A/N: I'm still alive, guys. Shocking, I know. The short version of my writing hiatus is this: my marriage imploded, so writing anyone's love story felt like pouring a bucket of salt in the space where my heart used to be. The longer version is that I haven't actually stopped writing - I actually went back to the beginning of "Home" and am working forward, just to learn the characters' voices again. And yes, I still have every intention of finishing it. It's just taking me longer than I expected to find my footing again.

This one-shot has been floating around in my laptop for at least a year, unfinished. My stubborn streak wouldn't let me stop fussing with it, though - and I'm glad. Writing Gillian has been especially therapeutic. These characters all hold such a special place in my heart, and I'm so glad their stories can continue on in this way. As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

There is no knock. No polite hello. No semblance of small talk, and no friendly façade. And instead of giving her even the tiniest hint that he's about to catapult himself ten-times too far over the line, he simply plops down on the corner of her desk, squares his jaw, and asks…

"Are you in love with him, Foster?"

…just as casually as if it's nothing. As if they do this kind of thing every day, and he has every right to nose through her personal life like a bloodhound.

News flash? He doesn't. And so her first instinct is to laugh – loudly, sarcastically, and right in his face, for being presumptuous enough to think that she owes him an answer. She isn't in the mood to play games. She's annoyed, slightly embarrassed, and she has no idea why he's trying to talk about this now. Here. In a way that screams petulance and leaves her with a throbbing ache behind her eye. He's acting like a child. And as soon as she starts to tell him so, he switches tactics and tries again.

"I can repeat the question if you'd like."

On second thought, scratch that: replace 'child' with 'jackass,' because that's a much more accurate picture. He's behaving like a jackass. He's twitchy and single-minded, and she can't even begin to wrap her head around why. Her secrets aren't subject to debate, and he's completely in the wrong for opening this can of worms in the first place. It's… unfair. And delicate. And so unbelievably inappropriate that anyone else (meaning Cal) would've already torn his ego down a few pegs and sent him right back out the door. But she's Gillian, see? Smashing egos isn't her forte. And for as frustrated as she is, the best she can manage is a disgusted, exasperated frown.

(Which isn't intimidating at all.)

He drops into a chair without invitation, then pretends to be patient while she wrestles with the ramifications of living in limbo. Of keeping secrets. Of not following Cal's advice. And then two minutes later – when he's tired of pretending, and all she can manage is a snippy, "Listen, Loker…," he laughs. Right at her, for a dozen beats too long.

Damn him, anyway.

"You can't even deny it, can you?" he deadpans. And yes, she knows it's a trap. He's testing her. He's trying to prove a point. He's being obnoxious and grating, and she would very much like him to leave… but still. He isn't exactly wrong, here. So please file this moment under twenty-twenty hindsight.

She sips her coffee and taps her pen against the desk, while he just sits there completely undaunted. Just like Cal would probably do. Just like Cal actually did, back when their version of this conversation involved a man named Dave, a truckload of sexual tension, and two battered hearts. But this is different. It's her, and it's Loker, and there's certainly no unresolved tension between them.

To her credit, though, she does try to appease him. Generically. With as few details as possible, and with a tone that tells him he's pushing his luck. She isn't a saint, you know? She has limits. And she has no intentions of being anyone's doormat.

"My personal life is none of your business, Eli," she says. "And denial isn't a factor at all."

And somewhat foolishly, she assumes that her response will work just as well in the real world as it does in her head. That she's his boss first and his friend second, and that she isn't going to rearrange the two. But just as she is no saint, Eli Loker isn't naïve. He already knows how to exploit her biggest weakness, he's perfectly willing to play the science to a tee – and let's face it: he's seen Cal successfully use the bull-in-a-china-shop method many, many times before, so of course he's ready to try it himself. Which means that in other words? Being generic backfires completely.

He narrows his eyes and nods his head, as confidence practically oozes out of his pores. "Microexpression is Lightman's baby," he tells her, "but you've taught me just as much about it as he has. Which means that technically, you're wrong."

Technically.

Heh.

He over-emphasizes that word so hard that he practically chokes on it, and she wonders if he's been rehearsing this in his head for far too long.

"Both of you have made this my business by giving me a skillset that can't be turned off," he argues. "Expecting me to ignore everything I see, day after day, and to respect a boundary that you two willingly cross all the time? I'm sorry, Foster, but that's hypocrisy at its finest. So please. Tell me. Are you in love with him or not?"

Point one: his logic is twisted. Point two: his use of the word 'respect' is a hypocrisy all its own. And point three? Lecturing her about crossing boundaries would be far, far, far more appropriate if he'd done it from someplace like the lab, for example. Or the breakroom. Or the hallway. Or a million other places that are less symbolic than her office.

Point four, though, is trickier. Because as much as it pains her to agree with him, here, what he's saying does make a modicum of sense. He isn't blind. He isn't stupid. There's no switch to turn the science off once you know it, and the personal feelings that she and Cal share for each other have bled into The Group for years.

Still, though, habit alone makes her start to say no. To deflect. To lie her way around his question without so much as a pause, because that? Lying? It's what she and Cal always do. Full disclosure on anything related to love has never, ever been their forte. The word is heavy on her tongue – thick and purposeful, as the phrase "no more secrets" begins to echo in her ears. And trust her, she truly does start to deflect once again. She gets through the N and then trips on the O, and then she just sits there: temporarily mute.

She doesn't want to argue. In fact, she doesn't even really know how to argue, here, because he's right. Of course he's right. His approach is awful, and his attitude is throwing her for a loop, but he is right. He's the one who stood in front of a gun to save Cal from Matheson's bullet, and he was nearly killed by a retaliatory bomb. He earned stripes while Cal played canary… and he's helped her stay sane, laugh, learn, and heal, in a hundred different ways, for a hundred different reasons. He's invested, see? That's her point. And so it suddenly seems far too late to start worrying about things like propriety.

Before she manages to actually say the word yes, though, his mood changes. Disapproval quickly sneaks behind the edges of Loker's fading smile, and he goes from arrogance to exasperation in a matter of seconds. At which point the conversation slides sideways.

"The guy is a prick, Gillian," he says bluntly. "He's selfish. He's rude. Hell, he can't seem to get through a single week without narrowly avoiding a felony conviction or, you know, death… and I just don't understand what you see in him. I really, truly don't."

Ten years.

It's been ten years since she and Cal became partners. Ten years since she traded her neat-and-tidy, government-issued, play-by-the-rules kind of life, and upgraded to vibrant madness. To hectic schedules, cutting edge science, and work that fuels her heart far more than her bank account.

It's been ten years of friendship, and ten years of trust. Ten years of patience. Of trial and error. Of watching two marriages fail and too many affairs unfold, and wondering if she would ever have the strength to care about anyone as much as she has always cared about Cal.

She has a scar on her elbow from the night of the attack – the night he scooped her off the pavement and promised that he'd never let anyone hurt her again. She keeps a paper snowflake tucked inside the pages of her favorite book, as a reminder of what she almost lost. A dozen of his shirts hang neatly in her closet, she keeps a week's worth of her own clothes in his dresser, and self-destruction hasn't been part of the picture for a very long time.

Not since Claire.

Not since they finally stopped denying the truth.

She's been silent for too long now, and Loker sighs. He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, trying to fill the gaps that she purposely leaves. And inevitably, the tide turns again. Exasperation wanes. Arrogance dissipates. She's torn between expecting him to leave the room altogether, and thinking he might actually apologize for behaving like such an ass. What she actually gets, though, is this:

"I guess we all just hoped Lightman would've changed by now."

…and there it is. The moment when everything finally clicks. When the proverbial fog clears, and her smile begins to stretch from ear to ear. Dozens of memories flood to the forefront of her mind, unbidden – and for as strange as it is to be having this conversation in the first place, she's grateful to realize that she can, now. Because she simply isn't willing to hide this part of her life anymore.

Loker is too busy with his words and with his assumptions to even notice that she's smiling. Which is ironic, you know? They study faces for a living. They are experts at spotting tiny muscle twitches that identify the entire spectrum of human emotions, and yet there he sits: completely blind to what her face is shouting, loud and clear.

"Are you finished?" she asks him. There's an accidental laugh at the end of her question, and not even an ounce of annoyance anywhere in her voice. She's perfectly calm. And happy. And a dozen other things that seem to catch him by surprise at the exact same time, as he sighs and shrugs and finally realizes that his arrogance is a waste of time. Protecting her heart has never been in his job description.

He shrugs. Shakes his head. Sighs so softly that she almost doesn't hear it at all, and then says: "After seeing everything you went through when Claire died, I assumed he would finally realize that life doesn't come with a guarantee. I hoped that he would stop taking you for granted, and stop treating the rest of us like we're disposable. But so far? He hasn't changed at all. He's still an ass. He thinks the entire world revolves around him. He's manipulative and condescending, and you deserve so much better, Foster. I know you love him, but it's been ten years… and I just think that maybe love isn't enough, here."

Ten years.

Cal gave her flowers on their first date. He took her dancing, he kissed her hand – and when he told her how beautiful she looked that night, the vulnerability in his voice gave her chills.

They made love a week later.

He burned their dinner that night, and she spilled the wine. 'I love you' was spoken in the afterglow, her muscles ached in delicious ways, and the sound of his heartbeat against her cheek was the most soothing lullaby she'd ever heard. And when the sun finally rose the next morning, they talked about change. About happiness. About moving forward together, without lines and without fear. "You're the best thing I've ever waited for, Gillian," he told her. "And an entire lifetime together still wouldn't feel like enough."

Ten years.

Sometimes it feels like she and Cal have already lived a lifetime together, and sometimes it feels like they've only just begun.

Sometimes…

"Foster?"

She has barely spoken since their conversation began, and guilt clouds the moment as she watches Loker start to fidget. He's… uneasy. Nervous. Second-guessing everything that he's said thus far, and misinterpreting her silence as a negative thing. Which it isn't. Maybe it should be, and maybe in a different time or place it would be – but it isn't. Still, she owes him something. Something that reinforces the boundaries of their relationship, yet leaves little room for misinterpretation. It's late. She's tired. And while she appreciates the sentiment behind what he's trying to do, she doesn't need saving.

"No one is perfect," she says. "Not you, not me, and certainly not Cal. But with all due respect, Eli, it isn't your place to tell me what I deserve."

…which ought to be the end of it. Conversation finished, case closed, don't-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass-on-the-way-out, right? Right.

Except that it isn't.

Loker listens. Nods absently. Wears an expression she can't quite name. And then as soon as she thinks he's ready to cut his losses and leave, he frowns. Hard. Suspicion and pity fight for dominance around his eyes, and his body language proceeds to tell her everything that words cannot: that he's disappointed. And concerned. In a nutshell? His opinion seems to be that after spending such a huge chunk of her professional life saving Cal Lightman from various demons, she's now setting herself up for heartbreak by offering her heart to a man who has an unfortunate track record of destruction.

Of freefalling.

Of building walls and pushing everyone away (save for Emily), because somehow, to him, being alone was always easier than being rejected.

"Risk or no risk, Eli," she says, no longer able to tolerate his pity, "my heart gave itself to Cal a very long time ago. I love him. I trust him. And there's nothing you or anyone else can say that will change the way I feel. Period."

…sometimes it kills her that they waited so long. Ten years feels infinite when the bulk of it is spent in denial.

Her words hit their objective, and he mumbles a broken apology that neither one of them wants to hear. "Torres and I, we aren't anywhere near as invested as you," he offers. "We work, we learn, we do the best we can, and then at the end of the day? We go home. We escape. We get drunk, and we try to forget about the chaos and the occasional cruelty so we can focus on the bigger picture instead – which is the science. But you, Foster… you stay. You're selfless. You save him, over and over again, without expecting anything in return. You always have, and you always will, and I just wonder if he'd do the same for you. That's all. I wonder if he understands how close he came to breaking you, and how lucky he is that you haven't walked away."

There are fresh daisies on her credenza, because he knows they make her smile.

His kitchen still smells like burnt brownies, but it doesn't bother her at all because he tried. To bake. For her. For no particular reason whatsoever.

They have reservations at a tiny Vermont cabin next month, plans to spend Thanksgiving with her family and Christmas curled up on his sofa with a bottle (or two) of whatever is closest at hand… and last night, he nervously asked about taking her to England, to see where he grew up and to visit his mother's grave.

"I wish she could know you, love," he said – so sweetly and sincerely that it made her heart ache. "I wish she could see what it's like now, with us. And with Emily. A part of her would probably hate me for what I did, yeah? For pushing you away so hard, for so long, that I nearly broke us both. She'd tell me how lucky I am that you didn't walk away ages ago… and she'd be right, Gill. I am lucky. You saved me when I didn't even want to save myself."

He laughs, now. He smiles. They share stories and jokes and dinners and dances, candlelight bubble baths, and a thousand breathless kisses. They fit. They're happy. Really, truly, genuinely happy, in a way that makes her feel grateful and weightless, and a thousand other wonderful things.

Ten years.

That's how long it's been since Cal first turned her world upside down; since a single question changed everything, and set them on the path that led here, to each other.

And for Eli to sit there, with his analytics and his pity and pretend to understand what it feels like to love someone as much as she loves Cal? Is insulting. She doesn't need saving, and patronization won't win him any favors. She's his boss first and his friend second – and if he never discusses her romantic life again for the next five hundred years, then it will still be too soon.

'Grateful and weightless' defeat arrogant and well-intentioned any day, hands down, and she wants to tell him to back off. To try another apology. To keep his ego in check, and his mouth shut, and to never again question Cal's loyalty or true intentions.

But then again…

This is her life.

It's her heart.

And there are some conversational battles that simply don't need to be fought.

So, she powers down her computer. She throws her keys into her bag, straightens the files on her desktop, and walks towards the hall. It's late. And she's ready to go home, now – to Cal.

She flips off the light switch, then turns on her heel to find him still sitting there in the darkness. He's confused and curious, caught in the undercurrent of his own unanswered questions, and waiting for an explanation she doesn't intend to give. He looks… well, he looks pitiful, actually. Dejected and messy, like a lost little boy. Smashing egos isn't her forte, remember? And for as much as she wants to leave without another word, she also doesn't want to hurt his feelings. She's his boss first, and his friend second – but she is truly his friend, no matter the order.

"Don't you get it?" she asks gently; quietly. There's nothing hidden between the words – no way that he can possibly hear anything except the simple, singular syllables as they land in a neat little row. It's rhetorical, yet not… and his brow furrows in frustration as he tries to pinpoint what she wants him to say.

She isn't perfect.

Cal isn't perfect.

Life, work, finances, families – none of those things are perfect, and she knows that. She isn't naïve and she isn't blind. She isn't looking for a fairytale, and she certainly doesn't need saving.

But.

She does believe in 'happily ever after.' In romance and passion. In loving someone so much that sometimes you can't quite tell where you end and they begin.

She believes in honesty, and friendship, and trust, and faith. In tattooed forearms, and sweat-soaked hair. In moonlit balcony dances, stolen kisses, and feeling perfectly safe in his arms.

People change, you know? They grow. They learn. They realize that true love is never conditional, and sometimes… sometimes they're lucky enough to find someone who saves them, too. Someone who heals a hundred different wounds in a hundred different ways, without expecting anything in return.

She has a scar on her elbow from the night of the attack – the night he scooped her off the pavement and promised that he'd never let anyone hurt her again. A dozen of his shirts hang in her closet, there are a week's worth of her own clothes in his dresser, and self-destruction hasn't been part of the picture for a very long time.

...not since they finally stopped denying the truth.

"That's what love does," she tells him. "It's risk and reward, insanity and faith, give and take and holding on to each other through the good and the bad, and through all the days in between. It's saving each other, Eli, simply because your heart doesn't know how to do anything else."

…not since they finally found the courage to fall.

She pulls into the driveway just as the sun is beginning to set – at that magic hour when so much still seems possible, and the pressures of the day are momentarily forgotten. It's peaceful, here. It's a beautiful house on a beautiful street… it's warm and inviting, solid and real, and it's exactly where she wants to be.

"Move in with me, Gillian?"

With him.

"Yes."

For the rest of her life.

END