Spoilers: 2x16 'Delinquent'

Author's Note: Although this is a post-ep for 'Delinquent,' I actually wrote the bulk of this based solely on the previews available before the episode aired. After the episode aired, I seriously debated whether I should post this or not, because, well, I thought FryingPan!Gillian was pretty kick ass and this story doesn't necessarily jive with her actions in the ep. Nevertheless, I decided to make some minor tweaks and post it anyway.

Regarding the plot of said story, yeah, it's been done before but I'm doing it again.

Sticks and Stones

The facade of calm, self-assurance she'd produced in her kitchen after the attack had faded as the rush of adrenaline passed. Now she stared blankly at a spot far off in the distance, squinting slightly as if lost in thought.

One hand on her upper arm, he peered at her closely, not bothering to mask the concern on his face.

"Are you sure you're all right love?"

She blinked rapidly as the sound of his voice returned her to the moment and she stared at him, wide-eyed. When she didn't answer, he knew she'd finally reached her limit.

She opened her mouth to speak but he shushed her gently. "Come home with me tonight. The bed in the spare room is all made up, and I can assure you, it's quite comfortable. Hey, I should know." He smiled wryly.

Mutely, she nodded. "Thanks," she said softly.

Jazz played quietly on the car radio but neither of them spoke during the short drive to his house. The music should have been relaxing, but Gillian was still too unnerved to appreciate it. Leaning her head against the headrest, she felt a crushing fatigue descend upon her, presumably another symptom of the adrenaline rush wearing off. She thought about Cal's offer to put her up for the night. His willingness to use his abilities to push past her personal boundaries and cross into territory he shouldn't had long been a source of tension between them. Tonight, however, she was glad of it. She hadn't been able to face staying in her home, nor could she bring herself to ask for company. Knowing Cal, he'd probably seen her dilemma and offered her a way out.

Inside the front door, Cal took her coat.

"Would you like something to drink? Or eat?"

"No, thank you. I think. . . I think I'm just gonna turn in. Maybe read for a little bit." Her voice wavered slightly, whether from fatigue or emotion she wasn't sure. She wondered if she was managing to sound nonchalant. Probably not, she thought, but it was worth a try.

From the look on Cal's face, it was clear he knew she was still traumatized. She was relieved when he decided not to press the issue.

"Of course. Follow me." He led her up the stairs and down a hallway to the right.

"That's Emily in there," he said, jerking a thumb at a door on his left. "Don't worry about disturbing her – she sleeps like the dead. You're down here, across the hall." He stopped in a doorway and flipped on the light. "Bathroom's just over there. It should be fully stocked. You know your way 'round the kitchen so feel free to help yourself to whatever you find there. I'm just the opposite way at the top of the stairs if you need anything else."

Stepping aside, he let her walk into the room. She turned to face him.

"Thanks, Cal." Her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.

"Come here." He opened his arms and pulled her into a tight hug. "I'm glad you're alright."

"Me too." She bit her tongue to stop herself from crying and wondered how many hugs it would take before she could forget the feel of the rope biting into her skin, the awful helplessness she felt, the sickening realization that her life was in some psycho's hands. She stepped back from him.

"Goodnight Cal."

"Goodnight love."

Once in bed, Gillian curled up into the fetal position and finally let herself be swept away by the torrent of emotions generated by the attack. She cried, quietly but hard. Fear vied with relief, with anger, with remembered pain. She'd never understood how easily Cal could put himself in harm's way, only to walk away afterward whistling a jaunty little tune. She wondered if he ever had his little private meltdowns afterward. Somehow she doubted it. Clearly she needed to ask him how he managed. Instead she hugged her pillow to her chest and waited for the tears to run their course.

In his bedroom, Cal laid on his back, hands behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. His face belied the unsettled thoughts in his mind. Mostly he was worried about Gillian. In some ways, this was nothing new – he'd always worried about her for one reason or another. Lately it had been her emotional health. She'd never said as much but he knew that losing Sophie had devastated her. Losing Alec had been more of a mixed blessing. He suspected she'd agree with him if he said she was better off without him, but the actual process of jettisoning him had been rough on her. The financial strain the company had been under had taken its toll on her as well. He felt slightly guilty that he'd contributed to that by leaving it her to find a solution on her own.

And of course there was her physical safety. He'd been so relieved earlier when he'd walked into that kitchen and seen her sitting there at the table. True, he hated to see her crying, with an ugly bruise on her cheek, but it was a hell of a lot better than seeing her dead. He felt momentarily guilty that since she'd started working with him she'd been attacked twice. He was pretty sure that hadn't happened in her previous line of work. Still, he'd always felt that guilt was a fairly useless emotion. What was done was done, and he'd done the best he could to keep her out of danger. He could practically hear the words coming out of her mouth and smiled to himself. "Cal Lightman, you are not responsible for my personal safety. Get over yourself already!" He rolled onto his side and in minutes was asleep.

Gillian punched her pillow and rolled over for what seemed like the thousandth time. The tears had left her drained and she'd hoped the emotional release would allow her to sleep. Instead, she was still awake two and half hours after turning off the light. Every time she started to drift off, she'd hear a noise – the wind outside, the house creaking, a car passing – and startle awake, heart pounding. She half expected the boogey man to come crashing through the bedroom door and cursed herself for being a fool. She'd never been one to jump at shadows but somehow she just couldn't settle after being attacked in her own home. She knew she was being irrational. As a professional, she would expect a person in her situation to have difficulty dealing with such an attack. But somehow she felt the need to apply higher standards to herself. She'd hoped that spending the night in Cal's house would make her feel safe enough that she could start to process some of the day's trauma, but that didn't seem to be happening. Hating herself for what she was about to do, she got out of bed and walked down the hallway.

His eyes fluttered open, unsure of what had woken him. Then he heard it, a quiet whisper from the doorway of his bedroom.

"Cal? Are you awake?"

He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, then propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at the door in the gloom. "Foster?"

His voice was gravelly from sleep and she knew she'd woken him. "Yep. Look I'm sorry to wake you but I can't seem to get to sleep and it's been almost three hours now and I just thought… I don't know… Maybe you'd be awake and…" She trailed off uncertainly, not sure exactly what she was trying to say.

"Right. It's," he craned his neck to see his alarm clock, "1:53 in the morning and we're both wide awake. There's only one thing to do in this situation." He sat up in bed and swept back the covers on one side. "Get in."

She knew she should argue, insist that she was alright, that she'd made a mistake in waking him. Instead she walked over to the bed and slid in next to him. The sheets were warm where he'd been laying.

"Roll over."

She rolled onto her side and he spooned himself against her back. She felt his breath lightly against the back of her neck and started to relax almost immediately as he wrapped an arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze.

"Better?" His voice was so soft, only inches from her ear.

"Better." She snuggled the un-bruised side of her face into the pillow and felt sleep coming to claim her.

"Foster?"

"Umph?"

"You know what this means don't you?"

"Ummmmph?"

He gently brushed a lock of her hair back from her face. "It means you're a sissy."

He felt rather than saw her smile and then there was nothing but the sound of their deep, heavy breathing as they slept.