A/N: Just wanted to say an enthusiastic and sincere 'Thank You' to everyone who reviewed. I appreciate it so very much! It shouldn't come as a big surprise to know that parts of this chapter are fairly strong T, but I thought I'd mention it anyway. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

We.

Us.

Both.

She uses those words over and over again, by choice. Nothing is singular. There is no blame, and there is no anger. She feels exactly the same way he feels – and the only trouble is, she's too entangled in all the self-doubt and fear to see a pathway to where he stands.

He's there, though.

Metaphorically speaking, he's standing right there.

And come hell or high water, he isn't leaving without her.

In the heat of the moment – the one he's just had in his own head – his entire body feels as though it's been set on high alert. And as the sexual tension between them slowly continues to build, the simple act of remembering to breathe in and out is a struggle, because everything else is running on instinct. Gillian's eyes are locked with his, and he lets out a deep, desperate groan as he watches her pupils dilate even further – and yes, that sound is instinct, too. One of her hands slides up his bicep to curl around his shoulder, and then she squeezes. Hard. He feels her nails dig into the taut skin there, and his heart begins to thud wildly in reaction to the images that burst through his mind, unbidden.

Christ, but he wants to kiss her… wants to fill her… wants to love her – in every sense of that word – so thoroughly and completely, that they might temporarily forget where one body stops and the other begins. He's never known desire so strongly in his entire life. Whatever fear he might've had in the past is just that – it's in the past. It's irrelevant now, and he's too far gone to remember why it was ever a concern in the first place.

The whir-whir-whir of helicopters gradually fades off into the distance, and neither one of them offers to speak again until the room is silent. Mostly because they're too consumed with touch to be bothered by words, and every time he shifts his hips to try and find a more comfortable angle, Gillian whimpers in a way that makes him positively ache. It's not deliberate – the sound is so faint and so delicate that he likely wouldn't have heard it at all, save for the fact that he's still sprawled on top of her. But once he does hear it, he's addicted. It's thrilling to know that he is the one causing it. None of his fantasies ever bothered to incorporate such a fantastic sound.

The next time he shifts, though, there is no whimper; she simply breathes his name, instead. Cal. That's all she says – just a single syllable that spans one tiny microsecond – but he hears a dozen other things packed inside that space. And while he still believes that the stereotypical "perfect time" is just a myth, he also believes that this is just about as close to finding it as he's ever come before.

Gillian's skin is warm, and her cheeks are flushed, and she is looking up at him – right into his eyes – with an expression that is so goddamned heated, it steals his breath. His self-control is waning, and the only thing about which he is still uncertain is the simple logistics of what will come next. Because he wants to tell her first. How he feels. That he loves her. He wants to burn any lingering traces of cowardice, risk, debate, and lines… and speak from his heart. In actual words.

Three of them, to be precise.

He's too excited by what he feels in her touch and sees in her eyes to realize that he's practically just dared fate to taunt them one more time (…"If the universe expects me to concentrate on anything other than how fantastic you feel in my arms, then it'll need to do quite a lot better than that…"). And he's still too mesmerized by the sound of his name on her lips to understand that properly conveying those three magic words might be easier to do in a vertical setting, rather than a horizontal one. So when his hand ghosts over the curve of her hip and slides up… up… up until he's able to sweep his fingertips over the soft slope of her cheekbone, he isn't expecting to hear anything other than the sound of their mingled breathing – her whimpers and his groans – as they erase their goddamned 'line,' permanently.

But.

He gets only as far as speaking her name in return, before an entire tsunami of noise explodes from somewhere in the distance. Tires squeal… horns blare… and metal crunches against metal. When he realizes, belatedly, that the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the only thing he can think to do comes just as instinctively as everything else: he rolls off of Gillian's body, lunges to his feet, rushes towards the window, and shouts his sexual frustration toward the streets below via one long, drawn-out roar.

Or at least, that was the plan.

In his head.

But reality?

Nope. It didn't quite work out that way.

In reality, he put a bit too much energy into rolling off Gillian. He rather… overshot… the distance between his arse and the edge of the sofa, so that momentum carried him straight to the floor. Thud. And because it is rather difficult to rush toward a window while being upended by gravity, he settles for gesturing at it instead. With enthusiasm. While Gillian tries (but fails) not to laugh at his clumsiness. The roar, though, happens mostly as planned; it's a bit breathier than he intends, and it's filled with a bit more swearing than he should probably use, but hey – nobody's perfect.

(Obviously.)

Just as she did during her frantic search to find his car keys, Gillian drops to the floor beside him. She grins and giggles, grasping one of his wrists to pull him upright as she kneels in front of him and smoothes her hands through his messy hair. And by the time he finally stops fidgeting – by the time he forgets about his clumsiness and his slightly sore arse – he blinks up at her in wonder. She is absolutely beautiful, yeah? And of course he's noticed that before (he isn't blind) but in this moment… under these particular circumstances… her beauty is somehow more. His attraction to her goes beyond skin deep. It goes so far past anything physical, that the strength of it literally makes him shiver.

Gillian notices.

That's right: she sees that shiver run throughout his body, and her grin widens as she watches it go. One, two, three beats pass, and she leans just the slightest bit closer, so that her hair falls slightly in front of her face. It's wavy and messy just like his, and although he wants so badly to know how it feels brushing across his bare chest, he settles for the simple act of tucking it behind her ear instead. When he does… it's her turn to shiver.

"You know, Cal," she starts. And Christ, but there's even a smile in her voice to match the one he sees on her face. "For all the times we've slept together, this night tops them all."

Now. Under any other circumstances, he would've waited two-point-five seconds, max, before taking full advantage of that particular little gem. He would've waggled his brows… made a big show of looking her up and down, or leering at her cleavage, or saying something very "Lightman-esque" about being on top. But instead, he finds that her quip carries an unexpected jolt of raw honesty, and her words knock him completely off guard.

He turns introspective – lost to that analytical and self-critical place inside his own head that's been known to drive them both mad. And the picture he sees there is humbling, indeed. It reminds him that yes, there have been times (plural) that they've curled up with her head on his chest, and with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and quite happily slept together. In the literal sense of that word. It's become their pattern in recent months – a comfortable way to straddle their infernal line without actually crossing it.

Those things are all well and good in theory, but see… here's the kicker: he's in love with her.

And she's in love with him.

So technically, the emotional constraints of that 'line' already imploded a long ago.

It's the physical constraints that are still standing – and those remain strong simply because he and Gillian are the veritable king and queen of denial. And procrastination. And, occasionally, self-doubt. Tragic, isn't it? She's the love of his life, and yet up until now, he's been too much of a bloody coward to actually tell her how he feels.

When a series of sirens and flashing lights join the symphony of chaos outside, they serve as yet another distraction; yet another 'thing' he doesn't quite know how to process without playing to the absurdity of the moment. It's just… it's over the top, really: one car alarm, a small fleet of ambulances, a misdialed telephone, the whir-whir-whir of a random helicopter, and one run-of-the-mill traffic accident. After waiting almost a bloody decade for some sort of cosmic "sign," the universe must've gotten tired of their nonsense and delivered a collection of them instead.

He pulls himself up into a kneeling position alongside Gillian and is halfway to his feet when he finds the presence of mind to actually speak. He's inadvertently left her "slept together" comment hanging, and he thinks to himself… 'Say something, you big plonker,'and his mouth flies into gear before his brain can double-check the words. So despite aiming for something suave and understated, with just a hint of cheekiness, what he actually says is this:

'"Tops them all,' you say? Well then… the next time we sleep together, I guess I'll really need to whip out the big guns, just to keep you on your toes."

Colorful, yeah? Innuendo has always been one his many specialties.

But because he isn't actually aiming for innuendo – because he isn't quite prepared to hear himself say those words in that way, to a rather sexily disheveled and blushing Gillian who is still kneeling in front of him – there's a bit of a delayed reaction before his quip registers. No doubt it's her muffled gasp that triggers it; the tiny little whisper of surprise that twines from her mouth to his ear and forces him to stop. To hold still. To realize what he's just said.

Big guns, then. Heh. The metaphor certainly is appropriate (…he's not at all insecure about his size, thank-you-very-much…) but his intention was to use it in a much more universal sort of way. One that doesn't tell her why he prefers to wear his jeans so slouchy. And don't even get him started on 'the next time,' alright? Open mouth, insert foot; he has that process down to a science.

Back to the delayed reaction, though. Self-awareness begins to kick in as soon as he hears Gillian gasp, and it finishes just about the time that they are both standing, face to face. He glances down between their bodies and notices that her shirt has shifted upward a bit. A tiny sliver of pale, perfect skin peeks out from around her waistband, and he wants so badly to touch it… to taste it… to let her know – in a physical sense – just how badly he wants this. Them. Everything. But he's tongue tied, with a decade's worth of bad habits to hold him back. So… (drumroll please) he bloody apologizes.

Or at least, he starts to.

He starts to.

He gets as far as "Gillian, I'm so…" when that word – 'sorry'- gets stuck in his throat. His mouth quite literally refuses to say it – a fact which, obviously, does not go unnoticed by her. She looks pleased by what she just heard. Aroused, even. And he isn't sure if she's reacting to the innuendo he used, or the apology that he didn't give.

(Maybe it's both.)

She tilts her head and squints ever-so slightly, as she scoots closer to him and slowly raises one of his hands to her mouth. And he just knows she's going to kiss it – there is no doubt about that, whatsoever. But even still, when he actually feels her warm, soft lips press against his knuckles, the sensation gives him pause. Literally. Save for the gaze that flickers from her mouth to her eyes to her cleavage and back again, he is frozen in place… wondering how he ever convinced himself that a life spent without her was worth living at all… and so bloody exhilarated that he's practically shaking.

He isn't quite sure how it happens or who moves first, but they go from standing face to face with her mouth pressed against his hand, to sitting on the sofa again, locked in a gentle embrace. His palms map the length of her spine, and her fingers draw random patterns over his neck and shoulders, gripping tightly as he steals a moment to place an open-mouthed kiss to the shell of her ear.

"I'm so…" he tries again. Only this time, that's the entirety of the word. He means it just like that: as 'so.' Not sorry. In his head, the game plan changes; it goes from a three-word declaration, to one that uses a total of six of them instead. And he manages two of the six before those sodding bad habits grip him again. Which is progress, right? He's getting there. It'll just take time.

She pulls back just enough to study his face – to see all the things he cannot quite say, and to show him that she's still with him. Still listening.

Always listening.

Her hand curls around his bicep, and she studies him for just a moment longer before sighing contentedly and leaning into his frame. She's so close that she's practically sitting in his lap, but he doesn't mind at all because that's where he wants her to be. And a beat later – when he feels the sweet warmth of her lips press against his cheek, then his jaw, and then his chin – he decides that they've already wasted too much time.

"I'm so…"

Kiss number four lands on his Adam's apple, and he decides that if she doesn't stop soon, any hope of actually telling her how he feels before their relationship turns physical will be gone. He is not a saint, and he's rarely ever much of a gentleman. Willpower and restraint will only get him so far, and after a ten-year deployment, they've pretty much run their course.

He grips her hip with one hand and fists the other in her hair. And before he can even think about making another attempt at those six words, she twists in his lap to find a better angle… which sends ripples of friction to his pelvis and draws a whimper to his throat. It's the sweetest form of torture he's ever known, and he loves it. This. Them. It makes him feel complete.

She takes his face in her hands and smiles at him. Openly. With so much trust and love and happiness in her eyes that it makes his breath catch in his throat. Because that look? It tells him more than words ever could. It tells him that she's tired of waiting, too. That the only truth he ever needs to find already lives within his own heart. And – last but not least – that reality has already outshone all of his fantasies, combined.

Her fingers sift through his hair and she twines one arm around his shoulders, just to anchor herself in place against his chest. "Are you waiting for a sixth sign…" she says quietly, as she drops a single kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Or do you think the universe has done enough prodding for one night?"

And trust him, he laughs. Just a bit. He can't help himself, really. He's happy, and relaxed, and all of those last nagging tendrils of hesitation – those bad habits that kept rearing their ugly heads, to convince him that he needed to apologize for wanting her so badly – are nothing but a memory. They're in the past, having evaporated somewhere around the time they settled back onto the sofa, and he does not miss them at all.

Gillian Foster is very well versed in the art of subtlety, so of course she uses it here. The quip about prodding is rather like a safety net. It's her way of asking him to go first; to be the one who officially steps out onto that proverbial limb, tests its weight, and readies it to support her, too.

So… he does.

It bears repeating, yeah? Come hell or high water, he isn't leaving without her.

His right palm cradles her jaw, and the fingertips on his left hand feather soft, gentle strokes against the delicate expanse of her throat. He feels her skin grow warm beneath his hand… watches her jaw slacken, as her tongue snakes out to wet the lips he is just about to kiss… and then it's time.

Finally.

"I'm so in love with you, Gillian," he breathes, instantly feeling the sheer relief of the moment as it radiates from the center of his chest and runs throughout every limb. It's absolutely cathartic – like a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Which is fitting, because in a way… it has.

He feels alive and safe and practically invincible, and the utter elation he sees on her face makes his heart begin to pound. Her breathing turns shallow and she grips his body with purpose. Before she has the chance to say anything in reply, though, he's going again; he's repeating himself, just to taste those syllables one more time. "I'm so in love with you."

He isn't quite sure who initiates the kissing – whether she leans forward to press against him, or whether he yanks her onto his lips – but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care. He's practically overwhelmed by the feeling of her mouth working against his. Of the way her tongue strokes and curls and explores, just like his does. Of how much joy comes with the moment. It's practically perfect, yeah? He's elated, too.

Without warning, she tears her mouth away from his with the barest hint of a whimper and meets his gaze head-on. It's rather… intense, you know? The moment. The emotion. It all feels positively tangible. His body is tingling at every single point where hers makes contact, and sitting still is almost more than he can handle. And surely she knows that, right? Surely she knows that he prefers action to inaction, and that there are a hundred different physical ways in which he yearns to show her just how true his words really are.

So he whines.

He whines.

He tries to lift her onto his lap… to pull her hips more tightly against his… to work his lips in a slow, sweet trail along her jaw line, and explore the territory beneath her blouse. And yes, he's partially successful. She's a very willing participant. In fact, he doesn't quite understand why she stopped at all, until she does it for a second time and the look in her eyes leaves little doubt as to what she's trying to do. Or what she's trying to say.

Oh.

"Gillian…"

He breathes her name on a sign, as she lifts his palm to her lips and kisses it gently. And her eyes are as dark as he's ever seen them. Her face is unguarded and trusting and so goddamn lovely that he almost can't believe she's real. Then she slowly splays his palm over her heart… takes a deep breath… and says…

"I'm in love with you too, Cal. Then… now… always."

Christ.

Those words tear through him, and all the breath in his body releases in a single, shuddering whoosh. It's almost bloody indescribable, really – like the most thrilling adrenaline rush he's ever known, multiplied by twenty. And if it feels this fantastic now, he can scarcely imagine what it will feel like later, when they aren't constricted by clothing, circumstance, and the prospect of another interruption.

He waits only a few seconds – at most – before kissing her again. His hands twine in her hair, and he sweeps his tongue along her bottom lip, and he feels her fingers dip beneath his shirt, to dig into the sensitive skin along the waistband of his jeans. And he's just about to drop them to the floor for a third time, when the universe intervenes again.

That car crash hasn't magically vanished just because they've finally come to their senses, after all. It's still there – in all its conspicuous, irritating glory. And while it isn't exactly interfering with anything (…their privacy remains fully intact…), it's not exactly a romantic backdrop, either. And he wants it to be.

He wants to make it romantic, yeah? For her.

Because he can now.

And because he loves her.

Leave it to Gillian to read his intentions before he can verbalize them. She's gets to her feet and pulls him into a hug, managing to press two… three… four kisses along his throat before dropping the fifth back onto his lips. It lingers there, the heat behind it smoldering and warming him from the inside out as he welcomes every single ounce of her attention. And when she finally pulls away, he whines yet again.

She slips into her heels, snags his keys from the desk, and flashes a grin that sends him racing for his own shoes, even as other parts of his body begin to protest that they could save a whole lot of time by making proper use of the floor. Or the sofa. Or the cube.

"Let's go home, Cal," she says lightly, grinning at just how easily she was able to fluster him. And it's the slightly exaggerated sway in her hips that tell him – with certainty – that yes, he did hear a challenge in her voice. That she's teasing him, just a bit. And so…

Challenge accepted.

"I know we waited ten years to take this step, darling," he starts, lacing her fingers with his as they begin to make their way out of the office and down towards the car. There is absolutely no doubt as to where they are going, or what is about to happen next, but still… he wants to tease her, too.

Just because he's good at it.

"But for whatever it's worth? I'm not sure I can wait another ten minutes to take the next one."

END