A/N: Apologies for the delay with this chapter, guys. My muse switched to writing "Home" for a few weeks, and when it turned back to this one, I found it unexpectedly difficult to write Loker and Torres into this story. Picturing them out of their normal element was tricky and I'm not sure I've done a very good job, but points for trying, right?

As promised, the party finally gets underway and this is the beginning of everyone's reaction to the news that Cal and Gillian are finally together. There will be one additional "party" chapter before things conclude, since the set-up on this one took much longer than I expected.

PS – Bonus points to anyone who catches the Tim Roth movie references in this one. Enjoy!

She disengaged the lock and leaned out into the hallway, blushing slightly as the voices of their subordinates wafted up the staircase. "Come on, Cal – the fact that we're having sex was pretty much an inevitability, right? They've probably been making bets about it for years, and I highly doubt it'll come as a very big shock. So trust me – I don't care if everyone downstairs knows about our relationship. But if it's all the same to you… starting right now, I'd prefer it if I'm the only one who gets to see any tenting, anywhere. Deal?"

Cal would likely never understand how a woman as lovely as Gillian could think she needed to be "touched up." It was insanity, yeah? She could've been bald, wrapped in a paper sack, while caked in mud and he'd still would've found her ravishing. No cosmetic nonsense required. But after she'd personally seen to it that he did, in fact, don a pair of briefs under that kilt, she'd gotten hit with the urge to find a mirror. Which meant that he was left to fly solo on the hosting duties, at least for the first few minutes.

Or rather… Gillian had sent him to fly solo on the hosting duties, but he was actually hiding out on the staircase instead. Call it stalling, or eavesdropping, or practicing the art of the fashionably late entrance – all he knew was that it wasn't his fault if certain voices carried more easily than others. And it wasn't his fault if their conversation was interesting.

So.

There he stood – alone on the staircase, with his kilt properly de-tented and traces of Gillian's perfume on his skin. Part of him wanted to bum-rush the living room in all his pantless glory, just to see how everyone would react. Just to see what genius costumes (note the sarcasm) they'd all worn, and snag a bit of retaliatory ammunition in the process. Hey – it was only fair, right? His house… his rules… his party… so there.

But the other part – AKA his "sneaky side" – opted to take a defensive approach. Because just as his foot hit the bottom of the landing… just as he started to round the corner and actually step into the room where Emily was politely playing hostess in his absence… the not-at-all subtle voice of one Mr. Eli Loker wafted straight to Cal's ears.

Talk about perfect timing.

Loker was totally in his element, talking Emily's bloody ear off about everything from music, to politics, to – wait for it – cryptozoology. Yes, that's right: cryptozoology. As in sasquatches, chupacabras, Nessie and the like. Granted, it didn't quite seem like "normal" party conversation, but who was Cal to judge? As the only man in the house who wasn't wearing trousers, he had to admit: "normal" was a relative term.

(As was "crazy.")

He bit back a laugh as Emily shifted into full-on polite mode, while delicately trying to pawn Loker's chattiness off on someone else. And yes, he could've intervened. He could've walked right up and gotten her off the proverbial hook in a matter of seconds. But the devil on his right shoulder decided two very important things: A, that he wanted to see just how far down the crazy path Loker would voluntarily walk… and B, that a girl who knew far too much about the mating habits of chickens was a pretty bloody good match for a man who'd just admitted he was a closet "Squatcher."

Two mismatched peas in a pod, they were. Surely a few more minutes of uninterrupted conversation wouldn't hurt either of them, right?

Leave it to Emily to be the voice of reason. Ever-so discreetly, she steered the conversation away from all things furry, scaly, and mythical, and onto current events. Namely the party. Namely the costumes at the party. Because, you know, they were kind of relevant. She went from sasquatch to Nessie… then to ducks… then to chickens… then to tidbitting (of course she did), before finally making a ninety degree turn and cycling back around to her wardrobe selections.

"… so I'm a chicken farmer," she said. Mundanely. With a sigh. As if wearing overalls, a flannel shirt, and a straw hat were the teenage girl costume choice du jour, and Loker was decades behind the time.

Cal grinned. Up until that moment, he hadn't known – or even thought to ask, really – what she'd chosen as a costume. He'd assumed she would've picked something traditional, like a pop culture reference, or a princess, or a literary heroine… something "Emily," you know? But a chicken farmer? No, he hadn't seen that one coming at all.

Granted, there was a bit of poetic genius behind her choice. Cal understood it. He "got" the reference. And if he and Gillian hadn't outed her puppet mastery with their little 'paper beak' payback scheme, then Emily would've been able to embarrass the hell out of her own father by dressing as a constant reminder of his "I don't know what I'm waiting for" stupidity.

But.

Now that Emily knew he and Gillian were "together," she likely felt ridiculous for having dressed up as the female equivalent of Old MacDonald. Talk about an unexpected turn of events, yeah? Not even five minutes into the evening, and he was already having a bloody fantastic time.

Emily sighed, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity as she waited for Eli to laugh. Because of course he would. The whole costume was so far out in left field that she was pretty sure no one would understand why she'd worn it, or why she'd ever thought she could manipulate someone as stubborn as her father into doing anything. Much less diving head first into a relationship with Gill.

To her credit though, he had needed a push. A very strong, very solid push right in the center of his spine, lest he spend the next ten years pining after Gillian Foster like a desperate teenage boy. So, she pushed. Repeatedly. Day after day, week after week, month after month, until finally… she changed course and opted to take a different approach. Outsmart, outwit, outlast – or something like that.

And it hadn't even been hard, really – just take a few subtle references to cold feet, and the threat of other potential love interests… add in a hefty dose of barnyard analogy and the power of suggestion… and voila! Problem solved. Instant happiness.

So what if her dad and Gill had figured out that she'd played them both, and the brilliance of her costume was now wasted?

So what if they'd scared the bejesus out of her with all that crap about Ben Reynolds and the soon-to-be infamous paper beak payback scheme?

She was a big girl. She could take it. And if two of the most important people in her life found true love from something as insane as a party borne from a discussion about chicken mating rituals, then so be it. Her 'Farmer Emily' get up might be embarrassing, but Loker's outfit? Now that one really took the prize.

"You're a… chicken farmer," Eli repeated. Haltingly. Like the words kept getting tangled in his mouth and he couldn't pronounce them correctly. "Interesting. Don't see that one very often, but hey – why go with the trend, right?"

Emily knew that look. It was his 'Lightman's-gone-off-the-deep-end' smirk, and it was almost always reserved for her father. But this time, he aimed it straight at her as he bit back all the traces of laughter that were threatening to erupt. Which was probably very wise, since a grown man who'd shown up to his boss's party wearing plastic wrap and something resembling a giant hanger didn't have much room to start making fun of people.

"Says the man who opted to dress up as dry cleaning," she teased, giving a small tug on one section of plastic as she tried to figure out how he'd actually made the hanger. Wrapping paper tubes? Paper towel rolls? Oh, her father would probably have a field day at his expense.

Loker sighed. "Point taken," he said. "But seriously – did you lose a bet or something? Because something tells me that flannel shirt has Lightman written all over it. It's just… odd. And it's not "you." Make sense?"

Odd.

Well, coming from a man with quite the background in Radical Honesty, she supposed "odd" wasn't the worst thing he could've said. And besides, she wasn't embarrassed. These were her father's friends – people she'd known and loved for years. As far as she was concerned, Gillian, Loker, and Torres were family, and the rest of them were pretty damn close. She didn't need to impress anyone.

"Actually, up until a few hours ago, this outfit was on track to be pretty appropriate," she offered. "And funny. But now it isn't. Crazy how things like that happen around here sometimes."

Eli squinted at her as he tried to piece together what she wasn't voluntarily telling him. "So what made it un-funny, then?"

Glancing around just to make sure the man of the hour wasn't, in fact, eavesdropping on the entire conversation, Emily shrugged. "My dad. And Gill. It was a collective effort. I'm sure you'll understand once you see them together tonight, okay? Let's just say… it's been an interesting couple of days."

Half-truth. That was what she'd been aiming for, because A: she didn't know if her dad and Gill wanted to take things public, and B: even if they did want to go public, it wasn't really her place to do it for them. Puppet mastery only went so far, and besides – she was tired. Farmer Emily just wanted to relax. No one could blame her for that.

But instead of responding with small talk, or jokes, or something Loker-iffic, Eli just stood there silently, with the strangest look on his face. It was like… well, it was like she'd just unintentionally dangled a big, fat carrot right in front of his nose and he was hell-bent on catching it. His "lie detector" senses were functioning at full capacity, and she didn't understand why, because it's not like she'd just admitted that her dad and Gill were dating.

Right?

"I like you, Em. You're a nice person, and you've always been a good friend, and let's face it – your father would probably suffocate me with this plastic sheeting if he thought I was out here using my powers for evil rather than good. So, I'm going to do us both a favor and pretend you didn't just say the word "together"… like that. But, if you'd like to elaborate on whatever you might've done, or said, or plotted, or implied in order for those two to finally get their act "together," then I'm all ears."

Ah, hindsight: once it cleared to twenty-twenty, Emily realized that half-truths probably didn't work on people like Loker. Or Torres. Or Gillian, or Anna, or anyone else her father had invited, and in short… she was busted. She might not have let the proverbial cat completely out of the bag, but she'd just torn a giant escape hatch in the side.

Aiming for nonchalance rather than guilt, Emily shrugged. "Subtlety will only get you so far in life, right? Eventually, you just have to wake up, take action, and force the ones you love to realize how blind they've been. Face it, Eli: those two have been tap-dancing around each other for years, like two big tidbitting chickens. Someone needed to knock some sense into them. So… I did."

One beat passed. Then a second. And finally – when Emily started to worry that that her father really had pulled a ninja move and was standing right behind her – Eli actually began to applaud.

He clapped his hands once… twice… and on the third, he laughed. "Just for the record, if Dr. Cal Lightman waltzes into this party dressed as anything resembling a rooster, a chicken, or a marionette, then I will never let him live it down. I mean, that would be like waving a red cape in front of a bull and not expecting it to charge. Too much temptation. I'd crack under the pressure."

Emily giggled. A chicken suit – now why hadn't she thought of that?

"Relax, Eli, there are no feathers on his costume, and he's definitely not dressed like a puppet. No worries there, okay?"

And really, that should've been the end of their conversation. Neither her father nor Gillian were anywhere in sight, and she shuddered to think what they were actually doing together at that very moment, now that they weren't "just friends." She didn't need that mental image at all. And she certainly didn't want to hear a soundtrack of it waft downstairs. Best to find him, then drag him into party central whether he wanted to follow or not.

But she'd pretty much ripped a second escape hatch in that proverbial bag, and the cat was desperate for its freedom. So to speak. Eli wanted details, and he wasn't above a quick game of "Let's Read Emily" to find them. Which pretty much flew in the face of what he'd said about getting suffocated with plastic sheeting, but hey – if he wanted to take that risk, so be it.

"So not a chicken, and not a puppet, then. Good. Let's see if I can guess it."

Ah, jeez… she was losing patience. Eli was sweet and all, but she really needed to find her father. And mingle with the other guests. And make sure no one ventured upstairs to find Cal themselves, lest they get an eyeful of their bosses doing the horizontal mambo and wind up needing post-traumatic stress therapy.

"Why don't you just wait until you see him yourself? See, that's short, sweet, and easy. No guessing games required."

There. The hint was dropped. But of course he didn't take it. Hell, he didn't even seem to hear her. He just plowed ahead, completely oblivious and stubborn as ever.

"Let's see… Lightman is cocky. He's extremely comfortable in his own skin, and he'd do just about anything to get Foster's attention. He's got a pretty good sense of humor, and he isn't shy. So if I were a betting man, I'd say that he's dressed as something completely ridiculous – like Batman or Spiderman or The Hulk, just to have an excuse to show off his legs and – God help us all, but most especially Foster – he probably wants her to get a good peek at his pac…"

And right then – as that word sat tripping off the end of Loker's tongue – Emily flew into motion and grabbed him around his plastic covered shoulders.

That noise in the background?

That muffled little pleading sound?

It was the sound of her ears bleeding, as her mind's eye begged her mouth to please stop Eli from finishing that sentence. Because if he did… well then, she really would have smother him. And then pull a Van Gogh and cut off one ear. Which would really be a downer for the whole party, but hey – there wasn't a daughter anywhere on the planet who ever wanted to hear someone use the word "package" in reference to her own father. No. Just… no.

Ever-so discreetly, she reached for the platter of kabobs that were resting on the coffee table. Then she smiled up at him and said…

"Loker? I like you, right? You're a good guy, and you've always had my best interest at heart. But trust me: unless you want this kabob shoved up your nose sideways, then for the love of God: do not finish that sentence. There are certain things a girl can't un-hear, and that one is near the top of the list."

"Ah ha! So that's where you're hiding, then. What's wrong, Cal? Get lost on the way to your own living room? Decide to wait for me, so that we could make an entrance together? You know… I'd like to say that I'm surprised to find you hiding out on here the staircase, but I'm not. At all. Just please… please tell me that you weren't planning to spend the entire evening as an absentee host?"

Cal Lightman never claimed to be a vocal expert. He read body language and facial expressions, not linguistic pitches, yeah? But he had learned a thing or two from Gillian over the years – and he easily knew enough to hear that she was more annoyed than angry, and that if he played his cards right (read as: if he flirted his be-kilted arse off), well then… he'd be back in her good graces faster than anyone could've said 'candy corn.'

And while a part of him did feel a little bit guilty for spying on his daughter, the other part – the one that was controlled by his libido rather than his brain – couldn't help but notice that from her perch four stairs above him, he could almost see all the way up her skirt.

So he grinned.

Widely.

"What can I say, love? You caught me. I'm a bloody awful host, and I'm total shite at following directions. Lesson learned. But just to be on the safe side – just to teach me some manners – you could always… oh, I dunno… spank me?"

Yes, he was a smartarse. He knew that, and he embraced it fully. As did Gillian. Which is why, he assumed, that instead of looking annoyed with his flirtatious little comment, she looked flustered instead. Like his words had hit her right between the thighs and sparked something… new.

Which was interesting, yeah? He'd have to remember that one.

"Very cute," she deadpanned, descending the remaining few steps until they stood on the same one. "But please allow me to remind you that I didn't turn the entire first floor of Casa de Lightman into Halloween Central just to wind up with an anti-social date. So come on. There's plenty of fun, good friends, great food, and – last but not least – dancing. And we can't very well enjoy all of that if you insist on hiding here all night, now can we?"

Granted, Gillian had just made a few very valid points: the food did smell fantastic… he'd donned the world's tightest pair of briefs just to avoid tenting while they danced… and his living room did look as though a tornado had gone through it, leaving a trail of orange and black décor in its wake. The fog machine was foggy, streamers had been strung, that bloody jack-o-lantern was still taunting him, and cocktails were waiting to be poured. But, Gillian's logic was flawed.

And she'd left him with an opening that was too big to resist.

In a flash, he wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her body flush with his. Then he dropped his lips down to her ear and spoke into it with an accent that was impossibly thick. "Aye, aye, Gill – rest assured, I'd have no trouble finding at least a hundred different ways for us to enjoy this party in private, starting with a little quid pro quo for what you did for me upstairs. In fact…"

And that – right there, as Cal's latest display of sexual innuendo practically oozed from his pores and pooled upon the landing – was the precise moment when the proverbial cat finally escaped from its bag. Meaning that of course someone had spotted them. Of course Gillian's breathy little sighs of encouragement, and Cal's impossible-to-contain growls of excitement were louder than they realized. Subtlety did not pair well with arousal (well, at least not theirs) and they'd quickly gotten carried away.

So imagine Cal's shock and Gillian's flash of mortification when instead of hearing a breathy, shiver-inducing follow up to his well-dangled tease… they heard giggling instead.

Feminine giggling.

Which was odd, because Emily was still busy with Loker, and… oh.

Torres.

Bloody hell.

Gillian's face was as red as a tomato, and his eyes locked with hers as he struggled to find something constructive to say. But getting caught mid-proposition by one of their subordinates wasn't something he'd ever considered, and the best he could come up with was this: "Hold that thought, love."

Granted, it wasn't the most eloquent thing he'd ever said, but given the circumstances… he'd take it.

Cal cleared his throat and disentangled his limbs from Gillian's, until they stood face to face with one Ms. Ria Torres. One very smug looking Ria Torres, at that. And then – because he bloody well knew she was just itching to say something, and he'd much rather hear it spoken straight to his face, rather than whispered behind his back – he sighed. "Go on, out with it then," he said. With as little enthusiasm as possible and while rolling his eyes. "The suspense is bloody killing me."

Ria grinned. Still looking as smug as ever, she glanced at Gillian for permission before finally taking a deep breath and launching into her joke. "You know… up until today, if anyone would've asked me which one of you two wore the pants in your relationship, I probably would've said something stupid – I might've even cracked a joke about you taking Foster's pants, because everyone knows you've been dying to get into themfor a full decade. But never in a million years would I have assumed that neither one of you wore the pants. Or, that Lightman had such nice legs."

Ah, the first kilt joke – now with added voyeurism, just for fun.

Lovely.

Cal sighed again, squeezing Gillian's hip reassuringly as they both tried not to downplay what Torres had seen. Trouble was, they spoke simultaneously and from opposite ends of the spectrum, much to Ria's delight. Which meant that Gillian's generic "…we were just talking…" collided squarely with Cal's "… Oi! It's not a skirt…" and both excuses landed with a metaphorical thud right in front of Ria's green shoes.

So in other words, they sounded like idiots.

Big, giant, caught-red-handed idiots.

Lucky for everyone, though, Torres opted not to dwell on it. Instead, she smiled at both of them… complimented Gillian on her beautiful costume… and said something that summed up their new "status" quite nicely.

"Trust me, guys – there's no point in hiding over here all night, okay? Everyone in that room already knows that you two have been in love with each other for years. I'm happy for you. They'll be happy for you. And as long as you don't try something insane, like using the conference room as an afterhours honeymoon suite, or doing a striptease in the middle of the living room… then please allow me to be the first person to say congratulations. It's about damned time you finally stopped being idiots."

Moments later – when the clicking sound from Ria's tall green heels became absorbed by the happy chatter of the other guests, Cal turned to Gillian with a puzzled expression. "Correct me if I'm wrong here, Gill. But isn't the Jolly Green Giant… you know… male? So I really don't see where Torres has any room to poke fun at my kilt, when she's running around dressed up like the mascot for a bloody vegetable company."

And no, he hadn't been speaking sarcastically. The woman had worn a green dress, green tights, green heels, and vines for pity's sake. What else could she have been? And why was Gillian looking at him… like that? Like he'd just said something epically stupid, or embarrassing, or – worse yet – simultaneously stupid and embarrassing?

It was a legitimate question, alright? Paper beaks… cryptozoology chatter… chicken references out the wazoo… and now a vegetable fairy. Talk about an unconventional Halloween.

"Two points, Cal," Gillian said lightly, as she took his hand in hers and began to lead him towards the party. One: Ria's dressed as Poison Ivy – meaning the villainess from Batman, not the plant. If you try that vegetable reference within ten feet of her, I'd say she'd have every right to kick your well-muscled butt, okay? And two: I saw that little-boy-at-Christmastime look on your face when she mentioned the conference room. So here's the deal: mingle with everyone. Dance with me. Enjoy the food and the music, and don't give Loker too much grief. And then maybe – maybe – something can be… arranged."

A/N: Up next, the green-eyed monster rears its ugly head, and be-kilted Cal embraces the art of mingling. Stay tuned.