The Lightman Group Offices

The next morning

Gillian Foster winced as she closed the blinds in her office. She, who loved the brightness, wished her work area was as dark and glum as Cal's today.

She eyed the bottle of ibuprofen sitting on her desk. It was probably too soon to take two more. Even if the three she'd taken this morning barely touched her pounding headache.

She opted for another glass of water instead, hoping her stomach could handle it.

It wasn't the embarrassment of puking her guts out in his bathroom that made her wince. They'd seen each other in worse states of disrepair. Had known each other far too long not to. They'd gotten drunk together before too. But there were always justifiable reasons. Company triumphs. Company failures. His divorce. Her divorce. Plus, the operative word was together.

It wasn't just her getting smashed while he watched.

That part was pathetic. Truly.

She caught Cal Lightman in the doorway, poking his head into her darkened office before barging in.

"Didn't expect to see you here this early," he said, his expression a mix of surprise and concern.

"I'm always early."

He eyed the ibuprofen on her desk. "It's okay to call in sick once every five years, Foster. Sure the boss won't mind."

She snatched the bottle of pills and tossed it into her drawer, before slamming it shut. "I thought I had a partner, not a boss."

He sat down across from her. "It was a joke."

"I'm fine."

"Look, last night..."

"Last night was a mistake," she told him, cutting him off.

"Last night you were human," he tried, gently. "That's not a bad thing, you know. Not something to beat yourself up for...doesn't change a damn thing."

Of all the times to read me. Bastard.

"Not beating myself up," she corrected him icily. "Telling you the truth. It's what we do here, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

He held her gaze just long enough to do something he rarely did. Make her uncomfortable.

"Well, then..." he told her, getting up and backing off. Respecting the insurmountable wall she'd put up. "There's some videotape I need you to look at from the Singh case. Don't entirely trust Torres' observations on this one."

Gillian bit her tongue. Of course you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone. Probably not even yourself.

And with those words they were back to their daily routine.

The one in which she played the role of his wingman. His partner. His pal. His best mate.

"Foster, make sure the payroll adds up without us drowning in red ink."

"Foster, drop whatever you're doing and come with me because I need a second opinion."

"Foster, clean up my messes."

He ogled her and looked at her like he wanted her as much as she wanted him. And some days he gave her so many mixed signals that even a doctorate in psychology wouldn't come close to helping her figure them out.

She put up with it all, because she never met anyone more brilliant in his field. He inspired her and challenged her, every single day. And really, what was sexier than that? Over time his passion became hers. Not just the work. But the man, flesh and blood and flaws and all.

Truth was she loved him.

Loved him and wanted him. In every sense of the word. And it hurt like hell to realize that at the end of the day she wasn't the one he wanted to see in expensive French lace.

"Get over it," she chided herself with a whisper. "You're not sixteen anymore."

If you can't stand to watch his revolving door of women anymore, you do have the option of leaving.

Except then she'd lose her best friend in the process and that might hurt even more.

What a mess.

Somehow, she made it through the rest of the day. She noticed that Torres was dying to ask what was wrong, but thankfully had the good grace not to. And Loker, blissfully unaware of everything, rambled on about a study where bonobos mastered lexigrams faster than any monkeys before them. For all his damn enthusiasm, she should've shown just the mildest interest.

But today wasn't about pleasing others, It was about crossing the finish line. Her biggest triumph was eating a sandwich in the late afternoon and being able to keep it down.

Her office was still dark by the time she got back to it in the early evening. Cal seemed to have disappeared which her struck as odd. She typically got here before him but he usually left after her. If he did leave before her, it was never without saying good-bye. Even when they'd argued about something or other during the day.

Gillian suddenly noticed the box that sat on her desk.

It was elegantly gift-wrapped and there was an unmarked envelope on top. Gillian sat down and opened it. There was a Christmas card inside, with a lonely pine tree on front and Cal's messy handwriting inside.

-The only one who made a mistake last night was me. Because I didn't have the guts to tell you the truth. It was meant for you. It always is.

Gillian opened the box, knowing what was inside before she saw the exquisite black lace.

Tears welled up in her eyes, completely against her will, as she sank back into her chair, wondering whether it was possible to feel terrified and ecstatic all at once.

Lightman Residence

He sat at home and turned on the TV, channel-surfing, unable to focus.

That was the problem once you crossed the line; there was no going back. But after today and last night, he realized it was time. He owed her the truth, regardless of the consequences. Owed her a hell of a lot more than that, really. But the truth was a good start.

A knock on the door made him jump up from the couch.

He went to open it, not entirely surprised to see Foster standing on the other side.

Aside from her obvious exhaustion, he couldn't read much of anything on her face.

He motioned for her to come inside and she did, making no attempt to take off her coat.

"I got your gift," was all she said, eyes on him.

"You should've gotten it last night," he acknowledged. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" she needed to know. "Why not tell me?"

"Because..." he stuck his hands in his pockets, wishing she'd step into his kitchen. Or his livingroom. Wishing she'd sit down so he could distract himself with something other that her unwavering gaze. "Because, I'm a coward. Because you're not a Clara or a Wallowski."

She narrowed her brows, letting him know she didn't understand.

"You see, if I screw things up with them I don't lose my best friend." He leaned against the wall, laying his final card on the table. "And we both know I screw things up. All the time."

She exhaled, her expression still unreadable.

She never rambled like he did and he was used to her pauses when she spoke. There was no such thing as an uncomfortable silence between them. Until now.

Come on, Gill. Say something. Anything.

She didn't oblige. Choosing to take a step towards him instead, her face was only inches away and her eyes level with his. Her height in heels a perfect fit for his.

"There's a simple solution for that, you know," she said softly. She was so close that he could feel the warmth of her body. Much too close to focus on what she was saying.

"Oh, yeah?"

She moved closer still, so that he could see the rise and fall of her breath below her collar bone. Bodies touching each other, her hands reached up to his face, fingers deftly running along his hairline, before pulling him towards her, letting him know she wanted it as much as he did.

He'd held her in his arms before. But not like this.

She leaned in towards him as her lips began exploring his, slowly and tentatively at first. His breathing quickened in response to hers, kissing her back, hard and deep, tasting her, wanting her.

Her hands made their way underneath his t-shirt, moving downwards, cold fingers trailing down his lower back, digging into his flesh, making him groan. Cal lifted her coat of her shoulders, sending it tumbling to the ground as she pushed him against the wall.

He'd almost forgotten how amazing it was to do this with someone you loved.

He hastily tugged at her blouse, easing it out of her skirt, until it was her smooth skin he felt underneath his fingertips. He wanted to explore every single inch of her. Staking his claim in the process. His Gillian. Finally.

You were worth the wait.

She kissed him harder then, his lower lip caught between her teeth as his thumb up ran along her stomach, searching for the clasp on her bra. Impatient and clumsy, his watch scratched her side, making her cry out. Cal tasted the metallic taste of blood on his lip just before she pulled away, catching her breath.

Her eyes darkened. "I'm sorry..."

"Me too." Both their acts drew traces of blood and Cal licked his lips as he protectively pulled her back into his space. Maybe it was impossible for them not to hurt each other sometimes, but maybe it was okay. They were strong enough.

They paused and her hands rested on his chest, toying with the fabric of his t-shirt as her head tilted back, completely content in his arms. "I should go..."

Go? Are you trying to kill me?

"No, no..." he shook his head. A cold shower wasn't how he envisioned this moment ending. "You shouldn't."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, before turning to face him with a smile. Her index finger ran along his lower lip, wiping away a drop of blood that lingered there. "My mother's waiting for me to pick her up. I'm late already."

His lips trailed the nape of her neck, unable to get enough of her. "I'll call a car service," he told her, only half kidding. She was beyond exhausted. Playing chauffeur was a lousy idea.

Gillian giggled. "Not if you want me to survive this Christmas."

His arms were still wrapped around her as she tried to tuck her blouse back into her skirt. "I want you with me this Christmas." Every Christmas.

"New Year's," she promised.

"Sooner," he insisted as he picked up her coat and helped her back into it.

"I'll work on it."

He wasn't quite ready to let go. One more kiss, gentler this time, letting her know he loved her as much as he wanted her. "Drive safe, luv."

"Aye, aye."

He watched her tighten the belt on her coat as she stepped back outside, into the cold December night, when something else occurred to him. "Hey, Foster..."

She turned around. "Yeah..."

"You said there was a simple solution to making this work?"

"There is," she told him, winking before turning her back to him once more. "Don't screw it up."

He stood in the doorway, watching her until she drove off. Then he closed the door, a grin spreading across his face. Not a bloody chance, Foster. Not this time.