He thinks it lasts an hour, at least. Maybe longer. Maybe not. Time seems… different now. It's less constrictive. Less relative to other known things. And he questions the idea of quantifying it at all, you know? Suddenly finds the process trivial. Painful.

Pointless.

It's a thirty minute commute to the office – forty five if he goes there from Gillian's. It takes ninety, at least, to watch a film… double that (give or take) to watch American football… and only four to realize that the term "Empty Nest" is a piss poor way to describe what he feels. Those words don't properly convey the ache in his chest, or the nagging doubts about whether or not he hugged her enough, gave her enough, supported her enough, to help her understand how deeply she is loved. Is. Not was. Always present tense, there. Never past.

Time, though.

It moves around them – ebbing and flowing like a populated stream, unyielding in its determination to keep everyone on some sort of schedule. And he decides that he hates it, yeah? The predictability of mindless routine. Strikes him as odd that the rest of the world doesn't seem to notice how his life has changed in the last sixty minutes. Instead, they race for baggage claim or rental cars… fuss over small delays and asinine fees… grumble and whine and grouse ad nauseum, about things that are of little real consequence. Not like, oh, say, the gut-wrenching realization that one's only child will now be living on the other size of the bloody country. Three whole time zones. It rather sickens him, to be honest.

He hears the noises in the background – the voices of the other travelers coming and going in droves. He hears announcements over speakers. Sees numbers change on brightly lit screens, to signal that yes, it is getting later. Circumstances are changing. Soon enough, they will have to leave.

Sixty minutes.

That's his best guess.

He watches planes come and go without incident, and he tries to imagine where she is now. If she's excited, nervous, scared, annoyed… if she knows how much he already misses her… if maybe she misses him too, just a little bit. (Not that either of them would ever admit it aloud.)

Gillian, bless her, doesn't push him at all. She sits on his right side, silent and patient, and sometime around minute sixty five – when her left palm lands lightly on his thigh, and her head comes to rest against his shoulder – he realizes he hasn't thanked her yet. For this. For being with him, in this way. For her support and friendship and strength.

Change isn't easy. Not by a longshot.

But it's easier with her by his side.

Quite frankly… he's not sure could handle it if she wasn't.

It's overcast. Unseasonably cool for August in Washington, especially in the shade. He keeps his eyes hidden behind tinted lenses – finds them necessary for masking emotion, rather than sunlight – and tries to concentrate on the breeze that accompanies them across the parking lot and towards his car.

When they reach the correct row, he feels Gillian's fingers curl reassuringly against his. And it's just a touch, you know – neither unwelcome nor unfamiliar – and it doesn't strike him until just then that he's been holding her hand. Five… six… seven minutes, maybe longer. And now that he's aware of how it feels – of how soft her skin is, and how her knuckles gently brush against the outside of his leg on every third step – he decides he'd really rather not let go.

So he doesn't.

When the Prius comes into sight, his gut reaction is to reach for his keys. Which are, of course, in his right pocket. But his right hand is in her left, so… he waits. Their steps fall into sync, and he catches her eye on a whim. There's a smile hidden in there somewhere – he just knows it – but she's reserved and polite enough to keep it at bay. She doesn't want to drag him, kicking and screaming if needed, into happiness, and she certainly doesn't want to guilt him, either. She's gifted that way. Knows that the contact is, for now, enough.

He isn't quite ready to smile again.

They make it all the way to the passenger door before he gives an awkward gesture towards his hip and begrudgingly pulls his hand from hers. And he almost apologizes – has the words on the tip of his tongue, even – but bites them back at the last second. No explanation necessary. She already knows what he was going to say.

Once the keys are out of his pocket and in his palm, he presses the 'unlock' button, then reaches around her to open the passenger side door. It's unnecessary – she's perfectly capable of opening it herself, and it's not as though they are on a bloody date – but her eyes tell him that she enjoyed it. The attention. It's both unsolicited and unexpected, and he doesn't quite realize he's done anything special at all, until he's already walking to his own door and the mental 'replay' catches him off guard.

And he thinks that maybe… maybe he should hold her hand more often.

He gets no further than starting the engine before the pressure stars to build up in his chest. Memories, yeah? Signs. They're even in the sodding car, and he hadn't expected that. Hadn't paid them much attention till now. There's a random assortment of hair ties, lip gloss, and chewing gum in his console, and – God love her – even a tea bag. You know, just in case they might one day find themselves stranded by the side of the road with scalding hot water and nothing with which to flavor it. Typical Emily, right? Always prepared.

Glancing up, he spots a handful of receipts tucked up under his visor, including one for the graduation gift that Gillian helped him choose, and two from meals that they'd all shared together. And when his eyes start to burn, he decides that he's either becoming a sentimental bastard at breakneck speed, or there's some sort of mental incapacitation that sparks when a man sends his daughter off to find her future by way of a window seat and a bear hug.

At this rate, he figures he'll need therapy by September.

(Possibly sooner.)

"She'll call when she lands, then?" Gillian tentatively asks.

It's a baseline. They both know it. But instead of stating the obvious and using that word, he just nods. Watches the clock. Tries to figure out how Emily went from age eight to eighteen in the blink of an eye.

"She's good about those things," he finally manages. "Promised to phone me once a week, minimum. And to text every few days, just so I don't go stark raving mad without her here to keep me in line. Funny, right? Always thought she knew that I crossed that particular bridge a few years back."

Self-depreciation at its finest, ladies and gentlemen. And yes – just in case you were wondering, he does know it's a bad habit. Trouble is… it's also a coping mechanism. A "crutch" on which he leans, when he isn't quite ready to face a particularly sensitive truth. Anyone else would probably laugh politely at his little non-joke, but Gillian doesn't. She's too smart for that. Too "in tune" to what makes him tick, and she knows – without a doubt – that he's walking a fine line. Trying to hold his emotions together, lest they swallow him whole.

And so instead of laughter, she gives this mostly-silent little huff under her breath, and says…

"You didn't cross it permanently. You might've taken a sight-seeing tour a time or two, but come on – admit it. It's been a while now since your last near-death experience, right? So give yourself a little credit. Besides, Emily is a very smart girl. Smart enough to know that the next time you venture into the land of bullets, bombs, and insanity, I will be there to drag you back again. Kicking and screaming, if needed."

She pauses here. Takes a moment to let the words settle, and he mistakenly thinks she's done – that she'll let him sulk in silence, now… maybe reach out to touch his leg again, or fuss with the radio, or do something to turn the attention away from the obvious – meaning Emily's departure – and onto something else. That she'll somehow distract him.

Because that's what he wants. A distraction. At least a temporary one. Something that will last until her plane lands; until he can hear her voice again and know that she made it safely. That she isn't hovering thousands of feet above the earth, in a piece of machinery built by fallible corporations who don't always have the best track record when it comes to safety.

(He knows, because he checked.)

And Gillian, being Gillian, does provide one. She waits ten, twenty, maybe even thirty seconds or so, and then – just as he'd hoped she might – brings her palm back to rest on his leg. It's halfway between his knee and the mid-point on his thigh, and he feels his entire femur begin to tingle. Magical powers, she has. He wonders if she's aware they exist.

"I will be there to drag you back again," she re-iterates. And he can't help but notice that she changes which word is emphasized, now. She's gone from "I" to "will" and even that slight differentiation makes the entire thought sound different. He wonders if it was deliberate.

"But please, Cal – for both our sakes. Don't let there be a next time. Deal?"

Christ.

He feels his face grow warm in self-conscious heat within a fraction of a second, as he instinctively dissects the multiple meanings behind her words. And for the most part, he's handling the whole thing pretty well – understands that it was meant to be a gentle reminder that they are beyond that, now. That he is beyond it. Unnecessary risks. He's learning to channel his energy in a different direction; to use his words – however unnatural they might seem – and communicate in ways that aren't the adult equivalent of pulling pigtails or snapping her bra.

This is Gillian's way of reminding him that he's human. That she doesn't want him to use Emily's departure as an excuse to throw his walls back up again; to reinforce them with steel beams and high-tech security. That she wants him to be accessible. And, last but not least, that she appreciates his effort.

Few words. Big punch. She's talented, that way.

Her hand squeezes his thigh and then pats it, then lifts to stroke his forearm instead. And just in case you were wondering… the answer is yes. He tingles there, too. The woman is talented in many ways, apparently. And she is a master of distraction. Could probably make him forget his own name, if given enough motivation.

Still, though, he knows she's waiting for an answer. Her question was not rhetorical, and he doesn't intend to leave her hanging. So. He nods ever-so slightly, as he glances down to watch her fingers curl against his skin, and then it's his turn to give a little huff under his breath, as he manages a single word in reply. "Deal," he says.

And he means it.

They're halfway towards the office before the traffic begins to drive him insane. It's more congested than normal, and he dodges in and out of lanes, trying not to get stuck behind the endless stream of wankers who are determined to slow him down. Even behind the wheel, he doesn't handle stillness well.

They pass three construction zones and two accidents, get stuck at every single traffic light in the entire city (give or take a dozen), and his nerves feel totally frayed. There are too many thoughts in his head, and he needs something on which to focus his energy. Something tangible. And for just a moment – maybe two – he considers asking Gillian to put her hand back on his thigh.

Pathetic, right? Of course it is. But everything still feels… off kilter.

He grumbles in response to the other drivers – drops random four-letter words, says "bloody" about twenty-five times, and pokes the radio controls with enough force that for a moment, he fears they might've cracked. And while he's busy having his little meltdown (…read: tantrum…), Gillian doesn't speak at all. Instead, she sighs. Softly. Even manages to incorporate a sympathetic "tone" to the gesture, too, though he can't quite figure out howthat's even possible. But there it is again, yeah? She's talented.

She's his blind spot, even now.

He steers the Prius towards the Group automatically. It's just instinct. And granted, they don't have any particular schedule to keep – there are no meetings, no pressing deadlines, no real reason to go there at all, save for the fact that he wants to. He wants to go there, with her. Only her. Where's the crime in that?

Besides…

Working on Saturdays used to be their "thing." Their routine. Their time, together, to be whatever they wanted to be – scientists, partners, friends, goofballs… even all of the above, simultaneously. They used to share lunch in the lab, talk budgets in Gill's office, dare to daydream in his, and he misses it. Misses being able to relax with her, without the pressures of time and circumstance hanging over his head.

"What are you waiting for?"

Just for a few hours, he'd rather not hear that question echoing in the background.

And neutral territory suddenly seems like a really good idea.

If they go to Gillian's place, he knows that he'll inevitably leave. Which is, unfortunately, the heart of the problem. He'll stay anywhere from five minutes to five hours, but eventually the entire evening will pass. And then, despite the concern he's sure to hear in her voice, or the suggestion that he should 'just stay a little bit longer,' to watch a film, or share pizza, or play cards in her living room (hey – she's quite good at Blackjack) … he'll go home. To silence. And then he'll sit on the couch or toss in his bed, and fight the urge to do something stupid, like drink. Or obsess. Or over-analyze everything. Like how he will have let yet another day pass by without telling her those three magical words.

But. On the other side of that coin is option number two.

Rest assured, it fares no better.

If they go to his place, she will inevitably stay. She'll humor him by eating curry, or she'll sit on the couch and stroke his ego – tell him sweet things, and fall asleep against his shoulder, and make it next to bloody impossible not to tell her how badly he wants her.

Rock versus hard place. He is right there, stuck between them. Tired of standing still, and yet – mostly for reasons he'd rather not admit – still hesitant to move forward.

Their timing, yeah? It rather sucks.

If he's forced to explain himself in actual words, rather than in nonsensical grunts and facial tics, then he'd do it like this: despite knowing exactly how he feels… despite being completely in love with Gillian… he doesn't want this step to be taken this way. Meaning that five, ten, twenty years down the line, he doesn't want to look back on his life and wonder if she was motivated by pity. By empathy. And he definitely doesn't want to give the impression that he's afraid to be alone, or – worse yet – that he's just using her to fill the void created by Emily's departure.

It feels like a delicate balance. Like a tightrope, of sorts.

A line, but with higher stakes.

She figures it out soon enough, though. His plan. She's a very observant woman, and she knows him better than anyone else ever has. Possibly better than he knows himself, even – crazy though that probably sounds.

They are twenty minutes from the office (give or take a few more traffic mishaps) when he feels the weight of her palm land on his thigh once again. It's warm and reassuring, and yes – right on cue – the tingling returns. "Tell you what?" she starts. "I'll help you catalogue footage in the lab, and you can help me with some invoicing. We'll order in, drink Scotch on the balcony… and if I'm feeling generous, I'll even let you beat me at poker."

Heh. That?

The last two-thirds of her enticing little offer?

He sees it as pure, tangible proof that she doesn't fight fair. And he decides that it's worth repeating: magical powers. She bloody well has them in spades. Still, though, he has to hand it to her: it's the first time he's felt happy all afternoon. So if that was her goal, well then… mission accomplished.

"What do you mean by 'let' me beat you, love?" he says. And of course he starts there. It's the most tempting carrot she dangled, and he loves her even more for doing so. "Poker is my game, Gill. I'm the one who taught it to you, and in all the times we've played together, I've never lost. Why would that change now?"

His tone is neither arrogant nor sarcastic. It's understated instead – uncharacteristically full of softness, with a hint of good humor around the edges that he knows she can hear. He fights back the urge to smile, though. He fights it hard. But at the last possible second, when her hand ventures just a little bit higher on his leg, and he catches sight of her fingers as they wrap around denim once again… it's there. The smile. His lips curl ever-so slightly, as his breath wooshes out in disbelief and his lids briefly close. He hasn't felt this particular combination of emotions before, and it's stronger than he expected.

Much stronger.

(Not that he's complaining.)

"Lots of things can change," she finally counters. "Life, circumstances, relationships, and yes – even poker stats. I think that's a lesson we all have to learn eventually: that change doesn't have to be scary. Sometimes it is. And sometimes it's hard. But it doesn't have to be. Because sometimes… change is exactly what we need."

A/N: Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

To be continued...