Author's Note: And so I wander aimlessly into the dynamic that is Loker and Foster. This little piece is a tag to Depraved Heart, set exactly one day after the events of the episode.
In a Word
(or Verisimilitude)
The building was an over-sized interrogation room; glass, spacious yet receding, and overly bright with fluorescents and natural light. Mornings were reoccurring battles, transcending above court and midday hangovers and girls names he'd forgotten but should certainly know since they were in his bed. Early mornings at the Lightman Group soared above the antagonizing pains of migraines and dug deeper than the ninth circle of hell. Funny, that he should be thinking of Dante's Inferno at a time like this. Fitting, too. If the poet had any say, Lucifer himself would grow another head so that he could chew on the treacherous limps of Eli Loker. Or, at least, that's how the research psychologist saw it.
His fingers were tapping on the desk, his other thumb and index finger clicking a pen to its untimely death. Too bad sedatives weren't permanent, he wanted to say. He could really use the freedom from anxiety today. Lightman would be in, regardless of how many times Loker prayed to every deity he held in his mind's grasp, before the little hand struck twelve. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about, except...he'd seen Ria when he'd walked in. The natural hadn't looked at him, wouldn't look at him, and Loker knew that if he didn't tell Lightman the truth about the leak to the feds, she would.
Pity, he really had trusted her. But, it was a lesson, wasn't it? Sometimes those too curious about the truth couldn't handle hearing it. Oh, no no no, Torres couldn't swallow an admission from him if it entailed the resulting knowledge that he had lied. Could she really not allow him to make mistakes? Or had she just been searching for disappointment all along?
Loker's jaw clenched in a surge of anger he knew he had no right to feel. Quick to judge, he reminded himself, always too quick to judge and this time it would lead to his demise. Professional demise; it might as well be personal. It certainly felt that way.
A tap on glass made him start then flinch. Turning sharply in his chair to spot who was demanding his attention exactly one minute before Lightman usually arrived, Loker resembled, in every sense, a child who'd just been caught with his hand in the neighbor's cookie jar. Not a bad comparison, in all actuality. Sad, that it was being wasted on him. Loker took a calming breath, forcing his heart rate to relax. Somehow, he'd rather it be Lightman on the other side of that door, especially now that he had no synthesized lie-masking serum flowing through his veins. Better to just have the truth spotted before words were even spoken. Oh, she had been so easy to face when his pulse had been medically reduced to that of a zombie's, but now that it was rivaling a humming bird's, he'd have no shot at redemption or trickery.
"Dr. Foster," It was a greeting turned wary announcement of her presence. He'd never feared her in-depth knowledge of human behavior before, but now with the stigma that his job would be on the line until the commotion about the leak passed over, Loker was terrified.
And she saw it.
"I brought you coffee," she declared, easing her way into the room.
Desperate eyes searched for distraction, but Gillian was wearing pants today. It was intimidating, seeing this professional woman in black slacks, and Loker was forced to move his gaze back to her face.
She was curious, amused, annoyed, all neatly tucked together and presented in the form of a raised eyebrow, "I thought you could use it."
Loker wanted to laugh. Ha ha. Don't tease me with caffeine. Just fire me, if you'd like. Make it quick.
His Radical Honesty caught like cold molasses in his throat; there would be no blunt declaration of thought today. With twitching fingers, Loker accepted the drink and nodded his thanks. Perhaps she would leave if he took a sip and began his work. Or, perhaps she would use the glass and lighting to her favor and demand an agony-filled apology. The sort that involved falling to one's knees and clasping their hands before them in...
Gillian sat exactly two feet to his right, her arms coming to rest on the table as she slouched. She was calm, gazing at him with the patience of well-weathered mother, her perfume permeating his senses and giving the Colombian brew the faintest hint of lilac. His stomach was in a knot and the mixture of smells was doing nothing for his well being; he was going to be sick if his muscles didn't stop their game of tension and release.
It would only be made perfect if he broke a profuse sweat.
That gaze—blue and knowing and tempered with more years of knowledge than he could claim—remained on his twisted features. This process, being read so openly with so few words...it was unsettling. Could Lightman strike this chord of fear? No, because Lightman had antics, strange quirks, ambivalence. Lightman would have ended this sooner. With less suspense. With less guilt. He could be weary of Lightman's sight, but Loker couldn't fear it.
A sorry wouldn't solve this. He'd usurped her authority, destroyed lives, and in essence, insulted her intelligence—wisdom, per say—in matters he had yet to even dream about understanding. It was a miracle, for Eli Loker had no inclination of what to say. No clever witticism. No lie. No truth. He was stuck, gaze avoiding hers, somewhere between a glass interrogation room and the grinding teeth of Beelzebub.
Swallowing the absence of words, Loker pressed his hand to his forehead and slowly drew the coffee toward him.
The chair made no protesting sound as she stood to leave.
"Apology accepted."