He's nervous as he trots up the steps, nervous as he knocks on her door. When she opens it, for a moment he thinks he might just throw up, his insides roiling with a mixture of relief and uncertainty, despite telling himself not to be so ridiculous.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He forgets how lucky he is to have her in his life, fails to appreciate her, then something happens and it hits him anew how much she means to him, knocks the air out of his lungs just as surely as a fist to the stomach. He's winded, uncertain quite what to say, and he's pretty sure it shows.

It's the first time he's been to her new place, and though he's tired and still a bit shell shocked, he's also pretty curious. Part of him wants to barge past her the moment she opens the door, be nosy and obnoxious and... him. It would be a touch of normality. Being all jumpy and twitchy, pacing back and forth, it's just not him, it's not right.

He also wants to be with her, with an intensity that's unnerving, though not surprising. Describe your ideal woman. Days like today force him to be more than usually honest with himself, and the way a silly chat up line sent him running back to Gillian says... everything.

The conversation bats back and forth, both of them mostly just trying to make sure the other is truly all right, reluctant to say goodnight or goodbye.

She's different, softer when she's at home alone, her clothing casual and her hair escaping from the simple ponytail she's caught it into, and she's... beautiful. He wants to reach up and touch her face, but he's not sure he'll be able to leave it at a simple touch.

He'd like to kiss her, kiss her hard, kiss her to celebrate them making it through the day alive, but it's the wrong time and place and situation, it'd be unfair. So instead he just looks at her, tries to imprint her on his retinas, devours her with his eyes, reassuring himself she's not too much the worse for wear.

He gets as close to an apology as he ever really does, and he's relieved she's gracious enough to accept it.

It isn't the real reason he's here, though. And for all he spent large chunks of his day expecting he might die at any moment, asking the question he actually wants to ask is much scarier than any nutter with a gun.

He's far better at extracting truth from other people than from himself.

Eventually, he summons up the necessary courage. "Can I sleep in your spare bedroom tonight, if it's not too much of a problem?"

She barely hesitates, and he marvels again at how good she is to him, whether or not he deserves it (and he rarely does). "Of course."

"Oh, good."

He can't help himself, he's stepping in towards her instantly, wanting to be inside, where she is, where he feels safe. When she puts out a hand to touch his shoulder, for a second he thinks she's changed her mind, but then she's wrapping her arms around him and clinging on.

He pulls her in close, buries his face in her shoulder, the hug saying all the things neither of them can voice aloud. The scent of her, the feel of her under his hands, is more comforting and reassuring than anything else could ever be.

When they break apart they kiss instinctively, though self preservation keeps him from making it more than a friendly peck.

She looks tearful and shaken, and it tugs at him unbearably. He feels guilty, but there's also a part of him which is fiercely glad she cares this much. He's never been convinced she needs him as much as he needs her, but she does need him, and he's grateful for the reminder.

He hears the door click closed behind him, and turns back towards her. He's suddenly so tired. He should be teasing her about her books or her DVD collection or something, or at least poking about a bit, but it's all he can manage just to stay upright, and not to pull her back in close and squeeze her so tight she protests.

She brushes at her cheek, gives him another watery smile, then they're in each other's space and she's hugging him again, and he's pretty sure they're now both holding the other upright. Her fingers dig into his back, and a shudder runs through her as she momentarily loses the battle with her tears.

He rubs his hand up and down her spine and murmurs reassuringly. "It's okay, love. We're okay. It's all over now." He tries not to squish her too hard. She seems fragile in his arms, unusually breakable, and he just wants to look after her.

She sniffles and gulps into his shoulder awhile longer, then eventually her breathing calms and their embrace eases from desperate back to friendly and comfortable.

She lets out a quiet 'hmmm' against his neck, then takes a deep breath. "I have a confession to make."

"Yeah?"

"I don't have a spare room. Well, no, I do, but it doesn't have a bed or anything in it yet."

He frowns, then shakes his head. "That's okay, darling. I can kip on the couch, it's not a problem."

She pulls away, and her eyes search his face for a moment. "I had a different solution in mind."

He gapes, and he knows his eyes are widening like they're ready to pop out on stalks. He's only human, and part of him wants to yell hallelujah, run around the room a couple of times, then tear her clothes off with his teeth, but for once he listens to his common sense.

"Gillian, I'm not sure if today-"

She cuts him off, smiling. "No, I mean... I just don't want to be on my own."

"Oh! Oh." He's both completely wrong-footed and oddly relieved. He'd like to believe one day they will properly become an 'us', he wants it to happen so badly sometimes he thinks it'll choke him, but he'd hate to muck it up by starting it wrong, and this... this would definitely be starting it wrong.

"That okay?" Her eyes are pleading, and there's no way he can refuse.

"Sure, darling." He nods. "'Course."

She reaches up to touch his cheek, just lightly. "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."

He nods again, despite not being entirely clear what's he's agreeing to. Then she grabs his hand and pulls him further into her home, and the enormity of it hits him.

He doesn't want to be alone, and he doesn't want her to be alone either, but the notion of sharing her bed, however innocently, is a brick to his brain. He thought he'd have longer to get used to the idea.

He should very probably have insisted on taking the sofa.

She leads him along the hallway and pushes open a door, and even before he gets inside, the room smells all Gillian, smells so strongly of her he has to swallow. It's like walking into paradise.

He glances at her. She watches his reaction, smiles as she lets the door close behind them, then starts shrugging off her little cardi. Apparently she's a lot more relaxed about this than he is - about taking his clothes off, or about her taking hers off.

He perches awkwardly on the edge of her bed, leans down to untie his shoes - he should've taken them off sooner, shouldn't he? He should've left them by her door. What if he's trailed mud into her home?

His scattered thoughts are displacement activity to distract himself from the way he's undressing in Foster's bedroom, from how she's fussing with the bedclothes and then producing something shiny and lilac from under her pillow, and he gulps, because those look awfully brief for pyjamas. She turns away from him to change, and he's trying very hard not to sneak a peek, but the image of long, smooth legs and the accidental glimpse of the curve of her boob peeking round the side of her body as the satin gets caught for a second are enough to leave him wondering if this is at all a good idea, no matter how enthusiastic his body is. It doesn't take him long to strip to boxers and t-shirt, but there's not much he can do about the tent in his underwear.

He climbs into her bed and closes his eyes. He just wanted not to be on his own tonight, and he definitely got his wish - and he did always hope he'd get in her bed one day. He just didn't expect it to happen quite like this, and he's not too convinced it'll help him sleep.

He is intensely aware of her when she slips in beside him. He tries so hard to pretend she's not right there, all soft and inviting and smelling so delicious, but she craps all over his attempt to keep his distance when she moves right up beside him and wraps an arm around his waist.

"It's okay, Cal."

He stays on his back, because he badly needs not to have her pressed up against his crotch, but slips his arm under her shoulders and drops a kiss on her temple. It's a bit awkward, there's no getting past it, but there's also something calming and reassuring about her snuggled into his side this way. If he could figure out a way to make it work between them, to not mess things up how he usually does, he thinks having her pressed up against him like this every night would be downright heavenly.

For a long while they just lie there, her head tucked between his shoulder and his chest, his hand playing with a lock of hair that eluded her attempt to redo her ponytail. To his surprise, Cal finds himself relaxing, even sort of getting used to this, and when she tucks herself in closer and her mouth brushes his skin, he instinctively turns his body into hers a little.

She takes a shaky breath. "I was scared. I was so scared."

She whispers it quietly against his throat. It seems almost like she didn't really want to say it, but he's glad she did. It makes it easier for him to admit it, too.

"I was bloody terrified." He even laughs. It's so much easier to be casual about it after the fact. "Honestly thought he was going to blow my head off a couple of times. Or Zancanelli's, when you lot were bringing him in, or Loker's, when I realised who it actually was."

She chuckles too, though it's strained. "He was brave."

"He was... stupid. You were all completely nuts," he grumbles. "Total lunatics." He pauses. "I didn't know Loker had it in him, to be honest."

He was furious with the lot of them, livid, but even in the midst of his anger, he was surprised what they would risk for him, and grudgingly impressed by Eli's sheer gutsiness.

"We had to do something. We couldn't- I couldn't let him..."

She trails off, and he pulls her in closer. He'd honestly meant it when he'd told them not to bring Zancanelli in, when he'd told Matheson to shoot him instead, but now the adrenaline has worn off the thought makes him feel slightly sick.

He can't help thinking about how he would've felt, what he would've done, if the situation had been reversed, if it was Gillian looking down the barrel of a gun. Even imagining it chills him to the bone.

He would've sacrificed Zancanelli or Matheson or both in a split second, he's sure of that. He would have done anything. He's guiltily grateful it was him at risk, not her. He can't imagine how he'd cope.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, surprising himself, though it's warranted.

He's not going to pretend he knows how she was feeling (though the image of her begging for his freedom, her eyes brimming over with tears, isn't something he's going to forget in a hurry), but if her fear for him was even a fraction of how he feels just imagining the opposite scenario - or of what he felt in those brief moments she was within range of that gun - he owes her about a million apologies.

"It wasn't your fault."

He's sure he could make a pretty good argument for it being at least partly his fault, and it's not the only thing he's sorry for, but never mind. That's not what matters tonight. "You okay?"

"I am now."

Me too, he thinks, but doesn't say. He presses a kiss to her forehead instead, letting his lips linger on her skin. Somewhere down deep in his stomach, a knot is relaxing as he accepts she's okay, they're safe, it's over, she's all right.

There's another long period of quiet, of their breathing being the only noise, and it's almost hypnotic.

He's still too wired to let his mind settle down and rest, but he has one hand clasped firm around her shoulders, the other resting on her ribcage, stroking the soft fabric. Her heartbeat and her breath are steady under his fingers, the mantra of 'she's okay, she's okay' on repeat in his brain and keeping him somewhere closer to sane than he would be if she wasn't right here, warm and real and safe in his arms.

Eventually she lets out a long sigh, and rolls over. He almost thinks he's getting out of this alive, but then she snuggles back against his body and tugs his arm around her, and he gives in and spoons her, burying his nose in her hair and breathing deeply. She smells sweet, warm and comforting, like something fresh-baked and delicious, like home. His eyes slip closed as he wraps her tighter into his chest. She smells so... oh, so very Gillian, and he can't seem to get enough.

"Thanks, love." He needed this more than he realised, even if it's also rather like walking a tightrope over a pit of spikes. Apparently she doesn't mind too much that his enjoyment is showing, a lot - that his body doesn't understand the concept of platonic when it comes to her - and if she can ignore it, well, he'll bloody well do his best to ignore it, too. He's still not sure he'll get any sleep, but not being able to sleep because he's got Gill's arse tucked into his crotch is a very good exchange for not being able to sleep at home because his brain is torturing him with what ifs, maybes and could have beens.

Her hands settle over his, her fingers light and soft on his skin, and he smiles and presses a kiss into her hair. They're okay. She's all right. They live to fight another day. She's all right. He says it to himself over and over, and eventually the truth of it lulls him into sleep.

~ fin ~