Work Text:
one
Five days after Thanksgiving, she finds a large turkey sandwich complete with lettuce, tomatoes and a dollop of cranberry sauce sitting on a plate in the middle of her immaculate desk. It's a welcome sight for her first day back after the holiday. She spent the last six days in California with her brother and his family, and while it was always fantastic to see them, she started to miss work just a little. More like worried about the company solely in Cal's hands for the past week, but she hadn't received a call other than him and Emily wishing her a happy Thanksgiving.
She eyes the sandwich carefully, knowing there must be a catch. He usually doesn't bring out the meals unless he's done something, either putting himself in danger or the company in danger. Again. She sighs. Placing her purse in her locked drawer and the paper bag off to the side, she mentally gears herself up for the potential fallout and boots up her computer. Better to be prepared before launching into him, full tirade.
"Hey, you're back."
She turns around with a glare aimed at Cal, who's leaning against her doorframe. "Yes, just got back and found this little surprise. What did you do?"
"Nothing! I swear." He raises his hands in defense. "Honest. Ask Em. I've been a good boy."
She narrows her eyes at him. He seems to be telling truth. "If I look at the company records, I won't find anything that'll make me hunt you down?"
"I told ya, I've been a good boy. I only got into a mild argument with Zoe over the holiday."
She rolls her eyes and goes back to her computer to verify. "Of course you did."
"Oi, what's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
She studiously ignores him as he makes himself comfortable in the guest chair. Quickly scanning the logs and company funds, she finds his story to be true for once. With a satisfied click, all her windows disappear and she smiles at him. "I'm impressed."
"I told you." He holds up a string of paperclips between his hands making it look like a smile. "Good boy. It was like the world stopped when you left. Had a couple cases come in and it was nothing. Loker and Torres did a good job."
She snatches the clips out of his hands and begins to unravel it. "Did you tell them that?"
"Of course not. But I did give them the rest of the day off."
"Well, that's better than nothing."
"How was your holiday?" He asks, slouching in the chair, hands folded in his lap.
"Pretty good. A lot warmer than here. I'm guessing that yours went over pretty well? You don't seem like a grouch today."
"Hey! How many times do I have to tell you I've been a good boy? I even brought you a present."
"This sandwich?"
"Yeah. You were gone for a while and I figured why break the tradition of spending time after Thanksgiving. So, here's my end of the bargain. Your annual Turkey Sandwich a la Cal Lightman just the way you like it."
She smiles. Yes, it is. Ever since they started the company, they've had the tradition of exchanging homemade food after she stole half of his sandwich during lunch one day and he stole part of her mashed potatoes and gravy in retaliation.
"Don't worry, I didn't forget." She slides the paper bag in front of him. "World Famous Mashed Potatoes and Gravy made by yours truly."
She has to bite back her laughter as Cal's eyes zero in on the bag, jaw slack. If she didn't know better, she would've guessed he was drooling.
He wastes no time in tearing open the bag and pulling out two containers; one full of mashed potato, the other one full of gravy. "Bloody hell. They're still warm."
A laugh escapes despite her best efforts. "Yes. I warmed them before I got here. Just for you."
"You are an angel, love." He finally closes his jaw and he pierces her with such an intense look it almost stutters her heart. "One of these days you'll have to tell me the secret to these."
"Nope. Defeats the purpose of the secret."
He shrugs. "Worth a shot."
His eyes soften and she finds herself staring a little longer than usual before she looks down and picks up half of the sandwich. "To many more of these."
He holds up the mashed potatoes. "Cheers."
two
"You know what I don't get?" he asks, leaning over his desk. "How come we've known each other for seven years and yet I know nothin' about you."
"That's not true, Cal."
"Well, I know that you like sweets and meat you can't see. You like pink, you read romance novels. You also like your heels so we all don't have to look down at you."
"Hey, there is nothing wrong with my heels. Besides, makes it easier to look you in the eyes to see if you're lying."
"Besides all that, I know nothin'. Why is that?"
"Well, first of all, my past doesn't have a habit of showing up. Second, you never ask. And third, there's nothing wrong with maintaining a little bit of mystery." She leans back in her chair, legs crossed. "Don't tell me that's your one question."
"No. I'm still thinking about it. Why don't you go first?"
He leans back in his chair, hands folded comfortably on his stomach as he watches the thoughts run across her face. Foster's gotten much better at hiding her thoughts and feelings, but he can catch glimpses that no one else would see. Certainly not Loker or Torres. While they may be smart and young, they haven't had the privilege of knowing Foster like he does.
They don't have The Question.
The Question is a game they started when they first formed the Lightman Group and continued on every anniversary of the company. The game is simple: they each ask one question and they must answer truthfully. The question can be on any topic, nothing is taboo or ruled out. And there must be alcohol available. Out of all the lies they uncover and tell in the process of one business day, Cal thought it'd be nice to get the unvarnished truth for once.
He notices the moment she decides on a question but stays silent. His eyebrows only lift a fraction in question but she turns away and snags the bottle of scotch off his desk.
"Refill?" she offers.
He quickly takes a sip as soon as she places the bottle down and gulps down hard. She's got complete control of her face and that cannot be a good sign. She's only like this when he does something she doesn't approve of or she's about to ask a serious question. It could be about his trip to Afghanistan last Christmas. It could be about one of his previous missions when he was still with the Pentagon that she didn't have access to. It could be about Zoe—oh God, he hopes not. He takes another gulp of scotch. What if it's about something else entirely? What if she asks about—no. She would never ask about how close they've gotten lately. Or anything relating to feelings. She knows that he's uncomfortable about that, which is precisely why she would ask, he thinks glumly. And he'd be forced to answer and reveal the simmering truth that he's been tossing around in his head. Something that Emily has occasionally hinted at from time to time whenever Foster stops by the house or comes up in conversation.
He places the mismatching plastic cup on his desk with a thud.
"What is your happiest memory with your mom?"
Or she could ask about that. The other uncomfortable subject in his life.
He blinks. "That's seriously your question?"
"Yes. Did you think it was going to be something else?"
"How could I? You ask me random questions every year from my first arrest to what really happened in Northern Ireland."
"I was thinking of asking what you really wanted for your birthday but figured that'd be cheating."
He grins. If only you knew. "That would be."
"I could always ask Emily."
"She doesn't know what to get me half the time. She wouldn't help you."
Foster only smiles at him with a slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. "Maybe. Now stop stalling, Cal."
He sighs and leans forward, elbows on the desk. "You're gonna love this. She was making cookies one day—she was trying to anyway—and I think she put in oil instead of shortening or something, I'm not sure, which pretty much ruined them, right?" He leans back, arms waving around. "Then she forgot to set the timer and nearly set the house on fire. I dunno how she did that, but there was smoke and the fire alarms were ringing and it was bloody hell that day. But even after all that, she was smiling and laughing like nothing was wrong. In fact she let out this huge laugh when she saw how black the cookies had gotten and I remember thinking, 'How in the bloody hell could this be funny?'"
There's a fond smile on Foster's face. "How old were you?"
"Oh, I dunno, eight maybe?" He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. But that was the first time I could remember a real laugh coming from her. I always thought if I could get her to laugh like that again…" He drifts off, enveloped in the acrid smoke and the resounding ring in his ears and the brightness of his mother's teeth when she smiled and her bright pink tongue as she laughed.
"Cal?"
He blinks. "Uh, it's my turn, right?"
She nods slowly. "Yes, it is."
"Right." Cal sits up straighter in his chair and shakes the rest of the memory away. "So, um…" He takes a swig of scotch and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why do you stick around?"
"Excuse me?"
"I mean you could've had your own practice by now or started your own lie detecting firm. Hell, you could call it Foster Farms or something."
She glares at him. "Ha. Ha. Cal."
"Been waitin' to use that one," he says with a mischievous grin and moves around the desk to sit next to her. "But seriously, you still stick around when you could do so much better. Why?"
"That's really your question? I would've thought you'd use it on my sordid and dangerous past."
"Sordid, maybe. Dangerous?" he scoffs. "Yeah right. You and danger don't mix unless I'm thrown in there. And I may ask about that so-called dangerous past another time. Now stop stalling, Foster."
"You mean you don't know?"
"I know that you were interested in the science and that's initially why we started this up, but I figured you'd have up and gone by now."
A smile that's best described as a cross between tragic and disappointment forms on her face. "Cal, not everyone will leave you. If I've stuck around for the last seven years, why would I leave now? I've put so much into this place."
He shrugs. "I dunno. But you're not really answering the question."
"You're right. Cal," she says, leaning over and resting her hand on top of his. "I'm not leaving. I promise you that."
He stares at her, trying to find a deeper motivation, a hidden agenda and when she frowns at him he looks away, guilty. He should've known better. Foster wouldn't have a sinister plan to use him then lose him. No. She's much better than that. She wouldn't lie to him like this and he's an absolute idiot for even asking this question. Bloody fool, he thinks, how could you screw this up?
"I'm sorry, love."
"I care about you, Cal. And I care about this place. We built it from the ground up, starting with a shoebox and your kitchen. I'd be stupid to give that up."
He lifts her hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it. "I really don't deserve you."
"No," she replies with a quick grin. "No, you don't."
three
One day a year, she lets him get as drunk as he wants. One day a year, she'll allow him to arrive on her doorstep, completely sloshed, and let him in, no questions asked. When she was married to Alec, he would disapprove, but eventually he figured out the pattern and would conveniently be busy or on a business trip while Cal crashed on the couch. Now that she's single, he takes up the spare bedroom.
She knows. She always knows. He has a pattern.
One week before the date of his mother's suicide, Cal would get irritable and lash out. He'd also drink more and forget to shower. He'd lock himself up in his office or study for hours, watching and re-watching that film, proof of his mother's last words. When he would emerge, his hair would be greasy and out of place, shirt rumpled and his face would sport a full beard.
She didn't fully understand until he told her two years into their partnership. Then she started marking the date on her calendar with a blue dot in the corner. She should've known; it was in his file at the Pentagon after all, and she read it cover to cover, memorized every line. But she never expected this.
The next year, she was prepared. He'd call late at night to warn her he was on his way or at the doorstep and she'd let him, guiding him to the made up couch. He'd pass out within minutes and she'd leave a glass of water and a couple aspirin pills on the coffee table.
This year, she waits for his phone call and the inevitable knock. She's sifting through budget reports when he knocks and she quickly checks her phone to see if she missed his call. Nothing, but the time reads 1:30 in the morning, which is early for him. She cautiously looks through the peephole, then opens the door to find him standing upright.
"I'm not too late, am I?" he asks quietly, hands in his pockets.
"Not at all." She waves him in and closes the door. "Earlier than I expected actually. You didn't call."
"Sorry, love. I meant to." He spies the glass of water set out on the table with the bottle of aspirin. "You're prepared."
"You've set a standard."
He sits down on the couch and mindlessly looks at the files spread out. "You're doing budget reports this late? And I thought I was a workaholic."
"Needed to keep myself busy." There's something off about him tonight and she's not quite sure what that means. He's too early and too sober and strangely, that worries her. She's not used to holding a conversation this late. "How are you holding up?"
"You're surprised I'm not falling over. Me too." He shrugs. "I don't know."
She sits next to him and pushes the files aside. "How much did you drink?"
"Not much. Definitely not enough to pass out on your couch this instant."
"That's good, since I've got the spare bedroom made up for you."
"Always thinkin' ahead, aren't ya, Foster?" He leans back into the cushions and tilts his head up to stare at the ceiling. "That's what I've always liked about you."
"If we're going to be spilling our guts tonight, I need to catch up with you."
She moves to stand up, but he places a hand on her arm and tugs her back to the couch. "Nah. No need to do that. I'm not that wasted. 'Sides, one of us needs to stay sober."
She sits down and studies his profile. He's telling the truth when he says he's not wasted, a little buzzed maybe, but he's not quite himself. She never pictured him as an emotional drunk, but clearly the alcohol has loosened his tongue and let down his guard. She can see more than he's let her before.
"You know," he says slowly, "my mum used to bake cakes like you. For my birthday. They were from a box, though, nothin' like your homemade from scratch stuff. She'd put this fucking nasty frosting on it, though. Ugh."
"What kind of frosting?" she asks, smiling.
"I dunno. It might've been some kind of vanilla crap. But it was the worst thing I've ever tasted in my life. And she'd always make a vanilla cake, too. " He rolls his head to the side to look at her. "I wish she didn't put that frosting. Woulda eaten it without that crap."
There's a deep sadness and longing in his eyes and she grips the hand that's suddenly in hers. She's not sure if his hand slid down to meet hers or she held on first, but suddenly it feels like she's hanging from a cliff one-handed, hoping he doesn't slip through her sweaty fingers.
"So you're saying you never ate your birthday cake because of the nasty frosting?"
"I ate the middle of it or scraped the crap off when she wasn't lookin'."
She reaches out with her free hand and gently grazes his cheek with her knuckles. "That explains why you're such a picky eater."
He chuckles. "Maybe."
She lifts their joined hands and kisses the back of his. After his initial surprise passes, she smiles encouragingly. "You're okay."
He shifts to rest his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes, keeping her hand in his. "Yeah."
four
He finds her up here again. He's only found her on the roof a handful of times, usually after a trying case or a huge emotional upheaval. The last time was when she told the mother of the missing girl about Sophie. He would never forget the utter devastation and pain and anger on her face when she told him. That was also one of the few times she let him hold her while she was married. He'd never seen that look before, not even when she told him about her divorce from Alec, and he hopes he never has to see it again.
She's standing at the railing, looking out over the city lights. He prefers the view from up here as well, but she told him once that coming up here wasn't about the view, it was about the feeling of freedom from the busy life downstairs. It was a chance to pause life and recharge for a minute. Standing up here, about ten feet behind her, he understands what she means.
She's not ready for him yet, so he waits until she gives the signal. In the meantime, he studies her silhouette for a moment, enjoying the halo of lights surrounding her, almost giving her a heavenly glow. He always thought she was some kind of angel or saint for putting up with him. Maybe a guardian angel would be more appropriate and he wonders what he ever did to deserve someone like Gillian Foster in his life.
"You know," she says finally, "when I was a kid, I used to believe that wishing on a star really worked."
"Did you used to sing that annoying Disney song, too?" he asks, standing beside her. "Em did all the time. Drove me bonkers."
She grins and turns to look at him. "That's probably why she did it."
"True." He takes his hands out of his pockets and leans against the railing with his forearms. "So what'd you wish for?"
"I can't wish on a star if I can't see any."
He looks up at sees nothing but the pale moon against the black night sky. The haze of the city lights drowns out any potential stars. "How 'bout wishing on an airplane?"
"What?"
"Em used to think airplanes in the sky were shootin' stars. She'd wish on them no matter what we told her. What d'you say? Wanna give it a shot?"
The smile she gives him makes his heart beat a little faster and he grins back. "All right."
He watches as she closes her eyes when they spot the familiar moving lights in the sky. Even when she's wishing on a plane, she manages to look innocent and graceful. The gentle breeze obscures her face for a moment, and when it settles her eyes open and he catches her gaze.
"Well?"
She frowns and swats his shoulder. "You're not supposed to tell what you wished for!"
"'Fraid it won't come true?"
"Did you wish for anything?"
"Maybe." He nudges her shoulder. "Tell ya what. I'll tell if you tell."
She laughs. "Oh please. Like you'd tell."
"I promise." He grins and gives her his most innocent face.
"I know that look, Cal. You're not fooling me." She holds out her pinky. "Pinky swear?"
"What are you, five?" He hooks his pinky with hers anyway. "You go first. And remember, I'll know if you're lyin'."
She frowns at him and leans against the railing, looking out toward the city again. "She turns two today." Foster's so quiet, he has to lean in to hear her. "I wished she had a happy birthday and that she somehow knew that I still love her. Crazy, I know, since she won't remember me."
Sophie. Foster really is a guardian angel in disguise, he decides and puts his hand on her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Nah, you're not crazy. She'll know. She was lucky to have someone like you in her life."
"You're just saying that."
He slides his arm around her shoulders. "Nah, I'm not. I mean that. You know how I know? 'Cause you're you. You're like a guardian angel, watchin' out for people. I know my life would be crap if you weren't around."
She nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. "Well, that's true."
He feigns pain and holds his side. "Ow. That hurt."
"You big baby."
He grins then digs through his pockets. "Before I forget—ah, here it is—I got you something." He hands her a plastic cup with a foil wrapping on top and a plastic spoon.
"Pudding? You got me chocolate pudding?" she asks incredulously, accepting the gift.
"Yeah. You know I'm terrible at baking and since I don't want to poison you with that, I figured pudding would have to do. For Sophie's birthday and all."
She gives him another heart-stopping smile and plants a kiss on his cheek. "You really are something, you know. But don't think that this gets you out of telling me your wish."
"Damn. I wished I would win the lottery. There." The look she levels at him has him fighting a grin. "What? It'd solve all our problems."
"Cal."
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns so his back is against the railing. "I wished for your wish to come true."
She spins around, loops her arm with his and leans her head against his shoulder. "You really are something, Cal Lightman."
"I hope that's a good 'something' then."
"A big softie, maybe."
He presses his lips against her hair and whispers, "She'll be fine, darling." Her hand finds his and he laces their fingers together, giving them a quick squeeze. "Don't worry."
"Thanks, Cal."
five
"This might cross all kinds of boundaries and rules, but I didn't know what else to get you." She takes a deep breath. "I made you a cake."
"You're nervous about a cake? What, is it some sort of experiment or something?"
"Sort of. It's not just any cake, Cal. It's vanilla… with vanilla frosting. I know it probably won't compare to your mother's but—"
Suddenly, his arms are around her, squeezing out all the remaining air in her lungs. "You're the best, darling," he whispers against her neck.
Tears start to gather in her eyes and she buries them in his shoulder, squeezing back. Relief floods through her, unclenching the bundle of nerves in her gut and she nearly melts in his embrace. She almost left the cake at home and came up with a perfect excuse for not getting him a present on time, but at the last minute, she packed it in the car on impulse.
She feels him pull back and he tilts her chin up. "Are you crying?" he asks.
"No," she responds, pushing him away and swiping under her eye. "But you are."
"Never." His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red, but he grins anyway.
"Hey, Dad," Emily announces as she enters the kitchen. "I thought I heard someone at the—Hi, Gillian."
Gillian swipes at her eyes one last time and smiles. "Hey, Emily."
"Uh, what's going on here?"
"Foster's brought us some cake. Come take a look." Cal waves her over and pulls off the lid to reveal a neat round cake with the words, Not Fucking Nasty Frosting, written in red gel and (Happy Birthday) in blue underneath.
Cal lets out a laugh and hooks an arm around Emily. "Best damn birthday cake I've ever gotten. Don't you think, Em?"
"Um, I'm guessing this is some kind of inside joke, right?"
He presses a kiss to the top of Emily's head. "Your granny used to make the worst vanilla frosting I've ever had in my life. Be glad you never had to taste that."
"I will never understand your humor, Dad." She grins and kisses him on the cheek. "But I still love you. You did an awesome job, Gillian. Looks professional and very much something my dad would like."
Gillian smiles gracefully. "I figured he'd enjoy something off the wall and obvious."
"Candles!" Emily pulls away from her dad and digs through one of the drawers. "Can't have a birthday cake without candles."
"You're sure about this? I didn't overstep anything?" she asks Cal quietly as she watches Emily place candles strategically on the edge of the cake.
"You kidding? This is more than I could've asked for, love." He kisses her on the cheek. "Now come on, we can't let Em burn the house down, can we?"
Once all the candles are lit, they dim the lights and Emily has the camera ready. "Make a wish, Dad."
Cal quickly catches Gillian's eye and grins before bending down and blowing out the candles.