Disclaimer: These aren't my characters – I'm just borrowing them for a little while. Please don't sue me.
Background / Setting: I originally wrote this to be included with my other story, "Take the Long Way Home." That piece is set pre-series, and this installment was meant to be a flashback scene that took place a few weeks after Cal and Gillian first met. Months ago, I scrapped the idea of including it in 'Home,' and it got buried in my hard drive until earlier this week. Enter #LieToMeLives (thank you SassyCop!) and a bit of editing, and this one shot was born. (You won't need to have read anything in 'Home' to make sense of this one, but... in that story, I wrote it so that Gillian was extremely familiar with Cal's book before he became her patient. Keep that in mind, here.)
Warnings: There are a few swear words in this piece, but nothing serious. And yes, there some innuendo, but I don't think it's overly explicit.
As always, thanks for reading / reviewing! Enjoy!
"It's a simple question, Foster," Cal shrugged. "So I don't see the point in trying to avoid the answer, since we both know I can find it whenever I like."
It wasn't the most tactful approach he could've used, but still… she wasn't surprised. Cal's reputation preceded him, and the word "smartass" fit it like a glove.
They were seated at an angle – not quite on opposite sides of the table, as most people would've chosen, but not quite shoulder-to-shoulder either. It was odd; almost as though he wanted the excuse of his arm accidentally brushing against hers, or her knee sideswiping his leg beneath the table. But then again, maybe it was just his version of 'normal.' He tended to bend rules, rather than follow them.
"Would you feel better if I just recited a bunch of random numbers, then?" he said, continuing his side of the conversation since she still hadn't responded. "That way your facial muscles can do the talking, instead of your mouth."
Ah, yes: the art of not-so gentle persuasion. She didn't plan on giving in that easily, and besides… he was wrong about one very important point. She wasn't avoiding the answer; she was delaying it, that's all. Because she could, and because the truth of it did make her feel a bit self-conscious.
She'd only known him for a few weeks, and he didn't need access to all of her secrets yet.
Absently stabbing at a forkful of cake, she tried to match the pace he'd set. And it was a bit like playing cat and mouse, actually: dangerously fun, and definitely risky. Quite the dynamic combination to enjoy, when faced with the world's leading expert on liars.
"Oh please, I'm not avoiding the truth," she countered. "I just don't understand why you find this particular truth so interesting, that's all." And then, because it was supposed to be a two-sided conversation, she took another bite of her cake while waiting for Cal to make the next comment.
But unfortunately… he didn't make one. He stared at her instead, in that intense way that still caught her off guard every single time he did it. Which was often. Very, very often.
(Seriously, that damned expression ought to have a patent on it by now.)
They'd reached an impasse: Gillian studied her cake, while Cal sipped his tea and studied her eyebrows. But inevitably, she fell victim to one of the oldest "tells" in his book.
She blushed.
Actually, no, it was worse than that. She blushed fiercely and belatedly, thanks to what her voice had done at the end of that pathetic little non-answer. It… warbled, coming out as a high-pitched squeak for the last two words. And in the presence of a man like Cal Lightman, that kind of reaction was akin to waving a red flag in front of a charging bull. She'd practically gift wrapped her deflection and placed it in his hands.
To his credit though, he tried to play nicely and didn't take the bait.
"Would take me all of about ten seconds to read it off your face," he offered. His eyes were still intense, and his smile was charming. "But I won't. So, if you really don't want to tell me… then I'll let it go."
Oh, sometimes he could be a terrible liar. She knew he had absolutely no intentions of letting it go at all – not when he was halfway to the truth and her resolve was slipping with each passing second. But because she didn't want to be the first one to fold, she opted to try and bluff her way to a win. She didn't know everything about his science yet, but she did know that letting him gain the upper hand this early into their partnership wasn't a smart thing to do.
"Ten seconds, huh?" she teased. "Now that is pretty funny. Most men try to lengthen their performance times, but it sounds like you're trying to shorten yours. I guess you really do march to the beat of your own drummer."
His reaction? Oh, it was pretty much what she expected: stunned silence, followed by a smug smirk as his breathing grew shallow and his muscles tensed. He looked almost predatory; as though she'd just ignited his proverbial fuse with words, rather than flame.
"Not that you'd know this from personal experience, but just for the record?" he offered. "I don't need to lengthen anything. Long or short… fast or slow… rough or gentle, I don't hear complaints. Never have. But see, here's the thing, darling…"
Cal's voice had dropped down to a whisper, and she tried to ignore the fact that the shoe was now on the other foot. That somehow, he'd played her; switched their positions. He'd taken her not-so innocent method of dodging his question and flipped it, so that she was the one blushing and as he preened beside her – still seated too close to be considered professional, yet too far away to be overly flirtatious.
And throughout the entire scene, he was careful to skirt that line, rather than blatantly cross it.
Funny how many times she'd caught them both doing that, lately – pushing the boundaries a bit farther than they should have, but not enough to veer into total indecency. They'd be up to their eyeballs in financial messes – using so-called "downtime" to take reactions tests and wonder how they'd ever afford to hire a staff – and then boom! He moved into her space, or she moved into his… until they were literally shoulder to shoulder, laughing and joking and touching each other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Cal would brush against her arm. She'd touch the back of his hand. One of them would say something totally innocent – totally platonic – and gradually, it would shift into the "grey" territory that left her mind reeling, as his eyes dark and dangerous. It felt like sexual tension, personified.
(…which was rather foreboding, considering they were both married to other people…)
He leaned closer, breathing deeply as he went, and the strength of his exhale tickled the soft hairs against her neck. Whichmade her wonder if she should stop exposing that skin, since he had a rather high probability of judging her body temperature and pulse rate just by looking at it. And then – because 'better safe than sorry' suddenly sounded like phenomenal advice – she decided that they should start sitting on opposite sides of the table, lest anyone get the wrong impression.
"The thing is," he repeated, just to draw her attention back to their conversation because he knew it had strayed. And even though she could find a thousand and one reasons to move away from him, none were strong enough to actually propel her into motion. Her limbs were heavy, and her mind was curious, and he smelled really, really nice.
Maybe too nice.
"I'm not interested in a performance, because I only want the truth. Trouble is, I want you to volunteer it. Because you trust me, yeah? Not because you let your muscles tell me first."
Damn him, anyway. She hadn't even seen that one coming.
In all seriousness, though, if Gillian Foster could've summed up her relationship with Cal Lightman using only one word… that would've been the one she chose. Trust. It was such a delicate thing: have either too much or too little in the mix, and chaos would reign. And once the magic was broken – once the concept of putting complete faith in another person fell apart – the consequences were often permanent.
It wasn't something to be taken lightly.
Sometimes it scared her to realize they'd become so close so quickly. That in her heart of hearts, she did trust Cal more deeply than she'd ever trusted anyone – including her husband. Their bond was intrinsic. And even though she sure as hell couldn't explain it… she could definitely feel it. All the way to her bones.
Gillian took a deep breath and turned toward him, well aware that her bashful smile revealed more about her vulnerability than she would've preferred. "I do trust you, Cal," she said. "I trust you completely. Even when you're being… like this."
She felt his knee deliberately nudge against hers beneath the table, once... twice… three times in a row. The contact caught her off guard, and when she jumped in surprise… he grinned. "Like what?" he asked pointedly.
Because of course he did.
Of course he'd just backed her into a corner. And although she could've saved time by admitting everything… she didn't. It was just a book, after all. Why was he so hell-bent on finding out how many times she'd read it?
Under her breath, Gillian grumbled. "You're like a little boy who's half afraid I might walk out on him, so you're pulling my pigtails just to get me to stay," she said. One, two, three, rip! She'd opted to use the verbal equivalent of tearing off a bandage, because sometimes raw honesty was a necessary evil.
(And besides, he didn't seem to mind a bit of pain.)
"I quit my job, Cal," she continued. "I enthusiastically signed on to be your partner, and I'm one hundred percent invested in this. In us. And even though it might be hard for you to fathom, I am staying. So, please stop pulling my pigtails, and instead… try to remember that I do trust you. Completely. Maddening questions and all."
Her words were sincere, and Cal turned contemplative as he tried to reconcile what he'd just heard with everything that still remained unspoken. And when the silence began to creep in around them once again, she assumed the conversation had ended – that she would finish her cake, he would finish his tea, and then they'd go back to their temporary office (his kitchen) to finish the day's work.
But.
Almost as quickly as those thoughts came… they went.
Uh-oh.
That face Cal was making? Gillian knew it well. And while she couldn't predict the words he was about to say… she was absolutely positive that he was about to gain some sort of advantage.
"S'pose we could make a deal, then?" he asked casually.
Actually… his attitude was almost too casual, which meant that she probably should've been worried. Still, her curiosity had been piqued, and she couldn't help but ask the obvious question. "What kind of deal?"
Cal's expression morphed into a cross between smug satisfaction and the tiniest bit of fear. It was a combination that made her shiver. And despite the loud protests of her better judgment, she leaned closer to his chair.
"I'll agree to never pull your pigtails again, and you'll agree to finally answer my original question. In actual words. Now, that's a win-win situation if ever I've seen one, yeah? And once all of this is settled, I'll never speak of it again. We'll put that bloody "line" of yours in place, and we'll leave the past in the past. Sound good?"
Actually… no.
'Good' would not have been her first choice of words, there.
Because as far as she was concerned, the whole thing sounded suspicious – and much more like a lopsided 'win' for him, since there wasn't a chance in hell he'd be able to avoid her proverbial pigtails for very long. Still, though, the enthusiasm on his face eventually weakened her resolve, and she found herself nodding a weak "yes."
(Oh, it was a damn good thing she trusted him.)
"Something tells me I'm going to regret this," she said, sighing loudly as he grabbed onto her hand and gave it a firm shake. "But go ahead, Cal. I cave. Ask me again."
It was probably unintentional – just a simple fluke that wasn't even worth mentioning aloud. But at the end of the handshake, rather than letting go of her completely… he lowered both of their hands onto the tabletop and covered hers with his, like he was holding it.
His warm palm was pressed against the back of her knuckles, and his fingers were curled around hers, giving little squeezes of reassurance that made something funny start to flutter around in her gut. And strangely enough, nothing about it felt wrong. Maybe it should have… hell, maybe under different circumstances it would have. But she'd barely even begun to identify what was happening, when his expression shifted again.
"That book you had in your office, then – back when we first met. My book, yeah? Tell me, love: how many times had you read it before I walked through that door?"
For anyone else, it would've been a totally random thing to discuss. But they'd been talking about first impressions, and he made some stupid comment about her keeping a plant… and by the time she realized he wasn't talking about botany, she'd eagerly enthused that the book he'd seen was 'her personal copy.' That she could probably 'quote passages from it.' And that she would be 'very interested to hear his plans about publishing another.'
She'd gone overboard with the compliments without realizing she'd done so, and by the time she did – by the time she recognized that look on Cal's face for what it really was (absolute shock, mixed with a combination of pride and arousal), she'd been too much of a chicken to continue the conversation. Everything else since then – lunch, dessert, and flirting included – had been a stall tactic.
She was a therapist, and a scientist, and – apparently – also total shit at keeping a poker face. Hell, she didn't even know why he cared. Thousands of people must've read that book, right? Surely his family and friends had. And on the grand scale of things, wouldn't the fact that Gillian Foster read his book be seen as rather… well… average?
With yet another sigh, she turned her hand over beneath his and linked their fingers together. She'd meant it as a simple gesture of friendship, but for just a split second... she could've sworn it felt like more.
"I read it cover to cover twice," she admitted, suddenly feeling shy under the weight of his gaze. "And then I probably re-read some of the individual sections three or four times each, give or take a little. It's just… it's interesting, alright? The science, and the anecdotes – all of it. Face it, Cal: you're a good man who does good work, and anyone who has read your book can see that as plain as day. So there. That's my answer. I hope you're satisfied, now."
Although Gillian couldn't yet claim to be an expert at understanding micro-expressions, she did know what 'happy' looked like. And for some unknown reason, Cal's face did not completely match that picture. His gaze briefly fell to their entwined hands, and although he was smiling at her, something about it seemed 'off.' His breathing was ragged… his posture was stiff… and eyes were easily two shades darker than she'd ever them.
Instinct told her to tell a joke – to try and tease him, just to lighten the mood. But as soon as her brain tried to comply, he leaned closer to her body and gently stroked the back of his free hand down the slope of her cheek.
Uh oh.
What was she supposed to be doing, again?
"Cover to cover twice?" he repeated – as though maybe he hadn't heard her correctly, and he was trying to control his reaction lest he make either one of them look like a fool.
But since her mouth had already fallen open and tiny trails of gooseflesh bloomed in tendrils behind his touch, she'd pretty much cornered the market as far as foolishness went. Words escaped her completely, and all she could do was nod.
As soon as he saw that nod, most of the breath left Cal's body in one large 'whoosh,' and his grip on her hand tightened sharply. "Well then," he said, trying to disguise the depth of emotion she heard in his voice. "That makes two more than my wife can claim."
It must've taken Gillian a full thirty seconds to realize what Cal was actually telling her. But when she read between the lines and understood that she'd apparently taken a much deeper interest in his life's work than his own family had taken, she felt… conflicted. She was torn between the desire to comfort her new friend, and saddled with the knowledge that it wasn't really her place to do so.
In the end, though, she opted to make a compromise.
"Looks like we're a matched set, then," she told him. And suddenly, her voice was the one that dropped to a whisper. She patted his forearm with her free hand, and allowed a steady smile to replace all but the faintest tremors of her insecurity. "I don't think Alec would be able to tell you much of anything about my career – except maybe that I've just given up a pretty sizeable retirement plan, and that he wanted to have me committed when I told him about us."
Us.
Us.
Gillian paused, then. Strangely enough, every single time she said that word… it felt quite a bit larger than it sounded. It was almost as though her heart wanted to use it in a different capacity than her head would allow.
He laughed softly at what she'd told him, slowly but surely becoming 'her' Cal again – flawed and rough around the edges, but warm and safe in all the ways that counted most. And it was times like those when it felt like she'd already known him for years, rather than weeks.
"Aye, aye, you'd be surprised how many people have that reaction about my work," he offered, still chuckling as he managed to hide most of the self-depreciation held within his words. "Guilt by association, I'm afraid. Best get used to it sooner, rather than later. Besides, it wouldn't be entirely tragic if a little bit of my 'crazy' rubbed off on you, love. It can be a rather necessary mindset in this business."
Crazy.
Mindset.
Business.
In that moment, Gillian could literally feel her concentration start to crumble. Cal's words made perfect sense, but she was distracted by the timbre of his accent, and by the solid feel of his forearm beneath her fingertips, and as a result… her mouth shifted into autopilot.
"So I have to be crazy in order to work with you," she chuckled, completely unaware that her next sentence would alter the course of the entire conversation. "Do you mind telling me why that is, exactly?"
The mood turned from playful to serious in a matter of seconds. And despite the kindness in Cal's eyes, Gillian suddenly felt far too exposed. It was unnerving. Her gaze dropped down to his forearm as she studied the inked patterns on his skin. The design there was lovely, and she had the passing thought to ask him about the significance behind it. She stroked her index finger over the line work, while indulging in crazy thoughts about his pain tolerance and wondered if he had other, less… attractive… scars hidden behind clothing and self-imposed regret.
And then, almost as if a switch had been flipped, Gillian knew her thoughts had strayed too far. That she was standing on the precipice of a line not meant to be crossed, and unless she stepped away from it… everything would change. Maybe she should have pulled away from him. And maybe she should have apologized. But she didn't.
Instead, she took a deep breath… clasped his hand between both of hers… and waited. Cal could lead. She'd follow.
"It's all about protection," he said.
His tone was rough, and his eyes were still dark, and she felt something in her chest start to pound as he spoke. And for a moment – just a single, fleeting glimpse of a moment that left her breathless – her mind's eye placed that word under an entirely different connotation. Protection. She probably should have been ashamed of herself.
"The craziness… the bravado… the roles we play. They're like a cocoon, yeah? Something that protects us from standing too close to the flames. Something to keep all the demons at bay, until we can spot them standing off in the distance."
Flames.
How appropriate that he used a reference to fire, when she could practically feel the raw heat of unspoken possibility dancing like a devil between them. Yes, Cal Lightman was a very clever man. And the word choice probably hadn't been accidental.
Gillian wasn't sure if she was the one who moved first, or if maybe it was him... but gradually, they pulled apart. Her hands grew cold without his touch to warm them, and his eyes looked haunted by what hadn't been named. When he stood, check in hand, he made a gesture toward her jacket – and as he helped her put it on, she could've sworn she saw loneliness rooted behind his sudden attempt at chivalry.
"We all have our demons, you know," she said suddenly.
And honestly, the comment had flown into her head and out of her mouth before she could even think about what had triggered it. Her own issues, most likely; she certainly had enough of them. But when she started to try and elaborate, the feel of Cal's hand on her shoulder stopped her cold. He didn't look so lonely, anymore.
"I can't promise you that our partnership will always be perfect," he started. "But…"
His palm moved to the small of her back as they walked toward the lobby, and she blinked up at him in confusion as her skin warmed beneath his touch.
"But as far as those demons you mentioned? I can't erase them, Gill, but I can promise that I'll always be there – day or night. And I'll gladly help you battle yours, so long as you never let mine scare you away. Deal?"
Oh!
Those words made Gillian's breath catch in her throat, and she felt an overwhelming urge to hug him – to wrap her arms around Cal's neck and soothe away every ounce of his vulnerability. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't perfect either, and that she had secrets of her own – some of which might've put his to shame.
But when she actually tried to speak… she only managed a single word. "Deal."
He smiled at her then, with a peace she hadn't seen from him before. Her left arm wrapped around his right bicep, and her fingers grew warm once again as she felt the curve of his muscle beneath her hand. And it was actually a bit scary, she mused – to feel so comfortable with this part of her life, when she often felt so uncomfortable with the rest of it.
She had Cal's friendship, just as he had hers. And in the end… maybe the battle with all those other demons was better served for another day.