A/N: This is my new story. Multi-chaptered angst, plot-driven, and with lots of Callian, of course. Timeline-wise the story is set sometime before Season One. It's a slightly adjusted universe, though, in which there is no Lightman Group and Cal and Gillian both still work for the Pentagon. That's all you have to keep in mind reading it. The rest should (hopefully) be self-explanatory. As to the other characters, I'm not sure as yet if or how they will be part of this universe. The development of the story will tell me what to do, I guess. And now...enjoy!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. LTM and its characters belong to FOX.

- Prologue: This is how it ends -

They say that in the minutes before you die, you remember pieces of your life. Things that happened. Special or maybe just random moments. Dr. Gillian Foster would beg to differ.

It is possible or even likely that she is going to die. She has never seen explosive in real life before. Let alone at such short range and in the hands of the man she trusts more than anybody else. Nevertheless, or rather because of that, her mind is blank. There are no thoughts or memories whatsoever distracting her from what is for sure the most gruesome situation she has ever been in throughout her entire life although there were some situations during the last weeks that came close. How did it happen so fast? How did her life get completely out of control?

Gillian wants to speak, but there is a lump in her throat. She wants to move, but there are invisible weights pinning her down on the spot. Not that she wants to move and get out even if this would be the only logical thing to do. It would mean to leave him behind, however, and that's the one thing she can't do. Won't.

She hears cars arrive and come to a halt with squealing tires outside. He was right. They are here. For him. Her whole body starts to shake. Until moments ago, there was a last straw of hope that he was wrong, that there was no danger to their lives. She could have talked him out of his plan that felt like a complete overreaction, but now – hearing several men jump out of the cars, shouting at each other – she knows that they are running out of time.

They have come a long way. From strangers to friends to whatever they are to each other these days. Was it really presumptuous of her to hope that they could somehow stay in each other's lives once this crude aberration from normalcy would be over? Apparently, it was. Right now, it feels as if there will be no normalcy for them anymore. Ever.

Because this is how it all ends.

The men are already at the front door. They don't care about attracting attention, don't have to. No one will come to save them in time. The men are for sure armed and they have only one agenda – killing the man in front of her. They don't care about her. If she stands in the line of fire, though, she will be killed, too. That's why he came up with this silly idea of explosive. First she thought he wanted to use it as defense, but his face and behavior told her otherwise. Well, in a way, it is a defense. The only one he could think of. Simple math. A trade. His life for hers. If he is dead, it will be over. If he lives, she also is in constant danger because once they realize what she means to him, they will use it.

"Gillian," Cal reaches out to touch her until he realizes that he is the mad man with the explosive in this scenario and pulls his hand back. "You have to leave now."

How can his voice be so calm and gentle, considering what is about to happen?

The front door is solid. It will take them a few minutes to break it, but that is all that is left. A few minutes. And she thought about sharing the rest of her life with him.

"There has to be another way," Gillian somehow manages to choke the words out. "You can't do that. I won't let you."

There is an endless sadness in his eyes.

"Sorry, luv. If you have a better idea, let me know." His voice quavers, and only now, she notices that his hands are shaking. Badly. The hands that are holding the explosive. Oh God!

"They want me dead, not you," Cal says tiredly but determined, ignoring his shaking hands. "So I will be."

For a brief moment, and despite the absurdity of the mere idea, she considers trying to convince him to kill himself in another way. Then she realizes that this is the only way he will be able to take at least some of them with him. If he has to go out, he will go with a bang. Literally. That's the way he is.

"Don't do this," she begs, tearing up.

He clenches his teeth. I have to. There is no room for negotiation.

Downstairs the men have burst open the door. They are in the building now. It is a huge, abandoned building, many floors to check. Nonetheless, it will take them no more than a couple of minutes to find them since they are on the third floor.

"Here." Cal turns around and opens a window to the backyard. "This is your way out."

For a moment, Gillian forgets that she hears approaching steps, door after door being pushed open on the first floor, and gets closer to look outside. He can't be serious.

"This is too high. I can't just jump out," she stumbles confused.

"See that?" He points at a small canopy at the level of the second floor. "You only have to climb down the fire escape ladder until you reach it. Then you can lower yourself from there to the ground."

The rusty ladder doesn't inspire confidence and ends just above the canopy, but perhaps it is solid enough to withstand her weight.

Steps and shouts come closer. The men are on the second floor now.

"Go. Now," Cal urges her on. They are both standing right in front of the open window.

"No!" Gillian shakes her head. Her survival instinct tells her to do it, to climb out of the window and save herself. This decision is not a question of common sense though. She simply can't leave him.

When he realizes that, Cal steps forward so that his body practically pushes her toward the opening and beyond in the process, trying to hold the explosive as far away from her as possible with one hand whereas he is ready to catch her with his other hand. Cal wants Gillian to save herself, not fall down and get hurt. One step. Another. The window sill is lower than usual and his next step puts enough pressure on her body that she has to retreat and puts one leg over the window sill, fumbling around until one of her hands and her foot reach the fire escape ladder. She is half inside, half outside now, grabbing his shirt. At first, Cal thinks she does it to stabilize herself, but then she pulls him closer and closer until he has no other choice than to embrace her with his free arm unless he wants to rip off her hand from his shirt.

He doesn't want to do it, doesn't want to be so close to her with the explosive in his hand. Cal doesn't want to put it down either though, needs to have it ready for use whenever the men get in. Let alone that he is quite sure she would try to take it away from him, given the chance. Gillian breathes fitfully, single tears leaving wet trails on his neck. Then she leans back, her facial expression still desperate but also determined. She will do whatever he asks of her. Everything that happened in the last weeks shook her view of life. Gillian might not know who to believe or trust anymore, but she believes in him.

"I love you," she didn't plan to say it; her confession hits both of them out of the blue. Once it's out, an inner calm sets in though. If this is really the end, there is no need to keep secrets. She wants him to know.

"Gill," her name is a distraught growl in the back of his throat. He loves her, too. She heard it in his voice, even in this one syllable. But he can't say it. Otherwise, Cal won't have the strength to go through with his plan anymore. He softly takes her hand that still holds on to him and puts it on the window frame.

He lets her go. She has to let go.

For a split second, there is no sound whatsoever, only the feel of his hand as it lingers before it abandons her skin.

Then hell breaks loose. There is a noise outside, louder and closer. The door to the room is about to break. Cal steps away from her into the room until she can't see him any longer. Gillian shifts her weight, grabs the fire escape ladder with both of her hands and starts to climb down with shaking knees. One step, two, three, four...

The explosion is deafening. Splinters of glass and other particles rain down on her; the heat of the fire is so intense that it slightly burns the back of her hands. It's the blast wave, though, that is the most dangerous, pushing her body off the ladder without warning. Her free fall is stopped by the canopy in between, her body spinning until it tumbles over the edge, and again, she falls and falls until her body hits the hard, concrete floor of the backyard.

Cal.

His name is a scream on her lips, but she can't tell whether she actually screamed or if it was only an echo in her mind. The pain in her chest and bones takes her breath away. Gillian can't move. Just lays there in the backyard, staring up at the window with the splintered glass, the fire and smoke, until her vision blurs. She hears sirens in the background, birds singing, a ray of sunshine warms her face, but nothing matters anymore.

To be continued