DISCLAIMER: The Lie to Me characters
are the property of Imagine Television and 20th Century Fox Television. The story
contents are the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2010 by
Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
Lines of Control
by
Djinn
Sometimes she
regrets the lines she's drawn. Like now,
when Cal's at his obnoxious sexiest, and he and Clara were practically tearing
each other's clothes off with their eyes, when they couldn't wait for her to
leave them alone. Or later, when he'll
be at dinner with Zoe—Gillian shouldn't know this, but she does, because she
happened to overhear them talking, or maybe she stopped and listened
deliberately, she really can't say anymore.
It's Cal and she's
in love with him. Even when he's
contemplating Clara the way he has been.
Even when she knows in her gut that he'll be screwing Zoe to within an
inch of her life, the way he always does every time they cross swords. He'll be with Zoe, knowing he'll be with
Clara if she'll have him. And then
flirting with Gillian again the minute he walks back into the office. Even flirting with Torres, his protégé. Gillian wishes that didn't bother her, but it
does, more and more, even though she doesn't hold it against Torres.
It's not the
girl's fault that Cal has no impulse control.
In fact, he's all impulse, primal and out there, and Gillian's better
off just letting go and admitting that.
That he's not hers and he's not going to be hers.
And that it kills
her that he called her his Leo.
She just happened
to hear that, too.
His Leo. Someone you work with. Someone you build a business with. Someone you ask to kill you.
Someone you love,
just...not like that.
It's her
fault. She keeps redrawing the line and
he keeps saying, "Fine, love. See
you later." And off he goes with
the latest skirt.
She thought that
she wasn't exotic enough. Not dark and
mysterious. But Clara's blonde for God's
sake. Clara's not exotic, no more than
she is. Poppy was blonde, too.
Is she too
bland? Is she too familiar?
Or is she fine but
has worked too hard to draw lines that have become fences and then walls, and
now there's no way over them?
"Are you all
right, Gil?" Cal's standing close,
the way he does. Because she's his Leo
and that's what you do.
She feels tears
beginning, blinks them back and doesn't look up, can't look up. "Hmmm?" Her best distracted voice, and she tops it
off by reaching for her coffee, not looking at the mug, bringing it over,
drinking as if she's very busy and very thirsty and just can't be bothered.
His goddamned Leo?
"I said are
you all right?"
"I'm
fine. Just finishing up." Her voice sounds almost okay. She hopes he's too distracted by the prospect
of all the sex he'll be getting from women who aren't her to notice anything
off.
That's a stupid
hope. He leans in.
"Gil?"
"You're
crossing that line, Cal." Her voice
is harder than she means. But he's so
close and she wants to hit him or maybe kiss him and tell him not to go to
dinner with Zoe, not to see Clara in the future when the pretty, young blonde
needs someone she can trust—and why does it have to be him anyway?
Because any fool
can see he'd be good in bed. Only
Gillian doesn't know that, she just thinks it, believes it, fantasizes about it
enough that Cal probably knows that about her, too. But she doesn't know it because she hasn't
let him in and he never, ever pushes.
Does he respect her too much—or not care enough?
Right then, she
hates him.
There have been
lots of moments like this, where she hates him, wants him gone, wishes she
could leave.
And then he
touches her, like this, on her shoulder.
The gentle squeeze.
"I'll leave
you alone, then. Call if you need
me."
She nods. But she won't do it. She needs him now. Only she doesn't know how to tell him.
"Cal?" She turns and finds him watching her—waiting
for her to do this?
"I know,
love." He smiles, that sad,
regretful smile that she wants to wipe off his face with her coffee in his face
or maybe by kissing it off—she's not particular at this point.
"What do you
know, Cal?"
"That you're
not my Leo." He's not breaking the
gaze and she can't look away, won't look away.
"What am I if
not that?"
"Well, that's
entirely up to you, Gillian." He
waits and she closes her eyes, feels the line being redrawn just by not moving,
not reaching out, not saying what she wants to say.
When did she
become such a coward?
"I'll see you
tomorrow, love." And he's gone, not
hurrying, not lingering, just leaving.
Leaving her line
intact, her control still absolute.
She goes home
alone. Again.
FIN