Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunset, between 5 and 6 p.m.

It is some consolation to Gillian that if she’s going to be dragged into the woods to be murdered, he’s at least picked a beautiful place. Based on how long it took them to get here and the gorgeous mountains, they’re somewhere in Shenandoah National Park.

In retrospect, it’s a little surprising that it’s taken this long for the tables to be reserved. After all, this sort of thing happens to Cal at least once, if not thrice, a year.

It didn’t make Gillian any more prepared, though, for being dragged through the office hall shortly after 9 in the morning, an elbow around her throat crushing her windpipe.

She shuts her eyes and tries to forget the look on Cal’s face, the tightness of fear around his eyes, the sound of his voice, jagged with rage and worry, as he’d called her name.

Not Foster. Not love. Gillian. The name he only uses when he really wants her to hear him.

She’s always wondered what her name would sound like on his tongue in a myriad of situations (moaned in pleasure, whispered as a late-night love confession, laughed with joy), but never like that (an apology, a plea, a goodbye).

“Get up,” Peters orders, roughly dragging her out of the trunk of the car by her upper arm.

Wearily, Gillian complies. She knows that she should struggle, but all the fight left her hours earlier. How long has it been? 6 hours? 7? Either way, she’s spent the entire day running errands for this man, convinced that his friends, colleagues, and community have pinned the disappearance of his wife on him, while every piece of evidence Gillian found for him points to the opposite.

Peters shoves her forward. “Walk.”

She takes some stumbling steps (heels aren’t ideal hiking shoes). Shouting for help crosses her mind, but there aren’t any other cars parked nearby and she can’t hear anything but the crunch of gravel and the call of birds. It’s late autumn, past tourist season, and they seem to be pretty deep into the park. There likely isn’t anyone else for miles around.

Unsatisfied with her slow pace, Peters pushes again, and Gillian loses a shoe in the process.

“I can’t—” she protests as the forest floor jabs into the soft undersides of her feet.

“We aren’t going very far,” he growls. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

No, thank you, absolutely not. Gillian hobbles along, kicking her other shoe off. She’s trying not to think about it, but that might be the only trail investigators will have to lead them to her body.

Gillian is going to die.

It’s a thought she’s had multiple times today, but now it’s becoming imminent. There isn’t a rescue or a clever plan or empathetic thing she can say to this man that will end in a different result. Her heartbeat picks up valiantly, but her adrenal glands have barely anything left to give. She thinks futilely of escape, but outrunning him or overpowering him has never been a viable option. He’s much bigger than her, about Eli’s size but probably twice the weight, and she’s going no where fast either barefoot or in heels on this terrain. Her fate is sealed.

They stop at the edge of a cliff, where the forest stops abruptly and gives way to an eroded hillside, steep as the victim of a landslide years ago. Ahead of them, the setting sun has bathed the hillsides in brilliant oranges and reds.

“Take one last good look, Foster,” he says, voice resolute. “If the fall doesn’t kill you, they hypothermia will.”

Gillian gulps and looks down the precipice. It’s a long way down. “We can talk this out. Just wait—”

Peters pushes.

Gillian screams.

9:12 a.m.

Cal runs around the corner, having heard shrieking from his office and nearly trips over himself when he finds the scene of the commotion.

Gillian.

Her eyes are wide and wild, terrified as she fights against the arm around her throat. Cal takes a half-step towards her.

“Nobody move!” the man shouts, waiving his gun with his free arm. “Step any closer, and I’ll shoot.”

Every word of it is true, and Cal is forced to obey. Slowly, he puts his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. There’s really no need for this, Mr. ... What’s your name?”

“Jason Peters.”

“I’m sure we can resolve this peacefully, Mr. Peters. Just put the gun down and let her go.” Cal steps cautiously towards them.

The arm around Gillian’s neck tightens as she lets out a soft gasp, and Peters presses the barrel of the gun against her temple.

“Take another step, she dies,” Peters says firmly. “I’ve read up on you people. I know that she’s the shrink and the voice expert. That’s what I need. You’ll do exactly as I say.”

It’s almost word for word what Matheson said in the same spot two years ago. That’s good, on the one hand, because they know how to deal with this sort of thing. On the other hand, it’s a terrible omen because Cal himself almost didn’t survive that incident.

Peters continues. “No law enforcement of any kind. Everybody else goes home. She stays with me in the lab. You can pick one staff member to help with things on the outside.”

“Two,” Cal bargains. “I can help from here, but if anything needs to go out into the field, they work best in a pair.”

“Two,” Peters concedes.

“And I want to be in the lab with you and Foster.”

“Not a chance,” he snarls. There’s a click of the gun cocking, and he pushes it harder into the side of her head.

Cal feels his heart stop and restart, and, oh, now he understands why she gets so angry at him for repeatedly putting himself in danger because this is awful.

He shifts his eyes from Peters’s to Gillian’s. They’re scared, but a silent agreement goes between the two of them. Capitulation is her best chance for survival.

“It’s okay,” she chokes out. “I’ll be fine. Just do as he says.”

Sunset, a few seconds later

Gillian’s read enough books, romance or otherwise, to know that her life is supposed to be flashing before her eyes, but she can’t stop screaming. Her limbs flail wildly, some long-distant instinct attempting to fly or, at the very least, right herself and determine up from down.

She isn’t sure how long she falls, but it’s long enough to think about falling which is never a good sign.

Impact happens too quickly for her to process it, but it goes something like this: foot, knee, then everything else all at once, and suddenly she’s log rolling at a nauseating speed.

Gillian thought that hitting the ground would be a short and sudden stop (to her life and gravity), but she isn’t slowing down.

If anything, she’s gaining speed.

What’s that sound?

Oh, right.

Gillian is still screaming. Has she taken a breath? How long has it been? Can Peters (or anybody) still hear her?

She hits something, hard, and yes, there’s that sudden stop, a dull thud accompanied by a loud pop, like a tree branch snapping, and then darkness.

10:41 a.m.

Cal feels sicker by the minute. Peters has disclosed a history of domestic violence, and Gillian is locked in the lab with him. So far, she’s played it like they did with Matheson: keeping the guy calm and patching the rest of the crew into the videos and audio so they can keep an eye and ear on everything.

Helplessness isn’t a feeling Cal is accustomed to. He’s a man of action, not one to take things lying down or sit around and wait to see how things turn out, but there’s nothing else he can do. Every instinct in him says to grab the gun in the safe and go in, guns literally a blazing, but that could very quickly spiral out of control (more so than they are already right now).

God, he misses Ben Reynolds. He would know what to do. He would keep a clear head and even temper. He would be able to get Gillian out of this, no bloodshed required.

“Sometimes,” Gillian says, voice slightly distorted through the microphone, “the things people do to protect you are the things that hurt you the most.”

Guilt and regret sit heavily on Cal’s chest. All the things he had done to protect her—withheld secrets, spied on Dave and Alec, slept with other women to keep her away from him—served only to hurt her. It’s a lesson he’s learned but doesn’t understand, that, for some reason, she wants all of him, not just the good parts.

Even still, he can’t seem to let her in, let her close.

Now, he may never get the chance.

Twilight, between sunset and dusk

Gillian comes to and desperately wishes that she hadn’t. Everything hurts, but especially everything on her right side. Her wrist, rib cage, knee, and ankle throb with enough violence to make her head fuzzy. Or maybe her head just hurts on top of everything else? It’s hard to say.

Gillian begins to piece things together. Peters pushed her off a cliff. She fell a distance (she doesn’t even want to think about calculating how far), hit the ground, rolled a bit, and then hit a …

Boulder. A giant rock. That’s currently still supporting her.

Using her left arm, Gillian tries to push herself into sitting and screams at the pain.

Okay. No. Definitely not doing that.

She’ll just … wait here.

For rescue or death.

Whichever comes first.

1:35 p.m.

Torres and Loker come back from the field with nothing. Peters has been looking for his wife, but it’s becoming increasingly likely that Peters killed them, buried them, and is in some sort of awful denial about it, using Gillian to prove his nonexistent innocence.

He’s asking them to pull a rabbit out of a hat, and Cal is starting to feel like they’re out of rabbits.

Peters, predictably, goes into a rage, trashing the lab. Once that’s a mess, he turns his ire on Gillian, shouting expletives and threats on her life to her and to the rest of them.

“You know, If you’d really wanted leverage, you picked the wrong person,” Gillian says calmly.

That stops Peters’s tirade, at least momentarily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No one needs me.” She shrugs, like it’s a simple fact, and admission not worthy of fanfare. “Cal’s got his daughter, Eli’s got his father, and Ria’s got her little sister. But me? I’m alone. There isn’t anyone that can’t live without me.”

The three of them crumple at hearing that through the audio feed.

“She believes that,” Torres says softly.

Loker threads his hands together and puts them on his neck, leaning his head back. “Jesus Christ.”

Cal says nothing. What is there to say? Everything he needs to say, he can’t, because the person he needs to say them to can’t hear him.

“That’s not true,” Peters says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

Gillian, incredibly given the situation, laughs. “Who? Cal? He looks at most women that way. Attraction is a physiological response. It’s not something people control. Increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, dilated pupils.”

Cal has always wondered whether or not she’s seen it. It doesn’t surprise him that she has; it’s not like he tries to hide it, but she’s never mentioned it even once before now.

“Besides,” she continues, “I’m not his type.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Yeah, sure, he finds a wide variety of things attractive, but Gillian ticks all the boxes, as far has he’s concerned. Does she think he’s been ignoring her? Or overlooking her? Or never seen her in the first place?

“Bullshit,” Peters says, verbalizing Cal’s own thoughts.

Gillian redirects everyone’s attention. “Let’s stay focused on finding your wife, shall we?”

Twilight, but a little darker

Somewhere in the distance, a pack of wolves howl.

There is a part of Gillian that wants to laugh hysterically. She always thought that she would die normally, at an appropriate age, either in a care facility or the privacy of her own home.

Falling to her death, breaking what feels like all the bones in her body, and then being eaten by wild animals had not been anywhere close to being on her bingo card.

On the other hand, Gillian thinks as her teeth clack together, hypothermia is always an option. Peters had been right on that account. He had, funny enough, not given her the opportunity to grab her coat before dumping her in the woods, and her sleeveless dress, while fashionable, is not at all suitable for the late autumn chill.

Her urge to laugh is quickly replaced by an urge to cry. She does a bit of both. It’s not nearly as cathartic as she needs it to be.

4:23 p.m.

This situation has officially gotten out of control.

The scene that played out this morning is happening in reverse, minus the very important part of Gillian being free, safe, and unharmed.

Peters drags her through the halls once again, gun to her head, elbow around her neck. Cal, Loker, and Torres meet at the intersection of the main hallway and the one that leads to their offices.

There isn’t a doubt in Cal’s mind that Peters will shoot Gillian if any of them moves so much as a muscle. Gillian, for her part, looks utterly exhausted and resigned.

“Any last words for Foster here?” Peters’s words imply before I kill her.

Cal doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he wants to say, what he needs to say, but the words won’t form on his mouth. All he can say is, “Gillian.”

“I know,” she says. “Me too, Cal.”

“Touching,” Peters says, and drags her away backwards. He keeps his gun trained on the three of them, then back to Gillian.

“Now what?” Loker asks when they’re left alone in the office without Peters (and, most importantly, Gillian).

“Time to call it in,” Torres says. “I checked the security feed and got the plate. He, uh, put Foster in the trunk.”

Cal’s blood boils. “That bastard.”

“He won’t get away with this,” Loker promises.

“Don’t call it in,” Cal says, finally processing the first half of what Torres said. “Call Reynolds on his direct line. We need someone that can keep it quiet. If Peters catches wind of law enforcement following him, I’m worried he’ll send the car off a bridge with Gillian in the boot.”

Dusk

The last glow of sunlight leaves. In its place, stars twinkle. The waning crescent moon feels oddly poetic. It’s maybe a day or two before the new moon, the empty moon, the end of the cycle. Sort of like Gillian.

Except she won’t be reborn the next day. She doesn’t believe in reincarnation and she’s not as Catholic as she was raised, but even for her faith in God, He feels quite distant in this moment.

Is heaven real? If it is, is that where she’ll go? Gillian likes to think that she’s lived a pretty upstanding life, but she’s far from perfect. Or maybe it’s all predestination anyway and what she’s done in life doesn’t matter.

Perhaps this is all just grief for herself and the life she won’t get to live. Like any good psychologist, Gillian knows that the step model of grief isn’t perfect, that grief is often messy and its supposed stages all run together. She’s been angry and accepting, in denial and in despair plenty today. Maybe this is the bargaining stage.

Above, the stars continue to shine.

5:45 p.m.

“We got a hit on the plate!” Torres shouts.

Loker shoots up from the couch. “Finally! Where?”

He and Cal clump to her side. She puts the phone on speaker.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Reynolds says. “The car was found in Bentonville, just outside of Shenandoah National Park. It ran out of gas, and it was abandoned on the side of the road. Security cameras on a nearby gas station have footage of him fleeing on foot, alone. Police are checking the car, but there’s no sign of Foster. Anyway, we reverse engineered some security footage, and the car was seen entering and exiting the park. Chances are, that’s where Foster is.”

Cal consciously unclenches his teeth from where they’ve been grinding for the past eight and a half hours. “That sounds like all bad news, Ben.”

“Well, then, I’ve got more for you. Your boy, Peters? That isn’t his real name. His actual name is Jeffery Gladstone. He’s been wanted by police and FBI ever since his last four wives have gone missing under mysterious circumstances.”

Silence follows that bit of information. Gillian hasn’t just been in the hands of one unhinged man on a mission. She’s been in the hands of a serial killer.

“So what now?” Loker asks.

“I alerted search and rescue. They’re looking for Foster. FBI agents are pursuing Gladstone,” Reynolds says.

Torres sighs. “Thank you, Reynolds. We miss you.”

He laughs with a hint of sentimentality. “You know, I miss you all sometimes too. Keep me updated about Foster.”

“Now what?” Loker asks once they’ve hung up.

“Everybody in my car,” Cal says, grabbing his keys. “We’re going on a road trip.”

Night

It’s gotten very, very dark. Gillian hasn’t tried, but she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to see her own hand in front of her face.

She is also pretty sure that she’s reached the depression stage of the grief speed run. Her thoughts have turned as dark as the sky, that it would have been better if Peters had just shot her or pushed her off a higher cliff to ensure a fatal drop.

All Gillian can feel is pain and cold. Parts of her body have gone numb, either from the chill or lack of circulation from the awkward way she’s propped up by the boulder. Every breath is accompanied by a stabbing sensation deep in her lungs.

A low buzzing sound echoes through the valley. A swarm or cicadas? It gets louder until it morphs into the unmistakable sound of a helicopter propeller.

That’s nice. Gillian went on a helicopter once. It was with Alec for their honeymoon in Hawai’i. The valleys there were so lush and green and the pilot talked about all the flora and fauna—

Wait. A helicopter. At night.

That’s no tourist cruise.

Could it be that they’re looking for her? Even if they’re looking for someone else, they might be able to find her as well.

“Hey!” Gillian yells. “I’m here! Help!”

It’s pointless, of course. Even without the sound of the chopper blades, she would be too far.

Even still, hope is an irrational thing that burns like fire.

7:07 p.m.

Cal white-knuckles the whole drive, speeding at least 15 over the whole way. Torres and Loker sit silent in the back. When they arrive at the gate to the park, the ranger attempts to turn them around.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s—” they start.

“I’m Cal Lightman,” he says. “Foster’s my partner.”

They buzz the gate open. “Agent Reynolds said you’d be coming. Park at the ranger’s station. First building on the right.”

Cal parks haphazardly and doesn’t check to see if Loker and Torres are following. The ranger’s station is a mess of activity. A map on the wall shows a search radius that seems too big to cover.

“Hi.” A ranger in a vest that seems to be in charge approaches them. “Are you the Lightman Group?”

“Where’s Foster?” Cal asks.

“We’re still looking. The issue is that we don’t know exactly where she was taken. There are only so many places they could have gotten to in the time frame the car was in the park, but that’s still a lot of ground to cover,” she explains with the authority of a person who’s handled missing persons cases before. “We’ve got sniffer dogs, thermal drones, and helicopters. We’re doing everything we can.”

“Would it help the dogs if they could smell something of hers?” Loker asks. “I brought her coat from the office.”

The ranger looks pleasantly surprised. “Yes, actually. Thanks.”

“This is Eye-In-The-Sky to Base, over,” a radio crackles.

“This is Base, I copy you. Over,” the ranger says.

“I’m seeing nothing on the south side. I’m heading back until we’ve got more info.”

“Got it. I’ll keep you updated.” The ranger switches channels and radios the dog team. Once she’s done, she turns back to the three of them, awkwardly huddled together. “Why don’t the three of you have a seat? We’ve got coffee and hot chocolate.”

Night, colder and darker

Gillian is getting very sleepy. Maybe sleep won’t be such a bad idea. Rest is good for all bodily injuries, right?

A part of her knows that if she closes her eyes, she won’t wake up.

Gillian shuts them anyway.

7:53 p.m.

Cal is pacing. Loker is fidgeting. Torres is fretting.

It’s been almost an hour, and there’s been no news. Over and over, the radio calls report nothing. The ranger (who’s name is Kari) updates the map, crossing out various areas.

“This is Dog Team 3 to Base, over.”

“I copy you, Dog Team 3,” Kari says. “What’ve you got?”

“A body.”

Not a person, a body.

All at once, they stop moving. Cal hasn’t thrown up since his last big bender after the divorce, but he thinks he might sick up on the floor if it’s Gillian.

“Can you make a positive I.D. on the body?” Kari asks.

“Negative. This one is at least a few years old at this point. Nothing but bones.”

Cal exhales.

“That might be one of Gladstone’s previous victims,” Torres whispers to them. “I mean I don’t know how many people die in Shenandoah per year, but serial killers often have a favorite dumping ground. It might be a sign that they’re getting closer.”

Before Cal or Loker can respond, another radio call comes through.

“This is Dog Team 6 to Base, over. I also found a body. Mine’s the same age if not older, only a mile away from Dog Team 3.”

Kari runs her hands through her hair. “Got it. Tell me your coordinates, please. Gladstone has five victims. Let’s concentrate our search in that area, say a five-mile radius.”

Five victims. Kari’s including Gillian in Gladstone’s kill count.

Loker catches Cal’s eye. “Don’t give up on her yet. Gillian survived everything else Peters/Gladstone threw at her. She’s smart and tough. If anyone can get through this, it’s her.”

Night (or maybe heaven?)

Somewhere, a dog barks.

Gillian smiles. Is she dead? Does that mean there are dogs in heaven? She brushed off the suggestion when Cal mentioned adopting a puppy, but she does love dogs. A dog in the afterlife sounds like a nice thought.

8:04 p.m.

“Dog Team 2 to Base, over.”

“I copy,” Kari says. “What’s up?”

“Found a shoe that matches the sniff test.”

“What shoe?” Cal asks. Kari relays the question.

“It’s black, 3-4 inches of heel. Over.”

“That’s hers! She’s got to be nearby,” Cal says excitedly.

“I need all teams in the vicinity to head towards Dog Team 2,” Kari orders.

“Found a second shoe. The dogs are leading me to a cliff edge and signaling there. Might need a chopper. I can’t see anything, and yelling hasn’t gotten any response. Over.”

Cal doesn’t like a word of what that sounds like. He doesn’t want to think about Gillian going over a cliff or a recovery crew instead of a rescue crew or having to identify a bashed and broken version of her.

Kari nods solemnly. “Copy. Sending a thermal drone and chopped your way. Over.”

A few minutes later, another call comes in.

“This is Heat Wave to Base, over.”

“I copy,” Kari says.

“I’m by the cliff. There is a heat signature. I can’t tell if it’s a person or not, but whatever it is isn’t moving. The temp is also low, either hypothermic or recently deceased.”

“Copy. A chopper is on the way.”

Night (or maybe hell?)

Gillian is in agony. She’s pretty sure of two things: she’s either dead and in hell, or she’s about to be. The numbness from earlier is gone, and so are the dogs. It’s possible she was hallucinating. Another buzzing sound passed overhead, or at least she thought it did. A swarm of bees, perhaps? Do bees even fly at night?

A louder thumping makes her head pound. It reminds her of the folklore of the thunderbird, the bird who’s wings are responsible for the sound of thunder. It’s accompanied by a strong downward wind that sets off another round of bone grating shivers and a bright light.

Is this the bright light they talk about? Is it finally time? Gillian is ready; she’s been ready for hours.

Something descends from the noisy light. A human, or human-like thing. They land next to her, a long braid flapping in the wind.

“Gillian Foster?” the voice shouts. “Is that you?”

“Are you an angel?” she asks.

There’s a laugh. “No, my name is Maria. Wow, and I glad we found you. You’re going to be okay, Gillian. We’ll get you out of here.”

Gillian starts to cry. She’s alive? Still? And rescue is here?

“I’ve got her. She’s alive and conscious, maybe altered mental state. Looks like at least a couple of broken bones, possible spinal injury. Send down another medic and a board. Let the hospital know we’re coming.” Maria taps her shoulder. “Gillian, can you hear me? Can you tell me what month it is?”

“End of October,” she says.

“Good, okay. Can you tell me what hurts the most?”

Gillian whines. Everything hurts, especially the right side. She’d been trying not to think about it, but now that she does, it’s like opening a floodgate. Her wrist aches, and her ankle and knee cap feel like they’ve split in half. It’s possible they actually have. Her chest isn’t doing to well either, each breath becoming more difficult than the last.

“Right leg,” Gillian says. “But everything.”

“Got it.” It’s a new voice, this time. “Hey Gillian, my name is Dennis. We’re going to put you on a spine board. It’s going to require us to move you, and that might cause you some pain.”

More pain? She doesn’t think she can take more pain.

“We’ll get you some pain meds as soon as we’re up there, okay? This won’t take long, I promise.” Maria touches her right shoulder (ouch) and right hip (also ouch). “You’re probably going to want to cry out, and that’s okay. Just try to stay with us.”

There’s a count down, and then Maria and Dennis start to roll Gillian’s body away from the boulder that’s been propping her up. There’s some readjusting, and then they hoist her up.

All at once, it’s agony, the dial turned up from a 10 to a 12. She can feel the broken bits of her bones grinding against one another. Bile burns in her throat (when’s the last time she ate?) but retching hurts her chest and her vision narrows to a tunnel and there’s this ringing in her ears that just won’t go away.

“Gillian,” Maria shouts over her screaming. “Come on, girl, stay with us.”

Gillian does not stay with her. Instead, she succmbs to blissful darkness.

8:13 p.m.

“Eye-In-The-Sky to Base, over.”

“I read you. What’s the news?” Kari asks.

“Package acquired, delivering to Winchester Trauma Center.”

“Package?” Loker asks. “Is that Foster?”

Kari doesn’t respond outright but gives a sharp nod. “I’ll call ahead. What’s her status?”

“This is Medic 1. Package is alive. Obvious trauma to right leg and chest, possible spinal and internal injuries. Vitals aren’t great, but they’re stable. Weak thready pulse, blood ox of 92. Giving IV fluids and morphine. Over.”

“Copy that, will relay to Winchester. Good work, team.” Kari turns to the three of them, all standing and anxious. “Did y’all get that?”

“Foster’s alive,” Loker says, sounding to be in a state of disbelief.

“Winchester Trauma Center,” Torres repeats. “I have directions. Thank you so much, Kari.”

Cal can’t say much of anything with the lump in his throat. Instead, he crosses the room in four long strides and wraps Kari in a hug. A hand comes up to pat his back.

“You’re welcome,” she says, with emotion of her own. “Now go get your girl.”

Night (still)

“Gillian, you with us?” Maria is peering down at her, shining a light into her eyes.

She blinks blearily. “I think so.”

“How’s your pain on a scale of 1-10?” It’s Dennis.

Gillian tries to think. Nothing feels like anything now, which is an improvement. She tries to sit up, but something holds her back.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her down. “Don’t try to move. But I take it you’re feeling more comfortable?”

“Yeah.” It’s brighter here, but still loud. She flicks her eyes around, unable to turn her head, and remembers the helicopter. “Where are we going?”

“Hospital. We should be pulling in any minute now.”

Maria swipes something hard across her forehead that beeps. “Body temp is almost back up to normal.”

“My chest feels weird,” Gillian says, then coughs. Something wet dribbles down the side of her mouth.

“Shit,” Dennis says in a tone that isn’t good. “Give her oxygen. Possible lung injury. How much longer do we have?”

“Pulling in for a landing now,” the pilot says over the intercom.

Gillian feels the helicopter touch down, and then the cabin becomes a rush of activity. She’s lifted once again and transferred to a gurney.

“This is Gillian Foster, 41 year old female,” Dennis shouts. “She fell approximately 15 feet, rolled about 50 feet, then took an impact to a boulder. Suspected fractures to patella, tibia, fibula, and ribs. Possible lung injury.”

“Got it, thanks!” It’s a new voice, and there are a handful of new faces but all wearing masks. Their only distinguishing features are scrub colors, either black or light blue.

Maria squeezes her left hand one final time. “Good luck, Gillian.”

“I’m Dr. Zhang, I’ll be doing your intake,” Mask number 1 says. “You’re going to need some x-rays. Any chance you could be pregnant?”

Gillian almost laughs. “No.”

“Okay. We’re going to get a good look at your arm, leg, back, and chest.” Mask number 2 says.

There’s some rearranging of her (very tender) limbs and at some point her clothes get cut off (it’s fine, the dress was getting old anyway and her dignity plunged off a literal cliff along with the rest of her hours ago).

Gillian’s starting to feel pretty fuzzy again. Maybe they hit her with more pain meds? Not that she’s complaining. Meanwhile, a whole conversation in medical lingo goes on over her head.

“Good news, looks like her neck and spine are intact. Her leg isn’t looking so great, though. Compound ankle, comminuted patella. She needs surgery.”

“Agreed. I’m seeing a lung contusion and 3 transverse fractures plus some possible hairlines. No flail chest, but I don’t want to FAFO.”

“Chest takes priority. Her wrist is greenstick and stable, it will be fine with just a cast.”

“Put her on oxygen and take her down to the O.R.”

Mask 1 leans over her. “Hey, Gillian. It’s Dr. Zhang again.”

“Hi,” she wheezes.

“You’ve got a lot of broken bones that we need to fix right away. We’re taking you to surgery.”

There’s a sensation of going downward. When did they get in an elevator? How are all these people plus her and the bed get into this elevator? Can they have an elevator like this in the office building?

“Any allergies to medications or metals?” Zhang asks.

With effort, Gillian focuses on him. “No.”

The evaluator dings. A whole new set of people join the group she’s with already.

A new voice and face and scrub color (green) joins the conversation. “Before you go under, is there someone we can call?”

“Cal,” she says. “Cal Lightman.” His cell phone number rattled off her tongue twice in a row. They need to call him, she needs him here.

“Got it. You’re in good hands, Gillian. We’ll see you when you wake up.”

“I’m going to sedate you so we can perform the surgery,” someone off to her right says. “Can you count back from ten for me?”

“Ten,” Gillian says. “Nine, eight—”

Chapter Text

9:07 p.m.

Cal screeches into the hospital’s parking lot. The three of them walk/jog into the hospital waiting room. About half the seats are full, and everyone stares at them.

“Can I help you?” someone behind the desk asks.

“Yeah. We’re here for Gillian,” Cal says. “Gillian Rose O’Connor Foster. She came by helicopter.”

“Her maiden name was O’Connor?” Torres asks at the same time Loker says, “I’ve always wondered what the R stands for!”

He hushes them. “Can we see her? Is she okay?”

“Who are you?” the person behind the desk asks.

“I’m Cal. I’m her …” He falters.

“We’re her family,” Loker asserts, and Cal never thought he’d be grateful for Loker, but here they are.

“My name is Shannon,” a woman wearing light blue scrubs says. “I’m one of the nurses that did her triage. Come back with me.”

The three of them follow her back. They pass several beds and patients awaiting treatment updates and enter an elevator. Shannon takes them up to the second floor. The hallway there is quiet, but there are large, windowed rooms. Confusingly, she takes them to one that’s empty.

“This is the recovery ward,” Shannon explains. “Gillian is in surgery now, but this is where she’ll come when she’s done.”

“But how is she?” Cal asks.

A man with black scrubs and glasses to match joins them. “I’m Dr. Zhang. As nurse Shannon here probably told you, Gillian is in surgery. She broke quite a few bones.”

He goes on to explain that her ribs are broken and need stabilization to protect her lungs that are bruised. Once that’s handled, they’ll start working on putting her ankle bones back in place and reconnecting the bits of her knee cap. Her wrist is broken too, but not as severely.

“It will take at least a few hours assuming there aren’t any complications,” he concludes. “We’ll keep you updated.”

A few hours. That’s going to pass like a few years. Cal wants to tear his hair out. Loker and Torres don’t look any better. Today has been nothing but a waiting game, and their patience is wearing thin.

Zhang and Shannon leave them alone. Cal takes to pacing the hallway, then checks his watch. Just shy of 9:20. California is three hours behind. Emily should be done with class and, ideally, studying hard and not partying (at least not this early) on a Wednesday.

Emily picks up on the third ring. “Hi Dad! What’s going on?”

“Hey, love,” he sighs.

“Oh, no. What happened?” Emily’s ears are too sharp for his own good.

“It’s Gillian. Listen, Em …” He trails off.

Emily inhales sharply. “No. She can’t be …”

“She’s alive,” Cal reassures her. “But she’s had a rough day. She’s in surgery right now for some broken bones.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I can’t lie to you, darling; it’s not great. She was pushed off a cliff.”

There’s a horrified gasp. “Oh God. Anything I can do?”

No one save the surgeons and Gillian herself can do much of anything, and Cal shares the helplessness in her voice. “I don’t think so. Just send her your love when you can, alright?”

“Okay. Thanks for telling me. Let me know if anything changes. I love you both.”

“Love you too, Emily.” Cal hangs up and sees that Loker and Torres have followed his lead, Loker likely to his roommate and Torres to Ava. When they’re both done, he gathers them at the far end of the hall. “Can the two of you help me call the staff and update them on the situation? No more details than needed, just that the situation with Gladstone/Peters has been resolved and Foster is in the hospital.”

The divide the work between the three of them, Cal takes the full-time employees, Loker takes the part-timers and half the interns, Torres takes the other half of the interns and auxiliary staff. Everyone expresses horror that, of all people, Gillian Foster, is the one who’s suffering and fighting for her life.

It might not have accomplished anything, but at least it passed some of the time.

???

“I think she’s waking up.”

Gillian doesn’t wake up as much as she gradually realizes that she’s conscious. She’s groggy and exhausted. What time is it? Where is she? What happened?

“It’s after 11 o’clock at night. You’re at Winchester Trauma Center. You took a nasty fall and broken some bones, and you needed surgery to fix them.” The voice is coming from green scrubs.

Apparently she asked all that out loud. The next question that comes out is, “Where’s Cal?”

“You can see him in a little bit. I just want to talk to you about your surgery and treatment plan. Do you think you’re up for that?”

“Yeah,” Gillian says, even though she definitely isn’t. She’s so tired and sore and achy and all she really wants is a hot bath and a glass bottle of wine.

“Okay.” Green scrubs nods. “I’m going to talk you through what happened and what we did. My name is Dr. Price, and I’m an orthopedic surgeon here. That means I’m a surgeon that specializes in fixing bones.” They show her a series of x-rays. “This is your rib cage. See these lines here? Those are fractures, or breaks in the bone. It probably happened when you rolled into the rock. Because you have more than two consecutive broken ribs, we put plates, or little pieces of metal, to reinforce the broken parts. This helps to make sure that your lungs are safe.”

Gillian takes an intentional breath. It still hurts, but she trusts them.

“Next up, here’s your ankle.” Price shows her an x-ray that makes her wince. Anyone could see that it’s broken. “This is what we call an open or compound fracture. That means that your bone was poking out through the skin. We’ve put those back in place with rods and screws.”

“Ouch.”

They chuckle. “Yeah. Ouch. Your knee cap was also broken, in several places.” They show her the x-ray. There are three big pieces and a few smaller pieces. “We reconnected the big pieces. The small ones will reattach on their own or be filled in with scar tissue.”

Gillian really doesn’t like the sound of little bits of bone just floating around in her knee. Not like she has much of a choice, though.

“Lastly, your wrist. This one wasn’t too bad. It’s a greenstick fracture, meaning it didn’t break all the way through. It’s going to heal just fine in a cast, no surgery required.” Dr. Price smiles reassuringly.

Small mercies.

Black scrubs joins them. “Hi, Gillian, it’s Dr. Zhang again. We’re going to keep you here for at least another day. You’ve probably got a concussion, but we’ll be observing you for any head more serious trauma and internal injuries. You’ve got a lung contusion—that’s a bruise on your lung—which is why you’re on oxygen, but we haven’t found any other evidence of internal bleeding. I know it probably doesn’t feel like it, but you got pretty lucky. The next few days will hurt, and then you should recover well. Any questions?”

“Can I—” Gillian coughs. Her mouth feels like sand. “Water? And Cal?”

“Of course.” A nurse helps her drink through a straw. That’s better. “Are you ready to see your family?”

Gillian doesn’t bother correcting them. “Yes. Please.”

11:11 p.m.

Cal does his level best not to look horrified when they bring Gillian. Not to mince words, but she looks awful. She’s mostly covered in sheets, but what is exposed is covered in scratches and bruises. A sling suspends her mummified right leg. Her eyes have a glassy, unfocused sheen to them.

“I’ll meet the three of you outside for a moment when you’re ready,” Dr. Zhang says. “She’s still pretty out of it, so try not to spend to long with her right now.”

Cal’s already pulled up a chair on her left and takes her hand in his. Loker and Torres lurk over his shoulders.

“Cal?” she asks weakly.

“Hey, love. I’m here.” Cal is somewhat soothed by the way she squeezes back.

Her gaze shifts up and to the side. “Eli?”

“Hey, Foster,” he says, aiming for a cheerful tone. “How do you feel?”

Gillian blinks a few times like she’s trying to understand the question. “Bad.”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Loker,” Torres hisses.

“Ria?”

“Yeah, hi,” she says in a gentler tone. “I’m glad to see you.”

Gillian yawns. “I’m sleepy.”

“Alright.” Cal reluctantly lets go of her hand. “I’ll be back when you wake up.”

The three of them leave the room so Gillian can have some peace and quiet to rest. In the hall, Dr. Price explains the operation, and Dr. Zhang goes over the treatment plan.

“Right now, I would say that her prognosis is good,” he says. “We do want to keep a close eye on her, but if all goes well, we’re looking at a discharge either tomorrow night or the one after depending on how she’s handling everything. Do you all have some place to stay? We only allow one over-night visitor at a time.”

The three exchange looks. Cal is staying, there isn’t a doubt about that.

“Take my car,” he says. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll call you if something changes. Get some clothes from Gillian’s house—her key is the small silver one. Anything soft and comfortable and wide-legged.”

Loker and Torres nod, not even a word of disagreement out of them. Rare, considering the way they butt heads with each other and Cal on a daily basis.

Cal returns to his beside vigil. The beep of Gillian’s heart monitor lulls him to sleep.

Morning

Gillian cracks her eyes open. Everything hurts. Not in the intense way it had the day before, but as an overwhelming ache that dulls everything around her.

“Good morning,” someone whispers.

She lifts her head and spots a nurse in purple (purple!) scrubs. “Hello?”

“I’m the morning shift, Gail, just checking in. Can I help you get to the bathroom?”

Gillian sighs but accepts the help as if she has a choice. It’s awkward to say the least. The first step is detaching her leg from the sling (ouch) then shifting herself to a seated position, legs hanging off the bed. Sitting up straight for the first time in almost a full day feels intense. Blood rushes to her feet, and black spots dance across her vision.

After a moment, they stand. Gillian slings her left arm around Gail, balances on one foot, and they pivot so she can sit in a wheelchair. They do the process in reverse to get her onto the toilet, the IV stand following her like a shadow.

“Sorry,” Gillian says, humiliated that she’s this helpless.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says. “It’s alright. It’s my job. This isn’t your fault, and this isn’t your forever.”

Gillian nods, but has her doubts. She has always valued her independence, taken pride in it, even. Is this what she’ll be reduced to? Needing help for the most basic tasks?

“There’s also a toothbrush and toothpaste for you if you want to use it,” Gail offers when they get to the sink.

Gillian runs a tongue over her teeth. Her whole mouth feels gritty and gross. Getting toothpaste onto the toothbrush with one hand is difficult and awkward (she’s picking up on a theme, here), and brushes her teeth with her non-dominant hand.

She suddenly becomes very aware of how she smells. All the sweat and grime and dust and blood of yesterday clings to her in a thin film. She glances longingly at the shower.

“Sorry, Gillian, but you can’t until tomorrow evening.” Gail reads her perfectly. “Your stitches need things to be dry. I can get you a bowl of water and a wash cloth, though, if you want to wipe off a bit.

Gillian accepts that. She feels marginally cleaner after, but running the cloth over various parts of her body only aggravates her pain in the form of various bruises.

After that, she gets back into bed. Gail sets about changing the gauze around her right leg. It’s the first time Gillian’s gotten to look at her leg, and it looks as terrible as it feels. Bruises molt her skin a dark purple. There’s an incision line running up over her kneecap, from a few inches below to a few inches above. Her ankle looks worse, with stitches on both sides. Once her leg is rewrapped, Gail does a similar process for her ribs.

“I’m going to move your right leg around a bit, okay? Nothing serious, just keeping your hip moving until you can do it yourself. Let me know if anything hurts too much.” Gail takes a hold of her leg, one hand on the underside of her thigh and the other on her calf. She moves the leg in small circles and, oh wow, she’s really stiff. By the time that’s finished, Gillian’s pain has increased its volume from a low buzz to a growl.

“Things hurting?” Gail asks.

Gillian nods with gritted teeth. “Yeah.”

“You can use this button.” She points it out. “It will put some morphine in your system. There’s a limit, of course, but use it if you need it.”

Morphine. Gillian is all too familiar with addiction. Knowing that it’s limited gives her some comfort, though.

A press of the button bring her near instant relief.

“Thank you, Gail,” she says.

“You’re welcome. I know you’re probably not hungry, but can I get you anything to eat? Doesn’t have to be healthy or breakfast food. Yogurt? Jell-O?”

“She likes chocolate pudding.”

Gillian notices Cal for the first time. He looks ragged, worse for the wear, but his eyes are warm with fondness.

Gail smiles. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do about chocolate pudding. I’ll be back later, alright?”

When she’s gone, Cal perches himself on the left side of her bed. He sets his hand on her forearm, thumb stroking the crease of her elbow.

“How’re you doing, love?”

She turns her own hand palm up to hold on to his forearm. “Been better.”

“Yeah. I know what I said before, but there’s such a thing as too much black and blue.”

Gillian allows herself a laugh at that but cuts off when it’s too painful. She’s tired again even though she woke up not half an hour ago. Maybe a side effect of the drugs?

“Sleep, love,” Cal says. “I’ll wake you when there’s pudding.”

Thursday, evening around 7 o’clock

In the end, Cal has to run out to a grocery store to find chocolate pudding. It’s worth it, though, for the way she smiles.

She only eats half of it which is worrying, but the doctor assures him that it’s fine. Her appetite might not return for a few days because of the pain and medications.

The day passes slowly. The most exciting part of the day is when Gillian is whisked away for a C.T. scan that, happily, shows no internal bleeding.

Nurses come to check on her vitals, and Cal learns how to help her. He does, with Gillian’s consent, learn how to move her leg to help her retain hip mobility. If she weren’t in so much pain, his brain would have lit up with dopamine at the chance to grab her thigh (soft) and calf (even softer).

Around dinner time (a fact he only knows because a nurse has been harping on him to continue taking care of himself or whatever), Loker and Torres return.

“Thought my house was only a hour or so away. What took the two of you so long?”

“We got clothing like you asked, and then we stopped in at the office to make sure things were running smoothly,” Loker says. “I delegated all of Foster’s low-stakes and slow burn cases among the staff and we took on any others. I called through all of our effected clients to explain the situation, and they understand. Torres and I can take care of it.”

Cal blinks in surprise. “That was very vice-presidential of you, Loker.”

“Thank you.” He’s beaming.

Cal’s already regretting giving him a compliment. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“We’ll probably need you back in the office on early next week, Tuesday at the latest, to keep a lid on things,” Torres says.

Tuesday. Cal shakes his head. He can’t believe that it’s only Thursday, and Gladstone/Peters was only yesterday. It feels like an age and a half.

“Alright,” he says. “Do you think the office will be alright without the four of us tomorrow? I need my car to transport Foster back. It’s looking like that won’t happen until tomorrow.”

Torres nods. “It will be fine. We already got a hotel room for ourselves tonight.”

Friday morning, around 11 o’clock

Gillian feels about as badly as she did yesterday, but the anticipation of getting to go home helps. Her leg is transferred from a sling to a brace. The ankle is fitted with a brace the looks like it’s from a drugstore while her knee has a fancy metal frame. She’s instructed not to take them off, even for sleep, except for in the shower.

A shower! How small her joys have become.

The nurse (a different one today) helps her shower. She’s not allowed to wash her leg, but at least the rest of her gets clean. The stitches on the side of her chest tug whenever she stretched her arm up and her right wrist, even though it’s in a waterproof cast, is worthless when it comes to lathering soap. It’s a slow process, but she does feel somewhat more human after.

Loker and Torres have also brought her clothes from home, a faded Duke shirt she got years ago and a loose pair of pajama pants that fit over her knee brace.

Around 11, a man not dressed in scrubs but a pair of navy blue dress slacks, matching tie, and white floral button up visits her and shoos her visitors out of the room.

“My name is Christian,” he says. “I’m one of the social workers here.”

Social work. Familiar territory. “Gillian,” she says. “Psychologist by training.”

“Lovely to meet you. I wanted to talk to you today about what happens after you’re discharged. You’ll be needing a lot of care until you’re able to do things on your own again. There are paid services, but they are expensive and may not be able to provide the kind of emotional support you’ll need going forward. Do you have someone you can stay with?” Christian asks.

She hesitates, only for a moment because they haven’t discussed. “Cal.”

“And he’s your …”

“Best friend,” she answers, because the word partner often gets misinterpreted when she uses it for them.

Christian writes that down. “And you feel safe with him?”

“Yes,” she answers unequivocally.

He smiles. “Good. Okay. What else can I help you with? Do you need me to help with filing short-term disability paperwork?”

“No, I co-own our business.” Gillian does sag a little bit at the thought of all the medical bills she’s probably crushing under. Maybe she’ll be the one taking out a loan this time. “I could use help with setting up doctors appointments. I don’t know who’s suppose to take out the stitches or where to find an orthopedist or physical therapist.”

“Consider it done. Thank you for talking to me, Gillian,” Christian says, standing, and politely offering his left hand for a shake.

She takes it. “Thank you.”

Friday afternoon, around noon

Cal, Loker, and Torres are sat down by the hospital social worker.

“I spoke with Gillian, and she said she’d like to stay with Cal. Is that alright with you?”

As if Cal would let her stay anywhere else. “Yes, of course.”

“I understand the nurses have been teaching you how best to help her. Is there anything you don’t feel comfortable doing?”

Cal has some reservations on a personal level about crossing the carefully constructed (and clothed) boundaries they’d formed over the years that have been obliterated in less than 48 hours, but he knows, generally, what to do. “Nah, it’s all good.”

“Her care needs will drop after the first few weeks, of course, but until then, it’s going to be around-the-clock. That’s not something one person can handle alone.” Christian checks his notes. “I have your names down as Ria and Eli. Would you each be able and willing to take on a day or two each week to give Cal a break?”

“Of course,” Eli says.

Ria hesitates.

“It’s okay if you’re not as comfortable,” Christian reassured her. “There are other ways to help. She’ll need help maintaining her apartment while she’s away.”

“I can do that,” she says. “And I set up a meal train at the office. Lightman won’t have to cook for a month, at this rate.”

“Good, good. That’s great,” he says. “Gillian asked me to help set up her appointments.” He passes out a sheet of paper. “This has the dates, times, and addresses of her next appointments. The first one will be on Tuesday with her GP to get her sutures inspected and removed, assuming it’s all good. Wednesday is the meeting with the orthopedist to make sure her bones have started healing. Because she broke her right ankle, she won’t be able to drive for a bit.”

“I can help with that too,” Torres offers.

“Wonderful. Now, I would be doing my job well if I didn’t talk about compassion fatigue. Reach out if you need help, to each other or to a professional.” Christian smiles at them. “Remember, you’re a team now. Gillian has the three of you, and you all have each other.”

Friday afternoon, around 3 o’clock

All of the monitoring equipment and needles were removed during the last nurse’s round. Gillian’s room feels oddly quiet without the various beeps.

“Alright, Gillian,” the ICU doctor says. “Are you ready to go home?”

She’s terrified, to be honest. So much could go wrong. At the same time, she misses the comfort of a real bed. “I think so.”

“I just need to go over some information with you. Did you want to go over this privately or is it alright if your family stays here?”

“They can stay,” Gillian says. She know she’s going to be relying on them, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.

Some information turns out to be a lot of information. The doctor goes over instructions for the stitches (don’t soak them), the broken bones (ice and immobilization), the general battered state of her body (rest), and, finally, the medications.

“The next few days might feel worse than today because you won’t be on morphine anymore. To help you out, I’ve prescribed you Vicodin. It is an opioid drug which means that it does carry a potential of addiction. Please be judicious about its use. I always tell patients to use over the counter medications like Tylenol for any pain you deem to be between a 1 and a 5. Vicodin should be used for pain 6 or 8. If you hit a 9 or 10, something’s probably going wrong that you should get checked out. Got it?”

Gillian swallows hard and nods. As much as she hates the pain, she fears addiction more. Cal, Loker, and Torres look just as solemn as she feels, as they’ve been in close contact with an alcoholic or addict at some point or another.

“Great!” The doctor carries on as if he hasn’t just handed her a lethal substance in a brown paper bag. “In that case, let’s get the paperwork signed and get you out of here.”

Gillian has to sign the paperwork with her left hand. It takes her a minute, and the result is clumsy, like the hand of a kindergartner rather than a psychology PhD holder, but it will do.

She’s wheeled out to Cal’s car, and then the four of them begin the journey home.

Friday, late afternoon

On the way back, Cal drives as cautiously as he can, going slightly below the speed limit and breaking as gently as he can. Every few seconds, he glaces in the rear view mirror to make sure Gillian is still in the back seat.

Half way back, somewhere around Leeburg, she falls asleep against the window, breath fogging the glass. She sleeps through the stop at Loker’s shared house and Torres’s apartment, and suddenly it’s just the two of them and he’s entirely responsible for her well-being.

It's terrifying. It reminds him a little of driving Emily home from the hospital and realizing that he was hers for the rest of his life and no one was going to stop him from messing it all up even though he desperately wanted to do everything right.

When they get to Cal’s house, she flutters her eyes open. “We’re here already?”

“Yup. Have a nice nap?”

“Mmm.” It’s not a yes or a no as much as a noise of acknowledgment.

Cal leaves her, just for a moment, to prop the front door open, dump the prescription onto the kitchen counter, and put the wheelchair inside. He returns and opens the rear passenger door. Carefully, Gillian takes her leg off of the console. He’s going to have to carry her because of the steps.

Gillian steadies herself with her left hand on his shoulder, and he helps her out of the car. Once she’s standing precariously on her left foot and bracing her right elbow against the hood of the car, he drops down to hook an elbow under her knees. With a grace that surprises himself, Cal picks her up and kicks the car door shut.

He spends the entire walk from the car to the house pointedly not thinking about traditions that involve carrying a person like this over the threshold of a home, and finds it’s easy to ignore those thoughts when he’s completely focused on making sure not to bump her into the door frames. He sets her down at the kitchen table, and they sit in silence for a while. It’s been a completely overwhelming 48 hours, and he doesn’t even know how to begin processing what happened while trying to care for her in the present. He doesn’t know how she’s processing everything. That’s her department.

Friday, evening

Torres arrives with the first meal train delivery (a carrot soup from intern Leland whose boyfriend is a chef). It smells delicious, but Gillian’s stomach feels like a rock. She spends more time dragging her spoon through the liquid than she does actually drinking it. Cal, meanwhile, seems all too enthusiastic after two days of surviving on nothing but a few bags of chips and coffees and downs two bowls.

The pain is creeping in, seeping into her thoughts. It’s hard for her to focus on anything besides the pain, let alone try to eat or carry on a conversation.

“Pain on a scale of 1-10?” Cal asks gently.

She ducks her head away. “I didn’t realize how much the morphine was helping.”

“A number, love,” he presses.

Gillian doesn’t want to give an honest answer. An honest answer means taking a potent addictive drug that kills people every day. And yet, she knows Cal won’t settle for a lie.

“Maybe a 7,” she answers quietly (honestly).

Cal fetches the bottle of Vicodin for her and hands over a single pill. Even as she suffers, she hesitates.

“It’s alright, darling,” he says, having read her expression. “I’ll keep the bottle somewhere secure.”

That’s the push Gillian needs. Cal will keep her safe, even from herself if he has to. She takes the pill.

An hour later, it’s only 8, but Gillian is falling asleep on his shoulder as they sit on the couch watching a dumb reality television show.

“Bed time,” Cal declares, and she complies drowsily.

He gets her ready for bed. Any more with it, and Gillian is pretty sure that she would be mortified. A combination of pain, sleepiness, and medication has blunted all of her emotions, the good and the bad.

Cal lifts her into bed and rearranged the pillows so her leg is propped up. He’s being so gentle with her, checking in for any signs of pain, and she loves him all the more for it.

“All set?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Her eyes are already sagging shut.

Cal switches off the beside lamp and turns to leave, but Gillian grabs the hem of his shirt as he starts to walk away.

“Stay,” she begs softly. “Please.”

The bed dips to the side as he sits on the edge. The last thing Gillian remembers before she falls asleep is Cal stroking her hair.

Chapter Text

Saturday and Sunday

Cal thinks he’s doing a marvelous job of not losing his mind about the fact that he’s literally sleeping with (next to) Gillian, but a good part of it is how little like herself she seems.

Vicodin and pain change Gillian. It scares him to watch her fade into a husk of herself. Her robust vocabulary shrinks to seven words: Cal, yes, no, help, please, bathroom, sleep.

She’s reduced to the most basic of functions, and barely succeeds at them without help. At one point on Saturday, Cal locks himself in the bathroom just so she won’t see how scared he is. It scares him even more when he realizes that she, in this state, probably wouldn’t even pick up on his fear.

It comes as a great relief to him when, on Sunday night, she begins to do something that reminds him of Emily’s terrible twos: Gillian’s favorite word becomes no.

“Do you want help with that?”

“No.”

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

“No.”

“Do you want to take another dose of medication?”

“No.”

Part of it, he imagines, is the pain making her grumpy. Gillian hasn’t outright said anything, but she’s been going longer and longer without taking medication. She’s stretching the time between doses, allowing herself an hour or two of unmitigated pain per day. Those are her most lucid (and cranky) moments, but it’s so good to see some part of her back.

She catches him smiling at dinner when she stabs a rebellious piece of macaroni with a fork (missing because her aim with her left hand isn’t very accurate) and makes a very good impression of the ides of March on a ceramic dish.

“What?” she snaps.

Cal bites the inside of his cheek. “Nothing.”

Gillian narrows her eyes and waves her fork threateningly in his direction. “You’re not going to offer to spoon feed me, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” Except he has, under different circumstances, and chocolate cake instead of macaroni and cheese. “Not unless you asked.”

She glares at him a moment more, then looses her fight with a sigh. “Do you think it would be wrong to ask them not to send anymore soups? It’s not like it’s my jaw that’s broken.”

“I’ll talk to Torres the next time she drops by to see what I can do,” Cal says, then locks himself in the bathroom once again because she would be furious if she saw him celebrating her disgruntlement at the menu options.

It’s the first time since early Wednesday Cal believes that Gillian will be okay.

Monday, around 2 o’clock

The emotions catch up to Gillian mid-Monday afternoon when Cal sets her on the toilet for the countless time. He waits outside for her to be done, and fortunately she can reach the sink to wash her hands from the toilet. Twisting enough to flush the toilet is challenging with her ribs but manageable, the same with balancing just enough to pull her bottoms up. Oh, the things she took for granted.

When Gillian considers hopping on one foot to the door and thinks through all the things that could go wrong if she were to fall (again, from a significantly shorter height, in a preventable situation), she’s swept away by a wave of helplessness and despair at her situation. Here she is, 41, and reliant on someone else to get her on and off the toilet.

Her pride takes the hit harder than anything. Gillian is (used to be) the sort of person that could do anything on her own as long as she set herself the task. Her mother’s death early on in her life and her father’s alcoholism meant that she had to be self-sufficient at a young age. Some psychologists, herself included, might label her hyper-independence as a coping mechanism: Not needing help from anyone ever means not getting disappointed by anyone ever.

The other part of it is her deep seated fear that she can’t be loved if she isn’t perfect. What’s Cal supposed to think about her now? What’s stopping him from abandoning her the second this gets too much? What is there left of her to love like this?

Maybe he will leave. Maybe he will hate her now. Maybe all her chances of them finally getting together in a romantic sense are, literally, dashed on the rocks. Maybe it would have been better if she had just died when—

“Gil?” Cal knocks softly. “You all right in there?”

She sniffles and wipes her face off with some toilet paper, chucking it in the bin next to the sink. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Her voice comes out all wobbly, a dead give away that she’s crying, and she can hear in Cal’s silence the way he’s considering what to do next.

“You don’t sound fine,” he says after a pause. “Alright if I come in?”

“Yeah.” Not like she can stop him, and the door’s going to have to open at some point anyway.

The door opens slowly, and Cal walks in like he’s navigating a minefield (an emotional one, at any rate). Gillian casts her gaze at the tile floor, avoiding him and displaying a textbook expression of shame.

He comes into her field of view when he sits cross-legged in front of her and wraps his hand around her left ankle. His eyebrows are knit together in concern and kindness, so much that it hurts, and Gillian starts crying again (or cries harder because she never really stopped).

“Tell me?” Cal implores.

“I— I’m just—” What’s she supposed to say? The truth? And make Cal worry about her mental and physical health? “I’m worried about you,” she says. “Compassion fatigue is a real thing.”

“I know. Christian talked to us about that.” His tone is calm, as if he doesn’t care that she’s just lied to him. Instead, he keeps sitting there, thumb running over the bump on her ankle (the tibia, because she knows that now having looked at the x-rays of her wrecked side). His patience is a page out of her book, and now she understands why he hates it when she does this to him. It’s unnerving.

“Want to tell me what’s really wrong?” he asks in a whisper. “Or should I guess?”

Gillian shrugs and tries to get in control of her emotions because she’s started hiccuping and that hurts which, if she has to pick, she’d rather cry about emotional pain than physical pain.

“I’ll guess then. I’m guessing that you hate this whole situation. I’m guessing that you hate that you have to be cared for. I’m guessing that you hate feeling like a burden.”

She sucks in a breath. Cal struck a bull’s eye on the last one, so accurate it hurts. He squeezes her ankle and smiles up at her sadly, like her being in pain hurts him too.

“You’re not a burden, love. I promise.” He kisses her knee. “In sickness and in health and all that.”

“Cal,” she breathes, “we aren’t married.” It feels a little surreal that she has to remind him of that. On the other hand, he’s just kissed her knee, one she hasn’t shaved in about a week now, while she’s sitting on a toilet. What’s next? Kissing for real? On the lips? Not as a part of a cover story?

“Point still stands,” he says. “There’s no where I’d rather be than here with you.”

Gillian cries a few minutes more, before her tears begin to slow. She wipes her face (again) and gives him a self-deprecating smile. “That was pathetic.”

“Not pathetic,” Cal assures her. “A little melodramatic, maybe, but you’ve always been a crybaby.”

She laughs at the tease.

“Let’s get you off the loo, then.” Cal scoops her up and holds her close to his chest. As they walk to his couch, she nuzzles into his neck. His voice is a soothing vibration there. “I’m here, yeah?”

With her eyes closed, it almost sounds like I love you. She sighs, content. “Yeah.”

Tuesday

“Cal,” she calls from the couch. “Stop fretting.”

He sneers at her from the kitchen. “I’m not fretting! Just—”

“Fussing?” Gillian offers. “Worrying? Moping?”

“No! I’m just … rationally cautious about letting Loker of all people look after you for a day,” Cal says, plopping down next to her on the couch.

“Why? Worried I’m going to want to move in with him instead?” she taunts.

He pinches her side. “Oh, a riot, you are.”

The doorbell rings to signal Eli’s arrival, and Cal lets him in. They go over today’s plan: Cal will go to work, Eli will do research while assisting Gillian, and they can’t forget about her stitch removal appointment at 10.

“Right,” Cal says, wiping his palms down the knees of his jeans. “Guess I’m off, then.”

He looks nervous all of a sudden, and Gillian feels a pang of sympathy. She wouldn’t want to leave either in his shoes. “It will be okay, Cal. You can go.”

Her permission seems to set him into motion. He drops down over the back of the couch and they share a side-of-the-mouth kiss. “Call if you need anything.” He then walks over to Eli, waggling a threatening finger. “You. Don’t mess up.”

Eli salutes mockingly. “No problem, boss.”

“Any questions?”

“Can I get a raise?”

“Piss off,” Cal says, and slams the door.

9:15 comes around shortly after that, and Eli (with a surprising amount of competence and grace) helps Gillian get into the car and head off to the doctor’s office. They hit traffic because it’s D.C. and of course they do, but they make it on time anyway. Eli waits in the lobby while she goes back.

“Good morning, Gillian,” Dr. Patel says. “I’m really sorry to hear about what happened.”

The empathy she injects in her tone is exactly why Gillian has kept the same doctor since she moved to D. C. She listened and did her best when Gillian and Alec had their struggles with infertility and recommended her a couples therapist towards the end.

“Let’s start with the stitches on your ankle, shall we?” Carefully, Dr. Patel removes the brace. “Looks a little red and itchy, but that’s normal. I’m not seeing any signs of infection, and the skin looks healed enough. I’m going to go ahead and take these out.”

It’s a surprisingly painless process, though Gillian is a little concerned about how bruised she still is. Things have faded maybe a little, but it’s still tender to the touch and quite colorful.

“So,” Dr. Patel says to break up the silence. “Who’s the handsome fellow in the lobby?”

“That’s Eli. He’s one of our employees, Vice-President.”

“I thought you were staying with Cal?”

“I am, but he had to go into work today.”

Dr. Patel hums. “Is Cal taking good care of you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I always knew he was a good man.” She finishes up the stitches on her knee and asks her to remove her shirt for the ones on her ribs. “How have you been handling the pain?”

“Okay. I was prescribed Vicodin,” Gillian explains even though she knows it’s in her patient chart. “I’ve been cutting back as much as I can. My pain is worse at night, so I’ve been taking one before bed. Other than that, I occasionally take a half one during the day if I need.”

Dr. Patel nods in approval. “Alright. Keep an eye on it.”

“I will,” Gillian promises. Once her shirt and braces are back on, she’s ready to go. “Any idea on when I’ll be able to return to work?”

She laughs. “Work? Really? Gillian, you’ve been through an incredibly traumatic experience on a physical and mental level less than a week ago.” When Gillian doesn’t laugh with her, she sobers. “I understand your desire to do something. How are your concussion symptoms?”

Gillian sort of forgot about that part. Everything had hurt so much that it was just one more thing on top of everything else. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve been preoccupied with my broken bones that I haven’t noticed. I’ve felt less nauseated and have been having an easier time focusing, though. I have more energy every day.”

“Okay. It sounds like you had a pretty mild concussion, anyway. Take the rest of the week to do nothing. After that, you can start back at 10 hours a week, nothing stressful. Add 5-10 hours per week as tolerated after that. Don’t let work become a coping mechanism to avoid processing your trauma, though.”

“Of course.” About that. Gillian’s been so exhausted that the whole experience still doesn’t feel real despite the physical evidence to the contrary.

She will be fine, though. Right?

After her appointment with Dr. Patel, she returns to Cal’s house with Eli. Gillian, sneakily, manages to get Eli to talk about his research and let some details about their current cases slip. She hadn’t realized it until talking to Dr. Patel, but she’s getting bored of resting, and she’s got almost another full week of it.

“Mind if I have a listen to the audio file from that case?” Gillian asks.

Eli snorts. Apparently she wasn’t as subtle as she thought. “Not a chance. Lightman would fire me if I let you work on a case right now.”

She rolls her eyes. “He wouldn’t actually fire you, you know.”

“I think he would,” Eli says with full conviction. “He’s very protective of you.” There a pause, then Eli shuts his screen. His face has gone earnest with a hint of shame. “But while we’re on the subject, there is something I’ve been meaning to say.”

Gillian tilts her head to the side, not sure what to expect but prepared for anything. “I’m listening.”

“What you said on Wednesday about no one needing you made me realize how little I’ve expressed my gratitude for you over the years, and I apologize for that.”

“Oh, Eli,” she says, “you don’t have to—”

He stops her. “But I do, though. I don’t know if you remember, but my first year at the Group was miserable. Lightman was constantly on me about everything, and I thought several times about quitting. There were days I considered just not showing up, but I did. It wasn’t because of Lightman. It was because of you. I stayed in this job because I knew that, no matter how badly I messed up, you would be kind to me. I never worked for your approval because I knew I didn’t need to, and I’m sorry that it’s come off as not needing you or appreciating you. I’m going to say this in the most professional and platonic way: I care about you, Gillian.”

“Thank you, Eli. I’m …” She feels like her heart is overflowing. “Overwhelmed in the best possible way. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you stuck it out. I know Cal can be, well, himself, but you’ve become an irreplaceable member of our team. You’ve grown so much personally and professionally, and I’m grateful to have been a witness to that.”

“Thanks.” He sighs with relief. “Wow, I feel so much better after saying that.”

“Good.” Things feel very open between the two of them, so Gillian takes the opportunity to ask something that’s been on her mind all day. “Is it alright if I ask you a bit of a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“You seem very comfortable with all this care-taking. Do you have experience with it?”

“I have experience being on the other side.” Eli leans forward, setting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. “My first week of college freshman year, I was desperate to be cool and fit in. I didn’t know anyone, and I was living away from home for the first time. So what did I do? Go to the biggest frat party I could find. I got drunk for the first time and thought I might impress people by back flipping off a second story balcony. I ended up breaking both legs instead. My roommate, whom I’d only know for a week at that point, took care of me. Getting me to class, doctors appointments, everything. It’s something I’ll pay forward for as long as I’m able.”

“Sounds like a great friend,” Gillian says, thinking of Cal.

“Yeah,” Eli says fondly. “He is.” Their conversation sits for a moment, then he digs in his bag and takes out two video game controllers. “One of the things my friend did was get me in to video games while I couldn’t walk. Any interest?”

Gillian’s never played a video game in her life (except a bit of Tetris when it was all the rage), but Eli looks so excited about it. “Sure.”

Wednesday

The next day, Cal takes Gillian to her orthopedist appointment.

“Is it alright if your husband stays with you?” the PA asks.

“Yes,” Gillian says, “of course.”

It’s not the first time they’ve been mistaken for a couple, but it is the first time she hasn’t corrected them. It makes Cal’s heart do a funny thing. It’s been doing a lot of funny things lately. Maybe he should get that checked out. Just in case it’s something serious, besides being in love with his best friend/business partner.

Gillian is wheeled off to get x-rays done, and then they wait for the doctor. Cal holds her hand. He’s not sure who’s comforting whom.

The PA returns with the doctor in tow. He’s a short man, shorter than Cal, but buff like a wrestler.

“Gillian, I’m Dr. Shaw. I’m going to pull up your old and new x-rays side by side.” He turns the screen towards them. “Your wrist is the least complicated. You’ll see they look about the same—the old is on the left and the new is on the right—except for this white swirly area around the fracture line.” He outlines the area with a finger. “That hazy white cloud is new bone. Your body is doing exactly what it’s supposed to be doing.”

Cal feels himself relax at that. Gillian is healing. She’ll be fine.

“Your ribs are pretty simple too. Here’s before, and here’s after. You can see the metal plates that have reconnected the pieces.”

It’s not a plate like Cal had pictured but a thin strip of metal along each broken rib.

Dr. Shaw points out an area below the plates. “The other thing that’s good to see is that your contusion is clearing up. See how your lungs look clearer in the one from today? How does taking a deep breath feel?”

“A little achy at the top of a full breath,” Gillian replies.

“That’s normal.” He nods, then moves on to her leg. “Your right leg is a bit worse off, but the surgeon did a great job. Alignment is looking good. I won’t bore you with the details, but various bits of metal are holding your bones together and keeping them in line. Even so, it’s good that you’re wearing braces. Don’t take them off except for showers, and keep the time you spend in the shower short to minimize risks. Right now is all about immobilization so you can heal. There are four things I want to do today: get you in a new wrist cast, check your range of motion, talk about weight bearing, and get you some mobility aids.”

The first step is simple. Gillian goes to a room where her cast is heated up enough that the plastic melts. The technician rewraps it, tighter to make up for the reduced swelling, and then lets it cool and harden.

They go back to the room. Dr. Shaw is gone, but his PA is still there. She asks Gillian to wiggle her fingers and toes and encourages her to do it often to retain as much muscle and dexterity as she can. Next is a little more challenging: her hip.

The PA has Gillian stand, using Cal for balance. His hands settle on her waist on their own accord. For a brief moment, he’s transported to the museum gala where she was wearing that stunning purple number and they danced. Gillian turns sideways, left arm over his shoulders, and attempts the leg circles the PA instructs her to do. It seems difficult for her, especially with the added weight of the braces.

“Keep working on it. The more you do now, the less you have to rehab later,” the PA says. “Next thing we’ll talk about is weight bearing. We want you to start doing what’s known as ‘toe-pressure.’ That means tapping your foot on the ground for balance purposes only. Let’s try.”

Gillian gingerly sets her toe on the ground. Slowly, she slides her arm from Cal’s shoulders. He keeps his hands out to catch her, but she balances just fine.

“Perfect! You can do this as much as tolerated. Do not be tempted to hop around, though. Think about activities that make you stand still, like brushing your teeth at the sink. Got it?”

“Okay,” Gillian says, attempting to be serious, but she looks so happy at being able to stand unassisted.

Dr. Shaw returns a minute or so later with two oddly shaped crutches. “These are forearm crutches. Instead of the weight going to your wrists, it will be on your elbow and forearm. That way, you’ll be able to get around without having to be wheeled or carried.”

He supervises Gillian for a minute or two. When he’s satisfied that they are adjusted to the correct height and she has the proper technique down, she’s discharged and has a follow up scheduled in three weeks.

Gillian is practically vibrating with excitement as they go across the parking lot, even beating him to the car with her crutches. “Can we stop for a slushee on the way back?”

“Of course,” Cal indulges, because how could he say no? She’s adorable like this. He so rarely sees unfiltered joy from her, and he wants to to last as long as possible, even if it means getting her a gross gas station orange slushee.

Somewhere between her slurping the last drops of melting orange ice crystals and his front door, it dawns on Cal that she doesn’t need him anymore, except for cooking, which the office has taken care of for the next few weeks at least.

“You’re pretty independent, now,” he says as she takes laps around the kitchen. “Planning on moving back to yours?”

Gillian stops abruptly. Maybe it’s his imagination, but something like hurt and sadness flash across her face. “Did you want me to leave?”

“Don’t have to if you don’t want to. Love to have you stay, if that’s what you want.” Cal is keeping himself neutral-warm. It’s a difficult balance to strike between over-showing his hand resulting in pressuring her to stay because she’ll know that he wants her to and coming off so indifferent that she feels like he’s kicking her out.

It seems he’s been successful in his tightrope act. A small smile comes back to her face. It’s not the unrestrained happiness from a few minutes ago, but it’s something.

“Okay,” Gillian says. “I’ll stay.”

Thursday, a week later

Gillian’s been trying to give him a heart attack ever since the orthopedist said her bones were doing a proper job of healing and gave her a set of crutches. She’s been testing her own limits as well as her doctor’s orders and doing as much as she can. Cal even finds her one day practicing going up and down the first step of his stair case.

The increase in activity and mobility has the result of Gillian being more and more like herself every day. She spends a few hours each day working from home (he had, after a brief argument, caved and brought her work laptop back with him one day). This has had a positive effect on staff morale, as they all seem to prefer Gillian’s management style (why, though, he can’t fathom, as his yelling seems to get the job done just as well). She’s even cracked a few cases from home.

So it comes as a surprise to him when, on Thursday, Cal comes home to find the lights off. He has a brief moment of panic that she’s had enough of him and packed up her things and left, but her laptop is on the counter. After that, he has a terrible vision that Gladstone had somehow found her again, but the bedroom door is cracked open with a soft light coming through.

“Gil?” He tiptoes in case she’s asleep.

She isn’t, but she could be. Gillian is lying on the bed, surrounded by pillows. She’s on her left side, one pillow for her head, one for her wrist, and a third one under her leg to support her knee and ankle. There’s an (empty) sick bowl placed strategically by the beside. Her eyes are screwed shut and, as he gets closer, her skin is shiny with sweat.

“Hey, love. You alright?” Cal crouches down next to her and wipes a strand of hair from her face. She’s clammy to the touch, and his fears rocket straight back up that she has an infection of some sort.

“Hey,” she mutters. “Sorry I didn’t get the books done. Anna’s handling it. I just … couldn’t get to it today.”

“The books are the least of my worries right now. My primary concern is how miserable you look. Do I need to take you to urgent care?”

Gillian opens her eyes at that. “No. I’m fine.”

Cal doesn’t have the best track record of reading her, but she seems to believe she’s telling the truth even though he can clearly see that she isn’t fine.

“That’s not very convincing,” he says.

She hugs the pillows closer to herself. “My period started today. I’m having awful cramps.”

“Find what you need?” Cal has a stash of period products under the sink, first for Zoë, then Emily, and finally for any of the other women that have spent the night with him (which now, miraculously, includes Gillian Foster).

“Yeah.”

He’s not entirely satisfied with that because she’s still clearly suffering. “What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“Nothing,” Gillian whines, and the fact that she’s whining is worrying in and of itself. “Normally, I’d take an Advil and be done with it, but I’m not supposed to take any because it can interfere with bone regrowth. Then I’d take a bath, but I can’t do that either because of the braces. The last resort is to have an orgasm, but my libido took a literal swan dive off a cliff.”

Cal ignores the last bit and his instinct to offer a helping hand because he’s sure he’s going to be rejected outright if not sent away.

“I’ve got Tylenol, and I think there might be Midol in Em’s medicine cabinet. Would that help?” he offers.

She shakes her head into the pillow. “It never seems to do anything for me. It’s fine. Plenty of people who menstruate survived before the advent of pain meds.”

“Last I checked, we’re not living in the Stone Age.” He hesitates, then asks, “You want something stronger?”

“No.” It’s so sharp that he knows she’s picked up on exactly what he’s suggesting. “Do you have a heating pack?”

It’s then that he notices the various packs of blue gel on her limbs. Icing to keep the swelling down had been an essential part of her pain management for the past couple of weeks.

“Yeah. Let me get you some fresh ice packs as well,” he says, and starts to collect them. They’re almost room temperature. “How long have you been here?”

“Since a little past 2. I don’t know what time it is.”

“It’s half 5, darling,” Cal says, consulting his watch. She’s been suffering for at least 3 hours and didn’t even call him. He hates the thought of her being in pain for that long. “We try this for half an hour, and if you don’t feel better, I really think you ought to take something.”

“An hour.”

“45 minutes,” he bargains, and nips off to the kitchen.

When Cal returns, she’s moved a foot or so towards the center to the bed and looks at him pleadingly. He hands her the hot pack which she places on her abdomen and curls into a tighter ball. He lays the ice packs on her joints and sets a timer for 45 minutes.

When the timer is up, Gillian doesn’t look any better.

He runs his fingers through her hair, finding it sweaty. “What do you think, love?”

She whimpers, which is as much of a response as it isn’t.

“Right. Pain on a scale of 1-10?” Cal asks.

“My wrist is a 2, my knee and ankle are each a 4, and my uterus is a 5,” she says.

“By my maths, that adds up to a 15.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Then tell me how it works,” he implores. “I don’t like to see you hurting like this.”

She groans. “Fine. If I add them together, I guess I’d say I’m around a 6 and a half.”

“Okay. I’m getting you a Vicodin.” He starts to get up from the bed.

“No!” Her voice sounds sharp, almost angry.

He sits back down. “Why’re you fighting me so hard on this, Gil?”

“It’s been a week since my last dose.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a week since you’ve had pain this bad.”

“But what if my pain isn’t that bad? What if I just think it’s bad? Hyper-sensitivity is a symptom of opioid addiction.”

And there it is, finally. The truth. “Have you been having cravings or other withdrawal symptoms?”

“No.”

“Hyper-sensitivity is usually small amounts of pressure, like having your hair brushed. Did that hurt this morning?” Cal knows it didn’t, otherwise she’d be pushing the hand he’s been carding through her hair away.

“No.”

“Do you honestly think that you’re experiencing opioid addition?”

There’s a pause. And then a very soft “no,” muffled by the pillow.

“Okay,” Cal says. “I’m going to go get you a dose, then.”

“Half.”

“Half,” he agrees.

Gillian sits up and hangs her head low before taking herself to the bathroom. Cal goes to the safe and retrieves a half pill. She’s already back on the bed by the time he gets back, looking resigned.

He hands her the pill and a glass of water. “You’re not a failure for having to take this, you know.”

“That’s not my concern.” She swallows the pill, then adds, “Not the main one, anyway.”

Cal waits for them to get comfortable, with Gillian lying diagonally across the bed on her side again, a pillow under her leg but using his lap for her head and his leg for her wrist instead of a pillow.

“What is your main concern, then?”

Gillian twists her neck to look up at him directly. “You know.”

He does. “You’re not going to turn into your father or Alec. This is one pill, one day.”

“One pill one day can turn into a pattern if you’re not careful.”

Cal sighs. It’s not an argument he’s going to win because he knows it’s true. Her fears are as deep seated as his own, possibly more so.

“Cal?” Gillian says his name with an edge of desperation. “Promise me you’ll check me into rehab the second you think I’m addicted?”

“I promise,” he says, because he’s her Leo as much as she is his.

Chapter Text

Sunday, mid-morning

Gillian is going into the office next week for a few days to help sort everything out before the office closes for Thanksgiving. She needs real clothes, as her lounge wear (and Cal’s) that she’s been wearing for the last two and a half weeks won’t be appropriate. Cal drops her at her place—the first time she’s been there since everything happened—while he does the shopping so she can get a few outfits.

Gillian handles things well for the first five minutes while she sorts out the pencil skirts from the dress slacks, but when it comes to her favorite dress—the pink one that hugs her hips and hits a few inches above her knee—she realizes that her clothes will never look the same on her. Things will fit again, sure, the brace isn’t going to stay on forever, but the scars will.

They look particularly angry and jagged in this light. The incision lines are straight and precise, but the cross lines where the stitches used to be are lumpy and garish.

Gillian doesn’t think of herself as a particularly vain person, but knowing that her favorite items of clothing will no longer flatter her but instead draw attention to the things she wants to keep hidden the most hits her self-esteem in a particularly cutting way.

She is not going to cry about this.

She is not going to cry about this.

She is not—

Okay, so she’s crying a little, but she’s also chucking things at the floor in anger which is progress.

Gillian pauses in between hangers and hears her phone ring. She crutches over to the bedside table where she’s left it and checks who it is.

Emily.

She answers, keeping as much emotion from her voice as she can. “Hi, Emily.”

“Hi Gil! Is now an okay time?”

Gillian thinks about saying no, but honestly, she could do with a distraction. “Yeah, now’s fine.”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing particularly exciting. Throwing a tantrum at my wardrobe,” she admits. “But tell me about you! How is your first semester at college going?”

“It’s great!” Emily rattled off all the classes she’s taking and tells stories about all her weird professors and the friends she’s made. “I’m not totally sure what I want to do yet, but I’m really enjoying my social work and creative writing class. I’ve been interested in pursuing patient advocacy ever since Dad had that case with Veronica, that woman with dementia.”

Gillian smiles. It had been a difficult case with a sad premise, but at least they had been able to help her. “That’s great. I think you would find that work really rewarding if it’s what you want to do. You still have plenty of time, of course.”

“I know. Mom says it’s always good to have a plan, though.” Emily pauses. “So can I ask about your wardrobe tantrum?”

Gillian sighs. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just coming to terms with looking like Frankenstein’s monster.”

“I bet your scars look totally bad ass.”

“They don’t, I promise.” She runs a finger up the line on her knee. It’s not attractive at all, and she feels herself worrying (again) about not being lovable which she really has to pivot from because she can’t put that kind of emotional burden onto a teenager, so she goes for humor. “With all the metal in me, I guess I’m more of a cyborg than a Frankenstein.”

“If you really don’t like it, you could always cover it up with a tattoo,” Emily suggests.

That gets her to laugh for real. She’s never considered tattoos ever in her life. A cartilage piercing, sure, but that is about as adventurous as her bodily modification urges went.

“What’s so funny? I have three tattoos.”

“Really?” Gillian asks. Emily’s only turned 18 a few months ago, so she must have gotten them recently.

“Yeah. They’re two flowers, a lily and a daffodil, on my wrist. I got them to remember my grandmothers, so I picked flowers that start with the same first letters: Louise and Danielle. The third one is an oak tree for my grandfather Oliver.”

“I think that’s a really sweet way to pay homage to them.” Gillian can’t imagine a better way for Emily to keep them with her forever. She knows Cal will be touched by the gesture.

“Thanks! I haven’t told Dad yet.”

“My lips are sealed,” she says, “but I think he’ll really appreciate it. And he’s got tattoos of his own, so it’s not like he can judge.”

“He has scars, too.” Emily rebuts softly.

Gillian had almost forgotten how perceptive Emily could be.

“I think you should wear what makes you happy,” she says. “Anyone that judges you for surviving a serial killer isn’t worth your time.”

Gillian traces a finger over the stitch marks once again, seeing them from a slightly different perspective. “Thank you, Emily.”

Their conversation ends shortly after, and Gillian is left with the mess she made earlier. After a moment of consideration, she folds up all of the clothes she’s thrown on the floor and puts them back. She might end up donating them down the road, but it’s clear she’s not in the right head space to make a decision today. Instead, she finds one pair of wide legged pants that will fit over her knee brace, few short-sleeved blouses, and an over-sized sweater that will fit over her wrist cast.

Maybe some day, she’ll come back for the pink dress.

Monday, evening

“Cal? You okay?”

Gillian’s voice catches his attention as he paces around the living room. She’s looking at him with her therapist look—the one that’s curiosity and compassionate indifference.

It’s irritating. “Can’t I pace in my own house?”

“Of course,” she says mildly. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”

Ugh, of course she has to hit him with the you don’t need my permission tactic. Next it will be how does that make you feel and tell me what’s going on in your head.

“I’m here if you want to talk.”

Now that’s the one that hits all his buttons because she only ever uses that when something about his mom comes up and this isn’t even about his mom; it’s about her.

“I don’t want you to go to work tomorrow,” Cal snaps.

Gillian doesn’t show any surprise if she feels it. “Why?”

Because she could fall down the stairs. Because someone might pull up a tractor full of real explosives. Because Gladstone still hasn’t been found and he knows where they work and he could get to her at any time. What he settles on is “Because it isn’t safe for you there.”

“For me?” she asks. “Or for anyone? Because what happened to me could have happened to anyone that works for us: You, Eli, Ria, Sarah, Anna, anybody. He could have taken a whole group of us, if he’d wanted to.”

“Don’t even say that,” he snarls. “Don’t. I can’t— I can’t—”

“Protect me?” Gillian offers. “And that scares you, so you want me to stay at home, where you feel like you have control of the environment.”

Cal turns away from her so she can’t see the way his hands are shaking. Why is she making this about him? Why doesn’t she understand the danger she’s in? Why can’t she just stay at home?

“Cal, the truth is that the office isn’t any more or less safe than it was before. There’s only so much that the building security guards can do, especially given how many people pass through on any given day.”

He turns back to her, now that he’s compressed his fear like coal, turning it in to anger to fuel himself. “You don’t know what it was like for me that day.”

“I do, actually,” Gillian says with notes of bitterness and something that darkens her expression. “I know exactly what it was like.”

Right. Matheson. Not to mention all the other times he’s thrown himself headlong into danger without a second thought for her feelings. Guilt unfurls his hands. She takes a quick glance down, and he knows that she’s seen the tremble by the way she frowns.

“Come here,” Gillian beckons.

He sits next to her heavily and tips himself sideways, head landing in her lap. Her fingers thread in his hair, and her nails make his scalp tingle pleasantly. Cal lets out a sigh as his body relaxes even as his mind continues to race.

“Our jobs are dangerous,” she says after he’s relaxed a bit. “We can do our best to minimize risk, but expecting it to be zero isn’t realistic.”

Cal reaches up, cupping her face and stroking her cheek with a thumb. “Not worth taking risks when it comes to you, love. I can’t lose you, Gil.”

“I’m not going anywhere any time soon. And I don’t want to lose you either.” She turns her head and kisses the palm of his hand.

Cal takes his hand off her face and plucks her hand out of his hair and interleaves their fingers together on his chest. The weight of it makes him aware of the rise and fall in time with his breaths, the beating of his heart below it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check in to see how you were handling things earlier,” she says.

Only Gillian would apologize for being in the hospital and neglecting to follow up on how he was.

“How are you doing?” Cal asks. “You know, emotionally.”

If she thinks it’s a deflection, she doesn’t say it. Instead she sighs and gives him a smiling shrug. “Okay. Sometimes, I have dreams that I’m falling and I wake up in a cold sweat when I land. For me, the most traumatic part of the ordeal wasn’t dealing with Peters/Gladstone himself; it was thinking I was going to die or was already dead.”

“They said you wouldn’t’ve survived the night. Would’ve died of hypothermia.” That’s another piece that still haunts him, that she would have died slowly and alone. All of his near deaths would have been violent but over quickly. He couldn’t imagine having to wait for hours for help to arrive (or not).

“I actually thought I was going to be eaten by wolves at one point,” she says with a chuckle.

Despite everything, he laughs with her. “Really?”

“Yup. I heard one howl right near sunset.” Gillian’s gaze goes very gentle, but she keeps her tone casual. “I saw the estimate you got for a key card scanner in the foyer, by the way. I think we can squeeze that into this year’s budget.”

Cal nods, acknowledging her effort to meet him half way. “Good.”

Whatever he can do to make the office safer for her. For both of them.

Tuesday

Gillian isn’t sure what to expect when she returns to the office, but it’s certainly not to be stopped in the hall several times to receive hugs and well wishes. Even the fresh batch of interns that only started a few moths ago go out of their way to say hello and express their happiness at her return.

Gillian isn’t sure what to make of all the fanfare. Would it have been such a big deal if she’d just gone on vacation? Did they only care because she had almost died? Or was their fondness for her there the whole time, and she just hadn’t seen it until now?

It’s not a case she’ll solve any time soon. Instead, Gillian focuses on her actual case at hand: a leak case for a multi-million dollar corporation keen on keeping their intellectual property under tight wraps. She’s paired with Torres whom she hasn’t interacted with more than five minutes at a time since before Gladstone. She’s off, looking almost uncomfortable at times.

“Thank you for setting up the meal train,” Gillian says in a break between interviewing suspects in the cube.

Torres flinches. “It was nothing. I’m sorry I wasn’t more involved with helping.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she says, sensing that this is about more than just the meal train.

Guilt rains over Torres like a thunderstorm the rest of the day. She’s professional enough that she doesn’t let it interfere with their work, but Gillian sees it in every glance she receives.

At the end of the day, she tries once more, gently, in an attempt to get her to open up. “Everything alright?”

“I’m just … not good at taking care of others. I can fend for myself just fine, but when it comes to other people …” Torres shakes her head. “I can’t seem to do it right.”

Gillian studies her for a moment. This seems to be coming out of left field. There’s only one thing (person) she can think of that could make Torres act this way. “Does this have to do with Ava?”

Her gaze snaps up. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t, I just made an educated guess.”

Torres sighs. “Ava’s on this thing … It’s her last year of high school even though she was held back a year. She wants us to try to be a really family for the first time. So she’s coming home for Thanksgiving and wants to celebrate. But I don’t have a clue how to cook a turkey.”

“It doesn’t have to be an oven roasted turkey. You can just buy one from the store.”

“Not according to Ava.”

“I can ask Cal for his recipe,” Gillian says. “Would that help?”

Torres sends her a grateful look. “Yes, please.”

Friday, evening

Things are going well this week, all things considered. Their case load is looking light, having wrapped many and only taking on a few time-sensitive ones in the lead up to Thanksgiving. Cal is in good spirits right up until the moment Zoë calls.

“Hey.” There’s something uncharacteristically hesitant about her voice.

“Hi. Is Em alright?”

“She’s fine.” Zoë is telling the truth, but she’s still holding back about something.

There’s a pause that stretches too long. “Right, then, out with it.”

“Rudi’s first grandchild was born a little over a month ago. They all live in the San José area.”

“I see,” Cal says. “So it’s just Emily coming home for Thanksgiving.”

“Actually, she’ll be meeting us in San José.”

He immediately understands why she’s called him. “Hell no.”

“Cal,” Zoë says with exasperation. “Don’t fight me on this. It makes sense! It saves her the cross country trip for only 5 days when she’ll be back for winter break in just a few weeks. Rudi gets to see his grandkid, Emily gets to have Thanksgiving—”

“And I’m supposed to pretend like I don’t exist, then? Is that it? Christ, Zoë. What were you thinking? What does Emily have to say about all this?”

“She agreed.”

Cal feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Emily doesn’t want to come home? She’d rather be in California with a family she doesn’t know?

“Look,” Zoë says in her lawyer voice, “it’s already been decided. She wanted me to tell you because she was worried you’d be angry, which you clearly are. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, Cal.”

The line goes dead. Cal himself feels dead. He wants to scream or fight or drink or all the above.

“Cal?” It’s Gillian, voice cautious, questioning.

“Em’s not coming home for Thanksgiving.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“Rudi’s had his first grandkid in San José, apparently, so he and Zoë are flying out and Emily will meet them and celebrate with his family.”

“Oh, Cal.” Gillian crutches over to where he’s standing. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

She grabs a hold of his arm, partly to comfort him and partly to balance. “It’s not. I know how important it is to you that she comes home.”

“You’ve survived Thanksgiving alone,” he says. He’d wanted to invite her after her divorce, but it would have been too much with Zoë’s insistence about celebrating as a “family.” That’s when Emily started the tradition of a second Thanksgiving with the three of them the day or weekend after the actual holiday.

“You won’t be alone,” Gillian promises. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Monday

“Morning.” Torres nods at her when she arrives to the office.

“Good morning!” Gillian replies. “Here’s a photo copy of Cal’s oven-roasted turkey recipe.”

She takes it with apprehension. “Oh. Right. Thanks. This seems … time-intensive.”

“It is,” she agrees.

Torres flips it over to the second page of instructions and starts chewing on her lip. “I don’t know what half of these things mean. I can’t do this.”

“So don’t. Come over to Lightman’s. It’s his recipe anyway,” Gillian says.

Torres’s eyebrows raise. “He invited us over?”

“No.” Gillian winks. “But I did. And I make a good pumpkin pie.”

She seems swayed the most by the pumpkin pie. “Alright. I’ll ask Ava.”

Later that day, Torres confirms that she and Ava will attend. “Ava said yes as soon as she knew that you were going to be there too. She asks about you all the time.”

Gillian allows herself a smile at that. Ava is a good kid raised by an awful parent in a tough situation. She’s glad to have been one of the few kind adults in her life. The next step of ehr plan is to tell Cal about their guests. She waits until he’s had a shower and a glass of wine.

“Remember how I said that you wouldn’t be alone for Thanksgiving?” she asks conversationally. “I invited Ria and Ava—You remember Ava?—over. They’ll be bringing cranberry sauce and a green bean casserole.”

Cal is rarely speechless, but this seems to be a rare time. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, then manages a mangled, “What?”

“Ria and Ava will be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner,” she repeats.

“You can’t replace Emily with two of your charity cases, Gillian.”

He’s lashing out, and she leans into the hurt. “Emily can’t be here, and there’s nothing you can do about that. But Ria and Ava need somewhere to go, and there is something you can do about that. When you can’t be with your family, sometimes you have to find one. That’s something you taught me, Cal.” It’s why she insists on an office holiday party so that the people who don’t have anywhere to go have a place. Their staff is a family of sorts all on its own, tied not by blood but by bond.

Cal gives her this look that’s torn, likely between his longing for Emily and his memories of Terry’s family who took him in as one of their own.

“Okay,” he agrees eventually. “It’s not like the two of us can eat a whole turkey anyway.”

Gillian smiles. “My thought precisely.”

Thursday, evening

The day starts off with a brief custody battle over the oven. Gillian wins it for the morning, as her pumpkin pie has to chill before eating.

There’s a strange domestic dance that goes on in the kitchen, and she thinks, not for the first time, what it would be like if their living situation would be permanent. She’s always dismissed the idea outright because living and working with the same person would be too much, but maybe that’s how they’re meant to be together. After all, the past month has been, in its own strange and painful way, weirdly wonderful. She likes eating breakfast with him. She likes bickering over who should get the shower first after work. She likes going to sleep next to him at the end of the day (why they’re still sleeping in the same bed, she can’t say).

Gillian can’t tell what Cal thinks about all this. He’s been so normal, aside from his worries for her safety and his upset at Emily’s inability to come home for Thanksgiving. To be fair, she doesn’t think she’s acting much different either. It’s almost as if they’ve been living together for years.

“Torres texted,” Cal says in between stabbing the turkey with a thermometer. “They’re on their way.”

Gillian blinks herself back to the present moment. “Okay. I’ll set the table.”

A little less than half an hour later, the doorbell rings. Cal’s just taken the turkey out of the oven and begun carving, so Gillian answers it. She’s almost immediately knocked off balance by a fierce hug, one that makes her ribs twinge.

“Dr. Foster!” Ava cried at a volume that’s much too loud for how close it is to her ear. “I heard about what happened. I’m so glad you’re okay. I wanted to call you but I’m not allowed a cell phone and Ria wouldn’t give me your number anyway and I thought about writing a letter or a card but I don’t know your address—”

“Ava, that’s enough,” Ria warns.

Gillian hugs her back, awkwardly while holding her crutches. “It’s good to see you too, Ava. Why don’t you help Ria bring in the food?”

The two of them carry in a cranberry sauce and green bean casserole and set them on the table. They chat a bit as they wait for Cal to finish cutting the meat. Gillian learns that Ava has accepted an electrician’s apprenticeship once the school year’s finished, and she couldn’t be more thrilled for the girl. To go from juvenile detention to high school graduation and trade school is a massive, positive life change that happens to so few. The system is broken, but at least this one managed to beat the odds.

“Turkey’s ready!” Cal hollers from the kitchen. “Foster, you stay put. I can get yours.”

She doesn’t argue. Attempting to carry plates and bowls has been, to say the least, a challenge. Between the crutches and the wrist cast, it’s nearly impossible.

The three of them return with their plates, and everyone serves themselves sides.

“Thank you for having us over,” Ria says. “I think I would have burned down the apartment complex had I tried your recipe.”

Cal looks at her askance. “I never gave you my recipe.”

“I did,” Gillian says, his glare rolling off her like water on a duck’s back.

“Thief,” he accuses.

Ava sighs. “You two are such a cute couple. Ria said I’m not allowed to date until after school and stuff, but when I do, I want what you two have.”

“Ava!” Ria scolds.

“What? I thought it was obvious that— Wait,” she says, eyes darting between the two of them. “You guys aren’t together?”

Gillian holds up a hand to prevent Ria from further intervention. “We aren’t, but I understand why you’d make that assumption.”

This seems to only make Ava more confused. “But don’t you live here now?”

“For the time being, yes. I needed a lot of help after my fall, still do with certain things, so I’m living here.” She avoids specifying an end date because, to be honest, she likes living here with Cal and her place seems small and lonely in comparison. The longer she can put it off, the better.

“Wine?” Cal offers to redirect the conversation.

“Yes, please.” Ria pushes her glass forward.

“I’m cutting you off after one glass,” he says sternly. “The last two times you’ve had my alcohol, it’s lead to disastrous consequences. The first time tried to kiss me, and the second time ended up with you passed out on Foster’s couch.”

Ava crinkles her nose. “Gross, you tried to kiss Lightman? But he’s, like, old!”

“Oi! I recall you asking to climb on my lap.”

“I didn’t— That wasn’t— I never—” Ava sputters.

Gillian laughs. The rest of dinner passes without incident, and she catches Cal smiling more than once. Ria and Ava aren’t Emily, but they fill the space with sound and warmth all the same.

The pumpkin pie is well received, and it’s a little after 8 by the time everyone is too full to eat any more.

“Okay, let’s all go around and say what we’re grateful for this year,” Ava says. She (wisely) doesn’t allow any time for protests. “I’ll start. I’m grateful for Dr. Lightman’s cooking, because it’s way better than anything Ria would be able to make.”

Ria makes a noise of offense. “I would have tried!”

“Aaaand,” Ava says over her sister, “I’m grateful to Ria for making sure I got the Thanksgiving dinner I wanted even if it’s not what she made, and I’m grateful that she’s really trying to be there for me and make our relationship stronger. I’m grateful for my school and my teachers for keeping me on the right path even though I get in trouble some times. I’m grateful to Dr. Foster who saw a future in me that nobody else could see and getting me the funds to go to school.”

Gillian shares a look with Ria who seems just as touched as she feels. Cal’s sitting quietly reserved, appearing pensive as he runs a finger over the rim of his wine glass.

“Okay, Ria’s next,” Ava declares.

She sits up and clears her throat. “I am also grateful for Dr. Lightman’s cooking because I couldn’t have done this. I’m grateful for my job—”

“Kiss ass,” Ava snarks.

“—and I’m grateful for my annoying little sister for giving me a second chance at being her older sister. I’m grateful for Dr. Foster, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say it. I realized that the day Gladstone took you and you said that no one needed you.”

Gillian feels herself tear up. It seems that that admission to Gladstone in particular hit her and Eli hard, and she’s starting to regret having said it. “Ria …”

“No, let me apologize, because I’m part of the problem. Foster, you mean so much to me both professionally and personally. You’re my mentor just as much as Lightman. The only difference is that I don’t want to be him when I’m in charge after the two of you retire. I want to be you: kind and cunning and courageous.” Ria pauses, taking a moment to collect her breath. “You deserve twice the love you give. And I’m sorry that I haven’t been giving back. Let me start today by saying thank you.”

“Thank you,” Gillian says softly. She turns her gaze to Cal, silently pleading for him to lighten the mood, but he’s as brooding as ever.

“I suppose it’s my turn, then,” she starts because Cal doesn’t look like he’s at all in the right mindset to contribute to this conversation. “I’m grateful for the food, of course, and the three of you for being here tonight to share it. I’m especially thankful to Maria and Dennis and all the other park rangers that found me, and the hospital staff that took care of me. I’m grateful to Ria and Eli and everyone in the office who cooked, and of course, to you, Cal, for everything you’ve done for me over the past month.” She sighs. There’s so much more she wants to say, but they’d be here all night if she does. “Mostly, I’m just grateful to be alive, to have the chance to have more nights like these.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“That was really good, Dr. Foster,” Ava says. “Dr. Lightman?”

He shifts in his seat, having gone from full slouch to slightly vertical.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Gillian says.

Cal drinks down the last of his wine. “Nah. I’ll go.” He runs a tongue over his teeth. “So. Things I’m grateful for. Number one’s got to be Emily.” He flaps a wrist at them. “You lot. For coming over even though I didn’t want you to at first. Everybody at the office, despite all their mess ups.” His words are halting, and there’s a long pause, but it’s clear he isn’t finished. He looks at Gillian like she’s the only person in the room and says, “Foster. I’m grateful you’re not dead, ‘cause I’d be lost without you.”

There’s so much weight to his words that it’s hard to parse out what exactly he’s saying, but she thinks she understands the depth of them all the same.

“Ria,” Ava stage whispers. “Are you sure they aren’t—”

Ria stands up quickly. “Oh, wow, look at the time, it’s so late. We better get going so we can line up early for the Black Friday sales, right?”

“Absolutely,” Cal says, apparently eager to get them out of his house. “Let me box some of this up for you.”

An hour later, the Torres sisters are gone, the leftovers are sorted, this dishes are washed, and Gillian is wrung out. Cal finds her with an empty wine glass (her third one of the night), leaning against the back of the couch. She smiles at him tiredly, and he wraps her in an embrace, sagging with exhaustion of his own.

“Gillian.” His lips and stubble brush along her neck. “I didn’t get to say what I wanted to that day in the hallway.”

Oh God, she can’t do another one of these tonight. Today is supposed to be a celebration of family and friendship, not the apologize-to-Gillian festival.

“Cal, really, it’s alright. You don’t have to say it.”

“Want to.”

“Well, then, I don’t want to hear it.” Gillian doesn’t want to ever hear him say her name like that again, tangled up with all his fears and regrets.

He pulls back. His expression isn’t relief like she’s expecting, just confusion and hurt. “You don’t?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Gil, what d’you think I was going to say?”

“That you were sorry.” Wasn’t that much obvious? “I could hear it in your voice. You said my name like it was an apology.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Is there an echo in here?” Cal asks. He tucks his fingers under her chin and drags a thumb down her lips, parting them. “Let me tell you what I wanted to say. Please.”

Cal says please almost as infrequently as he says thank you. So she accepts. “Alright. You can tell me.”

“I wanted to say that I—” His breath hitches. “—that I love you.”

Gillian’s own breath catches. She stands, a reflex of disbelief, and scans him for any sign he’s lying or joking but there isn’t anything, just a raw, wrecked expression like he’s ripped out his own heart and given it to her.

Which he has, in a way.

“Gil? Love, you know I can’t read—”

She kisses him.

Not on the side of the mouth, like they’ve done several times before, but square on the mouth. His lips melt between hers, soft and longing. One kiss turns into two turns into three and they aren’t exactly making out but his arms are wound around her waist and hers over his shoulders, bodies pressed as close together as they can be.

It’s a shame her leg gets tired when it does and she has to sit back down on the back edge of the couch again. She keeps her eyes shut, savoring the taste.

“Gillian,” he breathes, and, oh, she hears it now, the confession, the prayer, the surrender. His head dips, forehead resting on hers.

“I love you too,” she whispers just as softly. “Cal, I—”

The rest of her sentence is swallowed in a kiss. He’s firm this time, unapologetic. There’s a confidence behind it now that he knows she feels the same way. If she had it her way and she weren’t tipsy and still immobilized at three different joints, she would have him right there, on the couch.

Instead, Gillian settles for his hand on her back as they go to bed, and a kiss before the lights go out.

Chapter Text

Friday, morning

Cal expects the sun to explode or the world to stop turning or the sea to boil over or something but nothing happens. Instead Gillian wakes up, smiles at him drowsily, and turns on her side to go back to sleep. When she wakes for good, she shares the pot of coffee with him in the morning (adding a tooth-rotting amount of sugar and cream to hers) and sits herself on the couch to read a romance novel as if nothing has changed.

He’s not sure what exactly what means. Does she want last night to have not meant anything? Was it all a wine-induced haze? He is also supposed to pretend like he hasn’t just spilled his worst secret from the last five years?

Cal waits until an appropriate o’clock in California, then calls Emily. She is, realistically, the only one he can talk to about Gillian. Also, he misses her terribly now that Ria and Ava are gone, not that he’d admit that he enjoyed having them over to anyone.

“Hi Dad!” Emily says cheerfully.

“Hello, darling. Missed you yesterday.”

“Missed you too. It’s a lot here. So many new people and a baby.”

He bristled a bit at the reminder. “How is the baby?”

“Wrinkly and noisy.”

“Reminds me of you, once upon a time,” Cal says wistfully. He remembers how tiny she was, a little raisin of a human being, and the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Yeah, but I was probably cuter.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“So what did you end up doing last night?” she asks.

“Gil invited Torres and her little sister over. We did turkey and the whole thing, and little Torres even made us say what we were thankful for this year.”

“Emotional vulnerability,” Emily deadpans. “Your worst nightmare.” She pauses, then asks in an accusing tone, “You did tell Gil that you’re thankful for her, right?”

“Yeah, yeah I did.” He checks over his shoulder. Gillian is still on the couch, eyes miles away in some fantasy world or another. “Listen, Em, about that.”

She gasps. “Oh my God. You finally told her?”

Cal walks over to his study to give himself more privacy. “We talked, a bit.”

“She feels the same way, right?” Emily asks excitedly.

“Well, you know, there are a lot of different kinds of love.” And that’s really at the heart of what’s been eating at Cal since last night. “Romantic love is just one of them.”

“Dad, don’t be stupid.”

“Not being stupid just being … cautious, that’s all.”

“As if you’ve ever been cautious in your life.”

“Then I’m trying not to make any assumptions, then.” Because kissing is just kissing. It doesn’t change anything between them, if this morning is evidence of anything. They’ve crossed many lines that most friends wouldn’t ever touch, so perhaps this is just one more transgression.

“Are you happy, though?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “How is Gil, by the way? Last I talked to her, she was having a tantrum at her clothes, she said.”

Cal frowns. He hadn’t heard anything about that. “She’s doing pretty well. Her casts come off this week.”

“That’s so exciting! I’ll be sure to text or call.”

“Yeah, it is. She says that things don’t hurt anymore, which is great.” He chews on his lip. “Did she say what her tantrum was about?”

Emily pauses. “She was just worried about what her scars look like, I guess.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Cal will find a way to tell her that she’s beautiful, scars or not, when the time is right. “You’re coming home for Christmas, right?”

“Yup! I have one more week of classes, a half week of exams, and then I’m visiting Mom and Rudi for a few days. I’ll be home for Christmas and New Years.”

It’s just like Zoë not to apologize but to make things fair anyway by letting him have Emily for the holidays because she got to see her for Thanksgiving. Cal’s been called a Grinch many times before, but he really is looking forward to the holidays this year. “Alright, darling. I love you. I’ll see you soon. Study hard, alright?”

“Will do! Love you too.”

Wednesday, morning

After Thanksgiving, Gillian gives Cal some space. She doesn’t want him to panic and run as she fears he might do after an emotional disclosure. Gillian is also very aware that she is the one who initiated the kiss (and what a kiss it was), so she’s left the proverbial ball in his court. Cal has exercised a shocking amount of restraint since and hasn’t so much as brushed his lips on her cheek or forehead. The more time that drags on, the more uncertain she becomes, that she’s taken a step he didn’t want to take because she hadn’t explicitly asked for his consent and that makes her feel awful.

Cal had kissed her back, though, hadn’t he? Couldn’t Gillian trust him to push her away if he hadn’t want to kiss her? Or was it just a pity kiss? An apology kiss? It’s like the way he said her name all over again, and now she’s uncertain what any of it means.

On Wednesday, though, that’s the furthest thing from her mind, because she has another orthopedist appointment. Today, she’s scheduled to get her wrist cast off and get an update on her leg.

The appointment starts with another round of x-rays. Cal cracks a joke about her glowing in the dark after all the radiation she’s been exposed to, and it takes some of her nerves away. But what if things haven’t healed right? What if she needs surgery again?

“Hi Gillian!” The orthopedist and PA come in. “Your ribs are looking great. I wouldn’t recommend any contact sports for a while, but I’m happy to consider them healed. Lying on your right side might feel a little achy for a couple weeks, but things are back in one piece. And, more good news for you: You can get your wrist cast off!”

Getting the cast off involves heating up the plastic until it’s soft enough to unwrap. Gillian takes a moment to marvel at what her right hand and arm look like, feeling naked without it.

“It’s going to feel pretty tight, but let’s try your range of motion.” The PA leads her through a basic series of movements. Turning her hand palm down is difficult, but turning her hand palm up goes okay. Her fingers shake as she tries moving her wrist to point them up and down.

“Alright,” the doctor says, “I want you to transfer to a brace. I want you to do stretches three times a day. Otherwise, leave it on full time for the first two weeks. By New Years, I want you completely out of the brace. Same deal for your ankle, okay?”

Gillian tries some very tentative ankle circles. It hurts, but in a very different way from when it was broken. It feels like over stretching a muscle and like her skin is going to tear if she goes too far. She’s assured it’s normal and will go away relatively quickly, but it’s still surprising (and not in a pleasant way) to go from feeling great in the cast and braces to going back to feeling weak and vulnerable now that they’re gone.

Her knee update is along the same lines, with instructions for partial weight bearing. They “unlock” her knee brace so it allows her to move. It’s stiff, as expected, and she has a lot of reservations about its ability to bear her weight.

Next, they exchange her forearm crutches for a single elbow crutch for her left arm. It’s designed to keep some weight off her right side, but not all of it. Weight bearing, within reasonable limits, will promote bone health and muscle regrowth, apparently. Moving gingerly and relearning how to use a crutch slows her down to a frustrating speed. It’s demoralizing to feel like she’s losing progress.

“Be patient, okay?” the orthopedist says, picking up on her emotions. “You’ll start physical therapy in two weeks. You’ll be shocked by how quickly things get better.”

Gillian isn’t going to cry at her appointment, but she is daunted by how much healing she still has to do. She’d thought that once the casts were off, she would be good to go. It turns out that immobilization was only the first step one of many. After all, it wasn’t just her bones that were injured. It was all the soft tissue, the muscles and tendons and ligaments too.

“Can I at least take a bath now?” she asks.

That gets a snort from Cal and a smile from the doctor and PA.

“Yes, Gillian. You can soak in the tub to your heart’s content. Just make sure you’re careful about getting in and out and all that.”

That’s some consolation, at least.

“You alright?” Cal asks when they get to the car. “You don’t have to go in to work today, you know. I’ve still got time to drop you at home if you want the day off.”

It’s tempting, but she doesn’t want to be stuck at home alone all day, wallowing in self-pity. “I’m fine. Let’s go to work.”

Monday, night

Cal knocks on the bathroom door. She’s been splashing about in the tub for a better part of an hour as she has been the past few days, but it’s gone quiet in the last few minutes. “Gil? Alright if I can come in?”

“Yeah.”

He's expecting her to be dressed or at least wrapped in a towel or two, but she’s still in the tub, wet hair plastered on her shoulders, just enough of her upper body out of the water to hint at her breasts under the foam of whatever bath bomb she’s used, and both legs on the rim of the tub ankles crossed daintily.

Cal walks as casually as possible to the sink and brushes and flosses his teeth. The whole time, he has sinful thoughts about Gillian. If she had been any other woman, Cal would have shagged her on every surface of this house by now save the ceiling (unless, of course, she asked, in which case by God he would find a way). But she isn’t any other woman, she is Gillian.

He spits out his toothpaste and washes it down the drain. Takes a deep breath. Tries not to end up with a hard on with Gillian, naked, right behind him. Fails.

“Sorry it’s taking so long,” she says. “I’ll be out in a few.”

Cal turns, taking in the limited view. “Take your time, love.”

His gaze follows the shape of her legs down to her ankles. The scars are turning pink now, their twisted lines climbing like ivy on a brickwork. Gillian picks up on what he’s staring at and starts to move, but he catches her foot before she can submerge it in the water. Cal recalls the conversation he had with Emily about Gillian’s “wardrobe tantrum.”

“They’ll fade more, right?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Probably. It’d be fine if they didn’t, though.”

Gillian says nothing. Cal draws mindless circles and lines on her lower leg, up to her knee which is as high as he dares when she’s naked and wet (in a water sense, he tells himself, brain out of the gutter). She sits perfectly still, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“See you in bed,” he says, and tears himself away before he gets indecent.

Thursday, evening

Besides the episode in the bathtub (which had been deeply sensual), Cal has kept his distance. Which, honestly. It’s not fair that her libido has come roaring back to life when there’s hardly anything she can do about it. Gillian wonders, briefly, how Cal’s been handling it, because there obviously haven’t been any other women about and his only moments of privacy are in the shower. Then she pictures him dripping wet in the shower and she has to derail her own train of thought.

It’s been 15 days, not that she’s been counting, and now Gillian is truly concerned that kissing him had been an unwanted advance. She’s decided to approach him on neutral territory (aka, not in bed or the bath) and waits on the couch for him.

Cal sits down after he’s done with chores, slinging his right arm around her, and turns on the television, finding a soccer—football, he corrects her—match. She continues to read for a bit until there’s a pause in proceedings due to a referee call.

“Cal?” She sets her book on the coffee table and angles herself towards him.

He grunts in acknowledgement, but he’s still mostly focused on the match.

“I need to ask you something that’s a little important,” Gillian says, and that gets his attention right away. He turns off the match, and she wishes he hadn’t because without any background noise, her heart is beating too loudly.

“Okay?” he prompts.

“It’s not a question, really,” she stalls, wringing her hands. “It’s more of a statement—”

“Out with it, then.” Now Cal looks nervous too, and she’s starting to understand why they’ve never talked about their feelings before.

Gillian swallows hard and averts her gaze. “When I kissed you on Thanksgiving, I did so without asking your permission first. It was wrong, and I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry if it wasn’t what you wanted.”

Carefully, she looks up, and he’s got an expression of disbelief that turns into a smile and a laugh of relief.

“Bloody hell, Gil, y’almost gave me a heart attack.” Cal uses his right arm to tug her closer, falling sideways into a hug. “Course it was alright.”

“Oh.” Which is good to know but now she’s more confused than before.

His thumb rubs into her shoulder. “Why’d you think it wasn’t?”

“Well,” she drags out the syllable. “You haven’t kissed me since.”

Gillian feels a hand on her jaw, turning her head, then Cal kisses her. It’s a long kiss, one that she has to remind herself to breathe, and then his tongue swipes across her lip, and she forgets about breathing all over again. When he ends the kiss, she feels a little dazed.

“There,” he says with a smirk. “So we can do this when we please, then, yeah?”

Unfortunately, one of them has to be the responsible one. “Not at work.”

“Not in the hallways.”

“Cal.”

“Not in the cube either.”

“Cal.”

“Not in an office if the door unlocked.”

Gillian shuts him up with a kiss.

Tuesday, night

Cal finds Gillian in bed, typing at an alarming rate. She’s so focused on whatever it is that she’s doing that she doesn’t notice him walk in at first.

“No work in bed,” he says pushing the laptop screen down to squish her fingers.

She looks up at him, prying the laptop back open. “I’m not working on work.”

“What’re you working on, then?” Cal peaks over, but she exits out of the window she was on.

“A draft of a book.”

Well, now Cal’s really interested. “What’s it about? Me?”

“Mmm.” Gillian shrugs. So it’s not not about him which does nice things for his ego.

He makes another grab for the laptop, but she clutches it protectively against her chest, expression going shy. “Oh, come on, Gil, don’t get coy with me now. Lemme read what you’ve got.”

“You’ll read it if it gets published,” she says.

“Guess I’ll have to do this the hard way, then.” Cal launches at her. She has no time to react or dodge, so his aim is deadly accurate as he pinches at her waist. Gillian shrieks out a laugh and rolls to her side in an attempt to get away, but he follows her, his weight resting on her hip. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d be play wrestling with Gillian in his bed, but here he is, and it’s wonderful.

“Please?” He pouts out his lip in exaggeration.

Gillian pouts right back. “No.”

“Fine.” He kisses her cheek and pushes himself to sitting up.

Cautiously, she sits up too. “Can you put this back on the table for me, please?”

“Sure, as soon as I try to hack it.” Cal takes the laptop from her and has a think. He tries obvious birthdays, as well as her own name, Sophie’s name, Dave’s, and even Alec’s. Nada.

“You’re not going to guess the password,” Gillian asserts with confidence.

Cal tries at least a dozen more ideas, all without success, before giving up.

“Loker got it after about 5 minutes,” Gillian says.

“Loker gets to know your password, but I don’t?” He’s about to tickle her til the cows come home. “Come on, Gil, you know the code to my safe.”

She just smiles. “I do.”

Cal then remembers that, as paranoid as he is, she is deeply private, even more so than he. Her boundaries are a test, a way to measure his respect.

“Alright.” He backs away, snuggling into the sheets on his side of the bed. “I expect my hard-copy to be signed.”

Gillian snorts. “That’s a deal.”

Tuesday, a week later

Gillian’s started physical therapy, twice a week (once for her wrist, and once for her leg). It’s harder than she expects, and it’s time consuming. They want her to do her exercises multiple times a day. She does a set when the wakes up, one at lunch, one at dinner, and squeezes in a fourth if she has time. It forces her to take a lunch break, which is probably for the better.

Rebuilding muscle means that she’s sore all the time. Gillian is trying to massage her quad out, but that requires both hands and her right hand/wrist is also sore so she’s about to settle for Advil (which she’s allowed to take again!), but then Cal takes a seat next to her on the bed.

“Want me to do that?”

Does she want Cal to have his hands all over her leg? “Yes,” she says. “Please.”

“What’s the most sore?” he asks, taking out a bottle of massage oil because, of course, Cal is the sort of person to store massage oil in his bedside table (and she idly wonders what else he has stashed away in there).

“All of it, really,” and that’s the truth. Her calf is sore, but so is her shin which she didn’t even know that she could be sore. Her thigh is also aching, both the quad and the hamstring.

Cal starts with her shin, one thumb on either side of the blade, and, oh, that feels heavenly. Gillian sighs, letting herself go limp against the headboard and pillows.

Her first hum is genuinely unintentional, but she feels the way it makes his rhythm falter. Gillian cracks her eyes open a sliver. He’s not looking at her face, focused on her leg, and maybe she’s just seeing what she wants to see, but she thinks his eyes look darker now than they did a minute ago. When he moves to her calf, she allows herself a breathier sigh to test the waters.

Oh, yes. That does something to him. Gillian catches the brief moment his eyes flick up to hers and his jaw slackens. She smiles to herself privately. They’ve been trading kisses but nothing else, and she’s been yearning for more.

When Cal rolls up her pajama pants and starts on her thigh, she bites back a moan for real. It feels good, on a physical and sexual level, and it looks like Cal is getting something out of it too from the way he seems to revel in kneading her thigh.

“Harder,” she begs in a voice that borders on pornographic. Cal complies, and, if she were teasing him earlier, it feels real now. The air around them feels thick with intensity, and she curls her left hand into the sheets beside her so she can keep herself grounded on something.

Afterwards, he takes a towel to wipe her clean of the massage oil. It gives a very specific aftercare sensation, and they’re both breathing hard. If ever she needed confirmation that he enjoyed that as much as she did, this was it.

Gillian makes a show of licking her lip and then, in her smokiest voice, purrs, “Are you this good with your hands everywhere, Dr. Lightman?”

Cal lets go as if she’s electrocuted him. The loss of contact is a bucket of ice water, all the warmth from a second ago, gone. He’s giving her this unreadable expression that makes her feel sick with shame. Her face gets hot with embarrassment because, oh no, she’s misread this and messed it all up and—

“Let’s just take a breather,” Cal says, and locks himself in the bathroom.

Gillian draws her left knee up to her chest and her right knee as close as she can and wraps herself up as tightly as she can. Just because he loves her doesn’t mean that he wants her. She knows that there are many types of love, that romantic love does not imply sexual attraction. Why did she have to be so stupid? Why did she have to press her luck? Why did she have to believe that she had a chance?

The bathroom door reopens, and she hides her face in her folded arms that rest on her knees. She can’t look at his expression of pity or disgust or whatever else she might find there.

“Hey, love.” His voice is so gentle.

“Don’t,” Gillian pleads. “Please, just don’t. It’s fine, Cal. I’m sorry that I— that I did that. I know I’m not your type.” She even told Gladstone and everyone listening in that much.

“Humor me. What do you think my type is?”

She thinks of Zoë, Poppy, Clara, Naomi, Sharon, and all the other women he’s ogled at and imagines the ones she doesn’t know about. “Bombshell blowout. Legs for days. Mysterious.”

“The hair’s not so important to me as long as it’s enough for me to give it a good tug every once in a while.” Cal takes a hold of her ankle again, thumbing circles into it. “And your legs are plenty long.”

Gillian curses him for making torture for her. Must she really spell it all out for him all the time? “I’m much more plain than the women you go for. And I’m not mysterious in the slightest.”

“Gillian, who do you think could be more mysterious than a person I’ve known for the better part of a decade and still can’t read?”

That’s what finally makes her look up. Cal scoots closer, approaching her like he might a skittish animal. He untangles one of her arms and presses her hand flat against his chest. Below it, his heart beats reassuringly.

“I want this—I’ve been wanting this—so much it scares me,” he confesses. “If we do this, we can’t undo this.”

“I think there’s a lot that’s happened that we can’t undo.” Gillian knows she won’t be able to unhear his words, unfeel his hands, his lips, his love.

Cal smiles sheepishly. “We’ve already passed the point of no return, haven’t we?”

When had that happened exactly? Gillian tries to pick one singular moment—starting the group, finalizing her divorce, choosing to stay through Cal’s antics last year, getting kidnapped by Gladstone—but she can’t. Perhaps this is where they were always going to end up no matter what.

“We should talk about this,” she says, “as friends, as business partners, as …”

“Lovers?” Cal suggests.

Gillian breathes a laugh out through her nose. Lovers. “Maybe? If we agree?”

“I’m in,” he says, no hesitation.

She shuts her eyes and lets herself imagine if they were different people, strangers or without their long history. “What happens to us as friends if this doesn’t work out? What happens to the company if we split?”

Neither of them are strangers to divorce. The last thing she wants is to put their company, years of labor and love, through a messy custody battle. Is that really worth the risk?

“Then we get there if we get there, yeah? You’re tying yourself up in knots over something that hasn’t happened yet and may never happen.” Cal guides her down, and she ends up with her head in his lap, his fingers in her hair, and his other hand on her heart.

“Okay,” Gillian whispers after a minute. “Lovers.”

Thursday, afternoon

“Stop looking at me like that,” she hisses in the break room.

“Like what, love?”

Gillian glares. “Like you’re lusting after me.”

Despite agreeing to be lovers, they have yet to actually make love as her romance novels would put it, as they’d both been too worn out after their emotionally fraught conversation and too slammed with casework to do anything besides sleep.

“That’s how I normally look at you,” Cal replies with a shrug. “The only difference is that now you see it.”

Gillian blinks a few times, as if she’s suddenly reevaluating nearly a decade of interactions with a new perspective, and it gives him some gratification that he might have been a blind spot of hers this whole time as well.

“It’s you that’s different,” he continues. “Loker asked me if we had sex. He said your eyes were all ‘googly.’”

She snorts. “Of course he did. Torres hinted something similar as well.”

It’s lucky for them that the true answer is, for now, no. They’d agreed to keep things under wraps until New Years Eve party, assuming all goes well, which is another 2 weeks away.

It’s possible they won’t make it 2 days if Gillian can’t step up her poker face.

“It’s just that your hands are very distracting,” she explains.

“Oh, what?” Cal sidles up to her and grabs her sides roughly. “These hands?”

Gillian elbows him in the ribs. “Stop it. Behave.”

He does, reluctantly, only so that his staff doesn’t learn about their relationship before Emily.

Friday, morning

The morning after is glorious. Gillian snuggles in closer to a half-asleep Cal, tucking herself into his side and slinging her left leg over his hips. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and she’s going to soak up all the time with him she can get before work and Emily’s flight arrives.

Gillian presses a series of kisses to his temple. “Good morning.”

“It is,” Cal agrees as he pulls her to lie on top of him. She enjoys the warmth of his hands as they roam her back, one sliding up under her shirt (which is really his shirt) and the other drifting down to grab a handful of her bottom.

“Emily comes home today,” she says.

“Yeah. I’m leaving work early to pick her up, if that’s alright with the boss.” He gives her a cheeky squeeze.

“Of course it is.” Gillian got clearance to drive a few days ago, so it’s not a problem that he leaves work before her. She shifts off to his side to she can see his face a bit better. “Did you want me to go my place for the weekend?”

He turns his head quickly, nearly knocking their heads together. “Why?”

“So that you and Emily can have Christmas together.” Gillian’s always aware of their relationship, and she doesn’t want to intrude on it. It isn’t her place; it isn’t her family.

“Don’t want Christmas without you.” Cal winds his arms around her waist, making his message clear: She isn’t going anywhere. It’s going to be her first time celebrating Christmas with someone since her divorce, and even before then, Alec often worked on the day. The opportunity to have a cozy Christmas makes her feel like she has a home (not just a house).

There’s only one slight problem. “We’ll have to tell Emily.”

Cal snorts. “She’ll know, darling.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to be told properly,” Gillian insists. “She might have questions.”

“One’s that are none too polite, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah, well, you only have yourself to blame for that. She takes after you.”

Cal gives her a look so soft she isn’t sure what it means. “Takes after you too, sometimes.”

Gillian shuts her eyes against the implication. (Step)Motherhood had always seemed a bit out of reach, but now… Maybe it isn’t as far fetched as it once was.

Friday, afternoon

Cal is knocked back a step with the force of Emily’s hug. He uses the momentum to pick her up and spin her in a circle, careless of others in the airport pick up area.

“I missed you, love,” he whispers into her hair, and he’s a little surprised at how close he feels to tears.

“Missed you too, Dad,” she says somewhere by his neck.

He sets her down and pets her hair a few times to reassure himself that she’s really here. “Ready to go home?”

“Yes!” Emily chatters the whole car ride, telling him all about her past few days in Chicago with Zoë and Rudi and making comments about the things that have changed since she’s been gone (a bakery has opened, a clothing store has closed).

As they pull off the freeway, Cal knows he has limited time to prepare her for what’s happening at home. “Is it alright if Gillian stays with us for Christmas?”

“Of course!” She pauses, contemplative, then quietly asks, “Is she still living with you?”

“For now, yeah.” He’s a little surprised about that, to be honest. Now that she can drive, there isn’t a reason for her to (unless she wants to, that is). “Actually, Em, about that. Gil and I are together, now. Properly, as a couple.”

“Dad, really?” Her voice is high and excited.

Cal chances a look at her. “Is that alright?”

“Of course it is! I love Gil, and I know you do too.” She turns to him, suddenly serious. “Don’t break her heart.”

“I won’t, I promise.” He’ll spend of every second of his life trying not to mess this up, for him, for Gillian, for Emily. Their family—because they are a family—is too important.

They arrive at their destination. It’s just before 5, so Gillian still isn’t home yet. Cal sends Emily up to her room to unpack and begins to prepare dinner. He settles on chili to use up some extra cans of beans.

Gillian comes home when he adds the final can of beans. Cal greets her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey,” he says, stirring the pot, “how was work?”

She balances her crutch on the edge of the counter and wraps her arm around his waist. “Fine. You told Emily?”

“Yeah. She’s happy for us.” Cal reciprocates with an arm around her, snugging her closer to his side.

Emily comes downstairs just in time for dinner to be ready, hair wet from a shower. She gives Gillian a big hug.

“I’m really glad to see you,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come out sooner. I wish I could have helped—”

“It’s alright,” Gillian soothes. “You helped plenty, I promise. Just getting to talk to you was a bright spot on some of my saddest days.”

Emily seems reassured by that and scoops herself a bowl of chili. They take their spots at the table, Cal on the short end, Emily to his left, and Gillian to his right. Emily fills Gillian in on the end of her semester and her upcoming classes.

“I have to take a science gen ed, so I’m taking an intro to zoology course,” she says. “It was the least boring option. I’m really excited about my next creative writing class, though. We get to try writing an actual book!”

“Gil’s writing a book,” he interrupts.

Emily breaks out into an excited grin. “Really? What’s it about? Dad knows a publisher, you know.”

“It’s not that kind of book,” Gillian says, and then slaps a hand over her mouth, as though she’s spilled a secret.

Cal thinks through of what little he knows of what she’s been writing (that she doesn’t want him to read it until after it’s published, that it’s sort of about him, that it’s not something his publisher would pick up). He assumed that she was writing some sort of non-fiction book about vocal tells or the crossover of psychology and his science, both of which would be happily published, but apparently that isn’t the case. He’s on the cusp of having a realization, but Emily gets there first.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Gil, are you writing a romance novel?”

“Well, I’m trying to,” she answer shyly and very pointedly not looking at Cal whose jaw has dropped.

Gillian’s writing a romance novel? About him?

He really needs to talk to Loker about upping his hacking skills, because that’s something he needs to read yesterday.

“Well,” Emily says, “if you ever need a second pair of eyes to read it over, let me know.”

Cal spends the rest of dinner pretending to listen to Emily while sending Gillian a smoldering look that conveys that he’ll give her something romantic to write about when they’re in bed that causes her blush to spread down her throat and disappear into her shirt. (He’ll find out how far down it goes later.) He finishes dinner first and takes his bowl to the sink, dropping a kiss on both of their heads as he passes them.

“Emily,” Gillian asks when she thinks he’s out of earshot. “I just want to check: You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

Cal turns the water down so he can hear better, and what he hears in her voice is insecurity. He knows how much she’s tried to give them space over the years, at first because of Zoë and then, he suspects, because of her own aches with the concepts of family where she might play the role of a mother.

It seems Emily’s ascertained the same insecurity. “Yes, I am. I want you both to be happy, and I can tell that you’re happy together. For what it’s worth, Gil, you’ve been a part of this family since you and Dad started working out of the kitchen, and you’ll keep being a part of it no matter what happens next.”

Cal turns the water back on. That’s his girl.

Saturday, morning

Gillian’s using the quiet stillness of the morning to get some writing done. She’s in the final third of her novel now. The protagonists have finally confessed their feelings for one another, but they still have yet to escape their dangerous situation. There’s a sense of urgency to consummate their relationship in case the won’t have a chance to later. Gillian has written everything, from their heated kisses and disrobing to one of them being lain gently on a bed, and she’s gone back and forth about the merits of writing out the sex her characters are going to have or simply have the scene fade to black.

“So that’s what your porn face looks like, huh?”

She lets out a startled noise at the sound of Cal’s voice and slams her laptop shut. He’s managed to slip into the dining room without her noticing.

“Writing a naughty book then, are you?” He sits in the chair next to hers and drags a hand up the inside of her thigh, stopping midway but digging the blunt edges of his nails into her skin. “Such a tease, Foster.”

“Emily is home,” she warns even as her resolve falters when Cal nibbles on her ear.

“She’s also a uni student on California time. She won’t be up for another hour.” His hand inches higher.

Gillian clamps her legs together, halting his progress. “And I recall that you promised to make a pound cake for breakfast. The bake time alone is 45 minutes.”

“Tease,” he says, but heads off to the kitchen.

She rolls her eyes fondly and reopens her laptop. It seems her fingers have made up her mind for her, and she finds herself typing furiously. Before she knows it, an hour has passed, and she’s written down words that make her blush to read.

“Morning, love birds,” Emily says when she joins them. She lifts her head, sniffing. “Ooo, coffee cake!”

“Pound cake,” Cal corrects her and brings the freshly baked cake to the table. She reaches out to grab a slice, but he grabs her hand, interrupting the movement.

“Oi!” He tugs the sleeve of her shirt up until her wrist and part of her forearm is exposed. “What’s this?”

Emily tries in vain to pull her arm away. “A tattoo.”

“A real one?” Cal drags her to the sink and turns on the water and rubs it with soap and water like Lady Macbeth and the spot. When that doesn’t work, he looks over at Gillian who ignores him and instead gives a reassuring smile to Emily. Emily smiles weakly back and uses her dad’s distraction to wrist out of his grip.

“You.” Cal points an accusing finger at Gillian. “You knew about this.”

She raises her hands. “I was sworn to secrecy.” She glances at Emily who’s clearly in need of some back up. “They aren’t just flowers for decoration. If you ask her about what they mean, I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, turning back to Emily. “Let’s hear it, then.”

She comes back to the table after drying off her arm, takes a piece of cake, and looks to Gillian for reassurance one last time before explaining. “The oak tree is for Pops, a daisy for Nanna, and a lily for grandma.”

Gillian watches realization dawn on him, an abrupt twitch of his eyebrows and then a few blinks of recognition.

“I didn’t get anything for your dad because he was,” Emily adds quickly, “you know—”

“A piece of work,” he supplies.

“Your words, not mine.” She presses her lips together like she’s preparing for the riot act, but nothing comes. “So what do you think?”

Cal takes her wrist again, gently this time, and strokes over the lily, the one that’s for his mother, with reverence. “I guess they’re fine, then. No more for a while, though, yeah?”

“Don’t worry Dad, I won’t get anything else for at least a year. Either that, or when you or Mom die.”

“That better not be for a good long time,” Cal says, and there’s a self-preservation instinct she hears in his voice that’s entirely unfamiliar, like he finally gets it that there are people who need him.

Emily nods in agreement. “Hopefully. But just in case, I’ve already picked out what I’m going to get for you when you die.”

He snorts. “Oh yeah?”

“A cactus,” she says smugly. “It’s sharp and spiky, just like you.”

Gillian couldn’t have picked anything better if she’d tried.

Sunday, evening

Cal made a delicious Christmas dinner (if he did say so himself), and now the three of them are gathered around the tree (insisted on by Emily, decorated mostly by Gillian) for presents. They’ve each gotten one gift for each other, so they take turns. Emily gets a compact and classy coffee maker from Gillian, one that will fit right in at her dorm. Cal opens the present from Emily (6 cans of baked beans), and then it’s Gillian’s turn.

He knows, vaguely, what Emily’s gotten Gillian because she’d asked to borrow some money for it. It’s an article of clothing purchased after her “wardrobe tantrum,” but that’s all he knows.

Gillian unwraps it, gently lifting up at the taped seams, without tearing the paper (because of course), and finds a black box. She lifts the lid and lets out a soft gasp. “Oh, Emily.”

Gillian stands—without her crutch which makes Cal nervous, but he knows she’s been working on it in physical therapy—and lifts a garment out of the box. It’s a floor-length, sleeveless jumpsuit with a plunging V neck.

“It’s beautiful!” she exclaims.

“So are you,” Emily says earnestly. “Wear it to the New Years Eve party?”

Gillian gives her a hug. “As if I’d want to wear anything else. Thank you.”

Round two of presents begins with Emily opening her gift from Cal which is a pair of tickets to a concert. It’s some boy band he’s never heard of, but Emily’s excited about it any way.

“No drinking,” he orders sternly.

“Of course.” She winks. “I’ll be safe, Dad. I promise.”

Gillian hands him his gift. He hadn’t been expecting anything big from her, but an envelope that felt empty is a bit of a surprise. Sliding his finger under the tab, he opens the envelope and shakes it. A plastic card falls out into his lap. He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and turns it over. There a photo of him (one that’s been generously picked) with his name underneath. At the top it says “The Lightman Group” in the same font and lettering as their sign.

“This is your security card,” Gillian explains. “They’re installing the key card scanner on Tuesday.”

Emily looks confused but doesn’t ask any questions. Cal feels a deep swell of gratitude for Gillian and her willingness to do this for him. She knows, more than anyone, how he still wakes up at night, terrified that she’s missing or that Gladstone will show up again the moment he turns his back.

“Sort of leads into what my gift is,” he says. “It’s not a physical gift really, but you know how helicopter rides aren’t covered by insurance?”

She nods. The hospital bills and the doctor visits and the physical therapy appointments had been draining her savings account even after hitting her deductible, and she’s mentioned waiting for the helicopter bill to come and crush her personal finances.

“You don’t have to worry about it. The FBI picked up the bill since Gladstone was on their list.” What Cal doesn’t say is that he actually made this deal during a very professional sit down meeting with an agent and signed the paperwork and took on a few, very limited, contracts for them to square the circle.

It’s worth it, though, for the relief and gratitude in Gillian’s sigh. “Cal, I… I don’t know what to say.” She smiles, still in a bit of disbelief. “Thank you. Really. It means a lot that I don’t have to worry about that bill.”

Emily gets up suddenly. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yes, please!” Gillian requests.

When Emily leaves, Cal kisses her. Emily’s a smart girl, giving them space like that. She might not be a natural, but she’s a decent reader, especially when it comes to her dad and de facto stepmom.

Emily returns 10 minutes later with two piping how mugs of hot chocolate and curls up on the right side of the couch, cold feet pressing into Cal’s thigh and head resting on the cushioned arm rest. She turns on the television and finds Iron Man. The three of them cozy up for a movie before bed.

Halfway through the film, when Emily’s dozed off, Gillian whispers in his ear, “I’ve got another gift for you to unwrap later.”

Cal turns and takes in her dark-eyed gaze. Well. He always knew that Foster wasn’t a good girl.

“Aye aye.”

Saturday 11:59 p.m./Sunday 12:00 a.m., a week later

Gillian’s feeling giddy, and it isn’t just the champagne. (They agreed on a one drink limit so they could be sober when the got home.) No, she’s floating on a cloud because they also agreed that tonight will be the night they’ll finally put their staff out of their suspense and put an end to the various betting pools by confirming their relationship with a kiss at midnight.

It’s not like either of them have been particularly subtle tonight either. Gillian’s been giving him lingering touches any time he’s passed by her, letting the densely packed venue be an excuse for taking in a whiff of his cologne that is dotted on his neck. Cal, for his part, had practically drooled when he saw her in the pink jumpsuit (and wearing more makeup than she had since before the whole ordeal).

“One minute to midnight!” Loker shouts.

Gillian weaves through the crowd, careful not to hit anyone with her crutch. Cal finds her half way, as though drawn to her by a magnetic force.

“You look bloody gorgeous, love,” he says.

She grins. “Emily has a good eye for style.”

They close the gap between them, Cal’s arms around her waist, pulling their pelvises together in plain view of everyone so there’s little doubt that they’re together in that sense.

“Ready to make things official?” she asks.

“Thought we made it official 8 years ago.”

“Ten!” The count down begins. “Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!” A popper goes off. “Happy New Year!”

Gillian shuts her eyes and kisses Cal to ring in the New Year. She intended for it to be a normal kiss—one that conveys, under no uncertain terms, that they’re a couple—but it turns into a Hollywood-worthy one when Cal decides to dip her, hiking her right leg up on his hip.

“Oh, shit!” Loker says while someone makes a gagging sound. There are a few hoots and hollers, and one very loud wolf whistle.

A laugh bubbles up from Gillian’s throat, landing on Cal’s lips. He sets her leg down but it’s a good thing he’s still mostly holding her up because her knees are a little weak.

“I’ll fire them all,” he growls into the join of her neck and shoulder.

She side eyes their staff trying very hard to give them a stern look while failing to contain her smile. “Don’t you dare.”

Chapter Text

Thursday, afternoon

Gillian’s first case after the holidays is closed quickly. It involved a poorly constructed building, a housing collapse (without any injuries or fatalities, fortunately), but it’s left a family homeless.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, it’s just that I don’t know what to do,” her client Annie says, tears in her eyes. “The insurance pay out won’t be enough to get a house with the way the market is, and we might have to go back to renting, but my job and their pensions aren’t enough to cover it forever, especially with medical bills.”

Gillian reaches out and squeezes her hand. “I might have just the solution. Would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

“Yeah.” Annie blows her nose.

Gillian makes her way down to Cal’s office and knocks on the door as she enters. “Do you have a minute?”

“For you?” He smiles. “Always.”

“You know about my case—”

“With the house collapse, yeah. Where are they going to live now?”

She nods. “That’s just it. They don’t have anywhere.”

“But …” Cal prompts.

“But, I have a place that I haven’t lived in since the end of October.” Gillian holds her breath, waiting for him to think it over. They hadn’t discussed it explicitly, but she considers herself moved in with Cal. Sure, there are a few things she hasn’t schlepped over (some certain articles of clothing included), but for the most part, she’s thinks of herself as living with Cal. Her townhouse is becoming more of a ghost of her post-divorce and pre-Cal life, an extra expense than anything else.

“It wouldn’t be permanent,” she scrambles to add in the wake of his stunned silence. “Just until they can get back on their feet.”

“It would be find if it were, love,” Cal says finally.

She gives him a once over and finds nothing but warmth. “So it’s okay?”

“It’s okay,” he confirms.

Gillian gives him a quick kiss as a thank you, then goes to tell Annie the good news.

Wednesday, morning

Cal wakes up alone. Not entirely unusual, as Gillian’s been doing early morning physical therapy sessions before work, especially since being able to drive. He goes through his morning routine (with beans on toast for breakfast in silence because no one is there to mock him for it) and goes to work.

Gillian’s already in the lab with a mug of hot chocolate, the sweet-toothed early bird she is, and she smiles at Cal when she sees him. “Good morning.”

“Hi, love,” he returns and does his level best to read her. There’s something more going on this morning behind her smile besides her usual and inexplicable perkiness. It’s like she’s said a punchline and is waiting for him to pick up on the joke.

He doesn’t get it until she starts towards the door, headed off to her office. Her gait sounds quieter than normal. There’s something empty, something missing …

Cal whirls around, nearly launching himself out of the chair. “Gillian?”

“Yes?” Her expression is all glittering mirth.

“Your crutch,” he says, searching the space for it. “Are you okay? Do you need it?”

“It’s in my office, just in case,” she placates. “I’m cleared for full weight bearing and return to regular activities as tolerated.”

“That’s …” Cal is thrown by his mixture of emotions. On one hand, he’s thrilled for her. She’s been working on healing for months now, and her hard work has paid off. He’s watched every painstaking step of the process, from relearning to bend her knee again to twisting open jars and strange exercises with her foot wrapped in an elastic band. On the other hand, he’s terrified that this will be the thing that finally makes her leave. She’ll realize her independence and want to move back into her place when Annie and her grandparents find somewhere to go. If she doesn’t need him anymore, why would she stay?

“Hey,” Gillian says, crossing the room back towards him. “I’m not leaving. This, us, isn’t something I’m going to walk away from.”

Cal stands and takes the final few steps to close the gap between them. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Monday, a month later

Maybe it’s love in the air with Valentine’s Day only a week away, but Gillian had finally finished a draft of her book. She’s read it, re-read it, re-written it, and now she has no idea what to do. She doesn’t have the confidence yet to start writing query letters even though Cal’s given her plenty advice on how. What she really needs is a second opinion (or a cheerleader, or both).

Gillian’s contemplating putting the document in a folder and leaving it on her desktop forever, never to be read by another soul, when Emily calls.

“Hi!” she says. “Super weird question, Gil, but would you be willing to look something over for me? It’s for my writing class. We’re supposed to be writing characters with different identities from our own, and I’m writing about a character with generalized anxiety. I want to make sure that it’s accurate and respectful.”

“Of course I can give it a read through.” Gillian is heartened to know that Emily’s chosen her to share her work, an act of vulnerability she’s beginning to understand.

“Thanks! I’ll send it over.” Emily pauses, presumably to send her an email. “So, speaking of writing, how’s your book?”

She looks at the document that’s still open on her laptop. “I finished it, actually.”

“So you’ve stated sending it off to publishers?”

“No.” Gillian clears her throat. “I’m really not sure …”

“I’m sure it’s great. Send it me?” Emily asks. “Please? It’s the least I can do.”

She caves. “Alright.”

Tuesday, a week later

Cal pulls out all the stops for Valentine’s Day. After all the time loving her in silence, the chance to love her out loud is irresistible, even if it’s trope after trope.

Fortunately for him, Gillian is a romance enthusiast, and she’s exactly the type of eat up all the the clichés.

He starts with a dozen roses on her desk in the morning, a box of chocolates at lunch, and a bottle of wine over dinner. When she’s thoroughly wined and dined, Gillian tugs him to a stand and convinces him that dancing in the kitchen is a good idea.

“Thank you,” Gillian says as they sway together to smooth jazz on the radio. It’s at that moment, when her eyes shine and her lips part, that one thought slams into Cal with the force of a bullet train.

He wants to marry her.

Marrying Zoë had been, despite the spontaneous beginning of their relationship, more of a logical decision than anything else. She’s been in law school, after all, and it just made sense from a legal standpoint: the taxes, his citizenship, a stable home life (ha) for Emily. He doesn’t regret that they married, exactly, but he’s never considered marrying again since.

Until right now.

Cal isn’t even sure he cares about the legal reasons this time, though Gillian will probably be over the moon about the tax benefits. It’s purely for romantic reasons, for the thought of being able to introduce her to people as his wife, to be bonded together in every sense, til death do them part and all that.

“Cal?” Gillian’s smiling at him with a shadow of confusion. “Where’d you go? You got all …” She gestures vaguely to his face. “Sappy.”

He contemplates lying to her for half a second, but instead leans into his supposed sappiness. It is Valentine’s Day, after all. “Ever thought about getting married again?”

Gillian lets out a little gasp, her eyes searching his face. “Is this?” she asks, unable to finish her own question. “Are you?”

“Nah.” Cal waves it off. “I’ll get you a ring, yeah? Do it right, all fancy and romantic.”

“You don’t have to,” she says, her smile widening and the confusion gone, replaced by excitement. “And this is plenty romantic.”

Plenty romantic isn’t going to cut it for him. Cal’s imagining a nice restaurant, a chocolate cake, a heartfelt speech that he gives while kneeling in front of her. “Want to. For you. Soon. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Friday, night

Gillian’s been elated all week. Cal wants to marry her. It’s not a surprise, exactly, she just hadn’t expected him to come right out with it. The scenario she’d imagined was living together for years until pretenses of not being married were silly and taking an afternoon to get the paperwork signed at a city hall after persistent pestering from herself and Emily.

Mostly, though, she feels so deeply loved and loving in return. Gillian is used to being the one that’s too much in her relationships (well, really, in her marriage to Alec). He accused her of being too affectionate, too clingy, too sweet. Cal, meanwhile, can’t seem to get enough of her, the way she cares for him and dotes on him and loves him. They’re evenly matched in their overwhelming intensity for one another that she doesn’t have to worry about being too much, and it’s a security she never knew she had missed before.

Her phone rings, distracting her (momentarily) from her thoughts. It’s Emily. “Hello?”

“Holy shit, Gillian.”

She sits up quickly from the way she’s been reclined on the couch, going from joyful to concerned. “Emily? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No. I’m bawling my eyes out. Your book, it’s— it’s—”

Gillian breathes a sigh of relief. “You scared me.”

“I’m not kidding. Okay, it was a little gross to read the sex scene because this whole book is clearly about you and Dad, but oh my God. I had no idea you could write like this.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say,” she says, blushing a little and sinking back down on the couch.

“This deserves to be published and then made into the next Hollywood blockbuster,” Emily insists. “They way that your write about Julian learning to overcoming his fears about rejection and Kayla learning to let herself be loved at her lowest point is just … beautiful. I don’t have words, Gil.”

Gillian drew on her own experience for Kayla’s arc and made some deductions about Cal to write Julian’s. Writing from his perspective is part of what helped Gillian learn to accept Cal’s seemingly boundless love for her, even after everything that happened and all of the care-taking he had to do.

“They were enough—the just two of them as they were, no more, and no less,” Emily reads. “I mean, Christ, Gil. Talk about the mortifying ordeal of being known. If this doesn’t get published, it’s a crime against literature.”

“I— Thank you,” she settles on, “for reading through it.”

Emily laughs. “I get the feeling I’ll be rereading it because it’s so romantic. Has Dad read it yet?”

“He hasn’t,” Gillian chews at her thumb nail. She’s not worried about rejection, per se, more worried that Cal won’t see himself and think he’s not living up to the fantasy version of them she’s written. Not that she wants that. Their reality has far surpassed anything she could write down.

“He’ll love it, Gil. I promise,” Emily says. “Time to start writing query letters!”

Sunday, evening

Cal has a ring and half a plan when he takes her out to dinner that night. It’s a little family-run Italian place that’s more of a bakery than anything but does serve dinner, and Gillian has been bugging him to go there since she noticed it on a walk a few weeks ago. He’d called yesterday to ask if they serve free dessert (specifically, one of their highly reviewed chocolate cakes) for engagements, and the owner’s daughter had laughed and then said yes. It was a done deal to Cal after that.

Doesn’t stop him from second guessing everything though. Is it not formal enough? They’re both in jeans and sweaters. Is it too empty or too busy? There are a few couples and a family, half the tables empty because most people would rather stay in (or, at least, order take out) with the snow as miserable as its been. And what of the ring? It’s a simple golden band with an understated (and ethically sourced) diamond that matches the rest of her jewelry, but he doesn’t want its subtle appearance to undercut the monumental promise he’s offering: A lifetime with him, Cal Lightman, for whatever unknown reason that she wants him.

He fidgets through the dinner, even more so than usual, and he’s especially twitchy because she’s decided to order a pasta dish, one with noodles that she slurps up through her perfectly shaped lips. When she licks a bit of sauce off the corner of her mouth, Cal’s pretty sure she’s doing it all the torture him.

“Dessert?” the sever suggests, and he recognizes her voice as the owner’s daughter who had answered the phone last night.

“Just a minute,” he asks, sending her away.

“Cal,” Gillian drags out his name with a pout. “I saved room for a slice of chocolate cake.”

“You’ll have your cake and eat it too, love, I promise. Just wanted to run something by you first.” He thumbs the velvet box that’s been burning a hole in his pocket and makes a quick glance around. No one else, save the server, is looking at them. She gives him a thumbs up from behind Gillian’s back. Cal takes a deep breath and sinks to the floor beside her chair.

He forgets everything he planned on saying.

“What are you doing on the carpet?” Gillian demands after an awkward second stretched too long. Her expression is baffled, like he’s pulling one of his bizarre antics to solve a case and get a suspect to crack, but that’s not what he’s doing at all and he’d better start talking because her expression is turning slightly embarrassed, flicking to the sides to see if anyone else in the restaurant has noticed his strange turn in behavior.

“Gillian Foster,” Cal starts, because her name is as good a place as any. “I have fallen completely, wholly, and irrevocably in love with you.” He fishes the box out of his pocket and flips open the top, and her discomfort transforms into hope, hands pressed to her heart. “I haven’t stopped falling, really, and I don’t think I ever will. I don’t want to.” Shaking, he grabs her left wrist, tugging it down to him, literally asking for her hand. “Will you marry me?”

Gillian nods, silently at first with tears sparkling in her eyes, and then an enthusiastic, “Yes, Cal. Yes.”

He slides the ring onto her finger, and the server whoops. That gets the attention of everyone else in the restaurant, garnering a round of applause. Gillian takes a hold of his collar and drags him up, enough to put a searing kiss on his lips.

“One free slice of chocolate cake,” the server says.

“Actually,” Gillian levels a placid smile at her, “could we get it to go please?”

She winks back. “Of course.”

Monday, afternoon

Gillian is snuggled up against Cal’s chest, taking full advantage of the day off, when he calls Emily.

“Hey, Em,” he says, putting her on speaker. “Is now a good time?”

“Yeah.”

“Gil’s here too, FYI.”

“Okay?” Emily’s voice has a question in it. “What’s up?”

Cal looks to Gillian, giving her a small nod. She can’t keep the smile out of her voice as she says, “We’re engaged.”

Emily squeals. “Oh my God! Wow, that’s huge! Congratulations! Do you have any idea when the wedding will be?”

Last night, there had been a lot of talking (in between rounds of mind-blowing sex, of course), and they’d agreed on not waiting. They’d done their fair share of taking things slow, building a business and relationship over the span of years, while their romantic relationship had blossomed, comparatively, in the blink of an eye. Neither of them had the patience to wait very long for marriage given their functional existence as a married couple for several years now.

“We were thinking pretty soon, actually,” Cal says, tracing a line up her spine. “More of an elopement than a wedding, yeah?”

“I can go, though, right?” Emily asks.

“Of course you’re invited,” Gillian confirms. “We were thinking about doing it over spring break and meeting you in the middle.”

“Not Vegas,” Cal clarifies.

“Colorado?” Emily guesses.

“More like Arizona,” Gillian says. They’d considered a variety of options last night, but flights into Flagstaff were relatively cheap and gave them a good launching point for a lot of scenic options. She’s still ambivalent about heights which had ruled out the Grand Canyon and Horseshoe bend, but there are so many other places. “We were thinking Sedona.”

“Ooo! I have a friend from Phoenix, and she says it’s gorgeous there.”

“Alright, then,” Cal says, relaxing beneath her now that they have Emily’s approval. “It’s a plan.”

Tuesday, morning

“Hey!” Loker waves them over. “Come look at these videos! I think I’ve found out something interesting about primate behavior and how the humidity effects time to confrontation after displays of anger.”

Cal shares a private look with Gillian who checks him with a hip. They aren’t keeping the engagement a secret, but he wants to run it as a small experiment, testing their staff’s observational skills. Anna’s already noticed (smart girl) and had acknowledged it with appropriate discretion when Gillian picked up the mail from her this morning.

“We’ll be right there,” Gillian promises and follows him to the lab where he starts to show them a series of low-quality clips from zoo live-streams and field research footage. She is, by Cal’s estimates, subtly showing off the ring by the way she’s got her arms folded, left hand on her right elbow and taping her fingers, the metal and gem catching the light as she does so. Loker is oblivious.

Torres, to her credit, clocks it the minute she walks in. Her eyes flash surprise (she’s never been good at masking her emotions), and flick between the ring and Cal. He arches an eyebrow at her, daring her to say something.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

Loker turns in his chair. “What?”

“I owe you twenty dollars,” she says, gesturing to Gillian, “if that means what I think it means.”

“It does.” Gillian runs her thumb across the band.

“Excuse me,” Cal cuts in. “You two had a bet about this?”

Torres looks sheepishly at Loker.

“We bet on whether or not you’d have the balls to move things along,” Loker says. “For the record, I bet that you’d find them by the end of the year. Ria thought Foster would have to propose for you.”

“Oi!” Cal smacks the back of his head. “My balls were never lost.”

Torres rolls her eyes. “I’d beg to differ. You’ve been pining after her since I started working here.”

“I’m firing both of them,” Cal declares. “Bloody backstabbers, this lot.”

Gillian laughs.

Friday, early morning

At her physical therapist’s suggestion, Gillian’s taken up weight lifting. Before, she’d been more the type to take a Pilates class every so often and run on the treadmill, but now she does look forward to going to the gym. There’s something deeply satisfying about adding more weight, having evidence of her gains in strength.

It’s also doing some nice things to her figure. Gillian’s always been in shape in an aesthetic sense, but now she looks strong. Before the engagement, she’d been asked out by a few (shirtless, ripped, and often younger than her) men. Now, with a ring to ward off potential suitors, she’s very aware of the looks she gets, and she can’t say she’s offended. She’s gained confidence in her ability to do difficult things and in her appearance, in spite of the scars.

On the day she hits a new bench press PR, Gillian gets a call from an unknown number.

“Is this Rose O’Connor?” the voice on the other side asks.

Her heart ticks up. That’s the (admittedly lazy) pen name she’d chosen for herself. “Yes, this is she.”

“We loved your manuscript and would like to offer you a publishing deal. Is that something you’d like to discuss?”

“Yes!” Gillian answers excitedly, then clears her throat for a more professional tone. “Yes, of course. Can we set up a time to talk around noon today?”

Thursday, late afternoon

“Dr. Lightman?” Anna’s voice comes over the phone’s speaker. “There’s someone not on the schedule that’s requesting to see you.”

Cal glances towards his safe where he keeps a gun for emergencies. “Who is it?”

“Agent Reynolds.”

His shoulders relax themselves from where they’d crept up nearly to his ears. “I'll meet him at the front.”

Reynolds looks different. He has a beard now, and there’s something more relaxed about him even as there’s a wince of permanent pain around the corners of his eyes. Despite their last case, he greets Cal with a smile.

“Hey, Lightman. This is new.” He gestures to the security system as Cal buzzes him through.

“Extra security measures,” he explains as Reynolds rolls his wheelchair through the gate. “Ever since Gladstone, it wasn’t worth the risk anymore.”

“Ben!” Gillian meets them in the intersections of the hallways and leans down to give him a hug.

“Hey, Foster. Looking fine as always.”

She smiles, doing a little half turn. “Thanks. Looking well yourself.” She flicks a glance to Cal. “So what brings you in?”

“Why don’t we go to one of your offices?” Reynolds suggests. The three of them go to Cal’s. The two of them take the couch, and Reynolds transfers from his wheelchair to one of the cushy chairs.

“What’s this all about then?” Cal reiterates her question, this time with an arm around her waist.

Reynolds laughs with sentimentality. “Forgot what it was like to be around you people. I’ll cut to the chase, then.” He takes a breath, sobering. “Gladstone is no longer missing.”

Gillian flinches under him as Cal reflexively holds her closer.

“You caught the bastard?” he growls.

“Sort of.” Reynolds shrugs. “Two backpackers found him. What was left of him, anyway.”

“Gladstone is … dead?” Gillian asks.

“Yeah. Not far from where his car was found. Looks like he got too close to a mama bear’s den. She took a bite out of his leg and left him for dead. Cause of death was likely hypothermia. He expired not long after he tried to go on the lamb.”

Gillian barks out a laugh of disbelief and then falls silent.

Cal’s ear ring, thoughts tumbling around like a washing machine.

Gladstone is dead.

Gladstone has been dead for months.

This whole time, he hasn’t been out there, searching for his next victim, for his next Gillian.

There’s some relief, but Cal feels all the dread and fear and stress he’s been bottling up for the last four months and something weeks turns into anger.

But anger at whom? Gladstone? He’s dead. It doesn’t matter how angry Cal gets, there isn’t anywhere to put it.

“Cal?” Gillian voice draws him back. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s over now.”

He shakes his head, scratching at his hair. “He’ll never face justice.”

“He’ll never hurt anyone again,” she says emphatically. “There will never be another woman he pushes off a cliff. That’s what’s important.”

Cal nods slowly. She’s right, as she often is. What’s important is Gillian, alive, healthy, whole, and right next to him.

“Thank you, Ben,” Gillian tells him as Cal continues to process his emotions.

Reynolds waves it off. “Letting you know was the least I could do.”

They talk for a few minutes more about work and not work, all that’s happened in the year plus apart. After, Cal walks him out. As they approach the gate, Reynolds stops.

“So, you and Foster?” He raises a knowing eyebrow. “About time, Lightman. I thought I’d never see the day. Congratulations.”

Cal buzzes the gate open. “Thanks, Reynolds.”

Saturday, one week later

“Wow, it’s gorgeous here!” It’s something Emily’s been saying about every five minutes since they drove into Sedona from Flagstaff yesterday, and Gillian can’t help but to agree. Every where they turn is a scenic view. Red rocks rise, their craggy edges breaking up the skyline.

The location they’ve chosen is a popular picnic spot. It’s a meadow with the mountains rising across the river. At sunset on a chilly day, it’s mostly empty.

It’s then and there that it really sinks in for Gillian. She’s getting married. She will leave this place as a wife and a stepmother. Finally, officially, a part of the Lightman family after all these years.

Gillian is ecstatic. This (pink jumpsuit, outdoors, excitement, elopement) is nothing like her first wedding (white dress, church, nerves, tradition). She can only imagine what’s going through Cal’s mind. In comparison to his trip to city hall, this must feel downright romantic.

“Ready?” The officiant, Cameroon, wears a suit and has vibrant orange hair. They have a genuine smile, one that’s happy for the two of them.

“Ready.” Cal’s voice is steady and calm, his hand holding hers. Gillian squeezes back, unable to contain her smile. They’ve already done the paperwork, so all that’s left is the ceremony.

“Let’s not waste any more time then, shall we?” Cameron clears their voice. “We are gathered here today at this beautiful location to celebrate the union of two people, Gillian Foster and Cal Lightman. I understand that you’ve both prepared vows. Who would like to go first?”

“I can,” Gillian says. “Cal, we have a lot of history. Most of it good, but not all of it. Yet, for every bad thing that’s happened, it’s brought us closer. We have spent close to a decade establishing a foundation, and it feels solid. We can handle anything that comes at us, and I can’t wait to see what the future has for us.”

Cal runs his thumb across her knuckles. “Gil. You and I built a life on finding the truth. Here is my truth: I love you, and I don’t plan on ever stopping. You’re stuck with me, darling, as long as you’ll keep me.”

Gillian grins. Forever. That’s what they get to have.

“Do you, Gillian Foster, take Cal Lightman, as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping yourself unto him as long as you both shall live?” Cameron asks.

“I do,” she says steadily.

“Do you, Cal Lightman, take Gillian Foster, as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping yourself unto her as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” There isn’t so much as an ounce of doubt, in his voice.

“Shall we exchange the rings?” Cameron prompts Emily, who produces two small boxes.

Cal goes first, taking her hand and sliding on a ring of two twisted golden strands to sit just above her engagement ring. Gillian reciprocates, fitting a band of obsidian and gold onto his left ring finger.

Her thudding heart buzzes in her ears, muffling Cameron’s voice as they recite next part.

“May I present you husband and wife. You may now kiss your spouse!”

Sunday, a little over a year later

“Gillian Rose O’Connor Foster Lightman, are you responsible for this?” Cal slams a book onto the kitchen counter.

Gillian picks up the book, turning it over to inspect it and read the back cover. “I never officially took your name, you know.”

“Deflection.” He snatches the book back and begins to read aloud. “‘How Far the Fall, How Soft the Landing is Rose O’Connor’s smashing debut novel that recounts the tale of Kayla as she makes a daring escape from her captor. She must learn to rely on her brash and occasionally morally gray best friend, Julian, as they face the trials of recovery and romance.”

“Sounds like an interesting premise for a book,” she says.

Cal narrows his eyes. “The naming scheme is a little on the nose. Not to mention the striking number of similarities there.”

Gillian shrugs. “Are there? Maybe Rose and I just have similar tastes.”

“Rose? So you’re on a first name basis with her, are you?” He crowds into her space.

“Why?” she teases. “Jealous?”

“It’s been called ‘a romantic fairy tale that will have you swooning for the rest of your life.’” Cal backs up a fraction to take a pen out of a drawer, and he hands it to her with the book. “I recall you promised a signed hard copy.”

“I did.” Gillian gives him a soft smile and turns the book open to the dedication page. She clicks the pen and begins to write. When she’s done, Cal reads it before the ink has even dried.

Cal,

You are the man for whom I have never stopped falling. Thank you for the softest landing.

Love,

Gillian