Title: So Cold (Chapter 7/?)
Author: Kat
Rating: T (PG-13)
Genre: Angst/Mystery
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.
A/N: I hate this chapter. I re-wrote this at least three times, and I still hate it. This is why it took so long to get out.
Chapter 7
Gillian walked down the entrance hall at The Lightman Group, heels clicking out her strong, purposeful strides. The short, clipped noises sounded muffled to her own ears. The white walls and corresponding decorations seemed fuzzy and indistinct, but she hardly noticed.
After leaving Cal's house last night, Gillian had refused to drive home. Her thoughts had tumbled mercilessly through her mind, banging and cluttering up her head, and it had all just been too much to handle. The car had been bitterly cold after being parked in the unforgiving DC winter night, and her entire body shook as she drove. Her argument with Cal had left a deep, sucking wound in her chest. She couldn't think straight, couldn't breathe deep and just relax.
Everything was going to change.
But she had eventually driven home, slinking through the shadows of her house like she didn't belong there, and collapsed into the deep folds of her comforter. She had slept, but fitfully. She had known, been so bitterly cognizant to the fact that she would need her sleep, her strength. For this. For today. She needed to appear to be fine.
Gillian walked with purpose through the office building. Her slender shoulders were thrown back, squared with her hips. Her chin was slightly tilted up, back straight, impeccable posture. She took care that her strides were neither sluggish nor hurried, and her arms rested lightly at her sides, hands gracefully brushing against her dress as she walked.
Her sheath dress slid against her skin as she moved, the bright blue fabric a pale mimic to the stark blue of her eyes. A matching sweater hid the deep bruises peppering her arms, and the heels of her black, knee-high boots exacerbated the pain of her busted knee with each excruciating step. Her hair was straightened, skimming her shoulders as she moved.
She smiled at Loker and Torres as she instructed them to contact the police about receiving an employee list for Dr. Stewart's clinic. She laughed with Heidi as they bemoaned the bleak winter weather and slippery DC sidewalks. And when she retreated to her office, she left her door open so they could see her smile, her attitude. She was normal. She was fine. She was Dr. Gillian fucking Foster. And she needed today, needed to keep up pretenses, to force the act, the veneer, to push through the day, desperately hoping the stress wouldn't crack and blemish the fragile surface.
But it was a facade.
Her mind was a whirlwind of fear and doubt. She kept thinking back to last night: Cal's deep voice and dark eyes, his huge and overwhelming presence. Their argument lingered around her, hovering dense and noxious like a miasma. All their words, their looks, they clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes, and the scent of them was staggering, all-consuming.
It had taken an insurmountable measure of strength and willpower to drag Gillian into work. She passionately wished to take a few days from her stock of vacation time and leave, seclude herself until the whole argument with Cal had blown by, and he had moved on to obsessing over something, someone else. But when Gillian closed her eyes, she saw the tortured face of Lily Stewart. Impending divorce or not, Lily had been in love with the doctor, and whenever the thought of leaving skirted through Gillian's thoughts, the desolate visage of the widow burned bright at the back of her retinas, and a wave of guilt passed over her.
So although she knew retreat was the safest option, Gillian vowed to stick around until the completion of their murder case. Once they unraveled the tangled threads of the crime, then she could take a few days off of work.
The morning had been spent delegating tasks to Loker and Torres. The most important thing for them to do was to pore over the employee list, searching for Stewart's elusive mistress. Lacy had claimed the woman was named, "Nicole," but this was not an uncommon name, and the clinic had been the largest of its kind in Maryland. She glanced briefly at the clock. She had asked Loker and Torres to contact the police and procure the employee list over half an hour ago. She frowned lightly, wondering why they were taking so long.
Gillian scooted her chair from behind her desk, leaning heavily on the armrests to put the least possible strain on her knee, wincing when the weight placed a sharp, agonizing pressure onto her pulled shoulder. Once upright, she wiped the pained look from her face and gently smoothed the wrinkles of her dress. With a last, deep breath, she plastered on a calm, content expression and walked to the lab.
She heard his voice from the hall before she reached the entrance of the lab. Not allowing herself time to consider returning later, she pushed open the door. No one paid her any mind as she stood in the back of the room, observing.
Torres, Loker, and Cal were all sitting in front of the large monitors. The video showed a large anti-abortion demonstration. Dozens of people were crowded together in a park, shouting, some with bullhorns, others holding large signs. Gillian's eyes fell from the video to the back of Cal's head. He had an elbow propped on the desk, cheek pressed against a loose fist as he slouched comfortably. She took her lower lip between her teeth and held her hands slightly away from her body, mind skimming over a multitude of emotions before settling on righteous indignation.
"Hey," she spoke up, and three heads turned to regard her. She ignored Cal and focused on Loker and Torres. "Did you ask the police about the employee list? It's been a half hour. It really shouldn't have taken long."
Loker had a bland expression on his face, but Torres had the decency to look slightly chagrined. But it was Cal who replied, saying, "Oh, I sort of filched Loker and Torres. Wanted more eyes on this lot." He gestured to the large screen.
"I thought we were going to look into the mistress," Gillian responded. Her eyes skirted over the two young employees, hesitating to start an argument in front of them.
Cal was all attitude when she first walked into the lab, so she was expecting a snarky response and brusque demeanor to her suggesting they follow another lead. But as he studied her, the corner of his lip twitched slightly, and in an instant his entire attitude changed.
"Of course," he said easily, "Just wanted to get these two started on something."
He pushed away from the table, standing and walking to join her in the doorway. Closer now, he spoke in a softer, more familiar tone, "You and me," he gestured between them, "are goin' back to Maryland." He fished around his pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper.
"There are two nurses that worked for the clinic who are named Nicole," Cal said, waving the paper. "Feelin' up to some interviews?"
Although his intonation sounded light-hearted, Gillian could tell by the tightness of his lips that he was still upset with her. The happy charade she had worked all morning on maintaining crumbled when faced with Cal's discontent.
"Of course," she unconsciously mimicked his earlier words. She turned to lead him from the lab, wanting to leave quickly before everyone else caught on to her act and the uncharacteristic awkwardness between the two heads of the Lightman Group. But her efforts were futile, and she felt Torres' eyes burning into her back as the lab door closed behind them.
Gillian's eyes darted towards Cal walking alongside of her. He ignored her stare, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and she knew he was agitated. She felt a tug in her chest, a brief quiver of longing to return to their usual camaraderie. She had to walk a bit faster than she would have liked to, given her injuries, but Cal set a brisk pace, and she was determined not to fall behind.
"Have the police talked to either of these women?" she asked conversationally.
"Just perfunctory interviews. The police talked to all the employees. Neither admitted to shaggin' the good doctor, though," Cal said as they reached his car. In an uncharacteristic show of chivalry, he unlocked the passenger side door, holding it open as Gillian climbed into her seat, and then closed it gently behind her.
"Thanks," she belatedly offered as he slid into the driver's seat. She wondered why he didn't bring up their argument from last night, throw his cold words in her face once more. This would be the most opportune time to talk to Cal. He had to focus on driving and wouldn't be able to study her every facial twitch. She blinked against the harsh winter light as Cal drove the car from the dungeon-like parking garage onto the D.C. city streets.
Last night he had asked her why, why Afghanistan? And as they drove in silence, this question kept repeating in the back of her mind. True, Cal had always been reckless, and she had always taken it upon herself to worry and care for him. This was not a new revelation, nor was it particularly strange or unwarranted. Cal felt the equal need to constantly butt into her business and personal affairs, all in the name of friendly interest and consideration.
Uneasily, she recalled Cal's dark eyes and uninhibited words. She felt like she should talk, but she didn't know what she should say. She didn't like that his harsh, candid words from last night were lingering over them, ready to be pulled down and studied without warning.
"Foster," he broke Gillian from her reverie and spared her the task of finding something to say.
"Yeah?" she prompted when he didn't continue. His eyes were fixed on the road.
He gave a slight shake of his head and started over, "Gillian. Let's get dinner tonight."
A muscle in Cal's jaw jumped, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly.
"We did dinner together last night," she pointed out delicately.
"Please." He risked a short glance in her direction, and she could more keenly observe his tense, anxious expression. His voice was short, clipped.
"Okay," she had to indulge him. "Sure."
"Great," he responded, and the unconscious quirk of his lips caused her heart to flutter dangerously in her chest. She didn't know what he was planning, what he was up to, but if her acquiescence could put such a look on his face, she was helpless to turn him down.
Their first visit from the two-person list had been lucrative only in the sense that they effectively eliminated the notion of Nicole Morris being Stewart's mistress. Morris was a married, thirty-something mother of two who had been positively flustered with Cal's curt demeanor. Gillian had stepped in after a short moment to soothe the woman's agitation. Without the possibility of Morris being their mystery woman, and Gillian at the reigns, Cal could sit back and simply observe.
He marveled at the speed at which Gillian had recovered from her near-death experience. She was back to her passionate, intelligent, empathetic self, having garnered the full attention and trust of Morris by asking about her children. His eyes traveled over her face, taking advantage of her preoccupation. While the pallor of her skin and dark circles under her eyes told him she wasn't sleeping, these features were far overshadowed by the harsh purple bruise marring her cheek. She had several small abrasions, harder to observe under a layer of make-up, but they still caused his chest to tighten, and he had to fight not to clench his hands into fists.
He knew something wasn't quite right with his partner, had known for weeks. But despite penchant for gambles, where Gillian was concerned, he liked to play his cards close to the chest. But her brief stint in the hospital had clouded his judgment, and he was finding it increasingly hard to distance himself from their close friendship. While he wanted to be strong and supportive in her time of need, his fear and anxiety were rapidly over-taking his sense of duty. He felt ready to crack.
Cal tried to tamp down his distress. They were getting dinner together later. And if she thought he had let this go, she would be disappointed.
A/N: I dunno why I had so much trouble with this chapter. The next chapter's coming out a lot easier, though. I apologize for the filler. =] Feel free to let me know what you think!