I took a long train ride in December and this was a result. Two months later, I manage to edit and post!

Set s2 somewhere. For Team Awesome xD

"Pizza's in," Cal mentioned, flopping on to the couch and quickly adapting his usual laid-back posture. He thanked Gillian as he took the outstretched glass of wine. "So what did you decide on?"

Gillian grinned, picking two DVD cases from her bag. "Well, we have 'Casino Royale'..."

"Let me guess, for Daniel Craig emerging from the sea?"

"Yes," she grinned. "Also, the chair scene."

"Ah, no," Cal grimaced, pointing downwards.

"I'd rub 'em better," she shrugged with a smirk, choosing to speak just as he drank, resulting in a choke of wine and shocked wide eyes.

"What, er, what else you got?" he asked, rubbing spills from his tee.

"'Love, Actually'."

"For Andrew Lincoln?"


"And Colin Firth?"


"And Hugh Grant?"


"You do realise the common denominator in your choices, right? Brits. British accents. Should I be worried about sitting so close to you, Foster? You're not going to jump me or anything?"

"I will try to contain myself," she pursed her lips, fighting back a smirk.

"What is the Hugh Grant thing anyway? I don't get it! He's so bumbly and...sandals with socks."

"'Sandals with socks'?"

"It's a British thing. A bad British thing."

She shook her head, "He's romantic and handsome and...I don't know, makes the accent work for him. It's a woman thing."

"You're telling me. I have to admit, you Americans are easily charmed by the accent."

"Mmhmm," she sipped her wine, "Experience?"

"...80:20 I'd say."

She shot him a look of amused confusion.

"80% with the accent, 20 without."

"Without? What accent do you use, prey tell?"

"None. I don't always need words," his chest puffed out as he drank.

"You're that good?"


"Prove it."


"Go on. You think you're some British sex God. Prove it."


"Yes. Unless...you're chicken?"

"That hasn't worked on me since I was seven, Foster. And even then I'd sooner punch than conform."

She threw her hands up in defence, smirking into her glass as she drank.

Cal sighed like it was a hardship to be told to flirt with Gillian Foster. He gulped back some Dutch courage and took a deep breath.

In their line of work, eyes were the biggest tell. The self imposed 'line' they had set each other meant eye-contact was generally kept at a minimum outside of work hours. Just incase. It wasn't necessarily intentional, it had just kind of happened. The downside, among others, was that when their eyes did meet, it was an instant tell. Everything they tried to keep private from each other was laid out for the other to see.

Cal's eyes, especially, had an effect on Gillian. The intensity he could pour into one look always made her head swim. There was a subtle difference to his science-intensity, where he was studying an object like an experiment.

It was easy for some girls to get confused. A lot of the time, he played on that mistake and had many notches on his bedpost as a result.

He folded his arm across the back of the couch, resting his cheek onto the palm of his hand. Determined not to lose, and most definitely not so soon, Gillian smiled and stuck out her hand. "Hi, I'm Gillian."

He ever so slightly shook his head, his mouth formed a shush though the noise never escaped. The open fire hissed and crackled in the middle of the room, creating a warm glow that danced across the walls.

When he really turned on the look, few would survive. It was like your peripheral vision melted away until all you saw were his hazel eyes looking at you. Not through you like some misguided amateur attempts could go. No, like he was reading your entire life story and your eyes were telling the tales.

Like he'd never seen anyone so beautiful and he wanted to spend every minute of every day making sure you knew it. Maybe that was just the romance novels talking, but it was a heady experience to be on the receiving end of Cal's stare.

He let a finger lightly trace across her lips, then up to her temple and down to beneath her chin. He shook his head again, his eyes following his track.

The stomach was the first thing to go, its instant fluttering the first sign of trouble. Then the warming flush that enveloped every inch of the body, like you were stood naked before him. That came with the millisecond feeling of insecurity, but he of course catches that and tilts his head just a slight, the emotion dissipating as fast as you are falling into a headlong spiral.

With that, comes the weak knees and the realisation that, yep, you're a goner. Completely.

And you don't give a fuck.

He edges closer to her, his fingers threading into her hair. She'd gone, he knew it. He leant down to her, his lips barely inches from her.

It could be the biggest mistake possible, your heart could be broken into a million irreplaceable pieces but you don't care. Because even if it's just for one night, you will feel like the most beautiful woman on the planet.

Every insecurity you held about your body will be exquisite. Every inch you fought every day to lose will be perfection. You will be perfection.

So you give in.

Your eyes close. Your heart races. You feel his breath tickle across your lips. You stop breathing altogether. Any second.

Any second.


Then the oven pings and he laughs "And that's how Emily was born."