A/N: Just wanted to say Thank You to everyone who has read or reviewed this story - much appreciated! Hope you will enjoy this chapter as well. :)
"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."
Hours later – after Emily's plane lands, and after they fill a few too many hours pretending their work couldn't have waited until Monday – they sit in his office, sharing pizza and beer and reminiscing about the early days of their partnership. Gillian's words remind him how far they've come since then… how much they've already learned from one another… and her kindness reminds him how lucky he is, to still have her in his life.
Poker?
Yes, they do that, too.
After she wins eight straight hands, he decides that she's either been faking it all along – letting him win, just for the sake of flattery – or, she's gotten a tutor. Someone good. Someone (though he'll never speak these words aloud) who has taught her how to play the game better than he does. Perhaps she's a much more skilled liar than he ever realized.
By sunset, her winnings stack up as follows: forty dollars in cash, one bottle of scotch, a pair of tickets to an upcoming Capitols game, and bragging rights to tell the office that yes, she did, in fact, beat the master himself. Rest assured, there isn't a chance in bloody hell that he'll underestimate her again. In card games or otherwise. Lesson learned.
He's three-quarters finished with his first beer (not scotch) when she gets that look in her eyes that tells him things are about to turn serious. And by serious, he means emotional. And by emotional… he means Emily.
Christ.
She really should not be so good at this, yeah? At getting him to talk. At being so goddamn kind, and warm, and disarming, as to pull handfuls of sentences out of his mouth whilst keeping him in the dark about the whole thing. It's just… it's scary, sometimes, when he considers how well she knows him. Almost as if she has a tiny little portal to the inner workings of his mind, and is every bit as complicit in the "What are you waiting for?" nonsense as he still is.
Which is ridiculous, right?
At this rate, Emily will receive her bloody Master's degree before he finds the courage to leap.
He hears himself say the words "I didn't think it would be this hard to let her go," and that's when he feels it. Gillian's hand. She puts her drink on the side table and drops her palm to his leg again, so that it once again owns the space just above his knee. And the gesture is innocent, mostly. It's just the gentle, calming brush of her hand against denim as she is careful not to push the conversation in any particular direction at all. It's safe. Familiar. Easy.
And yet… it somehow isn't.
Typical Lightman and Foster, that. It's a dynamic that keeps him on his toes even now. One that makes the tingle in his leg spread upward, warming as it goes, to finally settle above his heart. Which is a cliché, he realizes, but he lacks the presence of mind to actually care.
"Cal?" she tries.
And honestly? He almost stops her. Almost. Because he's right – it is a cliché. And maybe he does care, just a little. But he catches the slightest hint of hesitation in her eyes… hears something new in her voice, when she speaks his name, and so…he doesn't.
He listens, instead.
"I know you miss her already," she offers. Sincerely. "And I know that you've probably been thinking about everything you wish you'd said, or all the things you wish you'd taught her – like how to make curry in her dorm room, or how to execute a proper kidney punch, just in case some guy gets out of line. But trust me on this one, okay? She knows that you love her. Distance won't change that. There could be two dozen miles between you or two thousand, but I promise… she'll still feel that love."
He's not sure which one of them breaks eye contact first (it's probably him), but seconds after he hears the word "love" leave her lips, he starts to feel… what's the word he needs, here?... claustrophobic. He can't quite catch his breath, and the temperature in the room shoots up at least ten degrees, and he's torn between wanting her palm to slide further up his thigh, to hoping that she removes it altogether. Everything feels raw. Too raw. He can't seem to find his mental footing.
Luckily, though… Gillian finds it for him in a matter of seconds.
Her fingers give his leg one final squeeze, then they move to cover his hand instead. It's meant to be a gesture of comfort and friendship – nothing more, nothing less – and he knows that. But. When his hand automatically turns beneath hers… when his fingers automatically lace with hers, and their palms connect… he feels something in the air begin to change.
It's yet another cliché, right?
Probably so.
The day is riddled with them, it seems.
Realizing that she's the one who has done nearly all of the actual talking, guilt starts to creep in. Not entirely unsurprising, that. But then again, she knows that he's a man of few words – that he prefers action over speech – and she isn't pressuring him for a reply. Instead, he's pressuring himself.
(Which is something else that's not entirely unsurprising.)
He's handling their proximity just fine; is not bothered by scent of her skin, or the sound of her soft, gentle breathing. But moments later, when she shifts just a fraction closer and brings her head to rest on his shoulder, as her free hand curls around his wrist and her fingertips flutter across the backs of his knuckles… the need to say something – anything – overtakes all rational though.
So he clears his throat. Takes an embarrassingly deep breath and releases it through his nose. And then says…
"Do you really think she knows, Gill? Because… well, 'love,' yeah? It's a tricky thing. Full of risk. Not to be taken lightly. And it kills me to think that I might do – or that I might have done – something to cause her to doubt me. Something that will put even more distance between us, than what's already there."
His voice breaks between sentences, and pauses much more than is probably necessary. And basically, he just does a piss poor job of keeping up the pretense that they are still discussing Emily. They aren't. He knows it, and based on the way Gillian's fingers tighten against his… he suspects that she knows it, too.
'Pretense,' though.
Meaning the act of pretending.
It's a talent that comes naturally for both of them. And it's quite possibly one of the worst habits they'll need to break.
"I think..." she starts.
And when her voice drops away on the second word, his stomach begins to claw its way up to his throat. Ridiculous, isn't it? He's a grown man. One who doesn't often fear anything. And yet, in this context – in this type of intimate setting, where his heart is on his sleeve, and he doesn't have total control over all the variables – he's partially paralyzed. He rather hates himself a bit, to be honest.
"I think 'distance' is a relative thing," she finishes. "I think maybe our minds have a tendency to… alter it. To make it fit whatever perception we already have."
He's smiling before she even finishes speaking, because of course she leads with psychology. That's just "her." It's part of what he loves best about her personality. And granted, there have been times – more than he cares to admit – when her need to "shrink" him (to "fix" him) has driven him completely mad. The phrase "Go mother someone else" springs to mind immediately and he winces at the memory, because yes, he understands that it was a horrible thing to say.
But now…
Now he can see it for what it really is: it's a way to show that she cares. That she loves him, too – warts, quirks, dysfunction and all.
He's not expecting a follow-up. Doesn't think she'll expand past what she already said, because she doesn't really need to. He gets it. She cares, just as much as he does. She's there through thick and thin, in good times and in bad – the whole bloody package, really. He gets that, without a doubt. Feels like a total idiot for wasting so much time playing games – for trying to push her away because of some innate, insane belief that she would've just left on her own.
Bonkers, that.
Because clearly, the woman is as stubborn as he is.
So when she does follow up – when her fingertips do begin to trace patterns against his knuckles, as she takes two deep breaths and gives this tiny little satisfied sigh that is barely audible, despite the stillness of his office – his heart begins to pound. It speeds and then slows in erratic rhythms that make him feel hot and cold and delirious, all at the same time. And he wants to smile again, but he can't. He can't. He's beyond that, now. Everything begins and ends with the sound of Gillian's voice. His muscles don't want to cooperate.
"I don't think 'love' is something you can put in a box," she tries. And then she squeezes his hand as she breathes out slowly, letting those words settle before adding anything new. It's as if each sentence is being carefully weighed and chosen. She doesn't want to rush forward too fast and risk saying the wrong thing.
(They are so similar, in that regard.)
"It's not neat, and it's not simple. It… it changes, you know? It evolves. And when it's unconditional – when love is truly, wholly unconditional – then as long as the other person knows how you feel, even two thousand miles won't be enough to fracture it. But. When it remains unspoken… I think physical distance can seem larger. More intimidating. The mind plays tricks, you know? Tries to convince the heart that it hasn't done enough, or been worthy enough to make the other person stay."
Gillian no doubt sees the way his eyes widen in surprise, at the realization that she's just taken all the thoughts, doubts, fears, and insecurities in his mind, and seamlessly channeled them into a handful of sentences. She gets it. She really, really gets it. And he is both humbled and ashamed to have waited this goddamn long to reach this particular crossroads.
"You love Emily unconditionally," she continues. "You've told her that, with words. She knows you'll always be there for her – whether you're on the other side of the country, or on the other side of the same house. Trust me. She just knows."
Just as every coin has two sides, he is keenly aware that every spoken truth has the potential to highlight one that isn't. And Gillian's words – while being eloquent and insightful enough to make his throat run dry – are no exception. He sees a flip side in them, too.
'With words.'
That's the bridge he hasn't crossed, yet; the one that hangs suspended, like a precarious pink elephant. And he knows it can only defy gravity for so long.
"Same goes for you too, Gill," he says. Impulsively. Without fear, or rationalization, or any of the trademark "Cal-isms" that he tends to favor when nervous. He does not deflect. He does not joke. He does not flinch. He simply shifts left a bit, so that their hands fall to her leg – still entwined – and he can see the way her skin flushes ever-so slightly as his gaze tracks her face.
There is tension, of course. The moment feels charged with it – almost vibrant, as if it has been transformed into something bigger than they'd expected to see. And he considers saying something else. Something poignant. Something that will match the poetic truth behind her speech about distance.
'I love you?'
Yes, that.
The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue – heavy and heartfelt, seeming simultaneously too large and too small to fit the moment.
She blinks at him. Gives a fraction of a smile. Pulls their hands higher up on her thigh, until his knuckles brush across territory he's never explored before. And part of it matches the fantasy he's always had. The one in which they finally cross the threshold between friends and lovers… the one in which everything "clicks" so seamlessly into place. He gets a taste of that happiness – just a single breath that fills him with exhilaration – but it's gone a second later, when Gillian breaks the spell.
Yes, that's right: Gillian breaks the spell.
Not him.
She presses her lips against the back of his hand and then returns it to her lap with a tired sigh. And he's too confused to make guesses as to what she wants to say. Too distracted by how it right it felt to have her mouth against his skin. But she is smiling, yeah?
He decides to take that as a good sign.
"I don't think I've ever told you this before," she tries, and then pauses. It's a trademark, apparently – one of the idiosyncratic "things" about their conversation style that he's never noticed before. The stopping and starting. They're both being extra careful to keep their balance.
When she breaks eye contact with him, he automatically dips his head lower – makes all sorts of awkward faces at her, until she giggles and soon gives in to his persuasion. It's his non-verbal way of telling her that he trusts her; that he isn't going anywhere. And that he's happiest when they are together.
Two steps forward… one step back. But he just knows they'll find the finish line eventually.
"I should have told you, though," she hesitantly continues. "I mean, it seems silly to have kept it a secret. But a few months ago – it wasn't too long after Claire's funeral, actually – Emily asked me about our relationship. Yours and mine. She wanted to know if we were waiting for something."
Waiting.
Waiting.
His eyes narrow a bit, as the penny drops and he realizes that his well-intentioned daughter must've had a version of the "What are you waiting for?" conversation with Gillian, too. Which was both sneaky and ingenious, and not really all that surprising, considering that Emily loves them both. She wants them to be happy. But most importantly…
She wants them to be happy together.
That's the most important bit.
His first instinct is to laugh aloud, because he really should have seen this particular revelation coming from a hundred miles away, yeah? But he doesn't laugh, and he doesn't grin – he barely even breathes, to be honest – because Gillian isn't finished, yet. She's still talking. Saying something about timing and circumstance… something about lines, and rules, and risk.
"Yeah, well… you're the one who takes unnecessary risks."
"Not when it comes to you."
Oh.
Bloody hell, it feels as if that conversation happened a whole lifetime ago. And when he remembers it now, he does so in a different context. Through a different pair of eyes. He sees the possibility for Gillian to have misinterpreted his words; for her to have assumed that he didn't want… this. Her.
Love.
It's as if they don't possess a happy medium. Their communication skills are either all or nothing – they either work or they don't – and it leaves too much room for confusion in the middle. Too many gaps that are filled with wasted time. But he doesn't know how to actually say all of that, though (shocking, isn't it?), so he settles on a question instead.
"Do you mean like a sign then, darling?"
And yes, it's a copout. He knows that. But the fact that he hasn't yet fled the room – that he's still sitting there, with one hand entwined with hers, and his heart on his sleeve – does count as progress, right? It's a step in the right direction. He's getting there. He's trying.
He just needs…
"Yes, exactly," she agrees. "Like a sign."
He just needs that, maybe.
A sign.
Maybe they both do.
"You and I," Gillian continues, "we have this level of trust between us that most people don't get to experience. This advantage that the science affords. Meaning that we can see things – real, tangible, difficult things – that other people can't. We aren't blind to any of it, Cal. Not the fear, not the doubt, and certainly not the depth of emotion. I can see it, and so can you. And I just think…"
If he were actually able to breathe, hyperventilation might be a distinct possibility. And in the brief span of silence that suddenly envelopes the room, he feels everything begin to grow dim. His hands are clammy, and his tongue feels two sizes too big for his mouth, and he doesn't remember this particular piece of the puzzle being in any of his fantasies.
It isn't an easy conversation to have.
But then again… maybe being difficult is the only thing that will make it feel real.
"I think maybe that is what we're waiting for," she finishes. "Because if both of us truly can see everything, and we still haven't done something about it? Then… maybe it just isn't quite the right time for us, yet."
Lord knows Gillian Foster has any number of reasons to tell him to go straight to hell – not the least of which is his tendency to use a 'hurt them first' philosophy on everyone in his life, save Emily. And only Emily, yeah? Gillian is no stranger to standing in the crosshairs of his self-destruction or his anger. Fight or Flight has long been his modus operandi, in much the same way as 'Truth or happiness – never both,' is his motto. He's… intense, you know? A very trying man to love.
But she does.
He can see it.
He isn't afraid to see it, now.
And maybe she's right.
Maybe they're both just waiting for a sign.
A/N: One more chapter to go…