"Now what?"
She breathes in sharply, shoves her hands in her pockets. "Well… you take me to dinner, and wine me and dine me, and we get some rain and go walking in it. And then…"
"Then?"
"We move forward."
x
It's freezing outside, but they walk aimlessly, not speaking, not noticing the cold. Gillian wishes for something, though she's not sure what. Cal just wants to fill the silence.
x
"Does this ever feel wrong to you?"
"What?"
She gestures helplessly. "This… thing. Us. Without the work, I mean."
"Our friendship wasn't entirely based on work, Gill. Just because the company's gone doesn't mean we can't still…" He trails off because… what? What is it that they really ever did? They talked about work, and the company. Their lives were the company.
"You're right. You're right," she murmurs.
x
She wishes she could fix this. That's what she wishes.
x
"I miss it," she admits one evening after half a bottle of wine.
"Miss what, darling?" He drags a hand over his face and realizes suddenly how exhausted he is.
She blinks, looks at him quizzically. "Everything."
x
Sometimes he wants to scream.
At her maybe. At himself. At his daughter for coming home an hour after curfew.
At the sky, for being so damn blue.
x
"What is it?"
"A job."
"Aha." He feels his heart leap to his throat, prays for something to rewind the clock.
She looks away, and there it is: guilt, guilt, guilt. "…In California."
x
He's used to the ache in his chest by now. His daughter doesn't say anything about the state of the house. She smiles and cleans and promises to take him to lunch.
But in the end she, too, walks away.
x
"You're alright, love?"
"I'm fine." Her throat burns but she ignores it, keeps talking. "And you?"
"Fine," he responds too quickly. "Em was here for a visit a few days ago."
"How does she like Berkley?"
"Oh, yeah, she's havin' a great time, thinks it's all one big holiday. Real tan."
She tries to laugh. "California will do that to a person."
"Should I expect you to be unrecognizably dark when you return?"
But she can't return and he knows it. So they sit in silence, until Gillian hangs up the phone.
x
He looks so awkward, standing there on her doorstep, but my god he's here and it's like rain in a desert.
"I just…"
"It doesn't matter," she promises as she pulls him close.
x
"Are you sure?" He asks, breathing heavily as he hovers over her.
Her lips on his chest are all the confirmation he needs.
x
She wants to feel happy. But she's too tired.
x
"This isn't working."
He knows, he knows. She looks at him and he knows, because he's seen that look a thousand times: he has, once again, pushed her too far too fast.
x
"This doesn't mean…" She rubs her arms awkwardly, glancing at him from under her hair. "You can still call."
"Bye, Gill," he says, kissing her temple.
x
She makes it just inside her door before she collapses in a messy, sobbing heap.
x
"How've you been?"
Ria smiles and shifts her weight. Already, her feet hurt if she stands too long. "I'm great. You?"
Eli looks younger, somehow. Maybe it's the haircut. "I'm good. I've been overseas the past few months. Bosnia. Rome for while. I've been branching out, doing my own research."
"That's great." Ria smiles genuinely.
"You've obviously been busy," Eli smirks and gestures to her slightly protruding stomach. Ria places a hand over it protectively.
"I decided for me there were more important things than solving crimes. Ever hear from Lightman or Foster?"
"I saw Lightman not too long ago, but we didn't talk long. You know how he is, gave me the once over and sent me on my way." Eli grins good-naturedly and runs a hand over his five o' clock shadow.
"How did he look?" Ria is undeniably curious about her old boss, especially since they all separated under such trying circumstances.
"Tired," Eli replies.
x
"Maybe you should take a vacation, dad," Emily says seriously one afternoon over coffee.
"Where the hell would I go?" He asks, draining his cup in one gulp.
Emily shrugs. "I don't know. Somewhere warm. Somewhere sunny."
He doesn't want sun. Blast if he doesn't feel like moving straight to Alaska.
x
She looks at herself in the mirror and wonders where the years have gone, wonders who that stranger is, staring back at her.
x
He wakes one day and it doesn't hurt as much. So he goes back to bed to wait until it does.
x
Emily, ever the planner, gets married on a Wednesday.
"To get lower rates on the hotel rooms," she explains.
He stands in a corner of the reception hall, feeling out of place and uncharacteristically awkward. He has danced the designated father-daughter dance, and Emily cried. Now he's ready for the whole bloody thing to be over with.
"Hey, stranger."
He thinks he must be looking at a ghost, because surely that's not Gillian Foster – not his Foster – standing beside him, a grin on her face.
He finds his voice somewhere in his stomach. "Hi."
She nudges him playfully, and he takes a moment to study her. Not read her, just… really look. She smiles and takes his scrutiny calmly.
"You're happy," he surmises after a minute. And maybe it's not the thing to say to a friend you haven't seen in ten years, but she just laughs and pulls him into her arms.
"Dance with me," she says.
And yeah, it's pretty perfect.
x
"I don't know how."
"How what?"
He shrugs noncommittally. "How to move forward."
She breathes deeply again, glances back at the empty old building, the sign that gleams brightly through the dirty window. He follows her gaze, and it's something like mourning that passes between them.
"Where do we start?"
She smiles for the first time in weeks, and maybe that's hope in her eyes. Maybe there's a chance.
"Take my hand."
R.I.P. Lie To Me.