This is a bit of a departure. Or maybe you could even call it an experiment. I'm not really sure. The idea crept in and as I'm more likely to do than not, I went with it. Might be a stand-alone but then again, maybe not. Opinions are always welcome.

They'd made love for the first time before he left. It had just happened. Well, that wasn't exactly true, was it? From the very beginning it had been inevitable to everyone, everyone else, that is. They'd both been clueless, at least consciously. Subconsciously, well that had been a different story. They'd been doing a lot lying all these years. To themselves. To one another. It wasn't befitting two lie detection experts but it's always hardest to see what's staring you right in the face.

The clarity was sudden, striking, from the moment she'd taken his hand. As if they'd both awakened from a long nap. His eyes had told her the same thing. Everything had crystalized for him as well.

From the breath before their lips and bodies connected, they knew it was forever. It should have always been this way but admonishment was pointless. They were there now. There was no going back. And it was good, perfect, wonderful. He would be a better man for her. Only for her.

But there was one thing to do first. The past had reared up and he was obligated to leave for a bit. A month. Maybe six weeks. Surely no more than that. The shadowy history he never spoke of had laid claim to him and there was nothing to be done.

Gillian cried as he'd held her that night, his kisses firm and reassuring against her temple, cheeks, eyes. His hands caressed her skin softly. Where they had worshiped her before, they now sought to comfort.

"It'll be fine luv, I promise. They'll have my back. They always do."

She didn't know who "they" were and didn't ask, doubtless he wouldn't answer. The veil would fall behind his eyes and she couldn't bear to see it happen. Especially not tonight.

Falling asleep was bittersweet. She'd nestled against him, arm possessive around his chest, leg anchoring over his, determined to hold on but knowing he'd be gone when her eyes opened again, the morning sun warm against her face.

She'd been right.

The note was propped against her alarm clock. Her hand trembled when she'd reached for it.

Gillian,

It somehow seems dishonest for me to slip away while it's still dark and I apologize (do wonders ever cease?) but it couldn't be helped. My choices are limited but it would never be a conscious one to hurt you. I'm done with that. I'm done with being an ass, I promise you that. Just know that I love you and hope you will accept me back into your heart when I come home to you. And back into your bed too, if it's not too much trouble.

Take care and see you soon,

Cal

Nine days later she'd gotten the call.

The glass she'd been holding had slipped from between numb fingers and turned into a hundred shards twinkling like crystal in the movements of fan and light. She sank down in the mess, cutting her palms and lending the color of rubies to the mix.

They'd told her the wreckage was impossible to locate. The prop plane had been swallowed by the jungle and the jungle was unforgiving. They'd pulled the plug on the rescue after 96 hours, citing the odds of survival at zero. 96 hours. Four days to decide whether there was life or death and they banked on death. They'd siphoned their information through foreign diplomacy. They.

Gillian awoke as the sun stabbed through her drapes. Her normal routine was to get up and make herself tea. One of the many little quirks she'd found she'd absorbed from him. She wondered if he'd picked up any of hers and found she couldn't remember. There must have been something but whatever they might be tormented her from the other side of the abyss.

She'd barely left her bed for two weeks after the phone call and then she'd chosen to stay within the comforting walls of her home for another two weeks before finally taking the plunge and stepping back into her life. The life with the huge gaping hole in it, the one ripped apart before she'd had a chance to fully explore it.

Padding into the kitchen, she put on the kettle, pivoting to pull a cup from the cabinet and the box of PG tips from the pantry. She bought it at the little British Pantry. It wasn't around the corner but she enjoyed the drive. Sometimes she'd even treat herself to sticky toffee pudding.

She'd felt a lot of pressure to make a decision about the business. The Lightman Group without Lightman had turned it into a misnomer. From a profit point of view, it was holding its own despite the occasional client questions. Ria and Eli were at the top of their game and Gillian was indebted to them. They'd truly shone their loyalty to her, to Cal's memory but mostly to her. She was very aware and wondered on more than one occasion if a partnership between the three of them would be in order. But seven months later it still hadn't been done. Cal's crazy mugging photos and the lighted sign had remained. The pressure still held but she'd come to realize it was an internal pressure. No one had said a word.

It should have gotten better. As a psychologist she knew the grief process intimately but she seemed to have somehow been caught between the steps, unable to move forward to find the peace of acceptance. It put her into a constant state of flux. Professionally, she slipped into her role, congratulating herself on her Academy Award winning material but when no one was around, the character crumbled.

She'd been creeping up to that ledge more and more often, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It was mostly in her dreams in the beginning but as time marched, the ledge began to spill over into her waking world. Sometimes it had scared the hell out of her, other times, it was warm and inviting. Come close, take a look, peer down into the abyss. Maybe you'll see everything you've missed. He was waiting. You knew he'd always be waiting. It was forever, remember?

The day Gillian picked up the phone to make an appointment was the day the second call came.

There had been no glass to break this time. Just bloodless fingers gripping her cell as she folded to the carpet.

The tea kettle was whistling and it was enough to pull her from her ruminations. She poured the boiling water, sloshing it over the side as her hand shook. Returning to the breakfast bar, she was sure to hold it securely between her palms. The ceramic threatened to burn her flesh but it was only a short couple of steps. Besides, a burn would have been welcome. It would be a reminder she and this day existed.

It was a day she was assured would never happen.

They had said zero percent probability.

They. Obviously they didn't know a fucking thing. Least of all, him.

Gillian glanced up at the kitchen clock. She'd slept late. She did that a lot. If she wasn't working, she was sleeping. She couldn't remember the title of the last book she'd read and the thought saddened her.

Despite this new information, she still stood on the ledge, still cautiously peeking down in an attempt to catch a glimpse of him. She wondered what he'd look like. Would he be what she remembered? Would death be kind or cruel?

Of course it was possible this wasn't really happening. The ledge was tricky that way.

She brought the cup to her lips, sighing before the heat filled her mouth and flowed down her throat. He'd been right. A cup of tea could work wonders. Her body sagged slightly but her heart contradicted with more spasms than actual heartbeats.

When the doorbell sounded, she jumped and hit her knees on the bottom of the bar.

Who the hell would be on the front step on a Saturday morning?

You know.

She did but she didn't believe it. They were supposed to have his back and they didn't. They said he couldn't have survived but he did. Gillian had the urge to hunt down "they" and beat them with a tire iron. Whoever they were.

Sliding off the barstool, she moved on silent feet to the entry. There was movement through the window but the pebbled texture of glass prevented any kind of recognition.

Throwing the locks and disengaging the chain, she slowly pulled the door toward her.

A man stood on her front stoop. His sandy hair was long, past his collar but not quite to his shoulders and carelessly pushed away from his brow. A full but patchy beard hid much of his gaunt face but deep, hazel eyes stared at her from beyond weathered skin. A ragged scar cut through one brow and continued for a couple of inches down his cheekbone. His pants were military, shirt just a thermal under a battered leather jacket. A duffle bag was clutched in his right hand and Gillian noted the cracked skin of his knuckles and slim lines of blood.

She moved aside to allow him entrance.

He dropped his bag in the entry and swept his eyes over the living room and kitchen before returning to study her. Gillian thought she heard the tiniest of sighs.

"Would you like some tea?" She wasn't sure what else to say or where to start. She honestly didn't even want to engage but did so anyway, in the event he wasn't a hallucination.

"That would be nice."

Gillian felt his presence follow her to the breakfast bar. Her own tea had cooled. She'd have to remedy that. Busying herself, she didn't look at him but instinctively knew his gaze was affixed to her.

"Are you hungry? I could make something."

"I'm all right luv."

All right? Really? She was a lot of things but all right wasn't one of them. Anger flared and she couldn't understand exactly why. None of this was his fault. Unless you traced back into his 20's and early 30's. Then maybe it was. Decisions made in youth had almost destroyed the man he'd matured into. And her. It had come close to destroying her. The ledge still beckoned in the event that none of this was real.

"Are you?" She pivoted to scrutinize him.

He went quiet but his breath hitched.

"Are you?" She repeated, wanting, needing, to hear his voice.

"I don't know."

He slumped onto a barstool and ran his hands through his hair. In the light she could see where it was a slightly greasy. She could also see dark smudges under eyes scrunched in a pervasive wince and cracked, sore lips.

"I'm sorry Gillian." The man's gaze fell forward to study his shaking hands. "I promised everything would be okay."

She wanted to touch him but remained fearful. A huge part of her was convinced her fingers would slide through him like smoke and she'd wake in her large, empty bed with a cry in her throat and a dark shadow over her heart.

"You mean it's not?"

The man glanced up at her, curious but pained. "I don't know."

Gillian filled his cup, dipped the teabag in a few times before letting it steep. She set it in front of him, hearing his murmured thanks, close enough to smell sweat, dirt and tobacco. He hadn't smoked in years. Had he picked up the habit again? Or was he just in close proximity with someone who did?

Stepping back, she watched him curl his hands around the cup, savoring the warmth, his head tilting forward once more, hair falling across his eyes.

That's when it hit her. She could smell him. Had she been able to smell him when she was peering over the ledge in her dreams?

The breath strangled in the back of her throat. No, she hadn't.

Oh my God.

"Cal?"

He tilted his shaggy head her way, pained expression lessening. "Yeah, luv?"

"Is this real?" Her breathing resumed but her words trembled. "I need to know this is real."

Understanding seemed to flicker within his eyes. He slowly held out a hand to her.

Gillian didn't move but the offer remained.

"I'm afraid."

"I know, darlin' but that doesn't mean you don't have courage. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known." His eyes remained on hers. "It's one of the many reasons I fell in love with you."

She tried to pull her gaze away but couldn't. She found herself stepping toward the ledge, while he waited patiently, hand still outstretched. It wouldn't take much. Just another foot and she'd be able to brush his fingertips with hers.

"You don't smell very good."

The smile was instant and moved up into his eyes. "I apologize for that. Not my intention to stink up your kitchen. There just hasn't been a lot of time…" He stopped and the smile disappeared back into his beard.

No. She wanted the smile back. She didn't want the baggage. Gillian ignored his hand and stepped behind him, sensing him tense.

She could smell the leather of his jacket.

With a tentative touch, she reached out and traced the stitching down his shoulder. It felt rough against her fingers but the leather was worn and supple. Solid. It was solid. Heart shuddering a little faster, she rested a hand on each shoulder and lightly traced down his upper arms before returning.

Maybe she'd stepped off the ledge and that was why he felt solid.

"Gillian." He slowly swiveled on the stool but caught her hand before she could back away.

She stared at their entwined fingers, captivated by the rough warmth of his skin.

If this weren't real, he wouldn't be warm.

A sob was acid in her throat as her nose burned and her eyes watered. Not a single sound escaped as he moved her hand toward him and gently rubbed the back of it against his beard. The whiskers were long enough to be silken. She suddenly felt safe enough to bring her other hand up to sift through the hair at his temple. It was so soft.

Oh my God.

The ledge was receding from around her. She didn't need to creep up and sneak a peek over the side. He wasn't in the abyss. He was right her in front of her. Warm, real, smelly. Cal. Her Cal.

On silent feet, she inched forward and wrapped her arms around him. His cheek rested against her breast and when his hands slid behind her back, his shoulders began to shake.