Disclaimer: I don't own Lie to Me.

So Ava had run away. Ava had run away, Torres was drunk, and Foster was hurt. Hurt because of him, because he'd put her in danger again.

Well, there wasn't anything he could do about Ava tonight. And it wasn't as if this was her first time on the streets; she'd be all right until morning. Well, not all right—that girl wasn't ever all right—but she'd survive.

As for Torres…"Torres!" Cal barked.

She jerked into surprised, drunken awareness, which was better than the shocked, drunken stupor she'd been in since announcing that her sister was gone. She was still standing in Foster's kitchen, her arms wrapped around herself, her hair damp from the impromptu shower he'd put her through less than an hour ago. She looked like a lost little girl. The part of him that couldn't stand the sight of a woman in pain wanted to comfort her, but Foster needed him more, and as far as he was concerned she was the only innocent in this whole mess .

"What?" Torres said.

"Call yourself a cab and go home. No more drinking tonight, or I'll fire you tomorrow." He leveled a finger at her. "And you know I'll know, so no cheating."

She nodded dazedly. "Okay." She pulled out her cell phone and began dialing as she walked away to wait on the porch.

Well, that was one problem taken care of. He dismissed Torres from his mind with no further thought.

Then he gazed at the woman tucked under his arm and felt his heart clench. "C'mon, luv," he said, tugging her gently toward the living room. "Let's sit you down, shall we?"

Foster resisted, looking over her shoulder at the mess that was once an organized kitchen. "I should—"

"We can clean it up in the morning, or I'll do it while you relax," he told her sternly.

She hesitated, biting her lower lip, then nodded. They made their way to the couch, moving slowly. She was favoring her side, which worried him. He understood that she didn't want to involve the authorities, but if he even suspected that she had a broken rib he'd toss her over his shoulder and carry her kicking and screaming to the bloody hospital.

He helped her sit, arranging some throw pillows behind her as she leaned back. "Stay right there," he said, taking a moment to caress her cheek—the uninjured one—before hurrying to the medicine cabinet to grab a bottle of Advil, then to the kitchen to retrieve two ice packs and fill a glass with water.

He returned to the couch to find that Foster had rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest, staring sightlessly at the coffee table a foot away.

"Foster?" he said softly, crouching in front of her.

It took her eyes a moment to focus on his face. "Cal?" she said.

"Can you sit up for me, luv?"

Her eyebrows drew together and she seemed to consider the question before laboriously pushing herself into a seated position.

He uncapped the Advil and poured two pills onto his palm, then held them out to her. "Take these."

She mechanically took the pills from him, put them in her mouth, took a sip of water, and swallowed.

"Good. Hold this to your cheek." He handed her one of the ice packs, settled back on his heels. "Now, I have to take a look at your side, darling."

She twitched, glared at him as if he'd betrayed her somehow.

"You could have a cracked rib," he pointed out.

"I'm fine," she said.

He smiled a smile with no humor. "Come on, Foster, what's with the hesitation? You can trust me—I'm a doctor."

She laughed once, weakly, then dissolved into tears.

"Oh, Gillian." He swiftly moved to sit beside her, pulling her against him. She buried her face against his shoulder. He began to stroke her hair, a gentle, repetitive rhythm. Her hand fisted in his shirt. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "That's right, luv," he murmured. "Let it out."

She cried for a long time. Eventually she pulled back, muttering, "Sorry, sorry."

He reached for her, cradled her face in his hands, used his thumbs to wipe at the tear streaks under her eyes. "Don't be sorry. It was my fault this happened to you. My fault. I'm sorry." He looked her in the eye. "And now I'm really sorry, but I do need to check your side."

Her breath hitched but she didn't look away, mesmerized by his gaze. She nodded slowly and lowered herself back against the pillows, pressing the ice pack to her cheek as she did so.

He grasped the hem of her blouse gently and pushed it up her torso until it was accordioned up against the wire frame of her bra. She was breathing rapidly, afraid—afraid of him, which was a thought that made him want to commit murder—so in counterpoint he kept his own breathing slow and deliberate.

He could see the faint shadow of a blossoming bruise on the pale skin of her right side. He probed the injury cautiously, making her hiss. "Sorry," he said. He pulled her shirt back into place then grabbed the spare ice pack off the coffee table and pressed it against the bruise through the blouse. "Well, the good news is, I think it's only bruised."

"What's the bad news?"

"The bad news," Cal said, pausing significantly, "is that Torres tried to kiss me tonight."

Foster stared at him, long enough that he began to wonder whether the attempt at a joke had been a mistake. Then she cracked a smile. "I'm impressed. Here I thought she was too in awe of you to even call you Cal."

Cal slid onto the couch beside her again. This time she nestled against his side with no prompting from him. He closed his eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, she did that tonight, too. I blame her sister. I think Torres was jealous."

Foster snorted, a quick burst of air against his neck. "If Ria is going around kissing you, maybe I should be jealous. Is the protégé surpassing the partner?" The faint note of teasing in her voice, so much better than the panic he'd heard earlier, made him smile with relief.

"I don't worry about Torres the way I worry about you," Cal said, resting his cheek against her hair.

"Because she's stronger than I am?"

"Because there's only two girls in the world it would absolutely destroy me to lose."

"Emily and Zoe?" She was smiling, he could tell.

"Emily and you."

There was a long pause. Then: "Do you ever stop to think that goes both ways?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you ever stop to think that it'd destroy me to lose you? That I'm as terrified when you put yourself in danger as you were when you thought I might have been hurt?"

"You were hurt," he reminded her.

She wasn't to be deterred, though. She poked him in the chest. "Do you ever consider that I might not be able to handle it, if something were to happen to you?"

"No, luv," he said, his chest tight. "That would never happen."

"Oh really. And why's that?"

"Because you're so much stronger than I am." He wiped at his eyes, sniffed. "Now, let's not talk about this anymore, shall we? I'm feeling just a little fragile tonight."

They breathed in unison for a few minutes.

"I guess I should get to bed," she said eventually. "You can go home if you want." But she made no move to get up.

"I'm fine right here. Let's just…stay like this. Just for a moment. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, snuggling against him with a contented sigh.

They were both asleep within minutes.