It's been a long day, but sitting on the couch in his office with Gill leaning against his shoulder is a good way to end it. They sit in contented silence for quite some time, and he's so grateful for her friendship, for the ability to just be, without having to talk.

She's been a trooper today, backing his plays, stopping him from going too far and just generally being... well, herself. Her amazing, wonderful self, without whom this place would've fallen down around his ears within months - no, weeks - of its inauguration. He's sure she knows that, but also suspects he should tell her out loud at some point.

In the meantime, he settles for something a little simpler, grabs her hand, and squeezes it. "Thanks, Gill."

She chuckles. "I love when you say that."

He glances at her. "What?"

"Thank you." She says it with a sigh in her voice.

"Thank you for what?"

"No, I mean I love it when you thank me."

"Oh." He frowns. Well... he probably (certainly, definitely) doesn't say it often enough, considering how frequently she saves his bacon. "Okay. Well, thank you."

"Mmmm."

He swallows. As responses to expressions of gratitude go, that sounded significantly more... sexual, than he'd expected. He wonders exactly what's been going through her head as they were sitting here. "You okay, love?"

She turns her head to look him in the eye, and he swallows again.

"Better than okay. Say it again."

"Say what?"

"Thank me, you dumbass." Her mouth quirks up into a little grin, softening the insult, though her eyes are dark and serious.

He's now officially confused. "Thank you?"

She blinks slowly and moves a little closer. "Again."

"Thank you."

Her eyes slip closed, and he takes the chance to study her face, noticing the crinkles around her eyes (showing the truth of her smile), and the freckles on her cheeks.

(The freckles don't have any particular significance, of course; he just really likes them.)

She's so near now, so close. He can feel the heat radiating off her.

"Thank you." His voice has gone all pitchy and breathless.

"Keep going, Cal."

Gill's voice, on the other hand, has gone husky and low, like she's drunk too much of his fine whiskey again, but they worked all day and haven't left the building, so he knows she's not sloshed.

As well as being officially confused, he's also now officially turned on.

"Thank you."

She lets out a sigh and her head falls forward into the crook of his neck.

"Mmmm."

That sound again. So satisfied, so deep, so full. Not to mention vibrating against his skin. His mouth is dry and his trousers are way too tight and her lips are tickling his throat. "Gill?" It comes out embarrassingly high.

"Mm-hm?"

"I, uh, I..."

She moves closer still, and hooks her leg into his. "Mmmm."

He can't decide if this is a dream come true or a living nightmare, because he has no idea how to respond. Gillian Foster is pressed firmly into his side, all warm and soft and inviting, making sex noises against his skin, her leg wrapped around him possessively.

With any other woman, he'd be pressing his advantage right about now, but she is emphatically not 'any other woman'.

"What're you doing, Foster?"

His voice is still downright squeaky, and he sort of doesn't trust his ability to use her forename when she's practically in his lap.

Before she speaks, she lets out another 'Mmmm' that he feels all. over.

"Enjoying you."

Her tone says she thinks he's stupid for even asking, and he has no idea what to make of it. "Oh."

"Don't stop."

"Don't stop what?"

"Thanking me."

If he'd had any idea a simple 'thank you' could get this reaction out of her, he would've thanked her more often.

(Hey, no one ever accused him of being overly moral.)

"Thank you," he murmurs into her hair. Her head is tucked under her chin and the scent of her is surrounding him. Honey and vanilla and something else he's never been able to identify. Maybe it's just what she smells of underneath her shampoo or perfume or whatever. At any rate, it's utterly delicious. "Thank you." He tentatively slides his hands around her waist, letting his thumbs graze her ribcage, and he's rewarded with a sigh and her body relaxing fully into his. "Thank you."

He loves this - he could do it forever - and he's thrilled she's allowing it, but he gasps in surprise when he feels her hands moving over his shirt, over his stomach. This just moved from 'slightly beyond the usual bounds of their friendship' into 'very definitely nothing they've ever got close to doing before', and he's caught between confusion and pure, unadulterated want.

He's up for it, no question, but he didn't expect it, and he also can't quite figure out how they got from him saying thank you to him being allowed to touch her, never mind to Gill touching him. He's a little confused, and he also wants to figure out the exact sequence of events, because he would really like to be sure he can make it happen again.

"Don't stop," she whispers again, and he's not sure if she means the talking or the touching.

He decides to assume she means both, and lets his hands skim up her sides. "Thank you, Gillian." He leans down to nuzzle his mouth close to her ear. "Thank you."

She giggles - giggles. Her hands are no longer on his shirt but tugging at it, tugging it out of his trousers, and then moving over his skin.

"Oh God, thank you," he squeaks, and she laughs again, deeper and dirtier this time. He is in so much trouble. And he's loving it.

"Don't stop," she murmurs.

Feeling like he's risking his life, he lets his hands drift to her breasts, and narrowly resists the temptation to do a victory dance when she moans and presses into his touch, climbing more fully onto him and wriggling down into his crotch, where his erection has been trying to attract his attention for quite some time and now makes its presence known with a jolt of pleasure up his spine. "Oh, God."

"No, just Gillian."

There's a laugh in her voice as she says it, and he shakes his head. He's supposed to be the cocky little shit, not her. She's bloody enjoying this, leaving him all speechless and hopeless and helpless, and he'd be right annoyed if it wasn't all his fantasies come to life and sitting in his lap.

Literally.

"Did I say you could stop?"

He realises he's stalled, he's pretty sure from complete shock, but it's not exactly a hardship to squeeeeeze, and he's honestly fantasised about having her breasts in his hands, a lot, but nothing, nothing could compare with reality. "Thank you," he adds for good measure, because he's still not certain whether it's more his touch or his voice that's leaving her hot and willing and squirming against him.

She's laughing, and he's tempted to give her a look, but she's letting him touch her, so...

He will never, he thinks, get bored of her breasts, but he's also never been accused of playing it safe. Well okay, maybe when it comes to Gill, usually, he errs towards the cowardly, but since she has apparently decided to dismantle their line, he is not about to back down. She's still got her hands in his shirt, and two can most definitely play at that game.

Taking a deep breath (because firstly he's slightly gobsmacked at what's going on and what he plans to do, and secondly because he's still a little scared (completely sodding terrified) she's going to change her mind and thump him), he starts to undo her blouse, carefully and slowly, expecting at any second for her to stop him. She doesn't. Aye aye. "Thank you." Well... some extra thanks can't do any harm, right?

Swallowing hard, he pulls it open, then slips it over her shoulders. He's vaguely aware of her shimmying it off down her arms and throwing it aside, but all his attention is on Gillian, his Gillian, sitting in his lap, in a violently pink bra (exactly what he should have expected, really) he's itching to dispose of, her skin pale and perfect and liberally dusted with freckles.

When he looks back into her face, she's clearly amused, and he shrugs. "Full of surprises aren't you, love?"

"I guess gratitude turns me on." Her amusement doesn't blunt the arousal in her voice, which sends a frisson of promise over his skin.

"Thank God."

Her smile widens. "I think you're supposed to be thanking me."

He grins. He still has the monopoly on being a cheeky fucker. "Oh, I'm going to thank you all right. I'm going to thank you hard, darling. I'll thank your bloody brains out."

She throws back her head as she laughs, and then the laughter turns into a heartfelt, sighing moan as he slips a hand around the back of her neck and into her hair and leans in to kiss her throat. She tastes even better than she smells, and he experiments, discovering that licking, sucking and nibbling all meet with her approval, and even the rub of his stubbly cheek against her skin makes her shiver.

He's often suspected/hoped Gillian likes a little bit of rough (the pleasure she gets from slapping him around the chops to elicit a reaction from a subject being his biggest clue), but it's nice to have confirmation. Because if Cal Lightman is anything, he is most definitely rough around the edges, and if that was a deal-breaker, he'd be royally screwed.

She continues to make happy little mewls and whimpers as he works his way down to her collarbone, his free hand exploring the lace and satin of her bra, and her fingers curl round his head, scratching through his hair, keeping him close. If his mouth wasn't so happily occupied, he'd reassure her; nothing short of a nuclear blast is going to stop him touching her as much and as long as she'll let him. But talking would mean no longer tasting her, which is simply... unacceptable.

He's still murmuring his thanks against her skin - now he's started he can't seem to stop. He barely notices her fingers deftly undoing his shirt, shrugs it off when she's done, resenting the seconds spent not touching her, and then he's pushing her back, pushing her down onto the couch, kissing his way down her sternum, his hands sneaking impatiently around her waist to find the clasp of her skirt. She arches upwards so he can slip it more easily over her hips. It's quickly discarded and then she's lying there, her knickers the same garish, absurd pink as her bra, and he laughs aloud because he just cannot believe he has Gillian Foster on his sofa, naked except for her (truly horrible) undies.

"Absolutely bloody beautiful," he informs her, and enjoys the flush that spreads up her cheeks and over her chest, clashing wonderfully with her lingerie. He's always wondered if the pink of her blushes extended beyond what he was allowed to see, and the proof of his hypothesis is gorgeous.

"Thank you."

"That's my line."

He gets distracted watching her blush, wondering if she'd let him count her freckles (maybe with his tongue?), and generally revelling in a sight he'd given up hope he was ever going to see. He's still looking at her in slack jawed admiration when she speaks again.

"Are you waiting for an invitation, Cal?"

He blinks. I kind of am, actually. "No?"

She shakes her head in the affectionate, exasperated way he's intimately familiar with, sits up, and tugs on his belt loops to pull him in closer. "You should be touching me, you know, not just looking."

He manages a smirk. "Sorry, love, it's been a while, I've sort of forgotten how this goes."

She rolls her eyes. "Liar."

He shrugs a shoulder and reaches for her. It's truer than she realises, but mostly he's flailing because it's her, and he's more nervous than he can remember being in a very long time. The feel of her skin, warm and soft and smooth under his hands, is oddly calming, even as his body grows more eager, and her fingers are both soothing and exciting as they trace up and down his back. She tastes the side of his neck and it's his turn to whimper when she gently nips his skin.

"Jesus, Foster."

She laughs and pulls her head back enough to look him in the eye. "Cal."

It isn't a question, just his name, said with affection and desire, and he doesn't really understand how the single syllable reaches down inside him and plucks at him in places he'd half forgotten existed. "Gill."

She smiles and reaches up to kiss the corner of his mouth, then the other corner, and his heart is beating so fast, so hard, he half expects it to escape from his chest. He grips her body more tightly, reminds himself, again, to keep on breathing. The third kiss is right in between, though it's so light, so brief, he doesn't get the chance to respond.

He gapes down at her, at the wonder of her in front of him, almost naked, wanting him. He's overwhelmed, in all the best possible ways. At a loss, he falls back on this evening's theme. "Thank you." He's pretty sure he's never going to be able to say those two words ever again without getting somewhat aroused.

Could be awkward. Completely worth it.

Her eyebrows twitch with amusement, "You can stop now," she says.

"Don't want to," he replies with, if he's being honest, a bit of a pout.

She lifts one hand to his cheek and shakes her head. "I didn't mean that," she says, as if that explains anything, and then she's tilting her head and pressing her mouth to his. It takes him a second to follow and realise he's being released from thanking duties - he's not normally this obtuse. Then his lips point out that hey, Cal, wake up, Gillian is kissing us here, and he opens up gratefully under her insistent tongue.

He's no longer thanking her out loud, but his entire body is singing a hearty hallelujah. If he'd known mere gratitude could do this to her, he wouldn't have been so stingy with it over the years, though it probably serves him right for being an arse.

They come up for air and her smile is wide, crinkling her eyes, and he grins back, probably looking like a complete plonker and not giving a shit. He manages not to say thank you again, though it seems more appropriate than it ever has before. It's probably written all over his face, anyway, along with desire and happiness and exultation.

"Cal?" She's reaching up behind her to unsnap her bra, and his mouth goes dry.

"Yeah?"

She laughs as she pulls it off and throws it over her shoulder, and he gulps at the sight of her. "You are welcome."

~ fin ~