A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews, they are very much appreciated!
The first call came when he was halfway through his first scotch – when he was still sober enough to feel the pull in his chest that told him maybe, just maybe, it was her. Maybe she realized they'd both gone too far this time – that they'd both made mistakes and said horrible, hurtful things.
Maybe it was all still fixable.
Frowning at the phone, he took a final pull from his glass and answered on the fourth ring. "Yeah?"
That was all he could muster. No apology and no explanation – just a single, solitary syllable, and even that much was a struggle. Words were difficult enough for him when he was sober, and they were damned near impossible when he felt like… this. Like his entire world had been turned upside down and shaken.
The last thing he wanted to do was fight with her again, when the sting of her handprint was still fresh against his cheek and the thought of a custody battle still shook him to the core. Hindsight told him that he should move forward, not back. Sweep up the messes they'd made and try again. Together. They owed Emily that much.
Trouble was, he couldn't find a way to say all of that without sounding like a pathetic arse.
Finally, when he'd grown to hate the silence between them even more than he'd expected and his grip on the phone began to grow painful, he sighed heavily and spoke the first words that popped into his head. "Listen, Zo, I don't want to…"
And that was as far as Cal got before he realized his mistake. The second half of his sentence died in his head, because Zoe Landau did 'passive' about as well as he did, and she would've jumped in with both feet as soon as the first word left his lips. They were equally stubborn and equally passionate, after all, and they both cared about being "right" much more often than they'd ever cared about being "happy."
The sudden clarity made him want to wretch.
"Cal?"
That single, timid word confirmed each of his suspicions, and at the sound of it, he dropped his head into his hand. His next thought – aside from the awkward mix of guilt and relief he felt at hearing the sound of Gillian's voice on the line, not Zoe's – was that he wasn't sober enough to have this conversation. He didn't want anyone to hear him like this; pathetic and sunken and sad, and feeling completely out of control when, by all rights, he really ought to have a say in something.
Emily was his daughter.
This was his life.
What gave Zoe the right to choose a future for both of them?
"I stopped by your house to drop off a few files," she offered, "and… Zoe was there."
Christ.
Cal sighed again, as he felt his stomach drop the rest of the way down into his boots and his imagination did a play-by-play of what that conversation must've been like. Or rather, what it would have been like for Gillian to be on the receiving end of that conversation – one sided as he knew it probably was – and politely listen to Zoe tell her what a no good, rotten bastard he was. Probably did a little dance of joy just to be rid of him, she did, then played the blame game with Foster just for old times' sake.
What a pathetic mess.
Another heavy sigh prompted Gillian to speak again, and when she did, the tone of her voice was so quiet and calming that it made him shudder involuntarily. "I just thought you could use a friend."
And really, what could he say to that? It was typical Foster, cutting right to the heart of the matter with just a few short words. Of course he needed a friend.
Problem was, he didn't want to need anyone.
He didn't want to need her.
Cal had grown accustomed to blocking his feelings – all of his feelings. He had years of practice at hiding them behind self-imposed walls and so much regret, and now that they'd all been yanked to the surface, he felt unbalanced. Dizzy. Dozens of random questions filtered in and out of his thoughts, all demanding answers he hadn't found yet.
What would happen next?
How would they make this work?
What was he supposed to do, anyway? There was a very real part of him that still loved her - was he just supposed to flip a switch and turn it all… off… just because Zoe changed her mind?
Through the receiver, Gillian's breath was whisper quiet against his ear. He heard four measured beats… four counts of 'in through the nose and out through the mouth' and wondered if she was doing it on purpose. If she was trying to out-wait him, or if it was part of a bigger plan - maybe like one of those 'Dummies' books that were all the rage. Seems they made those things for everything: Cooking For Dummies… Taxes For Dummies… Pet Care For Dummies. Maybe Gillian had found one for this situation, too. 'Caring For Your Soon-to-Be Divorced, Semi-Drunken Business Partner For Dummies.'
'Pathetic' barely even scratched the surface.
"I can hear you thinking, but I think we both might feel better if you tried talking to me instead," she tried.
Now that was funny. That was very funny. And without thinking, Cal snorted right into her ear – making a cross between a laugh, a cry, and a guffaw. It sounded ridiculous, but the sheer release of it made him feel better. Ridiculous fit the moment well, actually.
"Well now isn't that rich," he said, making the noise again. "Such a contradiction between the women in my life, Foster. The one who is, technically, still married to me doesn't want to be in the same zip code long enough to listen to a single word I'd like to say, and the one who is married to someone else calls me up at a bar and wants to poke around inside my head and make everything all better. Another man's wife wants to "fix" me, and my own would be perfectly happy to perform a public castration and serve my mangled bits and pieces at her next dinner party."
Rich, indeed.
The tiny part of Cal's brain that was still unaffected by the scotch and heartbreak began to rebel against him for being, without question, the world's biggest jackass. Gillian Foster hadn't done anything wrong – not a single thing – and there he went taking out his pain on her, just because it was convenient. Just because he could.
Just because he trusted her.
'Take that, Zoe,' he wanted to shout. 'See? I do trust someone.'
In his ear, Foster gave a tiny sigh and he could practically hear the hurt echo through the phone line. Had they been together, face to face, he would've been able to see it in her eyes from twenty yards away. "Feel better now?" she asked.
The grip on his phone was the only thing keeping Cal tethered to reality, and even though he knew he should apologize, he couldn't bring himself to do it. She meant well. He knew that. And Gillian Foster was, quite frankly, the only true friend he had in the entire world; mucking things up with her would be downright idiotic, both personally and professionally. But instead of telling her any of that – instead of thanking her for her friendship and her concern – he simply sat there in semi-drunken silence, half wishing she'd just get it over with hang up on him already, and half wishing she wouldn't.
There didn't seem to be a right choice anymore. And even if there was, he was too tired to make it.
Finally daring to break the silence he'd created, Foster cleared her throat and spoke his name as calmly as she could. "Cal…"
It sounded like she was trying to talk him off of a ledge (which was fitting, in a way), and he knew exactly what was coming next. He bloody knew she was about to hand him the pity he didn't want, and the comfort he probably shouldn't accept.
"Listen, Cal, maybe you should…"
Bloody hell, that was such a horrible word.
Maybe.
Nails on a chalkboard, it was. He hadn't realized how much he loathed it until then. Until he heard it tangled around Foster's sweet voice and felt the punch of it hit him squarely in the gut.
Without giving it a second thought, and without giving her a chance to finish her sentence, Cal lifted his empty glass and signaled the bartender to bring him another round.
"I hate that word, Foster," he said.
And then he ended the call.
By the time he made it to his third scotch, his phone lay in a half dozen pieces at his fingertips. Foster was relentless, and no matter how many times he hit "ignore," she simply waited a few minutes and tried again. Had he been completely sober, he would've just turned the damned thing off or put it on silent. But as it was, it had taken less than an hour before he'd smashed it against the wall with a grunting heave, only to fall on his ass when he went to retrieve it.
Salt in the wound. Zoe would've loved that.
Back on his stool, Cal turned sullen and introspective. Though he looked mostly fine on the outside (broken phone notwithstanding), on the inside, he was fighting a veritable shit storm. He felt out of control and hopeless – like a wounded, cornered animal just looking for an escape. And so he scoffed at the random offers to "call someone" for him, because really… there was no point. There was no one to call except Foster, and he didn't want her help or her pity. Didn't want her to see him like this. A broken man.
With the benefit of hindsight kicking in, and reality somewhat morphed by the buzz of inebriation, Cal felt the full blunt of responsibility land squarely in his lap. Most of this truly was his fault, yeah? A man who wanted to save his marriage – a man who actually cared about his wife – wouldn't do something insanely idiotic like calling her a bad mother, and then use the next breath to point out one specific woman who would've done a much better job with their daughter. And no, he hadn't needed the alcohol to tell him he was a worthless piece of shit (because Zoe had done a fine job of that herself), but at least it dulled the pain.
If he'd just taken her advice and spent a bit more time on their marriage and a bit less time on his science (and a bit less time studying the maternal instincts of other women) then maybe…
Maybe…
The mere thought of that word made everything worse again, and he felt internal tension squeeze itself around his chest like a vice. Just as he'd told Foster, he hated that bloody word. Hated the empty promises it carried… resented the weight of it hanging over his head like a spotlight, just ready to announce that he'd failed. He was angry and depressed and resentful, and so God damned brokenhearted that he barely knew which end was up, and which was down – thanks in part to the scotch, but mostly to his own regret.
He was expert in human behavior, alright. But this? Moving on from this?
He didn't have a clue what came next.
"I tried to call you."
He scoffed, waving his hand in a wild, exaggerated circle that bordered on rudeness, trying to warn her away. "Didn't hear it," he lied.
In his periphery, he saw her maneuver herself onto the stool beside his. Couldn't say as though he was surprised, because if their positions had been reversed, he would've likely done the same thing.
"Funny thing about cell phones," she teased. She pointed down at the broken pile of electronic bits near his glass with the barest of smiles, then added, "hard to hear them when they're smashed to pieces."
Cal shrugged. "Wasn't much in the mood for talking, Foster."
He heard, rather than saw, her relief at the fact that he sounded at least somewhat lucid and that aside from the bruised ego and the busted phone, he was still in one piece. "Alright, we don't have to talk, then. We can just…"
"Drink?" he interrupted, flagging down the bartender before the latter half of the word left his lips.
Foster groaned. "Oh, no you don't," she insisted. Her tone was gentle, but she made the mistake of letting one soft hand land on his arm as she reached for his glass, and he pulled away from her as if he'd been burned.
Full-on wanker mode, in three… two… one…
Cal scowled at her, covering his glass protectively, lest she try to take it again. "Wasn't finished yet, love. In case you missed the memo, I am grown man. And I don't need your permission, yeah? Not for anything. If I want another bloody scotch, I'll bloody well have it, and if you don't like it, well then… there's the bloody door."
She bit back a laugh and rolled her eyes at him, clearly unimpressed with his latest display of ego. "Is that so?"
"Bloody right, it is," he said stubbornly. And then when he finally noticed her reaction – when he finally realized that she'd had to clamp her hand over her mouth just to keep from giggling aloud at him, his demeanor changed again. Instead of being protective and reeling away from her touch, he moved toward her. Right into her space, trying to use intimidation to cover his embarrassment.
Had he been completely sober, Cal would've realized that he was wasting his energy, because Gillian Foster was all too familiar with his tendency to invade. Intimidation didn't work on her.
"'S'funny, is it?" he said, turning his body so that it squared up with hers and then edging closer until their noses were only inches apart. Then he pointed his index finger at her and circled it, accusingly. "My whole night has turned into a shit storm of bloody… whatever… and you sit here having a good laugh about it? A mean one, you are. Here's a good idea, yeah? I'll lay down right here and you can just start kicking, alright? Hard as you want, right in the bloody balls."
A gentle hand fell on his arm and when he finally looked into her eyes, a smile reached them. "You Brits really do like that word, don't you?" she asked with a grin.
He blinked at her, wishing she hadn't touched him and wishing that it didn't make him feel… that way. In the back of his mind, he knew she was trying to distract him. Trying to make a joke out of something he hadn't even realize he'd said. But he was too foggy to care, and too distracted by her fingertips, so he took the bait. "What word? Balls?" he said blankly.
She laughed openly, not bothering to cover the sound. "Not balls, Cal. Jesus, you're such a man," she said, rolling her eyes at him as she did so. "I meant 'bloody.' Six times in less than two minutes… that's got to be some kind of record."
Cal's eyes narrowed in annoyance even as a grin threatened to pull his lips upward against his will. A veritable contradiction, he was. He didn't like it one bit. "You tryin' to distract me, Foster?" he asked.
"Maybe," Gillian conceded. Then she pulled enough cash from her pocket to (hopefully) cover his tab, and waited until he glanced away from her to pass it down the bar. "Is it working?"
With his eyes still diverted, he gave a tired sigh and slumped against the counter just a fraction further. "No, it bloody isn't. But I appreciate the effort. You're a good friend."
When she didn't reply - mostly because she was too distracted by the logistics of what she needed to do next in order to get him out the door – Cal took her silence as a form of rejection. He let loose with a self-depreciating laugh and looked at her with wounded eyes. "God knows I don't deserve it, love. Your friendship or your support. World class fuck up, I am. So it's best to run while you can, yeah? Seems I have a tendency to… taint everything."
It was the look on his face that made her falter; made her wonder just how many times Zoe had spoken those exact words to him and used the loopholes of his own insecurity to make him believe them. It was downright cruel. And since Gillian Foster had no intention of running anywhere – much less away from one of the only stable things in her life – it was all she could do not to lean forward and hug him; to wrap her arms around his body and reassure him that he was a good person, and a good man, and a good friend.
That everything would be fine.
That they would get through it together, and come out stronger on the other side.
But… she didn't.
She hesitated just the briefest second – still caught up in indecision as she tried to determine what she could do (wives of men with burgeoning political careers ought not to be seen hugging drunken men in darkened bars, of course), and that tiny opening gave Cal even more room to doubt her. "I'm serious, Foster. The coast is clear. No strings attached, yeah? Feel free to leave, and I promise I won't take it personally."
As soon as the last word left his lips, Gillian was on her feet. To hell with the unwritten 'wife code' and to hell with the implications. Cal Lightman was her friend – her best friend – and she could not leave him. Not like that. And so before he realized what she was doing and why she was moving him around, she propped his arm around her shoulders and tugged until they both stood side by side.
"Just for the record, Cal?" she said. "I have no intention of running anywhere. Not now, and not ever."
He blinked at her – slowly and steadily, as if it took a few extra minutes for the words to fight their way through the fog and into his scotch-addled brain, and when they finally did… when he finally looked down and realized that their bodies were effectively entangled and that she was bearing half of his weight, he shuddered. He was grateful and embarrassed and a host of other emotions that wrapped themselves around his chest in a grip that was equal parts confusion and clarity, until he felt so raw that it was almost painful.
If he'd been completely sober, Cal would've listened to his first instinct – which was to pull away from her. To shrug her off and insist that he was just fine, thank-you-very-much, and that he did not need a babysitter. But she smelled really good, and he was really tired, and maybe she did know best. Maybe she really wouldn't run. Maybe he should just shut up and go with the flow, and let himself remember that he trusted her.
Maybe.
Funny how that word wasn't making him angry anymore.
With a heavy sigh, he spoke the only words that seemed to fit the moment. "I owe you one, love."
Gillian tightened her grip around his waist and steered them toward the door. "What are friends for, right?" she offered. And then, with a level of foreshadowing that neither of them would be able to appreciate until much, much later, she said, "If I ever find myself staring down the barrel of a broken marriage, then I'll gladly let you return the favor."
