A/N: For the general setting of the story see the A/N of the prologue. In this and (at least) the next chapter, times are hard for our Callian pair, especially for Gillian. The story isn't labeled angst for nothing.

Thank you to everyone who found the time to leave a review and/or PM'ed me about my POV question. :)

The usual disclaimer applies (see prologue).

- Everything Is Falling Apart -

The earth is a sphere but not Gillian Foster's earth. Her earth is flat and she is standing at the edge, looking into the abyss.

Five days ago, on Thursday, she learned from the undercover agent that a white-collar dealer, a rookie, had to die as part of their operation. A necessary measure, the chosen victim nothing but a pawn in the game. Ever since she has been living in hell because the undercover agent didn't give her a name and she would have needed one to exclude the possibility that it could be Alec, her fiancé, no matter how farfetched and surreal it felt to even think of it.

Cal. That's the name of the undercover agent who told her. His real name. The name she thought she liked so much. But since Gillian heard him say those words, a shield has replaced the increasing closeness between them. A shield that is supposed to protect her from his world of danger and death. She should have known better. It's a classified operation. Even if Cal Lightman is a fascinating man, a scientist with a very interesting field of expertise, she shouldn't have underestimated the situation. People get hurt or die during that kind of assignments and there she was having completely forgotten about the rest of the world while they were sitting in her alleged office, talking and flirting.

Depending on perspective, a lot has happened between last Thursday and today or nothing at all. Either way, Gillian hasn't eaten or slept regularly and is aware that it shows. She is living on coffee and adrenaline, looks as pale and feels as unstrung as she did when the guard walked her out last week, probably even more so. Back then, the guard asked her several times if she was ok because she obviously didn't look like it. As an explanation, she mumbled something about having caught a cold, eager to get in her car and away from that dreadful place. Another guard accompanied her today. He didn't ask her anything, either not noticing or not caring that she doesn't look well in the least.

The undercover agent, Cal, is the last on her list, as always. Somehow, Gillian makes it through the therapy sessions of the other inmates. Every minute that brings her closer to his therapy session, though, heightens her emotional turmoil. She is well aware that he is just doing his job, was just the messenger when he told her about the planned hit. But that doesn't change the fact that it feels as if he is responsible for her current agony and terrifying last days. It's not only him who is in prison during their assignment. She is in prison, too, save that hers is invisible. A cage of fears and threats. And all she wants is out.

The moment Cal walks through the door, he flinches from her sight but doesn't say anything. Gillian assumes that he more or less figured out why she reacted the way she did when they saw each other last, why she kept pushing for the name he couldn't tell her because the guard was in the office with them already. She remains behind her desk at a safe distance, waiting for the sudden urge to hurt him physically, punish him for something that isn't his fault, to abate. This isn't like her at all, but she can't help it. The events of the last days have taken a toll on her. His eyes glimpse at her hands that have grabbed the edge of the desk to hold on to something instead of lashing out before he stops in the middle of the room, also keeping his distance by instinct.

In sharp contrast to the almost relaxed atmosphere of their last meetings, there is a heavy silence.

"Go ahead," Cal breaks it, tilting his head back in anticipation of the storm that he knows is about to break loose.

But Gillian is unable to move or say anything because there is a storm inside of her and it will break loose the moment she does.

"Who is it?" Cal asks when he realizes she won't be the one to start this. "Uncle? Brother? Fiancé? Who's the drug dealer you're afraid to lose?"

She jumped up and is standing right in front of him before Gillian even becomes aware that she has moved. She also didn't notice that her reaction gave away that her fiancé is, indeed, the one this is all about.

"What do you care?" she hisses. "You could have put me out of my misery, but you wouldn't give me the name."

"Couldn't. You know that," he reminds her that he actually couldn't do it as she knows very well, but Gillian is beyond rational argumentation.

"You could have found a way if you had wanted to. There has to be an emergency plan for situations like these. There has to be...," her voice trails off, the faint ringing in her ears getting louder and louder.

"You should lower your voice or the guard will come inside and end our session, thinking that I misbehaved," Cal suggests in a quiet voice, holding her gaze.

As if on cue, there is a knock at the door. "Dr. Foster? Everything ok?"

Her anger and desperation are still there, but the look in his eyes, a mix of understanding and regret, accomplishes something his mere words couldn't – she calms down a bit. She is so tired. Gillian wants to sleep for 12 hours and then wake up to find out it was just a nightmare. She takes several deep breaths.

"Yes, everything ok," she replies, her voice steady now.

"There is no emergency plan for situations like these," Cal explains. "You are the only emergency plan I have. Here. Every Tuesday and every Thursday. Aside from that it's just me in there with the other inmates on my own."

Gillian nods, remembering how she thought of herself as a prisoner like him. They are in the same boat. Despite the horrible situation, she shouldn't judge him. Others are the puppet masters; they are the marionettes and shouldn't get at each other's throats. She smiles ruefully.

"I tried to call you."

Cal thinks about it. "But you weren't able to reach me."

"No."

Little did she know. The inmates are allowed to receive two phone calls per week, but Cal had already used his amount up. His cover includes the one or other low life calling him from time to time so that his facade remains believable. The argument that she is his therapist didn't matter. If it was urgent, she could talk to the prison doctor. If not, she had to wait until their next appointment.

"I'm sorry." He truly is.

Suddenly, the office walls seem to be closing in. Gillian needs to get out as soon as possible. She takes the phone out of her purse and hands it over to Cal.

"Here, make the call." She will tell the guard that they don't need the rest of the session after that so that she can go. First thing tomorrow morning, she will talk to Hines, convince him to pull her off, and never come back here. Gillian made that decision on her drive to the prison. There is a slight sting at the realization that she probably won't see Cal again in that case but given the situation, she can't take this into consideration.

"Don't you want to know the name?" Cal asks her surprised.

The few times he saw her were sufficient for Cal to detect and appreciate Gillian's strength that is hidden behind her softness. Here and now, though, he sees something else. A layer beneath her strength. Pure steel. It's in her face and in her voice as well when she speaks.

"That won't be necessary anymore."

For once, he can't read what he sees. Cal sees the hardness in her facial expression, most of it probably pretense or denial. He wishes, though, he could understand the reason behind it. Does it mean that she already knows the name or simply that it doesn't matter to her anymore? And if it doesn't matter anymore, then why?

But when Gillian keeps holding the phone out to him, something else catches his attention. A nasty bruise around her wrist. The sleeve of her blouse rode up a little so that it has become visible.

"What is that?" Cal knows how physical abuse looks like, but he needs to hear it from her, ignoring the phone in her hand. Only now, he notices that she is not wearing her engagement ring anymore. "Tell me."

Gillian shakes her head. He wasn't supposed to see this; she doesn't want to talk about it. Not before she has come to terms with herself. The wounds are still raw and that concerns her physical wounds as well as her emotional ones. Tell him everything. You can trust him, her inner voice tries to break her resistance and she feels how she tears up. No, now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. Compose yourself. You need to get out of here as fast as you can.

"Make the call, please," she whispers, her vision getting blurry due to unshed tears. Nevertheless, Gillian perceives the way Cal's hands twitch and just knows that he thinks about taking her in his arms to comfort her. The mere thought is wonderful. Like a balmy breeze after a boiling hot day. She is still standing so close to him that he could easily touch her. And all of a sudden, she realizes that even if she considers him to be dangerous, she is dead certain that he would never be a danger to her. Hold me. As soon as the thought is in her head, Gillian notices how Cal slowly starts to raise his arms, having read her immediately. She takes a step back, holding the phone up some more, like a barrier between them. "Please," she repeats.

Reluctantly, Cal takes the phone out of her hand, his other hand touching her arm briefly as if to tell her later. Then he makes the call, looking at her worried in between, while she is dwelling on her thoughts, remembering.

The bruise Cal saw is not the only one. There are more bruises hidden underneath her clothes. They are the result of Plan A to save Alec's life – talking to him.

On her drive back home from prison on Thursday, Gillian had to stop three times. She was shaking so badly that her hands couldn't hold the steering wheel properly. Her limbs were trembling and her thoughts were racing, images of Alec lying dead and blood-smeared in an alley haunting her.

He wasn't home when she arrived. Of course not. And he also didn't answer her calls or text messages. It made her timider but also angrier by the minute, up to the point when her concern took a backseat and Gillian was so tired that she nodded off on the couch. She awoke in the middle of the night. On any other day, the sight of a man sifting through her purse in the dark would have scared her. On that day, her mind was on permanent alert so that she recognized Alec's outline immediately.

"What are you doing?"

But he wouldn't answer her and kept snooping around instead. Gillian stood up to approach him.

"Alec would you listen to me. Just this once. I need to know how bad it is. I don't care whether you take drugs or not. I mean, I do care but... here and now, I just need to know if you are... if you deal in drugs. Do you? Don't lie to me. It's important."

He had stopped whatever he had been doing and seemed to listen, but when she was finished, his response wasn't even close to what she expected.

"You have two phones."

"What?"

He held the cell phone she had been given for use during the operation out to her. Gillian recognized its shape, even in the dark, because it was different from the one she used personally.

"That's not your phone. For what do you need it? Are you cheating on me?"

The entire scenario and that question on top were absurd; she would have laughed if the circumstances hadn't been so grim.

"It's for work. New regulations," Gillian made up. "My superior doesn't like it when personal and business calls get mixed up."

"You're lying." Alec got closer so that she could smell the alcohol in his breath. Moreover, though, she could tell from his behavior and speech pattern that he was on the downside of his addiction, his mood aggressive as a first sign of withdrawal.

"Alec..." The situation threatened to get out of control and she had to avoid that at all cost. It's not about our relationship, not about his drug abuse, she reminded herself. It's solely about saving his life.

"Why should I lie to you?" Gillian forced herself to smile at him even if he probably couldn't see it because the lights were still turned off but hopefully heard it in her voice. She touched his chest in an effort to calm him down.

He didn't reply but also didn't continue to accuse her. So she took the chance.

"I know it sounds weird, but I have reliable information that someone... new in the business of dealing in drugs is about to be killed. Please don't ask me how I know that; I'm not even allowed to talk about it, but I can't risk that something happens to you. So tell me for your own sake. Do you sell drugs?" she pleaded with him to tell her the truth.

Alec stood there immobile, like a statue. Gillian couldn't make out his face in the dark. Then he uttered a bitter laugh, grabbing her wrist forcefully.

"Really? And where does that reliable information come from? From that someone you're talking to over your secret phone? All those recent after hours," he refers to the days she spends at the Federal Correction Institution Cumberland and she is surprised that he even noticed. "Let's call and ask him."

He got ready to press redial and would have called Cal's contact if he had done it. Gillian needed to prevent that.

"Give me the phone." It was a ridiculous, futile struggle. He was taller than her, holding the phone up over her head like a bait to tease her. Then he changed his mind and, instead of dialing, threw the phone across the room. "No!" Gillian yelled. She could get a new phone but having to come up with an excuse so as not having to tell her superior that her drugged fiancé had broken it on purpose wasn't at the top of her list. The fact that he is addicted to drugs will endanger her job either way if it ever comes out.

When Gillian wanted to pick the phone up, Alec held her back with relentless strength. She froze in shock because something like that had never happened before. Alec wasn't violent in the least; he was more the passive-aggressive type. She couldn't believe how quick and profoundly the drugs had changed his behavior. His grip around her wrist tightened and his other arm clasped her waist, pulling her back toward him, his fingers digging into her soft skin. It was painful, physically as well as emotionally.

"He won't help you," Alec's voice oozed vengefulness. This was not the man she used to know and love anymore. This was a stranger. Someone she should be afraid of with good reason.

"Just listen to you," she hissed adamantly. "You're delirious. There is no one else. I'm not cheating on you. The drugs make you believe that or should I rather say the lack thereof."

All she wanted was to save him. At the same time, Gillian knew, though, that she had lost the battle the moment she had accused him of taking drugs and not being himself. The subject that shall never be mentioned. And she was right. He shut down, tearing at her body mercilessly another time, pushing her around until she stumbled against his chest.

His outbreak was over as sudden as it had started. But instead of celebrating his victory, Alec's mood changed. His hands let go of her body and embraced her face tenderly, mocking the situation and his previous violence. She tried to keep calm and not to flinch, couldn't predict what would happen next. Should she remain passive and wait it out or fight him and try to get away?

"Gillian..."

She still couldn't see his face, but she didn't need to. He posed no threat to her. At least not just now. For a brief moment, it was all there in his voice. The I'm sorry. The I love you. Everything that was by far too little, too late. The delusion of a man who believed there could be an honest confession of love after what he had done. Or perhaps he had a rare moment of clarity and had realized that he had destroyed the remains of their relationship. Then he left without another word.

Gillian picked the phone up with shaky hands. Despite the impact, it was working. She checked her purse. Alec had taken money out of her briefcase. One hundred dollar. She should have been upset, but after all that had happened she couldn't care less about the money. And if she had cared, it maybe was a good thing because it meant that he didn't sell drugs but rather stole to finance his addiction.

Alec didn't come back that night. This time, Gillian didn't try to call or text him. Saving his life still was on her agenda, if possible, but personally Gillian was through with him, her engagement ring lying on his nightstand.

Cal's phone call is over. What his contact told him makes him want to find out why Gillian doesn't need to know the name of the drug dealer even more because he is dead.

Gillian sat down behind her desk again when she began to remember and dwell on her thoughts. As Cal sits down on the chair in front of her desk, watching her warily, her ugly memories fade. Unfortunately, they only make room for a reality that doesn't feel much better.

She is aware that he is waiting for her to say something, tell him how she got the bruise if he could have his way. But that is not going to happen. Let alone that she doesn't have to tell him. He already knows. Gillian sighs defeated.

"Yes, it's what you think it is," she refers to the bruise and the absence of her engagement ring. He only had to put one and one together. "And no, I'm not going to talk about it. And I expect you to respect that."

He raises his hands defensively. "Weren't going to push you."

This has to stop. He has to stop being so nice to her. She came here today with the intention to blame him at least partly for the situation, and now, he seems to be the only one who truly cares about her.

"Did you try to call me before or after?" Cal gestures at her injury. He won't let it go but since he keeps being so affectionate, Gillian doesn't want to deny him an answer.

"After."

"That's noble."

Was it? Yes, perhaps he is right. She had no moral obligation to try to help Alec any longer after what had happened. It is a different matter, though, whether to end a relationship or stand idly by when the life of your ex-fiancé is in danger. Gillian even had a Plan C after her Plan B (calling Cal) had failed. She contacted Hines.

He was not in his office; so she had to call him. Gillian hoped he wasn't home already, considering that it was Friday afternoon, or, God forbid, in another classified meeting. When he answered her call, she tried to keep her voice steady to hide her desperation and uncertainty. You said I could call whenever something strange happens, she justified her approach. Hines had said that but probably not expected her to actually call him. Play the rookie card, she told herself, offering Hines a mixture of the truth (someone will be killed) and feigned worry (Did he know that? Is that really allowed as part of an undercover operation?). She explained her knowledge about it with the fact that she had overheard it during Cal's call with his contact so that he wouldn't be blamed.

It was all to no avail in the end, though, because albeit Hines confirmed that yes, things like that, messy as they are, match standard procedure, he casually admitted that he didn't know who the soon-to-be victim was before she even had to ask. Don't burden yourself with information like this, he ended their phone call. It's not worth it. A concerned, well-meant advice even though someone was about to be killed and Hines was that callous that he didn't even bother to find out his name.

And that was that. Gillian had run out of options, dreading an endless weekend and Monday until she could visit Cal in prison again and learn the truth. She couldn't know at the time that it wouldn't be relevant anymore by then.

Gillian rejects the memory with a shrug and Cal's remark along with it. Then she remembers that she wanted to leave right after he had finished the call and stands up abruptly.

"I, um, I have to go."

Cal stands up, too, scrutinizing her. "You're not coming back."

His voice moves her. It shouldn't sound so sad. They barely know each other; he can't miss her that much in advance.

"No," she admits. "Not if I have a choice."

He nods, his eyes resting on her face like a caress and despite of it all – her desperation, her exhaustion, the whole mess – she feels that indefinable something that exists between them. Even now, after that short time.

"Cal..." Gillian was determined not to address him by name today, to think of him only as the undercover agent. So much for trying to keep her distance.

He walks around the desk so that he is standing next to her.

"Hey." He touches her hand hesitatingly. Once, twice, until her fingers twitch and she holds on to it loosely.

"I can't be here any longer. It's too much. I can't..." A single tear runs down her cheek and she brushes it away angrily, letting go of his hand.

"Where are you going?" Cal seems to have accepted that she won't change her mind. "Do you..." He runs his fingers through his hair. "Look, I respect that you don't want to talk about it, but I'm in here and you're out there. And I don't like the idea that you go back to wherever you live with whoever you live there unless I know it's safe for you."

Alec. Cal is afraid that he will hurt her again.

"You don't have to worry about me." Gillian smiles bleakly. Alec won't hurt her another time.

She remembers how the police knocked at her door at home on the weekend, remembers how she heard the name of the drug dealer that had been killed on the radio when she drove over to the prison earlier, the way she hit the brakes and pulled over because she had thought she would have to throw up. The fact that this certain drug dealer had been a responsible citizen aside from his addiction was worth a headline on the news.

"You don't have to worry about me," she repeats.

Given the circumstances, it is ridiculous to say it once, let alone twice, considering how she looks and is barely able to stand upright due to exhaustion and brokenness. She is not okay; there is a lot to worry about. Gillian is aware that Cal is trying to read her. Not only to find out if she will be safe but also to find out what happened, whether he was involved in the death of her fiancé or not. Of course, he figured out that Alec is the drug dealer she was worried about – however he did it; she has stopped wondering. Why is he so intense all the time? What is it with him that he has to know everything? She feels cornered, as if he won't give up until she spelled every detail out for him. Yes, my fiancé is a drug dealer. Yes, my fiancé abused me. No, I have no idea as yet how to handle it without falling apart completely.

"I'm sorry." For some reason, this is the moment Cal seems to have decided for himself that her fiancé is dead and that he is to blame for his death.

He takes a step forward and she instinctively retreats but not fast enough. His arms already have found his way around her, softly pulling her toward him. Instead of feeling comforted, Gillian feels trapped, though, the memories of Alec pushing her around, pressing her against him, hitting her unexpectedly. Suddenly, she has trouble breathing.

"No." She pushes him away and Cal lets go of her immediately, realizing why she reacts the way she does.

"I'm sorry." They start to sound like a broken record, only able to communicate by repetitions.

Once, his arms are no longer around her, Gillian steps away from him and regains her composure. She takes a deep breath. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault. You're only doing your job. It's difficult enough as it is."

"If I had known he was your fiancé," he starts an apology, but she stops him.

"It's not him. He is not dead," she clears things up.

It was her first thought, of course, when the police knocked at her door on Saturday night. That Alec was dead and that they had come to tell her. Her legs turned to jelly and one of the officers had to uphold her when she stumbled. Then she saw Alec in the police car. They had picked him up off the street, drunken and high, and – because a friend of one of the officers knew one of Alec's friends – had decided to bring him home instead of turning him in so that he could sleep it off in a cell. While she was thinking about letting him in or not, he already tripped into the living room half-unconsciously and passed out on the couch. The same couch she had slept on two days ago before his presence woke her and their fight started. It made her sick to see him there, to see him anywhere in her home. Home had to be a place where you felt safe. It was her apartment, after all. Alec had moved in with her.

Gillian had to occupy herself while an unconscious Alec was occupying her home. At least that was how it felt. It had never occurred to her before to actively look for evidence, but the more the situation sharpened, the more she realized how naïve it had been to wait for him to tell her the truth. They were beyond words. It was time to act. She searched the apartment as well as his car and found evidence that he consumed drugs and sold at least small amounts.

It didn't surprise her to find the couch empty and more of her money gone when she woke up on Sunday morning. She took the chance to call lockout services, change the locks, pack his clothes and personal belongings, put them in the garage they used as a storage room, and texted him that he had been moved out and should contact her to make an appointment so that he could collect the part of the furniture that was his.

Yet, the threat that he could be killed was still there. And it was still nagging her. There was a version of Alec she remembered that she had loved and she couldn't stand the thought that this man that for sure existed somewhere deep inside the drug addict would be the victim of such a hideous crime. So when Gillian heard the name of the other man that had been killed on the radio, a shocked relief washed over her, accompanied by guilt, because, either way, someone was dead.

"Not dead then. And yet, he is. At least for you," Cal states, having watched the multitude of emotions that were reflected in her face as she remembered. He understands now that her fiancé only does not exist anymore as far as Gillian is concerned. That was what he misinterpreted earlier after he had read her and thought he was actually dead.

"In a way," she confirms. This chapter of her life is closed for good.

"Sorry for that again," Cal points at her and waves his hands around, referring to his embrace that upset her.

This time it's her who takes a step forward, and unlike her, Cal doesn't retreat. It's like a pull that draws her closer and closer to him until they are so close that albeit it is not an embrace, it also doesn't even remotely look as if they were simply having an innocent conversation. Gillian puts her hand against his chest. The fabric of his orange overall is itchy. She stares at her hand, wondering how his skin feels like. If she moved her fingers a bit sideways to the scoop neckline, she could feel it. When she hears him hold his breath, she looks at him and directly into his dilated pupils.

"Still don't like that you're out there on your own," he mutters.

Gillian's decision to talk Hines into pulling her off stands firm. However, that doesn't mean...

"Maybe when this is over...," she begins unassertively.

There is some noise outside. Cal turns his head to listen and frowns. Then it is silent again and he applies his attention back to her, taking her hand and fluttering a kiss on it. Like a true British gentleman. Save for the tattoo and everything else. Well, like a dangerous British gentleman perhaps.

"Careful. You're a beautiful woman, talking to a prisoner who had to miss out on the company of women for too long." His smile is disarming.

Despite her tiredness, Gillian has to smile, too. "You've been in here only for about three weeks. It's not that long."

"Depends on what you're thinking about when you're alone in your cell."

He doesn't waste any time. That much is for sure. Just when Gillian thinks about a reply – because as much as she usually would enjoy this, today it is simply too much for her to take in – there is the noise again. Still far away, but closer than before. Cal is on high alert immediately, turning around so that he is standing between her and the door. Her protective shield. How could she ever think she would need protection from him? Then the light flickers briefly, followed by piercing siren's wailing.

Gillian grab's Cal's arm and he answers her implied question.

"Lockdown."

- To be continued -

In the end, I thought it would be too much of a burden for Cal's and Gillian's relationship if Cal actually had been involved in Alec's death although the idea was (and still is) very tempting. Well, the story isn't finished yet...

And yes, I know, another cliffhanger. But I warned you that there would be more twists, remember? So don't hate me, please. ;)