A/N: This one's gonna run multi-chapter. It's certainly loads longer than my first one. I'm kinda excited about this one, so I hope you lot enjoy it. Please feel free to r+r.

Fair warning: there is a bit of 'language' but nothing shockingly un-Lightman-like. In a later chapter, there's the possibility of an f-bomb, but I'll try to remember to put a warning at the head of that chapter.

Disclaimer: If I owned Lie To Me, we'd be well into Season 5, and Season 6 would already be in the works; so obviously, it isn't mine. Boo.

"Truth or happiness – never both."

"A hard truth – in the long run – is far better for you than a soft lie."

"A word? He's not someone for the long haul."

"You know the line we talk about? You know, the line we have to draw because we see things people are hiding? Things they don't want us to know? I think we should respect the line. I think it's best for both of us."

"Well, you got her head screwed on right. More or less."

"Yeah, the truth is that's about the best you can ever hope for."

"What's your excuse with me, then? Eh, darlin?"

It was shortly after 7pm when Cal came wandering into Gillian's office. Wandering was really the best way to describe his entrance, as though he had begun walking aimlessly through the halls of The Lightman Group and had only ended up in her office quite by accident. This was, of course, not at all the case; this had become their nightly custom, one of them turning up in the other's office after the front door closed behind the last employee to leave for the day. That had been Loker tonight, about 20 minutes prior.

Visiting each other was their way of closing out the workday whenever they were both in the office. It had always been something they did – one of many somethings they did – by unspoken agreement. And even though it was old habit by now, it hadn't escaped Gillian's notice that Cal seemed to have become even more deliberate about it after Clair's death. He never missed a night, even going so far as to return to the office after having left earlier in the day. He'd done that twice recently. She wanted to protest, to say he didn't need to go out of his way for her, but the truth was that she really liked the extra attentiveness he was showing toward her.

Although the days immediately following Clair's death had been dark ones for her, enough time had passed at this point that the hurt wasn't quite as acute. Gillian was actually in a much better headspace now than at any other time since that awful night when Cal had answered her frantic call and rushed to her only to find her covered in Clair's blood and reeling over being unable to save her young friend. And Gillian knew she had Cal to thank for getting her beyond it all, helping her move on. Doctorate notwithstanding, he was no psychologist; but when it came to Gillian's own personal psychology, Cal was far and away the most qualified to "shrink" her back to herself. No one else knew her the way Cal did. No one ever had and very likely never would.

Mostly, what Cal did for her in recent weeks was in what he didn't do. He didn't give her advice, didn't tell her how she "should" feel, didn't try to move her more quickly through the grieving process. Really, what he did was sit with her in silence or hold her tight against him. He gave her a real sense of safety and stability. And even more than that, it just felt good to be held by him, so damn good to be in his arms with her head leaning against him. It had started out as feeling merely comforting. Lately, though, she had begun feeling something that was decidedly more than comfort.

Not that he was taking advantage; Cal was behaving in the exact same, comforting way he had since Clair's death. Positively gentlemanly. And gentle. And manly.

There, that was the problem. Lately, whenever she took solace in the circle of his arms (strong arms…tattooed arms…sexy arms…stop it, Gillian!) she found her thoughts going rogue on her. She would lie there, an ear pressed against his chest (a strong chest, a…really?! focus, woman!) listening to the steady cadence of his heartbeat. She would feel its solid thrum reverberate down the full length of her until her entire body was humming with every beat of his heart, with every rise and fall of his chest. She would begin to feel the tell-tale flutter in her stomach, the change in her breathing that became shaky and shallow, the warming of her traitorous skin as some little voice in her head began to make inappropriate observations and even more inappropriate suggestions. It was usually about that time that she would reluctantly peel herself from his embrace and with a regretful sigh – which surely he would take for melancholy (oh, please, oh, please, let him take it for melancholy or for anything at all other than what it really was! and what it really was, she wouldn't even confess to herself) – she would announce that they should really call it a night and head to their respective homes.

She would fail to meet his eyes, and he would decline to call her out on it. They would gather their things, and he would walk her to her car. He would say goodnight and plant a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, and she would resist turning her head just enough that he'd catch more than the corner. He would watch her buckle in and tell her that if she needed him, he would be only a phone call away; and she would silently begin to fret over how many times that night her finger would hover over the SEND button before she would finally turn her phone all the way off in an effort to remove the temptation to ring him just to hear his voice. He would stand there til she drove out of sight, and then he would get into his car and go home. She would go home (alone) and lie awake into the wee hours wishing he was there beside her.

And the next day, the process would begin again. Lather-rinse-repeat.

And so that's the well-worn path her thoughts were skipping along when Cal wandered into her office that evening.

"How ya doin'? Alright, luv?"

She smiled up at him from her desk, at his casual, customary greeting. Because it wasn't merely customary and was anything but casual; he actually wanted to know the answer.

"I'm good, and I'm glad to see you because that means I can finally stop working on this first quarter analysis." She stood and stretched and didn't bother to retrieve her shoes, instead walking barefoot to the sofa. As she passed Cal, she caught his hand loosely in hers and pulled him along behind her to sink down on the sofa together and assume their usual positions.

They spent some time talking about their day. They discussed the case they'd just closed that morning and what projects their team were each working on and what new cases were on the horizon. Cal told her about a frustrating call he'd had with Emily earlier, avoiding any details but telling Gillian how Emily was grilling him like the Spanish Inquisition. "She kept on insisting I should just jump in with both feet, right? And I told her, 'That's a bit previous', and she said I didn't know what I was doing. So I told her that I know exactly what I'm doing – that being Sweet F.A. – and she just kept going on and on. So then I called her Madame Grand Inquisitor, she told me to grow up and stop being such a baby and then bloody well hung up on me! You believe the cheek?"

Gillian chuckled softly, "Yep, that sounds about right."

"Hey now, Foster, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"How can I possibly choose sides?" she replied lightly. "I don't even know what you were being a baby about."

Cal twisted his head and leaned so he could see Gillian's face. She grinned impishly up at him. He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. When the weight of his gaze became too heavy, she snuggled her head back against his chest. She almost didn't hear him when he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, "Would you like to know?"