Post-ep to "Pied Piper"

Cal had slept in his ex-wife's bed. The good thing was it didn't happen that often, maybe four or so times since they'd split up. Five. Six. Something like that. The bad thing was it happened so rarely that about the time she'd kiss his chest before nodding off, the guilt would set in. Cal Lightman was rarely remorseful, and as he laid next to her nakedness, it perplexed him why sleeping with the mother of his daughter would always bring it on. Maybe because he knew he was using her. Sure, he loved her, but not in a commital way. Then again, surely she thought the same. Right?

Another reason he felt it was wrong was because he knew Emily was aware of at least two of those four times. Even though his daughter seemed to have a good footing in life, he'd read enough profiles of children who had been messed up by their parents' selfish actions; he didn't want to become a statistic in that respect.

He was hungry, and Zoe was folded into him in a way ensuring she'd be the only one getting a good night's rest. Licking his lips, he removed himself, quickly scanning the room. There. His undergarments were next to the cracked bathroom door.

They'd had their first go-around in the shower tonight.

As he bent down to retrieve the crumpled up trousers, he winced, the blood in his head reverberating louder than it should have. He could feel his pulse in his bandaged ear. Bastard. He could feel his blood pressure quicken at the thought of the entire Wilkie scenario, but he forced himself to shake those thoughts away. No, he wasn't going to go there. He'd gone there enough tonight in his office, with the aid of some scotch.

He'd been replaying the Wilkie case from so long ago in his head, all the indicators Wilkie had given to prove his guilt. The mental movie—including dialogue—had taken him God knows how long, but after its climax at the warehouse, Cal re-entered the present, finding Zoe's message on the sticky note. She'd wanted an update on the case as soon as possible. It had already been dark, and most had gone home. He'd planned on phoning Zoe on his way out when he'd noticed the light on in Foster's office.

Gillian was curled up in one of the chairs—the one she'd always sit in when they'd hash out a case together. Her laptop and a half-full glass of brandy remained on the cube-shaped end table. Some thick, black binder had fallen between the arm and cushion of the chair. Loose papers poked out, some in risk of falling to the floor. Her head was still propped on her hand, legs tucked underneath. It wasn't even that late, for Christ's sake. Seven-thirty-ish, at most.

He jabbed at her arm. "Hey. Foster."

She roused easier than he'd suspected, a light blush crossing her cheeks. She stared at him through heavy eyelids.

"Time to go home, love."

She nodded, still groggy, blinking a couple of times. He began his retreat, but she extended a hand, her fingers resting gently on his forearm. "Zoe called. I let her know what happened but I think she still wants you to call her."

He felt at his coat pocket which held the note's contents. That's right, it had been Foster's handwriting.

"She was worried." The words had a double meaning. Foster's way of letting him know she had been worried, too.

He ignored it, deflecting. "Yeah, she was pretty shaken up earlier when we thought Em was gone."

He was such an ass.

Gillian didn't move, her eyes on him. He glanced at her, never liking the intensity she carried in moments like these, where she was trying to see what he was thinking. There were few people that could best him in his own bouts of deception, and he cursed the universe that the ones that could were the three women closest to him. Zoe would always call out his bullshit straight away, her eyebrows up and weight on one hip. Emily would give him that pained look as if he'd just shot her favorite animal. That look alone would usually coax the truth out.

Foster had the ability to remain perfectly still, like some type of pit viper waiting to strike. When she did find something, she was usually quiet about it, and ironically her silence annoyed him all the more. He'd found tdistractions were the quickest remedy. "Where's that Burns character? Shouldn't he be treating you to dinner or something?"

"He had a meeting," her words were firm. She was on to his strategy.

Cal smiled grimly, recalling when she'd reintroduced Burns the week before. He'd subtly let her know he knew the man had a secret. She'd seemingly ignored the insinuation. In previous days he'd tried to glean as much information on David Burns as possible, but everything had come up roses. Every person had at least one skeleton in his closet, and Burns' lack of made him question the man all the more.

"Are you sure you're alright, Cal?"

Her voice cut through his thoughts, and he tried to cover the fact he'd been checked out for a few moments. She was determined to mother him, that was evident. His cue to leave, then.

"Yeah." He faked a glance at his watch. "Well then, I'm heading home. See you in the morning."

"Night, Cal."

"Night, Foster."

Before Cal knew it, he was on the elevator, and then in the taxi he'd instinctively given Zoe's address. He'd gone in, gotten bandaged and lectured.

Zoe had told him not to be a 'lone wolf' and he'd almost been unable to hold his tongue, wanting to remind her that there was nobody going rogue with him. Foster wasn't a fan of danger, and didn't enjoy the mind games he employed. How was he supposed to not be a 'lone wolf'? But he'd kept that information in, letting on that she was right and he was repentant.

He swaggered into the kitchen, speaking quietly to himself. "And that's how I ended up here," he sighed, taking a moment to survey the kitchen.

Instinctively, he opened up the ice box, searching for something ready to be eaten—something that might even taste good cold. Something. Something. No, nothing. No left-overs. No take away. Sighing, he shut the door, beginning to rummage in the cabinet where she kept the junk food. Chips it was, then.

"Dad?" he heard his daughter question from the doorway. "I thought I heard someone. Mom never snacks in the middle of the night."

Emily had gone to her room long before Cal had been tempted to stay the night. When Emily had gone to bed, he'd actually been planning on returning home, turning on SportCenter, and having a drink . Then—well, plans quickly changed.

An amused expression flickered over Emily's face as she looked him up and down in his underwear. "So much for that 'flight' response you have when it comes to Mom, huh?"

Ahh, Zoe's sarcasm reflected in her daughter. Of course, beautiful women can get away with it without being called a smart ass. He was about to open his mouth, but decided to leave that where it stood.

She took a seat next to him at the table, apparent she was not going to make eye contact. "You guys are so weird."

"Want a chip, love?"

"It's past midnight, Dad."

"They're that whole-grainy hippie kind you like."

She accepted the second invitation, taking the smallest one. She held it, her finger gently touching the edges as she spoke. "Dad, the whole time you were married to Mom, how many years do you think were happy?"

Bloody hell, he didn't want to discuss this. How was she not satisfied with their conversation earlier?

He'd do this calmly. "Dunno. More often than not."

"Dad," she insisted, impatience in her voice.

He looked up to find her staring, and decided to briefly explain. "Marriage isn't always about happiness, Em. Sure, you love each other, but really it's about being committed to the other person. After a while, I suppose your mum and I just got on different paths. You see, after that third book came out, things really took off for the company. I started getting more cases, working longer hours. Your mum didn't approve of everything I did, and honestly I didn't spend too much time trying to make up with her. By the end of it, it was mutual. We never hated each other, just never seemed to catch each other's idear of things."

There. He'd been able to tell the story without explaining the dirtier secrets children don't need to be told about their parents.

"So it wasn't like, for years and years?"

"God, no. When it all hit the fan, so to speak, it was over pretty quickly. I'd say the last year was the kicker."

She nodded, relief evident.

Cocking his head, he snuck and arm around her, pulling her close. "Why? When you were a kid did you really think we had it out for each other that whole time?"

"No, it's just—I dunno, I remember when I was in fifth grade and had to change schools because we moved when you established the Lightman Group. I was thinking it had something to do with that."

He gagued her statement. She wasn't being completely honest, and he saw that register in her as she shut her eyes. Rewording her thoughts, she didn't look at him, instead focusing on some invisible spot on the table. "I don't think of you like this, okay, but I don't know, I thought maybe it had something to do with Gillian. 'Cause you started working with her back then, too, and I know Mom's never really liked Gillian-"

Cal snorted at the understatement. "No kidding, your mum's never liked her. Foster was the one that kept me pursuing all the work I've done-all the things your mother disagreed with."

He took another bite before noticing his daughter was waiting for more. Then he realized what she was getting at. "Foster and I—we've never been a couple, love."

"But you have slept with her?" she insisted, and he wondered when it had become appropriate for children to ask their parents such things.

"No!"

"She's divorced now." The teenager said it so matter-of-factly.

"Jesus Emily, is that what you really think about sex? That's as long as people aren't in relationships they might as well give it a go?" As he said it, he prayed she wouldn't point out the many women who'd been in and out of his office over the years. Prayed that she was at least oblivious in a few respects.

"No! That's not—God, Dad, just stop. I just-I don't get it, Dad. You're, like, so different around her. In a good way. Then when you showed me those brain scans—what was that even about?"

God, she wasn't serious.

He looked her in the eyes. She was serious, and not only that, gravely concerned. He put his hand over hers. "Em, Foster—she gets me, you know? Completely. She's my best friend, even when I'm a complete ass. Without her, I don't know where I'd be. But—it's not like we have to be romantically involved. Do you understand?"

She blinked in response, apparently unmoved at his explanation. "Whatever, Dad. You're so clueless." She quickly turned, walking out of the kitchen, not looking back. "Night."

"Night," he called off after her.

Jesus.

He hoped Zoe still kept his beer in the bottom drawer.