Rating: T
Warning: This story contains strong language and mentions of domestic violence.
Summary: Seven nights that Cal and Gillian spend together. #LietoMeLives
May, 2005: Richmond, Virginia.
"Which side do you want?"
His voice floats, low and yet lively, into the brightly lit bathroom. Slow circles on her skin fade into a smile as she discards the cleansing wipe and sees her contented reflection in the large, round mirror. Padding into the bedroom, barefoot and still flushed with happiness, she takes her phone from the glass-topped table and swipes to unlock the screen. Peering over the top of the device, she eyes him craftily, fingers busily tapping out a note as she tries to stifle a wider grin at the alien uncertainty on his face as he stands marooned at the end of the bed.
"Wait. Let me make a note in here so we have it down for posterity. You're being a gentleman."
There's nothing gentlemanly about the thoughts that bound around his brain as his eyes lock on the blue silk of her camisole, and they don't have to travel north to know that the soft skin of her legs is radiant in the dim lighting. In another time it would have been romantic and intimate, but, for now, it's just two friends in need of sleep. Two married friends in need of sleep. It hadn't been the old cliche of the hotel having overbooked or erroneously switching a twin for a double, just an assumption from the clerk that neither of them had bothered to correct in the mist of their weariness.
"I could sleep naked if you think I'm bein' too polite," he jokes, fingers edging up the hem of his t-shirt in a teasing manner.
She turns to put her phone on the bedside table so that he won't see her swallow away the wet rise of desire that pools in the back of her throat.
"I think I've had enough of naked men for today." The cheating-spouse case they'd been working on for the day eventually led to a rather revealing video and she's glad that they can shift back to business as she turns back the duvet, smoothing it out with a flat palm.
"Anyway, since when were you ever polite?" The not-altogether-serious question comes over the edge of the pillow as she huddles into it, the solid softness very much a comfort and not quite a barrier.
"I'm not rude. I'm just very selective about the people that I'm nice to." He clicks the light off so that the bright white from her phone and the thin crack between the curtains are the twin lines of colour in the room before she feels his weight on the mattress and silence reigns supreme. The outline of her thumbnail is a glowing crescent as she dabs out a message and he wonders if she's texting her husband to tell him that she's sharing a bed with another man tonight.
Somehow, it should be awkward or difficult or both. However, when the scant light finally fades and sleep captures their tired, angled-away-from-each-other limbs, their breathing gels into a symphony of peace.
March, 2006: Aberdeen, Maryland
"I'm on top!" The exultant glee and excitement in her voice is elastic joy against the whitewashed brick walls in the stark, tiny room.
"Thought you'd be a missionary kind of girl." His wolfish grin meets the back of her calves as she scales the sturdy silver rungs of the ladder in a breath. The top bunk creaks, worn springs groaning out in frustration as they accept her body.
"Sex is definitely off the agenda with these springs," she giggles, knowing she can choose to disturb him with a well-placed creak here and there. Crossing her legs under her, she watches as he sets his belongings out carefully on the tiny cabinet. For all of his general disorder, there's caution with the things that matter: phone, wallet and wedding ring, those connections to family and love, laid out with a slow precision she hadn't thought he possessed.
They were holed up in this tiny room on the outskirts of an army base after investigating some conflicting firing data. While civilians were generally unwelcome in these areas, having a husband that worked for the DoD and a partner that could talk his way into Fort Knox helped pull the strings to get closer to the truth. String-pulling aside, the relative danger pushes back into the forefront of her mind with the snapping shut of the bolts on the door and his meticulous checking of the latch on the window. Even when darkness comes, pitch-black and starless, she knows she'll be safe with him.
Rolling into the bottom bunk, he pulls the dark green woollen blanket securely in place and chases away a hard shudder from the whiplashing cold. In spite of the need for warmth, the rough fabric settling against his skin is soon an irritant, a shower of nails and a covering of sandpaper.
"Christ, this is like sleepin' in a scourin' pad."
"Don't be such a baby, Cal." He still has no idea how she manages to blend softness and sternness on her tongue like that.
"You'd be a good drill sergeant, Foster." It's something of a half-truth, he thinks. She had the order and the discipline, that was certain.
"You'd be a terrible soldier. Muddy boots, long hair, never taking any orders."
"Just as well we're very bloody good at what we do, then, eh?"
"Mmmhmm," she agrees, voice beginning to grow heavy with sleep.
Turning on her side, she smiles to herself when she sees him toss aside part of the offending bed clothes and he lets a bare arm dangle haphazardly into the air.
"Look on the bright side. At least you'll have exfoliated."
"Is that a girlie word for bein' itchy?"
Even though he's uncomfortable and it'll be too hot and then too cold, and he's bound to have scratched and clawed at his skin by the morning, somehow there's always comfort when she's there.
February, 2007: Washington, DC
"Please don't tell me you're thinking of sleeping in the car?" With a click of the handle she's joining him in the backseat, managing to avoid the charmless clutter in the footwell.
"Thought I'd probably outstayed my welcome," he replies, the pain of believing that he didn't belong anywhere evident in his tone.
"Not with me," she admits, being a little franker than she had intended. Putting the blame at her husband's feet when it might not have been entirely fair to do so. "Give me a minute."
When she returns, she hands him a large Thermos and arranges a soft, downy blanket over his shoulders. Clambering forward to click on the heater, she turns on the radio and then sits back next to him, waiting for the music to eclipse the soft rush from the vents as the temperature starts to rise. His substantial beard is like an emery board against her shoulder, rough even through her coat. A soothing heat soon radiates in the centre of his chest after he takes uncouth gulps of the Irish coffee in the flask. Condensation mists the windows and he manages a quick huff of a laugh.
"Look at all the steamy windows. Alec will think we've been shaggin'."
"Yeah, because the unwashed look is really doing it for me," she deadpans, feeling a slight lifting of the weight as he forces out a wry grin.
"Alright, don't kick a man when he's down." He swills more of the coffee in the cup, little wisps of steam rising up between them as he offers it up to her. A frown furrows his brow as she turns down the alcohol.
"I'll drive you home in the morning."
"I have no idea where home is, Gill." The jagged hurt in his voice mirrors the cracks in his knuckles and the bruises on his heart that had formed when his wife told him she was leaving. He'd driven his fist into the wall over and over like a piston until the blue-black bumps and shallow red slits were the colours and cuts of despair.
"Home is where Emily is," she replies, so steadily and surely that it is like a flatline on a hospital monitor: one thrumming, hard line that is solid and true. Yet he knows that it's just her usual anchoring, empathetic brilliance shining through, even in the messed-up cocoon they are currently residing in.
Long after the upstairs light in her house had gone out with a solitary blink, she leads him inside to await the questions and the jealousy that will be a barrage at dawn.
January, 2008: George Washington University Hospital, Washington, DC
"You're not allowed to sit on the bed." The softness in her voice is cotton and silk, even if she's currently staring at a linen-made map of her own despair as her eyes trace the patterned hexagons on the flimsy hospital gown.
"Sod the rules, love," he affirms, loudly enough so that they can probably hear him on the top floor. His thumb and finger arch her jaw towards him and then upwards and he almost wants to look away from the tear-bright circles that her eyes have become. The ache tunnels into his veins, deep, black and unabating, as he sees the beauty in her pain.
He places a box of chocolates beside the bed, they rattle about like charms on a bracelet; the only sound in a long, despairing silence that grows molasses-thick and suffocating as the minutes pass.
"I was gonna bring Em, but I thought it might be too much." Too much for a teenager to have to think about, even though she'd already been through one assembly at school where someone had to tell a heartbroken row of kids that their teacher had miscarried. Too much because she is his living, breathing, beautiful child and symbolic of all the future Gillian has suddenly lost.
She smiles a genuine smile at the mention of his daughter's name. "You know that I always love seeing her."
Language leaves him as he sees her strength and unwavering devotion even through the pallor and the pain and the slow purl of the drip. With his fingertips looped across her wrist, he wonders if her ways of coping had been galvanised in the same way as his: with drunken fists and mantras of worthlessness. Did her father beat her in that same nonchalant and devastating manner as his had, like it was so fucking easy? Like it was as routine as hammering a broken rail or checking the points?
Anger rises up and sends a question onto his tongue. "Where the bloody hell is Alec, anyway?"
"Work. He was in the middle of a meeting at Fort Rucker, Alabama. He's getting the next plane that he can." The last three words catch in her throat a little; as if she's spelling it out that it's not the best effort that her husband could make, even if she knows it's really just the cruel trap of circumstance coming into play.
"So it's gonna be hours? Better get comfy, then." A nurse shoots him daggers from two beds away as he makes enough room for himself beside her without disrupting any of the equipment, moving close enough so that he's warm, solid and just there beside her.
"Looks like she does prostate exams for fun, that one." It's his usual noisy, unsubtle demeanour that allows her to laugh in spite of the unending emptiness. She elbows him with a light nudge, all habit in her bones that forgets the loss of blood and life for a few precious moments. All that she is grateful for at the moment is the here and now, with the questions of the future shut away, and her best friend's presence beside her.
2010, New Year's Eve, Four Seasons Hotel, Washington, DC
"I didn't like the thought of you bein' here on your own."
The stretch of his fingers leaves long trails printed around the neck of the champagne bottle, hot streaks across the fine film of cold.
"What are we celebrating?"
"Bein' back on track?" It's a question and it's probably the thousandth time in the last few months that he's asked her if they are okay. In that moment he considers why she's escaped to the lonely luxury of the hotel suite given that she usually likes to party on these occasions. Deep inside he fears that maybe he's worn away too much of her with his abrasive nature, if all that's left now is a thin cloak of caution that keeps her protected.
A sober nod is the only confirmation as her eyes drift to the way he's holding the bottle with such confidence. The thought that he puts his hands on women in the same way sends a delicious ache spiralling in the centre of her body; hot, unrelenting and charged. It seems almost too easy to give in to desire, however, and she knows it is aeons away from being enough. Something buried deep inside her knows that he has the power to hurt her so much because it goes hand in hand with love. She's certain that one day, the two things will balance themselves out.
"I came up for some coffee. I must be getting old; I feel like I'm having trouble staying up."
"That's not somethin' that blokes like to talk about, darlin'."
Her laughter bubbles along with the gurgle of the coffee machine as it spits and splutters its way to a dark shot of espresso.
"Look, I don't believe in the New Year and a fresh start and all that bollocks, but I just want to tell you that I don't want us to go back to that place where it's all fucked up."
"I know." After all, he had used his words, as such, now that they had been checked, set, bound and published. The money was in the bank and the apologies were there in between the lines. Most of all, though, it's the deep sincerity in his tone that drills and then settles in her bones as he stands there, inches away, strong and yet uncertain.
"Come and see the view." Looping her arm in his, she leads him to an inner balcony that is sheltered from the elements and furnished with a plush sofa, the floor-to-ceiling window in front of them offering a majestic view of the city. She abandons the coffee, not caring if she sleeps or stays awake, just as long as it is the two of them in this not-quite-defined togetherness.
Sitting shoulder to shoulder, they merge in as effortlessly as always. He rests a hand gently across the wide band of black sequins at her waist and she curls one of his surprisingly pristine shirt tails in a fist. He notices the creases in the crisp white linen and feels as if she's making a mess of him for once, but it's as comfortable and imperfect as ever.
With the final glittering trails from the fireworks metallic bursts against the black and the whisper-soft cadence of her breath indicative of sleep, he tells her that he loves her with only the city as a witness.
March, 2011: Washington, DC
There should be silence in the early hours but, for the second night in a row, he hears a muffled sob penetrate the bricks and mortar between them. Ignoring it on the first night had been difficult; now it is an impossibility. Throwing off the covers with a grim determination, he hopes that the pained creak of the floorboards and the barely there crack of light as he opens the door are enough of a warning. The silvery-blue-grey of the early hours paints calm where there is none; the spines of the books on the shelves are as straight as soldiers.
She's marooned in the middle of the bed, a dark and undefined shape, hopelessly tangled in a chaos of tears, sheets and blood-filled dreams.
Without even a breath of hesitation, he finds some space in between the covers and against her skin, moving so that her hair is cold silk on his t-shirt and her tears are hot fear against his arm. He thumbs the wet streaks from her face and presses neat kisses to her temple until the tight shudders of terror begin to fade. The only words in the room are printed in all the well-worn titles that surround them, his spare room a book-filled sanctuary.
Grief's iron grip begins to relinquish its hold when he pulls her ever closer, breathing in and fighting away her pain. When she opens her eyes, he's a watery blur of skin, ink and dawn. The sun carries buttery-soft light into the room and she feels so anchored and safe in knowing that this is the moment when the equilibrium is here and his love finally outweighs all the hurt.
August, 2012: Four Seasons Hotel, Washington, DC.
The spread of his fingers across the sweat-misted plane of her abdomen as his thumb traces figures-of-eight, a cluster of tiny infinities against her skin, sparks a memory in her mind. She thinks of champagne and coffee and that not-so-distant New Year's Eve.
"You told me that you loved me in this room." Even though her eyes had been closed at that particular moment she had still been able to sense the technicolor crackles in the sky; a contrast to all their black and white. Even though it had been the wrong moment, it was still right, somehow: fireworks, for both of them.
"I thought you were asleep." His voice is heavy with sex and sleep and yet light with contented languor.
"Shows how much you know, genius," she teases, laughter ringing about the suite.
"I hope you haven't been fakin' anythin' else." He breathes his mischievous, low words against her neck; a searing trail.
"You know that I love you, too, right?" Telling him outright is something that she knows she should do more often, but he's always been the man who knows things, who is so damn sure of himself that he'd bet the house on double fucking zero. However, she also knows he's not just that man, either, that he has vulnerabilities and weaknesses and she can see all of them because they finally let each other past their own well-constructed walls.
"Yeah." The word is a lonely, perfect syllable as he angles against her, skin-slick, relaxed and warm.
Jewelled light spills from the window, bathing them in a kaleidoscopic glow as their breathing evens out. It's another peaceful synchronicity, the same one that they found all those years ago when they were just two friends sharing a double bed without a shred of awkwardness.
All of the nights in between, those dusks and dawns bookmarked with pain, heartbreak, joy, jealousy, anger, betrayal, hope and love, have been an emotional spectrum that has led them to the place they are in now.
It is the unbreakable space where they will always sleep and wake with each other.