This is my entry for McBreezy's LTM Fic Challenge. I took the Cal / Gillian prompt "Cocoa." And just in case all of you get to the end of this chapter and think I've lost my mind, trust me: cocoa shows up heavily in chapter two. It has a starring role. ;)
Disclaimer: Lie To Me isn't mine, and neither are the characters. But if someone could loan me Cal / Tim for a day or two (or ten), that would be fantastic.
It had been almost six months since Claire died, and Cal and Gillian were slowly growing comfortable in their new routine. They enjoyed casual weeknight dinners at his place, spent most of their Saturday afternoons together at Gillian's, and even enjoyed a handful of evenings that could've been classified as dates, if either of them had been inclined to do so.
Scratch that.
The "if" was completely unnecessary,because he was inclined to do so.
He was inclined to think of them as dates. Just as he'd been inclined to bring her flowers (twice), and kiss her cheek (far more than twice), and sometimes it struck him that they'd gone about this whole thing entirely backward. Sometimes he thought that they'd managed to slide headfirst into relationship territory without either one of them bothering to make the stereotypical "first move."
Truth was, he hadn't planned on any of this. Not yet. Not this soon.
Alright, fine. If he were being completely honest with himself, he'd freely admit that the idea of being in a relationship with Gillian had always been in the back of his mind. It was a fantasy that he'd long ago labeled "Someday," and packed away inside himself, behind carefully constructed walls. He loved her, unconditionally. And he'd wanted her from the beginning. But actually having balls enough to do anything about it was another beast entirely.
Cal Lightman was a realist, and he knew that thinking about dating Gillian Foster was probably as good as he was going to get. His timing was total shit, and he knew it. He knew his place – as friend, confidant, and shoulder to cry on – and to press for anything more would've been completely selfish.
What was he supposed to say, anyway?
"Sorry 'bout Claire, darling. Know you're grieving and all that, but see the thing is… I've finally pulled my head out of my arse long enough to man up to my feelings."
Wanker, party of one.
It sounded absolutely pathetic in his head, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't get the words to come together properly. So in short, he didn't have a plan. There was no hidden agenda and no impossibly high standard to meet. He and Gillian just… were. No pressure.
The part that really caught him off guard was how natural things felt with her. How easily they shifted back and forth between their roles – from business partners, to sparring partners (verbally, of course), to best friends and back again. It had been natural to hold her… to offer comfort as she grieved the loss of her friend. It had been natural to have her sleeping in his guest room, and on his couch, and even in his bed a few times (in a fully clothed, completely innocent way), and for the most part, they were content to move through their daily lives without making mention of the fact that things between them were obviously changing.
On paper, it was bloody brilliant. But in reality, their situation was a double edged sword: yes, he could hold her hand and kiss her cheek, and as long as neither of them put an official label on anything, it meant their safety net was still intact. The risk was there, but it wasn't nearly as high. On the other hand, Cal knew full well that a bigger risk meant a bigger reward – and he also knew that until one of them chose to take it, they were basically stuck. One step forward, one step back. Together, yet not.
He felt like a giant, pathetic chicken. One who had long been head over heels in love with Gillian, and yet was still unable to answer a simple question: "What are you waiting for?"
Six months had passed, and he still didn't have an answer to that one.
He just knew they couldn't stay in limbo forever.
Cal couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a tie, let alone an entire bloody suit. And he'd never been more grateful for his daughter's busy social life, because he knew that if she (or anyone, really) caught sight of him before Gillian did, he'd never hear the end of it.
This was not a date. It was not. It was just dinner. So what if he wanted to look nice while they went about it, right?
Right.
He sighed, cursing his shaky fingers as he moved through the house. The term 'headless chicken' wouldn't have been much of an overstatement. He wasn't running late yet – no thanks to the aforementioned tie which had simply refused to cooperate – but a few more delays, and he would definitely run the risk of missing his reservation.
Reservation.
He winced a bit as soon as the word flickered through his head. Emily would've had a field day with that little tidbit, he knew. The suit… the dinner… she'd take one look at him and never believe his whole 'It Isn't A Date" angle, not even for a microsecond. She'd probably laugh right in his face.
In all fairness, he had to admit that it did look pretty suspicious. The facts were simple: Gillian just happened to mention a new restaurant she wanted to try – one that was booked solid for the next three months, good lord – and then poof. Strings were pulled, reservations were made, and voila: one top notch, non-date evening was handed right to her, and served up Cal Lightman style.
So far, nerves were his only downfall – and they were out in full force, ready to party and making him feel downright pathetic in the process. "Nervous" wasn't usually in his vocabulary, after all. And he hated the fact that he was obsessing about every little detail, from cologne to mouthwash, to shoes (seriously, what was he – a bloody girl?). He hated the fact that he'd already brushed his teeth twice and was headed back to do it again just in case he decided to kiss her before their non-date even got off the ground. And most of all, he hated the fact that he felt so completely… off balance. Figuratively speaking. Like he'd had way too much sugar or caffeine or something, and he needed to just calm the hell down already. Just focus.
Breathe.
Because after all… it wasn't a date.
Cal had gotten so caught up in his own head that he didn't hear her approach. He didn't catch sight of her out of the corner of his eye as she stood there, leaning against the door frame with a smug little grin. And he most certainly didn't hear the laughter she suppressed as she watched him frantically brush his teeth for the third time. No, he had no bloody idea she was in the house at all until a single statement shattered the silence in the room and nearly scared him right out of his skin.
"You do realize you're dating her, right dad?"
Emily Lightman, part time ninja.
The sound of her muffled giggles hit the air before Cal had the chance to turn and face her. She was epically pleased with herself, and he couldn't blame her, really, because… well, she was his daughter. The 'Smart Ass' gene was ingrained right into her DNA.
Although there were at least a dozen things he could've told her, a single cocked eyebrow was the only response he gave. Mostly because he already knew where the conversation was headed, and he wanted to stall it as long as possible, if not avoid it altogether.
Emily mimicked his expression, still holding her ground and looking completely unfazed. "I'm just saying… isn't this the fourth evening you've spent together this week?"
Cal's eyebrow slowly returned to normal as he tried to decide on a reply. Too much detail and she'd pepper him with a hundred questions before he even made it out the front door, and too little and she'd probably pout. Neither seemed like a sensible choice, so he opted for a deflection instead.
"Your point being… what, exactly, love?" he tried.
She rolled her eyes at him immediately. "Oh, don't even try that trick with me, dad. I learned it from you, remember? When in doubt, either deflect or stall. That's a patented Lightman move. And it's kind of pathetic, if you really want to know the truth."
Yes, yes it was pathetic. He knew that, but he couldn't very well agree with her (it went against his nature). So since his 'Fight or Flight' instinct was beginning to kick in, he squeezed past her and shouted a one word answer that he knew she'd never accept. "Bollocks."
Emily snorted at him - an honest-to-goodness snort – and then he heard her footsteps fall in line behind his. "You do realize I'm not an idiot, right?"
Cal sighed. The girl was relentless. "It's not a date, yeah?" he tried, and bloody hell, even he was starting to get sick of hearing that line. "You can interrogate me tomorrow, Em, but for now, please do us both a favor and drop it. Fair enough?"
A beat later, he was on the move again. He made a beeline for the living room where he did a very awkward little dance of 'find shoes, check watch, grab flowers' (yes, there were flowers – he hadn't anticipated a teenage spy when he bought them), and if it weren't for all of that, she probably would've done what he asked. She probably would've let him weasel his way around the obvious truth without saying another word about it.
But she didn't. She changed tactics instead.
"What's with the tie, anyway?" she asked.
Uh-oh.
He'd been hoping to make his getaway before she had the chance to mention it, so he decided to play stupid rather than go along with her game of twenty questions. "What tie?"
Yet again, she looked unfazed. She simply grinned and then pointed to his chest, and said, "That tie. The one that just so happens to be Gillian's favorite color. The one that I just know you spent at least five minutes fussing with until the knot was perfect."
Shit, shit, shit. How had she known about the knot, anyway?
This was going to be harder than he thought.
Still rolling with the stupidity angle, Cal huffed out a breath at her and shrugged. "It's just a tie, Em. A man has to wear clothes, doesn't he? Restaurants frown on nudity, yeah?"
The word 'nudity' immediately earned him a nose-wrinkle and an eye roll, but nothing much in terms of leeway. Emily was a girl on a mission, now.
"It's new, isn't it?" she said, already certain of the answer. "And it matches your suit. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is also new."
Cal rolled his eyes right back at her and checked his watch again. This was taking entirely too long. "Is there a reason you're emphasizing every other word, love?" he mocked. "Aside from trying to drive me bonkers, I mean."
Emily's expression was partially hidden as he moved around the room, gathering his things and taking one last look in the mirror that hung in their foyer (that damned knot in his tie still wasn't right), and by the time he turned his attention back to her, she was on the verge of laughing at him again.
"Oh, come on, dad. You're practically the king of wrinkled black shirts and faded jeans, and yet tonight you're running out the door in a suit, with a bouquet of flowers tucked under your arm. For a man who keeps insisting that he doesn't have a date, it just seems a little… fishy, that's all."
Cal sighed. This was quickly turning into a 'no win' situation. "It's just clothes, Em," he lied. "No big deal."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "But it is new, right? The tie, the suit, the whole nine yards? Don't get me wrong… I mean, you look great and I'm sure Gillian will appreciate the fact that you look about a million times less wrinkled than usual, but you do realize you're proving my point, don't you?"
This time he tapped his foot and blew out his breath in a huff. He was seriously going to be late now. "Which is?"
"That you're dating Gillian," she answered.
Each time she made that statement, Cal's stomach tightened a little more. One more time, and he'd probably start to believe her.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," he said. "You and I both know that if I am ever lucky enough to convince Gillian to take a chance with me, I would not be able to keep it quiet. Shout it from the rooftops, I would."
Emily nodded and smiled, then waited all of about three short seconds before gesturing at the lilies in his hand. "And the flowers?" she asked. "Are you going to tell me some insane story about restaurants not wanting their customers to show up empty handed, or are you actually going to tell me the truth? Which, for the record, I already know."
That last little bit was tacked on as an afterthought, but she'd spoken it so sincerely that he couldn't help but answer her. He was halfway to the door when he finally turned around and said sheepishly, "I bought them earlier today, alright?"
Her smile lit up the entire room. Victorious, she was. "Earlier today… when?"
Cal couldn't tell if she was happy because she'd finally weaseled the truth out of him, or because she was just plain excited to hear what they both knew he was about to tell her. Or maybe a little bit of each.
Three…two…one…
"When I picked up the new suit, alright?" he finally admitted. "Are you happy now, love? Because I have an appointment to keep and I…"
She held up one finger to interrupt him. "You mean 'reservations,' don't you?"
Jesus, it was like living with a miniature interrogator sometimes. Of course, given that she'd been raised by an attorney and a deception expert, he should've expected as much. "Yes, fine, reservations," he grumbled. "I bought a new suit, picked out a new tie, made reservations, and ordered flowers. Can I go now?"
Emily beamed at him, stopping short of clapping her hands together and jumping up and down like an excited little kid. "So you're finally going to tell her, then?" she asked.
Cal heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he wrestled with the answer to her question. This time, when he shrugged at her, it wasn't because he was trying to deflect. It was because he simply hadn't made up his mind yet. "Baby steps, Em. I'll get there eventually."
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Gillian posed the question casually, as she leaned against his doorframe and watched him from a distance. Under different circumstances, he probably would've laughed her off. He probably would've made a joke or said something ridiculous, just to get her to change the subject. But not this time.
This time – less than twenty four hours after their 'non-date' – he didn't much feel like changing the subject. This time, something in his brain short-circuited his normal "open mouth-insert foot" tendencies, and he opted for honesty instead.
The baby steps he'd been taking? It was time for another one.
She took his warm smile as the invitation it was intended to be, and once she was settled into the chair across from his, Cal gave her a very simple answer. "I was thinking about you, love."
As soon as she blushed, he knew he'd made the right decision.
"Good things, I hope," she said.
It was only four short words, but there was something in her tone that made his ears perk up. Something… different… that he couldn't quite identify. Something that gave him the courage to take another tiny step and tell her what was really on his mind, for once, and exactly why he was thinking about her. No holds barred.
This was Gillian, after all. His Gillian. And she'd gushed over the flowers and the suit and all the dancing they'd done (yes, dancing – he'd managed to keep that bit away from Emily during the after-dinner interrogation, thankfully), and it wasn't like she was going to run away from him. He knew that. He did. He just… well, he just wasn't ready yet to show his cards yet. Not quite yet.
Opting to jump into the conversation with both feet and see where it took them, he simply blurted it out. "Emily tells me that you and I are dating. So I guess whether or not that counts as a 'good thing' is entirely up to you, darling."
Silence.
He heard nothing but silence as he waited for Gillian's reaction, which caused an immediate look of panic to flash across his face as he watched her. And the longer it lasted, the more his brain tried to fill the void with every possible excuse in the book, until he'd practically talked himself into leaving the room altogether.
But when her giggles hit the air a moment later, his panic morphed into total confusion.
She was… laughing at him?
Cal blinked and squinted at her, as if she'd gone blurry around the edges and surely, surely, he just wasn't seeing her clearly. Surely she wasn't laughing at him. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't.
Would she?
His hangdog frown set Gillian in motion, and in the next breath her hand was on his knee – squeezing and patting as she tried to get herself under control. "I'm sorry, Cal," she said soothingly. "Really, I am. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I didn't mean to laugh. It's just… the look on your face was completely priceless."
If her hand hadn't still been on his knee, his pride probably would've been much more wounded. But given the circumstances, he gave her an over-exaggerated sigh and said, much less eloquently than he would've liked, "Priceless, how?"
She squeezed him again. "Like you're half afraid of what I might say, and half afraid of what I might not say. And it's just funny, that's all, because you, Cal? You're never afraid of anything. I don't bite, remember? Well… not unless you really want me to."
Say what, now?
He didn't even know it was possible, but as soon as Gillian made that comment, he blushed. He actually blushed. He could feel the heat in his face, and he could see the utter shock in her reaction when she noticed it. As far as he could remember, he'd never done it before, and he hoped – mightily – that he'd never do it again. Because now he felt completely exposed. As if Gillian Foster could take one look at him and not only tell what he was feeling, but hear what he was thinking as well.
And all of a sudden, what he was thinking involved much less laughter on her part, and all of their clothing balled into a giant pile on the floor of his study.
So yeah… he was blushing.
Gillian looked a bit empowered. "A speechless Cal Lightman?" she teased. "Now that is one for the record books."
He didn't regain his voice until a few minutes later, when she'd finally taken her hand off his knee and walked toward his door. He called out to her just as she went to step back into the hallway. "What should I have told her, love?" he said lamely.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He felt like a giant idiot, but at least she had the decency not to laugh this time.
Gillian smiled, and resumed her position against his doorframe. "Well… what did you tell her?"
Cal shrugged and sighed, clearly embarrassed to tell her the truth but determined to do it anyway. "I said, 'bollocks,"' he answered honestly. "And then we had a five minute discussion on the newness of my suit and how long it took me to knot my tie."
Her smile immediately grew larger. "And what did you want to tell her?"
Not understanding her point, he scrunched up his brows. "Want?" he repeated.
"Yes, Cal, want. As in, were you inclined to agree with her? Or did her assumption seem way too… off the mark? Did the idea of 'dating' me make you want to wrinkle up your nose and laugh in her face, or… not?"
Air quotes. She'd used air quotes around the word dating, which made his thought process go off the rails a bit, because it did seem like such a small word for such a big step. Dating. Made it sound like they were teenagers or something.
"Definitely not, Gill. No nose-wrinkling or laughing, I can promise you that. Quite the opposite, in fact."
She took a few slow steps toward him, still smiling, and then said, "Well, that's good. Because I'd hate to know that the thought of us together counts as a turn off."
A turn off? Was she serious?
And just like that, it was his turn to laugh. "Just for the record, Gill? The thought of us together is about as far away from being a turn off as it is possible to get. In fact, I've spent the better part of the last few months so completely turned on that it's a wonder I haven't gotten frostbite yet."
She blushed immediately, much more deeply than he'd ever seen. And it was only then that he realized what he'd just said – how much he'd just said – and that he couldn't take any of it back.
So much for baby steps.
Gillian edged even closer to him, moving cautiously yet never taking her eyes off of his. Her breathing had turned shallow, and every step she took made his stomach clench in anticipation.
"Frostbite?" she tried. "I don't understand…?"
There went his heartbeat again, pounding in his ears. The way he saw it, he only had two options: he could tell her the truth and risk another round of laughter, or act like a giant wanker and sweep everything under the rug.
It only took a split second for him to make the decision.
"Frostbite," he repeated. "Too many cold showers, darling. I'm starting to fear for the safety of my toes."
To Be Continued...
