Chapter Text
The drive home is a blur. He can’t see the congested streets or the dark pathway towards the doorway; all he can see is the hallway. That slim, dreaded hallway, in which the end lingered. In which Gillian—strong, gorgeous Gillian—stood shaking, frail as a branch ready to fall off its tree.
All he can see is the blood staining her soft palms. The pain contorting her features. He forces his eyes shut, as if the darkness can hide the truth. He should know better. As he opens his eyes, Gillian lingers. Frail, shivering, covered in crimson blood.
For a brief, terrifying moment, Cal thought the blood was hers. His heart pounded against his chest and his blood pounded in his ears and he was running. Running faster than he had ever run before because it was the end. The end of everything that matters, anyway. He should’ve seen it on her face, that the blood wasn’t hers. Then again, it was always harder to read those that he loves.
Cal loves Gillian. He loves her like he loves the truth, because if Gillian were anything in the world, she would be the truth. He loves her in a desperate, unabashed, pistol blazing way. He would do anything to protect her because like the truth, she is pure; good, untarnished by the evil of the world. The truth is beautiful. It’s a virtue taught to children along with sharing and kindness. Yet Cal? Most can attest that he is none of those things. He almost chuckles at that.
A few hours ago, Cal Lightman thought it was the end. Yet now, as he creaks open the door to his home, he takes a breath. Foster would be alright, because she was strong and because she had to be; and he would see her tomorrow because it wasn’t the end. In fact, maybe it was just the beginning.
He shakes his head. He can’t think about that right now. Not long after the divorce with Zoe, he made a rule: the moment he enters his home, begins stirring a pot of beans and toast or sits down on the couch beside Emily, the truth doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether Emily lies to him about how her writing project is going or whether the man on the television really means what he says. The moment he opens the door to his home, he doesn’t have to think about the lies and case files and tragedies. And boy, does he need to open that door.
As he makes his way into the living room, soft rock sifts from the record player and he can't help but let his lips slip into a smile. Emily sits in that dip in the couch, computer placed leisurely on her lap. She isn’t haunted by blood or hate or that dead woman lying in the room left of the hallway. Instead, she's worried about journalism papers and the best way to sneak Liam into her room without him finding out. Where was he, anyway? Seemed like that bloody boy was hanging around her house every day of the week.
“Oi, eh," he says. “Where’s Liam?”
“Ironic.” She makes a sound between a scoff and a laugh. She doesn’t look up from her computer. “The one time you get his name right and it’s the same day that-”
Pain glimmers beneath her lip, yet her gaze stays on the computer. She doesn't look at him. Call him old, but he hates that bloody computer. Always the best reason to avert the gaze, to avoid the truth. He closes the computer screen slipping it from her lap onto the dark oak table. In it's place, he collapses onto the couch beside her.
“Hey.” She looks up at him, eyes wide.
He shifts on the couch, nestling between the maroon pillows. “You alright?”
She doesn’t look at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Her brow is furrowed and her upper lip is raised. Liar. He almost tells her what he sees, written on her face like a bright red marker on a whiteboard. Instead, averts his gaze; places a hand on her shoulder, wondering how anyone could tire of such a beautiful girl. “Liam’s a bloody idiot.”
The hint of a smile graces her lips. “I actually broke up with him.”
“Really?” he asks, adjusting his position to face her. “Why? What did he do?”
“Nothing. That’s-” She still doesn’t look at him. “That’s kind of the point.”
“Right,” he says, and finally, she looks at him. Brown eyes glazed by the warm lamplight, hesitation flickers within them. “Come on. You can tell me.”
“Come on.” She bites her lip. It dances in her eyes, the hesitation; the truth just waiting to slip her lips. He tucks a golden curl behind her ear. “You know you can.”
“You know you’re going to tell me in the end,” he continues, leaning against the cushions. “So- that’s you and me. It’s, you know, all the way, no secrets.”
“Liam doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.” He shakes his head, the beginning of a laugh bubbling in his throat. She inspects him, eyes narrow and inquisitive like her mother’s. Somehow, it makes it that much more bloody funny. “Were you laughing?”
“No.” Cal Lightman is one of the most skilled deception experts in the world, yet no microexpression could have prepared him for the sentence that had just left his daughter’s mouth. But he just can’t stop it. Can’t stop the amusement spreading in his chest and the smile sneaking its way up to his lips. “What? No. Me? Never. No.”
She shakes her head. “All that exercise was just a substitute for something else.”
“A total waste of a good pair of hamstrings.” It felt like an eternity ago that he was watching Emily on the floor—making some quite questionable noises, mind you—having her legs stretched for who knows what. In fact, the noises were so questionable that for a moment, he thought they were—he shakes his head, yet the smile is wide on his lips.
“You know, you can be a real jackass sometimes.” Yet she smiles, like she always does, a glint of amusement dancing in her eyes. He liked that. Fit her better than sadness. Than pain.
“You’re just finding that out now, are you?”
She crosses her arms together. “Real funny.”
“I know,” he says, as a comfortable silence settles between them. “It’s tragic.”
He loves that comfortable silence. The one that’s just between them and the soft rock playing in the background that deems a house well-lived; the knowledge that when he strips his jacket and leather boots, only the familiar dip of the couch and the clicking of Emily’s fingers on the keyboard will await him. No lies, no death, no bloody hands. Just home.
“I have a question.” And there’s that glint in her eyes. This time, it isn’t lingering amusement. No, the fire dancing in her eyes is one he knows all too well. It's a hunger, really. A bold, insatiable hunger for the truth.
“Uh-oh.” She looks away for a moment before she looks at him. She really looks at him. It’s unplaceable, inscrutable, undecipherable by microexpression. “What’s that look mean?”
“Gillian.” She’s holding her breath, yet her voice is clear. Determined. “Do you love her?”
“Of course I do, darling,” he says, and it’s easy. Easier than anything he’s ever said before. “Of course I love her.”
“No, I mean, really love her.”
“Yeah.” While Cal Lightman is deeply familiar with the truth—knows every crevice, curve and microexpression it entails—the truth has always struggled on his tongue. Fragments flickering on his face, yet most times never reaching the lips. More than anyone he knew that sometimes, truth was ugly, disfigured, undeserving. Yet with Gillian? With her, it was easy. With her, sometimes, the truth could be beautiful.
“Mm.” She curls herself into his lap and her head rests on his shoulder. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know,” he tells her, honestly. “I don’t have an answer for that one, love.”
It's not long before he's lying under the covers, shrouded in darkness. But he isn't in his room, actually, he's at the other end of the hallway again. Always that damn hallway.
Gillian is standing before him once again. Her eyes are as wet as her hands. Blood stains her shirt. Her palms. Her face. Pain shines on her face. Fear. She shivers. He hates that, because it’s not right. Gillian isn’t fragile or weak or that branch severed by a cool breeze or strong wind. No, she’s the strongest, smartest, most beautiful person he knows.
Cal hasn't become a loony yet, he knows it isn't real. He knows that he probably won't have to step foot in that hallway ever in his life, yet the image lingers. It's burned beneath his eyes and written to his skin and—he pushes the thought away.
Cal Lightman needs to know the truth. It’s his job; the reason he wakes up in the morning and the reason he’s kept up late at night. Yet in a world polluted by lies, the truth, while it can be beautiful, is powerful. And while Cal is all for taking risks—although sometimes at his own expense—he won’t do the same with Gillian. Never Gillian.
And that’s the last he’ll hear of it. That's the end.
Or so he thought…