Author's Note: Thank you all for the amazing (and slightly overwhelming) response to this story, in return for which here is part 2. Hope it doesn't disappoint.
-----
Cal ambled into Gillian's living room, shrugging out of his coat which she took from him and went to hang in a hall closet. He'd never been in this new apartment before, but found that the room was cozy and comfortable, a mirror of the woman herself.
"Listen, I don't want to be a bother, right?" he insisted. "Just go back to –" he gestured to the room in general – "whatever it was you were doing."
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she closed the closet door. "As it happens, I was about to have a drink. Care to join me?"
He looked into the next room at the bottle of California Pinot Noir sitting out on the dining room table. He was more of a beer and scotch man himself, but under the present circumstances he wasn't about to be difficult. "Yeah, sure."
She poured out and passed him a glass. They each swirled their wine, their eyes following the circular flow of the glistening liquid. Cal knew this was the traditional time for a toast, but he was damned if he could think of anything appropriate. Just now everything in the world seemed worth celebrating, yet nothing in particular worth singling out. A glance at Gillian told him similar thoughts were going through her head.
"To life," he offered finally, and was relieved to see her preoccupied expression melt into a slight smile.
"To life," she echoed as they clinked their glasses. "L'Chaim."
She ushered him back into the living room, sat on the couch as he settled into a nearby armchair.
He looked at the various magazines and journals scattered around the room for clues as to how she'd been spending the evening. "So you've been what, reading?"
She didn't reply, but evaded his gaze by staring down into her wineglass. So that wasn't it. Not watching TV, the remote was all the way across the room. Not on the phone, which was nowhere to be seen. "Sitting around worrying about me?"
Her eyes flicked up to his for a brief moment, giving him his answer. He gripped his bottom lip between his teeth, mentally kicking himself. "I'm sorry, luv," he said again. "I –"
She interrupted almost immediately. "It's ok, Cal. Really. We all have to deal with it in our own way," she repeated.
"Well, I'm here now." He hoped that counted for something.
Her lips twitched. "Yes, you are."
They sat in companionable silence, finishing their wine without feeling the need to fill the space between them with idle conversation. Cal was about to ask her if she wanted another glass when he caught her muffling a yawn behind one hand.
"Sorry, luv, I'm keeping you up." What time was it now, he wondered. Midnight? Later?
"No," she quickly denied. "You're not. I'm just…" her clear voice faltered for a moment, then she looked down and carried on in a near whisper, "I'm not sure I can go to sleep just yet."
He nodded. After what they'd been through today… He was half afraid that when he closed his eyes to try to sleep all he would see would be the slate grey barrel of a gun pointed at his head. That all he would hear would be the sharp sound of a trigger being cocked in his ear, that all he would feel would be stone cold metal pressed against the back of his neck. He knew this was partly what had driven him to come here tonight. And although it felt like a weakness to be concealed at all costs, she had trusted him enough to reveal her vulnerability, so he could do the same.
"Tell you the truth, I'm not sure I can either."
He'd been a heartbeat away from being killed this afternoon. Reaching up he gingerly fingered his torn scalp. His souvenir of the day's events and now a welcome distraction. The wound was puffy and tender and starting to hurt like hell. He'd washed it out in the restroom at the bar, but if he didn't do a proper job of cleaning it soon it was liable to be very ugly come morning.
"Uh," he looked over at Gillian, "do you have some alcohol pads or something I could clean this with?"
She nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, returning after a few moments with a clutch of items in her hands. He looked over the selection of swabs, bandages and tape she proffered, and had a sudden idea of how he might be able to make up for what had happened earlier.
"Maybe…would you mind –" he pointed at his temple.
Her eyes flared with warmth. "No, no, of course." She set her load of materials onto the end table and perched on the arm of his chair. With quiet concentration she spread an antibiotic ointment on a small gauze bandage, covered the edges with tape and then leaned in with an alcohol pad in hand.
The touch of the burning, cleansing swab on his open wound caused him to flinch and hiss in pain, although he managed to suppress an outright yelp.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said immediately, withdrawing her hand as her brow crinkled with concern for him.
He raised his hands to wave away her apologies. "No, it's ok." Grimacing, "I just hate this bit."
"I'll be quick," she promised, and set again about her task.
He diverted himself by watching her out of the corner of his eye as she tended to him, almost afraid to move, quietly relishing her nearness. Mesmerized by her feline grace and poise. She looked worn and haggard and so, so beautiful. More beautiful than the seductive youngster he met this morning could ever hope to be.
He felt her careful fingers affix the bandage to his skin and exhaled a low sigh. He was so bloody tired, but his treacherous brain just wouldn't let him rest. Instead he flashed back to the computer room – Matheson holding the gun to the back of his head – and Gillian standing just inside the doorway, trembling with fear for him, her luminous eyes spilling over with tears. Begging for his life.
"Foster," he'd repeated, his voice low and grating, eyes pleading. Deliberately using her last name. It was the only thing he could say to warn her not to show their foe a weakness he could exploit, and the only thing he could do to beg her to just get out of there, get out of harm's way.
And she'd done as he silently asked, made a heroic effort to compose herself and leave the room. Leave him behind. Putting all the weight of saving him squarely on her own shoulders without a second's hesitation.
A sharp sound broke into his reverie and he looked up just in time to see Gillian place one hand over her mouth, trying desperately to choke back a sob as the intent expression on her face dissolved into one of raw anguish, the acute distress in her eyes mutely signaling a quickly crumbling facade.
Instantly he was on his feet and wrapping one arm tight around her shoulders. She tried half-heartedly to push away but he refused to let go, refused to withdraw whatever small consolation his presence could provide. He was saddened though hardly surprised that the reaction from the day's events was finally hitting her, but it shattered his heart to see her in such pain.
He drew her onto the couch, sitting so close that their knees touched. Gillian continued to weep soundlessly, tears sliding noiselessly down her face like raindrops down a windowpane. Leaning back he gently pulled her down against his shoulder, feeling the moisture on her cheeks soaking through the thin material of his shirt.
"Shhh," he murmured soothingly. "I'm here, luv, I've got you."
"I'm so glad you're all right," she whispered brokenly into his neck. "I didn't know what else to do. I…I knew you wouldn't want Matheson to have a shot at Zancanelli, but…he was so close to the breaking point – I didn't think there was any choice when Eli suggested we pull the ruse. It was the only chance we had…"
"Guess we're gonna have to put him back on the payroll," he murmured into her hair, feeling an answering nod against his chest.
Cal sat back comfortably on the couch, holding her close. The soothing balm of her proximity was calming the turmoil in his mind at last, and he was more than content to sit this way for the rest of the night if necessary. He turned his cheek into her dark blond hair, his breath stirring the fine silken strands, stroking her arm in a slow, steady rhythm that he hoped was vaguely comforting. According to Zoë he'd never been very good at this sort of thing.
After an endless moment she loosed a deep sigh and raised her head to look up at him, offering a small, watery smile.
He returned the smile with his eyes, easing but not fully releasing his hold, continuing to watch her closely. Her tears had ceased but her flawless face was still damp with moisture – he lifted one hand to her cheek and with the pad of his thumb began to gently, carefully, wipe away the wetness. The realization that she cared about him so greatly was almost overwhelming.
"Thank you," he said, very softly, unable to hide the tenderness that choked his voice.
Her eyes signaled a wordless question.
"For saving my life."
Her corners of her lips curved upward slightly and she nodded, then laid her head once more on his shoulder.
He held her for a long time, feeling more than hearing her soft breathing eventually slow and even out. When he dared look down at her face again her eyes were closed. Sleeping, her face relaxed and the lines of tension and worry beginning to smoothen away.
Cal pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of her head, breathing in quiet exaltation that she had found some measure of solace in his arms. It was Gillian whom he always turned to for comfort, and right now nothing gave him greater satisfaction than the knowledge that tonight he was able to repay the tiniest quality of her mercy. He gazed around the room at the comfy furniture, the attractive colors of the fabrics and walls, and back down to the sleeping woman nestled trustingly against his side.
Yes, there really was no place like home.
-----
FIN