This is a retelling of the season 2 episode "Honey". I feel kind of bad that I haven't posted anything in such a long time and now that I do, it's an episode retelling, but it is what it is and I hope you'll all enjoy this little drabble anyway. This episode is one of my personal favorites, purely because there are so many Cal and Gill moments, so in the story I tried to hit most of these moments and write them from Cal's point of view.
I'd also like to share with you that I am presently working on my very first multi-chapter lie to me story, and I might be posting the first chapter to that very soon. Once I do, I hope you'll all read that, too.
Meanwhile, hope you'll enjoy this story and, if you can spare some time, please leave me a review!
"I don't care. I'll go back to working out of my kitchen before I take another case like that."
"Fine, the bills, the books, the payrolls, it's all yours. Hell, everything! Everything, it's all yours, take it!"
"You calm down, what's the matter with you?"
And then the gun fires, and then it all doesn't matter anymore. Doesn't matter they were being unreasonable, being childish. Doesn't matter that they wouldn't listen, doesn't matter that they disagreed or that they argued.
Then the gun fires and he slides in front of her like a reflex, an instinct; like closing your eyes unwillingly, without thinking, when someone pokes their finger at it.
Then the gun fires and nothing else matters anymore. Nothing else but her.
"How's everyone behaving?" He tries not to see the fear in her eyes, tries to concentrate on anything else but the terror that reads so plainly on her face.
"Perfectly." Her voice is steady and in control, a counterfit to the words on her face. And maybe, he thinks, the fear doesn't read so plainly on her, after all. Maybe it's only there in his trained eyes.
Maybe it's only there in his eyes.
He hands her the note and explains his plan, as if the situation were completely normal, as if this were any other case, as if their cliënt wasn't holding a gun to his head as he spoke.
She breathes in hastily, nervously, letting the fear slip through for just one second before regaining control again. "Reynolds is here," she says.
"Who's he?" asks the beholder of the gun.
"He's a federal agent, he works with us," she answers.
"Same rules apply to him as for everyone else," the gunman says.
"He's agreed to not call the police, but only if everyone in the conference room is allowed to leave," she says.
"You bring him in here, I'll tell him what's allowed," he says, voice dangerously low.
"It's not negotiable," she tells him, voice calm and clear.
"You bring him in here!" he yells, shifting the gun to point at her.
Her scream is a knife, cutting his body to shreds, ripping and slitting him open like a man-sized papershredder.
Her scream is a warcry, an attack signal for him to get on his feet, make noise, make sudden movements, make himself a target, make the gun move away from her and back to him.
"That's your guilt isn't it? For contaminating her. You didn't wanna drag her into your world. You considered her a pure soul and you tried like hell to keep her that way. Now she's dead."
The image in the mirror looks exactly like yourself, synchronizing your every move. You breathe, he breathes. You jump, he jumps. You shoot him, he shoots you. And then the mirror breaks into a thousand pieces, earning you seven years of bad luck.
"There's no way you can tell all that just by looking at my face."
"Just the guilt part."
"Then where does the rest come from?"
that's his guilt, isn't it?
"That's how I feel sometimes about a woman I know."
It scares him how much they mirror each other.
"We did everything that you asked. Let him go." Tears are glistening in her eyes, pain and anguish overflowing her facial features. The mask of tranquility and bravery is completely gone, vanished into thin air.
"Foster." He wants to grab her and push her out the door, out the building. He wants her to go far, far away from here and he wants her to be safe. He doesn't want her to save him again, not his time. For once, he wants to save her.
"Please." Her voice is a mere whisper, but her body is screaming, crying out in pain, making a horrible, earsplitting sound. He wants to close his eyes, like someone would want to cover their ears if their loved ones were being tortured, and they had to listen to their screams.
"Foster." She walks away and doesn't look back, so he doesn't see her face anymore. But he can still hear her non-verbal screams, echoïng in the back of his head.
"Five minutes with Zincanelli, that's it," she says.
And the scariest part is that he knows she'll do it. she'll voluntarily walk a man into his death, if it means saving him. she's always been his saviour, even if it means going against her very beliefs.
"You're just going to talk to him," she says.
"He's lying, alright?" he says desperatly. "You can tell he's lying, right?"
"I'll bring him in," she says.
"She values your life more than you do," says the gunholder.
that's his guilt again.
The sound of another gunshot signals the long awaited end to the whole catastrophe. He quickly grabs the weapon that was used to threaten him all day and hands it off to the one person he trusts completely.
He looks into her eyes and is overwhelmed by the terror and panic that are still so prominent in them.
Images of her tears and the sound of her screaming flood his mind, bringing on a migraine of massive extent.
He quickly looks away and leaves without saying a word.
"So, describe your ideal woman," the girl says, flirtatiously moving her hand through her hair.
His ideal woman. He thinks about that for a moment. Maybe it's the kind of woman that's brave and smart enough to save his life if necessary. The kind that wears love like an armor, and makes him a stronger person for it.
"Well I could describe her till the cows come home," he says, "but the real question is whether or not I'm her ideal man."
"You never know till you try, right?" the girl says, the bright smile on her face widening.
He smiles faintly, briefly imagining a world where a woman like that could really love him back.
"Why don't we give it a shot?" she asks, leaning into him. "You know, order some room service. They serve warm honey here right?" She smiles.
He thinks about going with her, letting her make him forget about everything that happened that day, if only just for one night.
He thinks about Gill. About how brave and strong she was all day, and about the terror she must have felt -must still feel.
He realises he doesn't want to forget about that, about her. Not even for one second.
"I shouldn't be here," he says. "I'm sorry."
He knocks on her door late at night, and she opens up looking not the least bit surprised to see him.
Maybe she really does know him better than he knows himself, or maybe he's just that predicatable.
"Hey," he says, smiling a bit more arrogant than he meant to. "Hey," she says, nervously pushing a stray of hair out of her face.
"Zancanelli confessed to Connie's murder," he says.
"I heard," she says.
"I'm sorry I ran out like that," he says.
"Everybody's dealing with it in their own way," she says, shaking her head and waving his apology away. "I'm just," a small smile breaks through on her face. "I'm just glad you're alright."
"Listen," he says, stepping forward into her her doorway and personal space, "I was thinking about that whole accounts thing, that whole billing thing."
Their fight from this morning seems so stupid now, so distant and vacuous. "You know, we'd be working out of a shoebox if it wasn't for you, so that's all yours," he says. "And I respect that."
She laughs, "No, no, no," she says. "I mean, you're right. Cheating spouse-cases…" she pauses and shakes her head. "We're better than that," she says.
"Well whatever you decide, alright?" he says, stepping back and starting to turn around. "Okay," she says.
"Alright then," he says, walking away before changing his mind and turning around again. "Listen, I just popped by to see how you were doing," he says.
She smiles, faintly but genuinely. "I'm okay," she says. "Good," he says.
He's not sure why he's still standing in her doorway. He's not sure why he doesn't just go home. All he's completely and entirely sure of is that he doesn't want to be without her.
"How is Emily?" she asks. "She's at her mum's," he says. "I haven't told them about all of this yet."
He steps away from her door again, trying to think of a reason not to have to go away.
A tiny voice in the back of his mind keeps whispering that maybe just the simple truth that he doesn't want to leave, is reason enough to stay.
He sighs deeply, almost physically feeling the effort it takes him to kick his pride out of the way.
"Can I sleep in your spare bedroom tonight, if it's not to much of a problem?" he asks. A warm and familiar smile fills her face. "Of course," she whispers.
He steps into the hallway, trying to push past her. "Hey," she says, holding him back by putting her hands on his chest.
He wraps his arms around her tightly and, for just one moment, forgets every bad thing that has ever happened.
Holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body on his skin, smelling her familair, flowery parfume, he forgets everything in the whole world except for her, which in that moment, really is all he wants to remember, anyway.