A/N: First of all, thank you to everyone who read this story and/or encouraged me through comments and follows. At this point, I will not be completing this story as is. This story had a mind of its own and went off in a direction I didn't expect. I've re-evaluated and re-read, but now that I know how the plot is meant to progress, I realise this draft is unusable and I have to rewrite every chapter. The pacing is now off-kilter and there are plot points that need to be removed and gaping holes to be filled. I also just don't like my use of symbolism. I absolutely will rewrite this story. I see it in my head so much more clearly now. I expect to get to it maybe September? I have a very busy summer ahead with another writing project, a transfer of school and change of program, and a move to another province. But, I am already chipping away at it, just slowly. I don't think it will take too long because none of my fanfiction is ever long.
The Dawning Hour
Chapter One
Despite everything Gillian Foster has learned about Cal Lightman in the nine years she's known him, there are still parts of him she doesn't yet understand. She wants to know all of who he is, but he only shows himself in slivers of truth, only a little at a time. And, she does know that those times are much more frequent when he's with her. So, when Cal nudges her awake before any light at all starts streaking in through the semi-sheer curtains of the windows, Gillian just grunts and purses her lips in displeasure, wondering what the hell is wrong with this man and actually wanting the answer.
"Wakey, wakey," he singsongs.
Gillian pouts even further at the tune, looking almost childish in her reluctance to get up.
"What do you want?" Gillian grumbles as she slowly peels one eye open in suspicion.
"Not that, Gill. Just want to talk," he says. He shifts to sit up against the headboard.
He readjusts the sheets, so they still cover Gillian completely.
"In the morning," she replies, already relaxing back into her pillow, her short brown hair fanning out around her head in a perfect halo.
"It's a new day, Gill," he whispers, reaching out to stroke a palm along her cheek.
He doesn't know what makes him do it; he just doesn't want to stop himself. And if the soft sound that Gillian releases means anything at all, she takes comfort in the contact also.
"Sun's not up, yet. I'm not up, yet," she says, but he can see the flinch of her face as she realises the words are untrue.
She's too far roused. It will take some time for her to fall back asleep. So, she sighs and turns onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow and resting her chin in her palm. She opens her eyes slowly and finds she has to look upwards to see Cal once her eyes adjust to the dimmest setting of the floor lamp he'd turned on.
The pale yellow lamplight washes over her face, her eyes a stormy colour in the haze of sleep and her hair mussed from the pillow, but shining even so. She's beautiful this way, cloaked in a simple kind of vulnerability and one of his old grey t-shirts; the neckline gapes and the worn fabric slips down to bare one freckled shoulder that reflects the low light and calls his eye.
"I want you to move in with me," he tells her, carefully ensuring he doesn't close himself off to her watching.
He does that sometimes, shuts her out, even if he doesn't quite mean to. And sure, he's a little nervous, mostly that she'll say no or laugh at him or question everything they'd built together, but he wants her to see that. He wants her to know just how serious he is in his request. He wants her to understand why he had to wake her in the wee hours of the morning instead of just waiting for a decent time.
Gillian's eyebrows rise up a fraction before furrowing lower, closer together. It's not anger; it's more like fear, with little hints of confusion muddling up the expression.
"Cal," she sort of gasps, suddenly looking a lot closer to stricken as the words sink in.
"I know you're afraid," he tells her gently, reaching for her hand in the semi-darkness.
She presses her hand into his open palm, threading her fingers between his and offering a little squeeze.
"Then why are you asking?" she breaks in a quiet voice.
"Because I love you, because fear isn't always something to run from, 'cause I want you with me, always," he lists, deliberately softening his tone and brushing his thumb across the back of her hand.
"Look, Gill, I'm not asking you to move in tomorrow. Take a drawer, clutter up the top of my dresser, spend an extra night or two here rather than away. Just... I want you to be ready, take your time and all that."
"Slow," she says, her lips pursing.
Cal looks at her, trying a little too hard to see her decision before she voices it, so he can prepare himself if it's unfavourable. When his focus shatters, he notices the sun has already risen, so quickly that he didn't see the pinks and purples streaking across the sky before the natural source lit up the room. It's as if Gillian's just absorbed all the light, how bright she looks, how beautiful. The fear is still there, but it's less. Maybe that's all it will take if he's lucky. Maybe that means yes.
"Okay," Gillian agrees. "I want that, too."
And when she smiles wide, her lips lifting to pull away from her teeth and expose the brilliance of her joy, Cal thinks any sunrise would pale in comparison to her beauty.
Cal presses down the door handle with an elbow and kicks his office door open with the toe of his boot, his hands full of papers and his laptop and a steaming mug of tea. He manages not to drop anything in the process and straightens up, tightening his grip on his laptop.
When he moves further into the room, laughter rings out from his study, so he drops his load in a pile in the centre of his desk and goes to investigate. He slides the study door over its tracks slowly, so it doesn't make too much noise and alert the room's inhabitants. He spies long, chestnut curls first, noting Emily's presence quickly, then moves closer to see Gillian, head thrown back in laughter as Emily animatedly tells a story, talking with her hands and her face and her body instead of merely her words. Cal draws closer to the pair, ecstatic that the change in his relationship with Gillian had only made the two closer, instead of straining the careful friendship.
"You're making that up," Gillian teases, resting a hand briefly against the young teen's arm.
"No, he really did that," Emily giggles. "I can tell you, I wasn't the only one who found it hilarious. Poor guy had an entire room of teenagers laughing at him."
"Oy! What's so funny?" Cal crosses the room to sit on the arm of the couch where Emily and Gillian are seated.
"It's just something that happened at school," Emily says, her eyes brightened up near amber.
"Do I get to hear this story?"
"Nope," Emily smiles. "It gets less funny every time I tell it."
"Hmm," he comments, pressing his palm against Emily's scalp to run down her curls. "But Gillian gets to have a laugh of it."
"Yeah, Dad," Emily says like it's obvious. "Gillian's a lot cooler than you are."
"Can't disagree with you, there," he smiles.
He looks over at Gillian to find she's smiling, too.
"I should get back to work," Gillian says as she smoothes out her skirt. "Can't skip out on payroll."
"Five minute break," Cal proposes, smiling in that lopsided way that always makes her heart beat funny.
She pauses a beat before answering.
"Fine."
"No breaks. Just got a new case in," Reynolds says from the doorway.
He waves to Emily and quickly focuses back onto his task.
"Not exactly my department, but seems you have quite the knack for rubbing people the wrong way, Lightman."
"Too right," Cal says under his breath, turning more towards the FBI agent.
"US government heard word that some soldiers in the US army have been killing innocent Afghani children. Of course, they need to know if there's any truth to those accusations. It could mean murder charges."
"Children?" Gillian questions, her jaw hanging low like a park swing.
"That's so horrible," Emily chimes in.
"Yeah, it is," Ben says. "So you guys'll help?"
"Meet you in the lab, ten minutes," Cal directs.
Ben turns and walks out of Cal's office, Gillian getting up to follow, so Cal can discuss in private with Emily.
"I want you to go home," he tells her. "I'll be home as soon as I can, even bring dinner."
She looks at him, wide eyed.
"Not too late," she demands. "And no bringing any work home. I know it's important, but you tend to get..."
She makes an absent gesture with her hand in lieu of finishing her thought, a stern look on her face that makes her look just like her mother.
"Yes mum," he replies with equal amounts obedience and snark.
"Ask Gill over, too," she suggests, giving a small smile. "Love you, Dad."
"Love you, Em. I'll see you in a bit.
He gives her a hug before turning to walk back through his office and into the hall.
"What do you have for me?" Cal asks as he steps into the lab.
He plops down in the first swivel chair he finds and scoots his way to the centre console.
"Photos and records of the accused and a video of the soldier who provided the names," Ben replies, handing Cal a USB flash drive.
"That's it?" Cal asks, severely underwhelmed by what was there to work with.
"Well..." Ben trails off and drops his gaze. His eyes then rise to meet Gillian's deliberately. She swallows a sigh.
So, he had talked to her about this. Gillian lowers her own gaze; she refuses to look at him, just crosses one leg over the other and twines her fingers together so her hands rest clasped in her lap.
"Cal, they want you to go to Afghanistan," Gillian says softly, finding the courage to look at his face.
She's met with stony features and a tight tone as he replies.
"I don't believe this," he says. His tone is accusatory but somehow his words remain unemotional. She can't pick out anything.
Gillian clenches both armrests of her chair, her eyes darting between the two men as they have a silent exchange with merely their eyes. Ben breaks his gaze first, looking uncomfortable, but Cal looks even worse despite winning. God, she wishes he wouldn't go. She wishes, but knows that no matter what it is she feels, he's going to have to do this. He raises his eyes to meet hers, steeled near rust-coloured and strong. Her stomach twists into a painful knot, even as she schools her face in the wake of the feeling that washes over her. He's really going to do this, even after the last time, just last Christmas, after the time he nearly hadn't come back.
The mere thought sets her heart racing.