A/N: This will be a multi-chapter Cal and Gillian story that is set pre-series and eventually follows the timeline of the show. Several of the chapters will feature characters that I've never written before, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I can make it believable and entertaining, and that you will enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimer: I do not own LTM* or any of its characters – I'm only borrowing them for a little while, just for fun.

(**And fair warning, guys – there's an F-bomb or two in chapter one. I promise they won't pop up often, though.)

Enjoy!

He really should have seen it coming. He should have taken one look at those suitcases – three of them, lined up in a neat little row across their bed – and realized that the threats she'd grown oh-so-fond of making were no longer empty, and that his entire world was about to change. Clothing, jewelry, shoes… everything she owned was swiftly making its way out of her drawers and out of her closet and into the luggage they'd purchased together so very long ago.

And if he'd bothered look past the reaction in her face and listened to words that were spewing out of her mouth – allrapid-fire and hateful, and laced with absolute venom – then he would have known instantly that the worst possible decision he could've made in that moment was to simply sit there in silence.

But that's exactly what he did.

Words had never been his strong suit, after all. He read faces… muscles… tiny, miniscule movements that were involuntary and universal and scientific, and she bloody well knew that. She did. And she should have expected nothing less.

To that end, he kept his expression neutral and let his eyes track her movements – from the dresser to the suitcase and back, over and over again. He was cataloguing… studying… trying to decide if the remorse he could so easily read on her face was because she was leaving him now, or because she hadn't done it ages ago.

Maybe it was a little bit of both.

Cal wasn't sure how many moments had passed since he walked into the room and found her like that, but when she finally stilled herself long enough to notice him standing there, her expression shifted into complete hostility and he instantly steeled himself for the implication he knew would come again. It was the same one she'd made hours earlier… the same one she'd made every single day for the last six months. By this point, the entire charade was totally predictable and he'd long since grown tired of defending himself.

Wasn't much point left to it, really. Not now.

"Stop reading me, Cal," she shouted. "You know that drives me completely insane. I'm a person, alright? A real person, with real feelings, and if you'd ever bothered to take your head out of your ass long enough to pay attention to the fact that I am your wife and that… that… she is someone else's wife, maybe then you'd realize just how far out of line things have gotten. Maybe then you'd realize that what you said to me this evening was just about the worst possible thing I could hear, short of you admitting that you've already fucked her."

And there it was, right on cue. Funny… the thing that bothered him the most about her little tirade wasn't he accusation that he'd "fucked" Foster (he hadn't); it was the fact that Zoe Landau hated Gillian Foster so badly that she couldn't even bring herself to say the woman's name.

And for what? Foster had never done anything wrong. She'd been a wonderful friend, an excellent business partner, and a bigger support system (both personally and professionally) than he probably deserved. And it was downright hypocritical for Zoe to stand there lecturing anyone about the disadvantages of hiding one's head in one's ass.

No, this was the same old Zoe, playing the same old game. The implication still hurt, of course, but there were only so many times a man could listen to his wife call him a cheating bastard before he started to tune it out a bit. Desensitization, Foster would probably call it.

Zoe was on suitcase number three by the time she looked over at him again. She'd filled the first two and propped up against the wall between them as a makeshift barricade, and just when he thought they might've reached an impasse – that she might've actually begun to calm down a bit – the tiny, relieved smile he tossed her set everything right back into motion.

Changing tactics, Zoe opted for direct hostility, rather than implications and innuendo. "I know you've spent the night there, Cal," she seethed, tapping one high-heeled shoe to emphasize every other word. "It's been… what? Three times already? So do us both a favor and don't even try to deny it."

Truth be told, that did make him sound like a right wanker – as if he'd been off enjoying the company of his very beautiful, very married business partner while his poor, dejected wife sat home alone.

But the flip side of that argument – the one that Zoe was being oh-so careful to ignore – was that he had only fled to Gillian's when he'd grown so bloody sick of the shouting and the hostility and the full blown drama of his own marriage that it was either escape or go completely insane. And besides… he knew exactly what it felt like to grow up in a household filled with anger. The last thing he wanted to do was lead Emily through the same process.

Doing his best to remain calm, Cal ran his hands through his hair and carefully sat down on the edge of their bed. He was positioned between Zoe and the doorway, so that she had to pass right in front of him to leave the room, and it took a mere ten short seconds before he watched her eyes track the pathway her body already wanted to take. That simple motion rattled him – made each of the hairs on the back of his neck stand at full alert – and without even meaning to do so, Cal slipped right back into his old habits.

Passive aggressive confrontation, Foster would've called it. He'd mastered it long ago.

"Wasn't trying to deny it, love," he shrugged. He was fully aware that his words were laced with arrogance and narcissism, but he'd completely lost the ability to care. "But that little spin you're putting on it? The one that convinces you I've done the horizontal tango with Foster right under her husband's nose? Complete and utter crap, that is. And we both know it."

Instantly, Zoe scoffed. "Is that so?" she said, hands on her hips and eyes alight with renewed fire as she glared at him. "Alright then, fine. I'll tell you something else we both know. We both know that it's her face you see behind your eyes at night, and that it's her name that trips off the end of your tongue when you collapse into our bed. Hell, her idiot husband probably knows it too, unless he's just choosing to be as pathetically blind as I've been for the last few years."

Surprised to hear her deviate from her 'script' by bringing Alex Foster into the mix for the first time since the infidelity accusations began flying months ago, Cal cocked his head to the side and stared at Zoe with open curiosity. And even though he knew things between them were quickly reaching 'train wreck' territory, he couldn't keep his eyes off her facial muscles long enough to think of anything constructive to say. Anger, frustration, sadness, regret, and there… right there, in such a fleeting flash that he almost missed it entirely… was guilt.

Where the hell had that come from?

Zoe's ridiculously loud sigh broke his concentration, and her posture instantly became as defensive as her tone of voice. "What is it you're looking for, anyway?" she asked harshly. "Do you think you'll find a different answer in my eyebrows, or my cheekbones, or my jaw muscles besides the one that's coming out of my actual mouth? The one that's telling you – for the third time this evening, no less – that whatever we had between us just isn't worth fighting for anymore?"

Hours later, when the clarity of scotch-fueled hindsight finally kicked in and he had time to remember it properly, Cal would realize what a giant plonker he was by responding to her outburst with humor, rather than sincerity. He'd realize that he should have called her on the guilt he'd seen, or thrown out accusations of his own… anything – anything – other than crack a joke. But in the heat of the moment, he couldn't seem to stop himself from sounding like an arrogant jerk.

Again.

"Actually, love, you've only said it twice. I've been counting. It's basic math, Zo. And maybe if you spent as much time looking over elementary school homework with our daughter as Foster and I do, then you'd have a chance to brush up on your skills, yeah?"

Three… two… one…

In a flash, Zoe's right hand connected with his left cheek, hard enough to draw tears to his eyes but not quite hard enough to make them fall. It wasn't the first time she'd slapped him, but it was the first time he felt as though he might've actually deserved it.

Maybe.

Zoe looked down at her fingertips with a blank expression, and then Cal heard all the breath leave her body in one long, exaggerated puff. "Does she hate this side of you as much as I do?" she asked tiredly. "The side that's always so hell-bent on pushing everyone away? It's just… it's just exhausting, you know? I've watched it happen, time and time again. I've lived through it, time and time again. It's called 'Fight or Flight, and it is a choice. The problem is… you keep making the wrong one."

Without a second thought, he snorted at her. "Hypocritical much, love?" he spat. Because seriously, she had no right to place all the blame on him. No right at all. Not when she was the one tossing the entire contents of her closet into overstuffed suitcases and running away.

"Looks to me like you're the one making this choice, yeah?" he continued. "You're the one who decided to give up. To stop fighting."

Not expecting her to find an answer so quickly, Cal was visibly surprised when the brunt of her anger hit him only a microsecond later. "No, you made that choice for both of us earlier today, when you looked me dead in the eye and told me that your business partner would make a better mother than I've ever been, hands down. And that if Emily had the privilege of growing up under Gillian's care and not mine, that she never would've been forced to – and I quote – 'play second fiddle to a law career or spend her free time getting used as a pawn between parents who probably shouldn't have gotten married in the first place.'"

Monologue finished, Zoe didn't even try to hide the happiness she felt at watching Cal wince at the sound of his own words. Granted, she'd paraphrased it a bit… added in a few extra details… but the gist of it was still the same, and hearing it parroted back at him made him feel about two inches tall.

Yes, he'd said it.

He'd said it, and he'd meant it, and Zoe had every right to be angry with him. She had every right to slap him, and every right to leave.

And maybe…

Maybe that's why he'd done it in the first place.

Maybe it was easier to push her away than to fight for something that could no longer be saved. Fall on his sword, so to speak, rather than face rejection.

A decent man would've apologized. He knew that. But Cal Lightman had never been fond of choosing the path of least resistance, and he wasn't about to start doing it then. He was well aware that the 'bad mother' angle had hit Zoe below the belt, but in the heat of the moment he'd wanted to hurt her just as much as she'd hurt him.

No doubt he was a selfish bastard, but he'd always been faithful. Always. Infidelity was a dangerous game, and with two marriages at stake, it was one he'd never had any intention of playing.

And to that end, his tone was full of arrogance when he looked her straight in the eye and said, "Bit of advice, Zoe? If you're going to take the words right out of my mouth, it would be a lot more entertaining for both of us if you used the accent, too."

He'd fully expected her to slap him again, but she didn't. Instead, she locked her hands on her hips and matched his icy stare with one of her own. "Mark my words, one day your precious little 'Foster' is going to look past the bullshit and the credentials and see the real you. The half-broken shell of a man with a lifetime's worth of baggage, who hides behind his science because he's never trusted anyone, and he probably never will. And when she does see it, Cal – when she finally does – that woman will walk away from you without a second thought."

It was solely out of habit that he sighed, dropped his head into his hands and said – without so much as a drop of emotion in his voice – "Gillian and I are just friends, Zo. We are friends and business partners, and nothing else."

A beat later, when the silence that had fallen between them began to rattle his sanity, and the sadness he should have been feeling all along began to seep in around the edges, bit by bit, Cal stole one last glance at Zoe's face and was shaken by the pity he found there. Before he could question it, though, she stepped forward and pressed her wedding ring into the palm of his hand.

Her voice was perfectly composed, but the soft words she spoke in his ear were unashamedly cruel. "She'll leave you, Cal. Just like your mother did… just like I'm doing… and just like Emily will."

And that's when it hit him.

That's when it hit him.

Burgeoning sadness gave way to raw panic at the single mention of Emily's name, as the full weight of what was about to change between them finally became clear. Fisting her ring in his left hand, Cal caught Zoe's wrist with his right just as she went to step away from him. "Please don't do this, Zoe," he implored. "Don't make it harder than it needs to be, yeah? For Emily's sake, and for mine."

Carefully pulling her arm out of his grasp, she wheeled the last of her suitcases into the hallway and paused at the top of the staircase to turn back toward him one last time. She spoke only five short words, but the utter hatred he heard in her voice made him instantly nauseous.

"I'll see you in court."

To Be Continued…