TITLE: Of Lawbreakers, Dealbreakers & Maybe Even Heartbreakers
GENRE: Drama, romance
CHARACTERS: Gillian, Cal, Ben
PAIRING: Cal/Gillian
RATING: T
SPOILERS: None
WORDS: 3,100
SUMMARY: When Cal and Gillian are in mortal danger, they remember a night they both agreed to never talk about again.
I remember it well
The first time that I saw
Your head 'round the door
'Cause mine stopped working.
— 'I Remember' by Damien Rice (& Lisa Hannigan)
Thursday, 09:39 a.m.
They're on opposite ends of the same darkened room.
Corner A: Cal Lightman, 50, black eye that she hasn't noticed yet due to lack of better lighting, slouched against the cold stone wall.
Corner B: Gillian Foster, 43, he'd say immaculate as always, but she doesn't feel that way, nervously walking in small circles.
A case gone wrong brought them here and the only consolation is that they're together. Or rather: It's consolation to her. To him it's hell that he dragged her into this. Again. He'd rather die in a shithole alone, knowing she is somewhere safe, than going all Romeo & Juliet. Not his kind of romantic gesture.
Neither of them has said anything in what feels like the last half an hour. Or maybe it's been half a day. Nobody knows and there are no watches or phones to check. They've taken those from them.
When she speaks again, her voice is a little hoarse and tinged with an odd kind of uncertainty. "Do you remember that night?"
He's awfully silent for far too long. So long that she's getting afraid of any answer he might possibly have for her.
"Of course I do remember." Sober, matter-of-fact, clinical, businesslike. Any emotions carefully suppressed. He knows she can't see his face, but he also made sure she can't read anything in his voice.
"You never mentioned it again," she explains something he already knows; the innocent words masking a deeper meaning.
"Neither did you until about twenty seconds ago. I thought that was the deal we had. To never talk about it again." He's a little angry now with her, despite this being the worst place and time for this. "Did I get that wrong?"
"No, sorry," she has to admit and slumps down to sit against the cold stone wall as well. Still on opposite ends of their darkened prison.
It's maybe half a minute or another half an hour or half a day before he speaks again into the gloomy silence, saying: "Just because I never mentioned it again, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about it every fuckin' day."
It's still angry, the way he says it, and it's also heartbreakingly true.
Thursday, 10:52 a.m.
She wakes up from a very short, uncomfortable nap and everything is still the same. Disappointingly so. Her bones aches, her heart too, her head is taking her to only bleak possibilities, and in her gut there is so much worry.
With the help of the faint light coming from under the door, she locates him and walks over to sit down there with him instead.
"Can't believe we just had an argument about one night we once spent together while being held prisoners by two fuckin' lunatics," he lets her know. It's his way of reaching out and saying sorry.
He can make her smile even in the darkest of times. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to start an argument or imply that you didn't care."
"You know, you're not one to forget, love."
If only they'd find a nicer place for this conversation to happen. "Some would beg to differ."
"Well, I wouldn't."
Then they go back to being silent, worrying, and trying to get some blissful minutes of sleep.
Thursday, 11:14 a.m.
When the two guys enter the room, it's so sudden that Cal and Gillian both don't quite understand immediately what is happening. The light coming from outside is hurting their eyes.
They drag Gillian up to her feet and roughly pull her towards the door. Cal jumps up to protect her, but the second guy is pointing a gun at him and he has to pull back.
"No, please don't hurt her. You can take me. Please leave her alone."
She never thought she'd see him beg. Not ever. But here he is so immensely desperate that in this moment of immediate danger, she feels more sorry for him than afraid for herself.
"Please don't hurt her," he pleads again, but they drag her away anyway.
While she's shoved through the floor of these cellars, she can still hear him beg for mercy for her, then scream, then desperately pound against the door.
She remembers when his face hovered over hers once and the way he kissed her temple. Soft and slowly, with something she imagined was love.
11:38 p.m. – but two years earlier (two years, one month and seven days to be precise; yes, he has counted ever since that night)
It was a strange night they had spent together. A one-night-stand that really wasn't. Neither of them was drunk, neither of them was emotionally vulnerable, and neither of them wanted it to never happen again.
He was on top of her, kissing her temple with tender care, exhaling with pleasure, and whispering something she couldn't understand. It wasn't just about getting one's rocks off; they truly cared about each other's pleasure.
Later he kissed her goodbye when leaving her bed. No hasty escape. No regrets.
And yet a couple of days later they both agreed that it was the heat of a clouded moment; that it was better to leave it behind and never talk about it again. Neither of them really knowing why they were agreeing to this strange deal.
It was awkward between them for a while, but soon things fell back into a new normal. Or maybe that's just what they told themselves.
Thursday, 12:47 p.m.
They shove her back into the dark prison and he clings to her within moments of realizing she is back and still alive. His hug is firm and still desperate.
He doesn't dare asking, afraid of what the answer might be, but he has to make sure. "What did they do to you? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," she assures him and for once it's the truth. "They just asked me stuff about Newman and what we have on him. Judging by their reactions, they don't know much."
He grips her even more tightly for a moment before letting go again. There's not much to see in the darkness, but maybe it's better that his face is hidden.
"They know they have leverage over you when you're being this emotional," she tells him the harsh truth.
"Yeah, well, I can't pretend when it comes to you."
Thursday, 01:26 p.m.
She speaks into the silence again. She should be worried about their lives, but instead his words from earlier echo in the emptiness of her head. Just because I never mentioned it again, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about it every fuckin' day.
They say that on your deathbed, you'll regret the things you didn't do and maybe that's what it is.
"That night—you kissed my temple and whispered something I couldn't quite understand. Something sweet. I never forgot that."
He's next to her, their shoulders and arms touching. "I might have been silently cursing myself for falling for you."
It's much, much later when he speaks again. "I'm sorry I was never ready."
"Neither was I. I'm sorry, too."
He takes her hand and they're waiting for the end.
Thursday, 01:55 p.m.
"Where would you take me if we ever got out of here?"
He thinks about it for a bit. "How 'bout Atlantic City? We'd be pretty bloody lucky to get out of here alive, so we could continue being lucky at the roulette table."
"I'd rather not share you with gambling again."
"Hate to break it to you, but you're doing all the time, love."
Thursday, 02:42 p.m.
The kidnappers return and this time they're taking both of them. With hoods over their heads and their hands tied behind their backs, Cal and Gillian are rudely shoved through corridors and finally into a van. They have to lie down, and once more it's at least a bit of consolation that they can feel the touch of one another.
The drive is what feels like two hours, but again, who knows. They've long lost their ability to tell the time and there are no clues from the outside world that are able to crawl underneath their hoods.
When the car stops, it isn't long before they are harshly dragged out. The kidnappers tear the hoods from their heads and his first instinct is to see if Foster is okay. As okay as can be, at least.
She is, but they both fear that they won't be for much longer. The kidnappers are shoving them through the woods and from what they can catch in the few moments between existential fear and desperation, there is nothing around. Probably for miles and miles.
They're both kicked in the legs from behind at some point and they fall down to the ground abruptly with no way to support themselves, their hands still tied behind their backs. He's literally eating some dirt and cursing relentlessly.
Then one of the kidnappers is making sure Cal and Gillian are upright—still on their knees, but erect and facing away from their abductors and the car.
They know their kidnappers' faces. There's only one way this can go.
This is it. The end.
They're waiting for the guns to be fired, even though they'll likely be dead before their ears will catch up to the sound.
Thursday, 05:17 p.m. (only seconds later)
Then the kidnappers leave and they never come back.
Cal and Gillian are still there, frozen in time. That is until they realize that they are still alive and will be so for some more.
He looks over to her and she slowly opens her eyes as a tear escapes silently and rolls down her cheek.
"It's okay," he tries to comfort her and turns his head around to see if the car is really gone. Then scooting over on his knees, he gets closer to her. There's nothing he wishes more than to hug her, but both of their hands are tied.
"Can you get up? We need to get away from here."
She nods and they're making their awkward escape.
Thursday, 06:08 p.m.
They've been running through a maze of trees and shrubbery for nearly an hour and the fear of being caught is not getting any smaller the more distance they are putting between their initial point of supposed execution and their current location.
But it is getting dark and when he looks at her again, anguish all over her face, he is finally slowing down. "Let's take some shelter under these trees over there."
She follows him and collapses to the ground. He uses the last bit of daylight to find a stone sharp enough to slowly but steadily saw through the thin rope tying together his hands. It takes some time, effort and dexterity, but eventually he frees his hands and unties hers as well.
He wraps her in his jacket and hugs her as tight as he can. They're far from home, but she feels like home. Always has, always will.
He's an idiot, but what's new about that? An idiot with a PhD at least.
Thursday, 08:34 p.m.
Slight drizzle and gloomy darkness all around them. Only his warm hand is keeping her from losing it completely.
He's assuring her that there is a way out. She believes that if there is, Cal Lightman will find it.
Still Thursday, 11:14 p.m.
They find a forest track probably used by rangers and it eventually leads them to a small road out of the woods. It's windy and still misty with a gentle rain that feels anything but gentle. By now their steps are slow and feeble, but at least they're still going.
A lonesome house appears in the mist and all of a sudden they have a goal. There are no lights to be seen in any of the windows, but Cal knocks on the door anyway. It's taking some time, until an elderly man opens the door with care and distrust; the bolt in place, just in case.
"I'm sorry," Cal begins in his most friendly yet urgent voice, "can we use your phone? We need to call the police."
The guy is not convinced and eyes Cal and his shabby appearance suspiciously.
Cal steps aside and points behind him towards Gillian. The man can see her now, too, and his demeanor changes to something a little softer.
"We need some help. Can we use your phone?" Cal repeats.
The man thinks about it, lets his eyes wander between Cal and Gillian, and after a while he opens the bolt silently and guides them into a sitting room still warm from the fireplace. There's an old-fashioned phone that he hands Cal.
It's for these kind of emergencies that Cal had memorized one particular number some years ago.
Technically already Friday, 00:49 a.m.
The tea warms her hands, but everything else remains cold. She watches the hullabaloo that broke out once the FBI arrived here from a safe distance. As if she weren't part of it. Cal, on the other hand, is right in the center of it, talking to a couple of agents.
Ben comes over and squats down in front of where she's sitting on a plushy pink couch. She smiles and remembers having him around, loyal yet not letting Lightman get away with all of his bullshit. It was good while it lasted.
"Hey, how you're doing?"
"A little shaken," is all she can think of even though it's more than just that. They've taught Ben enough to see right through it.
As he gently puts his hand on her knee for comfort, she can feel for the first time that this is not the end. Delayed another time, maybe a chance for something new.
In the room full of people her eyes find Cal. He's looking at her too, stern expression on his face, and she concentrates on Ben again.
"Yeah right," he says with amusement as he apparently managed to read her face, "he's probably killing me with his stare, isn't he?" He looks down to where his hand rests on her knee and she joins his smile. "Already regretting that he ever called me."
"He's the possessive type." She puts her own hand over Ben's and squeezes. He's warm and familiar, and here she is: Still alive. She exhales. Still alive.
"Has he finally plucked up the courage to make a move?"
"It's complicated." No, it's not, but it's what they like to tell themselves.
"Of course it is." Even Ben knows it's not. "Did you know that he carries a picture of you in his wallet?"
She smiles with a little surprise and yet not doubting his words for a second. "I did not."
"Let's not assume what he does with it."
She chuckles and realizes how much she misses Ben being around and providing another balance to the intensity that Cal can be. "And I also didn't know that you're so familiar with the contents of Lightman's wallet."
"You gotta check who you're risking your job and your ass for."
Well, ain't that the truth.
Friday, 00:58 a.m.
"Y'alright?" It's the most him thing to say. With his accent and all.
He plops down onto the couch next to her and searches her face for something she cannot pinpoint. Who knows what it is he sees when he's looking at her.
"No, not really." No need for any more lies between them.
"Yeah, me neither," he agrees and everything about him becomes a little softer; his voice, his posture, the expression in his eyes. "Did Ben just flirt with you? After you nearly got shot by a couple of desperados? That is unprofessional behavior on the job."
"Did you just get jealous?"
He holds up thumb and index finger. "Just a tiny bit." Or maybe a little more.
"That tiny?" she teases. He finds it as funny as she does. "Ben told me you used to carry a picture of me in your wallet. Do you still?"
Oh, that bastard. "How does he know what's in my fuckin' wallet?"
"Well, do you?"
"Yeah, just in case I forget what you look like." Beautiful that is, but maybe here on the plushy pink couch is not the right place to tell her that.
"Liar."
"Well, either way, those kidnappers are now the proud owners of my wallet with a picture of you in it."
"Lucky them."
"Well, I still got the original, haven't I?"
Then he puts his arm around her, like he has done many times before when times were hard and they got through them together.
Friday, 03:14 a.m.
She stays at his place for the rest of the short night while the FBI placed a car outside to keep them safe in case the criminals come back. Maybe they just wanted to scare them. Maybe they got scared in the end and that's why they didn't pull the trigger. They might never find out.
Amidst it all, they have both thought about that night dozens of times in the last hour alone. Neither of them admitting to it.
"Are you in love with me?" she inquires before they say their goodnights.
"You know the answer to that one, love."
A Sunday many weeks later, 07:45 p.m.
He is extremely determined. Eager. His face wrinkling with concentration. She loves watching him.
"Dammit," he curses when the claw crane misses the target and comes back up empty. "I really wanted to get you that one." He points to one of the soft toys behind the glass.
"The ugly one?"
"Yeah, the ugly one."
This is the kind of gambling she can allow.
It's not Atlantic City after all; it's Brighton (the UK one) and even better. Especially so as he has paid for the flights and the hotel.
He even paid for the nice dinner they just had, before they walked out onto the pier with the sun setting over the sea. Possibly all paid from the company credit card, but she may let it slide. Then he suggested finding their luck in the arcade on the pier.
His next place of attack now is a slot machine. Not the Vegas kind, but more benign.
He digs out a couple of coins from his jeans pocket and addresses her: "Just a moment, love, and we'll be rich."
They already are. He puts the coin into the machine and watches what it does.
THE END