A/N: A quick thank you for sticking with me through this story, guys! Doing two at once has been fun, but much more time consuming than I'd expected. I promise I'll try to keep the updates coming quickly! Hope you all enjoy!
(PS-I use the phrase 'The Night of Five Times' in this chapter. Thank you, Lysa, for coining that term!)
"I'm telling you, dad. It's weird."
By mid-morning, after eagerly volunteering for the position as Cal's sous-chef and learning that he was, in fact, "dead set" on kicking off the evening's festivities dressed as an athlete who'd come straight from the Scottish Highland Games (kilt mandatory), Emily's semi-permanent expression had morphed into one of… apprehension. Roughly every hour or so, her nose would wrinkle up, and her brows would draw together, and she'd give him this sympathetic little half-shrug, as if to say, "Oh, you poor, poor, insane little man."
Trouble was, he'd grown impervious to that look sometime around hour number three, and since then – when she'd begun to rotate the last word in her sentence for a handful of other adjectives, just to inject a little flavor into her argument – he'd responded in one of only two ways: silence or sarcasm.
(No major shock there.)
She'd switched it from 'crazy,' to 'strange,' to 'unconventional,' to 'avant-garde' (that one was his favorite), before finally cycling back to the cornerstone of her pitch: 'weird.' Color him completely unfazed by the whole literary lot, yeah? After all, a man who'd built his entire career around behavioral science, body language, and nonverbal communication was well-versed in the art of being called – for lack of a more creative term – a total nutter. At least his Emily had the grace to do it with class.
Sighing heavily as she helped him prep a few different types of hors d'oeuvres, Emily tried to feign nonchalance. She chopped and diced and peeled her way through the ingredients he'd given her… pretended not notice his obsessive clockwatching… and patiently waited for him to reply. She was confused. Curious. And – last but not least – slightly disturbed by the whole idea. After all, kilts weren't exactly commonplace in the US, and Cal knew that seeing him dressed in one was likely not near the top of her teenage bucket list.
And really… he couldn't exactly blame her for questioning his sanity. After spending the last nine years seemingly ignorant to his feelings for Gillian, and then the last seven months all-too aware that they existed but idiotically determined to ignore them anyway, it did seem rather odd to go cold turkey on the 'hard to get' routine, and then play host to an entire roomful of human lie detectors while dressed sans pants.
But then again, Emily was still in the dark as to just how far forward his relationship with Gillian had moved in the last twenty-four hours: the three magic words had already been said, sexual gratification had been found (six times!), and everything felt utterly fantastic. And he thought it was a bit funny, that for as much frenetic energy as he'd had in the preceding months, weeks, and days… now that zero hour was almost upon them, he felt perfectly relaxed.
Bring on the kilt, yeah? And the semi-shocked looks that bloody well screamed, 'Have your tranquilizers handy, folks, because Lightman finally lost his mind. He does have nice knees, though. Who would've thought?'
He. Was. Ready.
Back to his original point, though. Every single time Emily accused him of being weird, or strange, or avant-garde, he either responded with silence or sarcasm. And as for the latest round… sarcasm won.
"I mean, I know it's supposed to be a costume party," she continued. "And I know everyone else will be there dressed as goblins, or witches, or superheroes, or something. They'll look bizarre, too. But I'm just not sure that voluntarily wearing the boy version of a skirt…
(See? There it was already. Visions of using the phrase, "Oi! It's not a skirt!" were still swimming through his head ad nauseum.)
"… is really your best opening move."
Opting to give Emily his undivided attention, just so that the weight of his counterpoint hit her with all of its sarcasm-fueled guns blazing, Cal quirked a single eyebrow and composed his best Lightman stare. "Says the girl who spent quite a bit of time lecturing me on the mating habits of barnyard foul, and then trying to apply their logic to my sex life," he quipped. Dryly. "So as far as "weird" things go, Em, I'd say you've rather got the market cornered."
If Emily hadn't expected to hear that type of response, then clearly – clearly – she'd already begun to lose touch with reality since moving to California. After all, Cal was nothing if not a smartass on a normal day. Back him into a proverbial corner, add in a wisecrack or three about his masculinity, and voila! An instant recipe for even greater smartass-ery was born: new and improved, with just a hint of egomaniacal charm thrown in for good measure.
Besides… they both knew he made a very valid point as far as the chicken thing went. Her tidbitting scenarios and his frantic kilt searches were rather tied for the lead spot on the Lightman Family Scale of Ridiculousness. And to that end, hearing the words "sex life" shoot out of his mouth while they calmly prepared gigantic platters of spring rolls should not have triggered any reaction other than mild disgust. Because she was, you know, normal. And of all the things that a girl could never un-hear, anything related to her father's proclivity for … horizontal tangos… was definitely at the top of the list.
In giant, bold letters.
And typed with fluorescent ink.
So, he smirked triumphantly, while Emily's nose wrinkled up in a small display of that aforementioned disgust, and then he turned proactive to make a final few points. Just because he could.
"Just for the record, though, I do appreciate all those months of pep talks and nudges," he said. "Probably more than you'll ever know, yeah? Not to mention that warning about plonkerish, would-be suitors named Tom or Tony, who had their sights locked on making a play for my Gillian. But trust me, love. I know what I'm doing. So here's the deal: I'll promise to spare you the pain of hearing me speak the phrase 'sex life' from here on out, so long as you promise to lay off the whole 'My father is a total wacko,' thing. You win. I win. Sounds like a brilliant arrangement to me. And as far as the rest of it goes, my costume…"
(…insert overdramatic pause for emphasis here…)
"…is not a skirt."
Monologue completed, Cal gave his daughter a quick side hug and then went back to prepping the party food. He was expecting Gillian to arrive at any moment to begin work on the decorations, and from his chosen vantage point near the window, he was sure to catch sight of her car in the driveway as soon as it pulled through. At which point Emily would receive a Level Ten Death Glare as a warning not to spill the beans about his costume, least he need to do something for payback himself. After all, he was still in the dark as to what Gillian would be wearing – aside from the fact that it was perfect, appropriate, and smile-inducing, of course. So it seemed only fair to keep her a bit clueless as well.
And besides, after following up their now infamous 'Night of Five Times' with far too many hours of abstinence for his liking, he was well in the mood for a bit of… teasing. She'd decorate and drop clever hints... he'd cook and try to put all the pieces together, while dropping little clues of his own... and come evening, they'd both be so worked up that there'd be little need for small talk, and a rather large need for privacy.
(And possibly soundproof walls.)
A few beats later – after taking a large swig of ice water and scanning the driveway for the sixteenth time – Cal's silent (and distraction filled) musings were interrupted by a sound he knew all-too well: gloating. Or rather, Emily's gloating. It had a rather distinct flavor about it; one that walked the fine line between humor and insult without ever falling sideways onto either one. Bit of an art, really. She'd no doubt learned it from him.
Cue one overly dramatic sigh, followed by a round of giggling and a single quirked eyebrow. All hers. Not his. Gloat, gloat.
"Tell me, dad," she started. While grinning. And looking like a veritable personification of a canary-swallowing cat. "Do you even realize what you just said? Or have you gotten so much practice in denying your feelings all these years, that the same level of denial has now begun to take over your speech patterns, too?"
Cal blinked at her.
Then stared.
And then blinked again.
Because honestly? He had no bloody clue as to what she was referring. None at all. And up until ninety seconds ago (give or take ten), the only thoughts he'd entertained had involved the memories of that bloody fantastic Five Time night, a mental image of what Gillian's mystery costume might look like when crumpled into a ball on his bedroom floor, and – last but not least – what he'd inevitably 'read' from her facial expression as soon as she realized that he had, in fact, taken every last one of her desires into consideration when creating his… outfit.
Athletic? Check. Leg baring? Check, check. Visible ink-age? Absolutely. All of which meant that come party time… the lovely Doctor Foster wouldn't know what hit her.
But the key word in all of that had been "thoughts." As in silent. And private. And closely guarded. So unless he'd actually had some sort of massive 'open-mouth-insert-foot' catastrophe with his daydreams, then he didn't understand how Emily had found a reason to gloat.
It was bloody unnerving.
Never one to readily admit when he was rattled, though, Cal opted for well-composed ignorance rather than bumbling anxiety. "As my stand in sous-chef, s'pose you might let me plead the fifth and just tell me what you think you heard? Direct approach, and all that. Bit of a time crunch on my hands at the moment, Em."
Cue Emily's widening grin in three… two… one…
"You said Gillian was yours," she explained. Happily. "And you used the words 'my Gillian,' like it was the most natural thing you've ever said."
Oh.
Well, then.
So long as it was that, and not something vulgar, Cal's next move leaned toward coy agreement and away from embarrassed bumbling. Because… see, it actually was one of the most natural things he'd ever said. Right up there with 'I love you.' And while a big part of him wanted to tell Emily that her chicken-logic scheme had already worked – that he and Gillian were finally together, and happy, and blissfully in love – in the end, he settled for a small compromise and decided to let her find out later. At the party.
Right along with everyone else.
Shrugging nonchalantly as he caught sight of Gillian's car pulling into the driveway, Cal simply stated the obvious. "It does sound really bloody good to finally say that out loud, yeah? My Gillian. Sounds rather… perfect. And as far as I'm concerned, Em, it's high time I said it more often."
A/N: Stay tuned, guys. In the next chapter, Cal and Gill will find out that sweet little Emily Lightman has just played them both. That's right: both. And I promise... Gillian's costume will soon be revealed. :)