to you… trust me, love: tonight, the only risk was in choosing something as mundane and cliché as flowers as a stepping stone toward starting 'us.'"
There.
The words are undoubtedly imperfect, and he's probably squeezing her hips too hard. His mouth is as dry as a desert, and his hands are all but trembling, and the curry is probably burned. But honestly? He doesn't care. Not a single bit. And if Gillian's reaction is anything to go by, then he's pretty bloody sure she doesn't care either. She goes from shock and confusion to radiant delight in a matter of moments, and by the time his makeshift apology is done, she's blushing even harder. She's… overwhelmed. That's what she is. Overwhelmed. Because there's a very big difference between knowing how someone feels – knowing that they care beyond the boundaries of platonic friendship – and hearing them say it aloud. Especially when that someone has occasionally needs a refresher course on the importance of using his words.
He takes a moment to let her get her bearings, and tells himself that he just needs to wait a little bit longer. He just needs…
"So then... 'us,'" she says, interrupting his musings as her arms twine around his shoulders. And he can actually hear it in her tone of voice, you know? The anticipation. It's thick and sensual, and so very, very welcome. "Are you saying that you don't think this is all just one huge, unnecessary risk?"
He just needs that. An opening.
Trust her to find it for him.
"I'm saying that I love you, Gillian. And that I've loved you for a very long time. Waiting any longer to actually tell you is the only unnecessary part I see."
He no sooner speaks those words, when he feels it. The weight. The one he's been carrying around for years, while denying the depth of his feelings. It just… lifts. It floats up and off his shoulders, seemingly evaporating into thin air as if it never really existed at all. Which is quite the empowering thing, to say the least. He suddenly feels at least ten years younger, too, and the smile he's still wearing makes his cheeks begin to ache… he hasn't been this happy since he-can't-even-remember-when, and his heart is pounding loud enough that he can barely even think straight. Hell, he can barely even think at all, really – and certainly not about trivial things like food, conversation, or wine, because he's quite sure he'll never need any of those things again.
In fact, he's quite sure that all he'll ever need is Gillian.
And she's right there in his arms.
She doesn't speak – doesn't pause long enough to say 'I love you, too,' but the sentiment is there. It's written all over her face, and he sees it loud and clear. And it hits him that they've switched roles, somehow. That he's become the talkative, sentimental one… and she's become his anchor: steady, solid, and strong.
Her eyes are locked onto his lips, and the moment seems to warm the air around them, as years' worth of longing and expectation meld with a reality he wasn't sure he'd ever see. In his entire life, he's never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wants to kiss Gillian right then.
She leans forward.
Tightens her grip on his neck.
The ghost of her warm breath fans its way across his lips, as she sighs his name contentedly.
And just before making contact – when he can all but taste the sweetness of her kiss on his tongue – he softly says, "I won't do anything to screw this up, Gill. And I know things might not be perfect, but… "
She presses two fingertips against his mouth to silence him, and then she snuggles even further into his arms without the slightest bit of hesitation. And she just fits there. So bloody well. He doesn't ever want to let her go.
"Hey Cal?" she whispers – her smile widening as both his words and his body freeze in response to her gentle touch. He's just… he's just gone. Lost in the moment. And he's far too focused on taking the next step to realize that she's about to take it for him. "You talk too much."
And instantly, there it is: the kiss.
She kisses him, yeah? Not the other way around.
She tightens her grip on his shoulders and pulls him down, until her lips claim his eagerly and her body comes alive in his arms. There's no hesitation, no doubt, and not a single ounce of fear. And it's… brilliant – all of it. The way she moves against him. The way her tongue teases his. The way their lips nip, play, soothe, and caress, as if performing a dance they've practiced a thousand times before, in a thousand different ways.
It's absolutely perfect.
And when it ends? He feels overwhelmed with emotion, too.
Perhaps he is a bit of a romantic after all.
Her hands slide up to cradle his face, and he finds nothing but pure contentment behind her eyes. "I don't need perfect," she says sincerely. "I've never needed perfect. I just need you, alright? Just you. Deal?"
It's his turn to kiss her, then – to make his move, at his pace, and in his style. And heat floods his gut as their mouths meet again… as he groans in satisfaction against her soft lips… as she opens to meet his advance, and then matches it beat for beat. They are in perfect sync – with movements that are slow and sensual, yet carry an unspoken and primal urge that simmers just below the surface.
It was inevitable, really.
This.
Them.
All along, the only unanswered question was 'when.'
She's breathless by the time they part again – breathless and beaming, and wholly content to stay within his arms. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hair is a bit of a mess, and her sweater is all askew, too. He's never seen her look quite so lovely.
He leans in for one last, quick peck before the simmering pans and the scent of their food steals her attention once again. And while a part of him wants to race ahead to find the next threshold they'll cross… for the most part? He's perfectly happy to take it one step at a time.
"Oh it's a deal, alright, love," he says simply. And he means it.
With all his heart.
END