A/N: Standard disclaimer: You have no idea how much I wish Lie To Me was mine, (well, maybe you do) but it's not. Only these fics are.
No knock precedes the opening of the door, yet he is not taken by surprise. He has been expecting her, and she is right on time. She enters without a word, crossing the room with measured steps. She does not look at him, but he can see the calm confidence radiating from her in waves like heat shimmering off hot pavement in summertime. He watches her with his keen, penetrating gaze. Watches her as she takes a seat on one of his sofas and practically melts into the thing, fully at ease.
Like she owns the place.
She still hasn't acknowledged his presence in the room, which makes him grin. He's enjoying this. He knows she is, too. He doesn't even need to see her face to know it. He wouldn't be able to read it there anyway. Not unless she let him. He always did have more trouble reading her than anyone.
From the credenza behind him, he retrieves two heavy tumblers and a bottle of his good Scotch because they are the only other participants that have been invited. It'll be just the five of them, just like last night.
He settles the other three guests on the coffee table in front of her before sprawling himself out on the other sofa. He is the very portrait of rakish charm and irreverence.
She's looking at him now. How can she not? He's difficult to miss, all painted over the sofa like a spilled drink. She watches him watching her with that ever-present smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes darting over her face and down her body in wanton disregard for propriety. This is how he operates. She knows him so well. He's trying to make her uncomfortable. He is sizing her up. And although she is not quite the expert he is at reading microexpressions, she can see that he already doesn't believe her, even though she has yet to speak a word.
She waits.
He pours.
They drink.
He breaks the silence.
She knew he'd crack first.
But she is classy; she will keep her gloating internalized.
For now.
"You were out of the office a long while today," he begins offhandedly. "Do anything...interesting?"
She swirls her drink. "I had an appointment." She doesn't expound.
"Did you, now? And what sort of appointment did you have, I wonder? Nails? Nah. You chew yours to nubs. Hardly any point wasting money on those. Hairdresser? Nope, same hair as yesterday. Visit to the ladies' doctor? That was last month, that was. Wasn't that. Was it case-related, then?" He raises his brows. He is baiting her.
She sips her drink and waits.
"None of those, eh? Where could you have been, I do wonder?"
She finishes her drink and puts the glass back down on the table. He does the same, downing the rest of his drink in one deep gulp then setting the glass down with force. He leans over on one elbow, feigning nonchalance.
"Did you get it?" He's direct. Blunt, as ever.
"Of course, I got it. That was the agreement."
He tilts his head slowly one way and then the other, narrows his eyes to slits. "Bollocks. You're lying. You didn't get it."
She allows the barest hint of a smile but keeps her face otherwise neutral. It's her poker face. She has an excellent poker face. She has been perfecting it for nine years. "Oh, I got it. I abso-bloody-lutely got it." And then she smirks. His trademark smirk. She throws it right back at him. Boomerang.
"I don't believe you," he tells her. His tone holds a challenge. She gives him a small, casual shrug that says she couldn't care less. She does, though. It's part of what makes this game so much fun to play with him.
It started a couple of years ago. Just a bit of silliness, just a fun and nonsensical way for two friends to unwind and blow off steam every so often. Was it juvenile? Quite frequently, yes. That was usually the point. Recently, though, things have gotten more and more competitive until last night's game, which turned into their first two-nighter. All because of Cal, of course. He always has to push the envelope.
He was so smug last night. He was so sure he had her. He thought he'd won. The look on his face when she didn't back down, when she took the dare? It was almost worth the pain.
Almost.
"If you really got it, then prove it. Show it to me," he demands.
There it is. She knew it was coming; she was waiting for it - counting on it - because if all went according to plan, it set up her turn of their little game perfectly.
She smiles at him now, a full cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. That Cheshire Cat grin he has all but patented. She smiles that smile at him now and with great relish makes note of the suspicion and uneasiness that clouds the edges of his eyes.
"That wasn't part of the deal, Cal. It's 'Truth or Dare' not 'Dares', plural. You dared me to get a tattoo, and I got one. Showing you was not part of the dare. Your turn is over. It's my turn now."
He works his jaw to one side like a ruminating cow, She's somehow bested him, but he's not yet ready to concede defeat.
"How can I be sure you really went through with it if you won't show it to me? You could be lying your arse off right now, and I'd be none the wiser. You are my blind spot, after all."
"You can't be sure. You'll just have to take my word for it. You'll have to trust me. Besides, of the two of us, we both know I'm not the one who's the master of deception. You always say I'm a terrible liar."
"Depends on the lie, isn't that right, darling?" he asks.
"That's a question. Your turn is over, remember? My turn," she reminds him.
He grins back at her. That worries her a little because it usually means he's plotting. She isn't too worried, though. She has plots of her own.
"At least tell me what you got. No, wait. Let me guess. A butterfly? A tiny rainbow? A little pink heart? A kitten? Did you ask them to melt a chocolate bar and use that instead of ink?"
And that was the next thing she had been waiting for. Oh, he is so wonderfully predictable sometimes! He is playing right into her hand. Tonight's the night. She is going to beat Cal Lightman at his own game! She is going to win. She can almost taste victory already. Funny, it tastes a little like chocolate.
He is leaning forward now, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his palms. She mirrors his posture which brings them closer. Not too close. Not yet.
"I'm not going to tell you what I got or where I got it, but I will tell you this: you wouldn't be able to see it even if we were sunbathing on a beach right now." Then she leans back on the sofa, crosses her legs and melts right into it, just as she did at the start of the night.
His eyes darken instantly as his expression shifts from idle curiosity to something far less innocent and decidedly more dangerous. She senses their game is about to change again.
"So, Dr. Lightman. You're up. Truth? Or dare? Which will it be for you?"
She holds her breath.
She can count the ticking of the seconds as she waits for his answer.
She just needs one final move from him and the trap will be sprung. Sweet victory will be hers.
"Truth."
BINGO.
A slow, triumphant smile spreads across her lips.
"Alright, truth it is. However, I have a slight modification to present." He quirks an eyebrow at this, licks his lips and waits. She continues. "Since your dare involved a great deal of physical pain for me, your Truth will take the form of a three-part question."
"Three questions isn't fair! It's not sporting," he protests.
"One question, three parts," she counters. "All the parts of the question will be related." Her eyes are bright now, glittering like the Las Vegas Strip.
The inveterate gambler cannot say no to that.
"Fine. Three-part Truth. Go."
She moves to the edge of her sofa that puts her closest to his. She wants a ringside seat for this one. He moves to the same end. He's trying to intimidate, to regain the upper hand; but she's got this.
She holds up her index finger and looks into his eyes, pretending not to notice that her knee is pressed against the inside of his thigh. She can see he notices, though. His eyes tell the whole story.
"One: Do you, Cal, have any tattoos that I've never seen before?"
His lips quirk a little, like they can't decide whether they want to smile or smirk. They settle, instead, for a quick, "Yes. I do."
She licks her lips and leans in closer, hears the change in his breathing and the sound of her own heartbeat pounding as she starts to move in for the kill.
She raises a second finger. Their faces are closer now, and her knee has found its way further up his thigh. He doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't seem to mind at all. In fact, the hand resting on his leg seems to be inadvertently grazing her knee. As inadvertent as everything else this evening.
"Two: Of those tattoos I've never seen before, if we were on a beach right now - wearing normal beach attire - would there be any of your tattoos I'd still not be able to see?"
His eyes are as black now as she's ever seen them, his breath coming shallow and ragged as he answers. "Yes."
The sound of her blood rushing is enough to deafen her. Their faces are so close now that she can taste the Scotch on his breath, and he smells like sin.
She feels powerful and in control; he doesn't know what hit him.
She raises a third finger. She looks him square in the eye.
"Three: will you show me yours if I show you mine?"