The 'shrink' lines within are from an awesome little show called 'Standoff' that got cancelled before given a chance (But will live on in the fact that the leads got married :D lol
I own neither 'Lie to Me' nor 'Standoff', just a huge amount of love for both.
She watched him cross the room and collapse on the couch, eyes closed and a long heartfelt sigh escaping.
She frowned, both hands braced on the breakfast counter of her kitchenette. His skin was pale, sallow against his cheekbones, and even with the distance she could tell his head wound needed stitches.
She took a clean towel and wrapped up a handful of ice cubes, stuffed some medical supplies in her cardigan pocket and joined him on the couch with a tumbler of whisky.
"Ta, love," he whispered, taking the outstretched drink and compress.
"So, you gonna let me play nurse?" she smirked, pulling out the stitches and antiseptic wipes. She hoped the banter might lighten his understandably heavy mood.
"Is there a uniform?"
"Alec got it in the divorce," she frowned.
"Now there's an image," he laughed.
She smiled, glad to see a twinkle in his hazel eyes. A little innuendo went far with Dr. Cal Lightman. She ripped the wipe packet with her teeth as he shifted closer to her, head resting deeply on the back cushion.
She brushed his hair back with her hand, dabbing at the wound. He gave a hiss as the solution hit the open gash.
"Don't be a baby."
"You need to work on your bedside manner, Foster."
"You haven't seen my bedside manner," she smirked.
"Aye aye! I should nearly die more often."
"Hey, don't joke."
"No," his face turned serious again. "No, I'm sorry."
She gently stuck the butterfly stitch over the wound, the skin surrounding it quickly turning purple. "There," she whispered, smoothing back his hair and guiding the hand with the compress to the area.
It was only now, with his head tipped away from her, that she noticed the bruising at his neck. She gasped, her fingers tracing over the small dark blemishes leading to his shoulders. "My God, Cal..." she breathed, pulling on his loose collar to reveal more angry hued masses. His shirt was misshapen from being dragged and pulled by it all day.
"Looks worse than it is," he shrugged, knocking back a gulp of whisky, barely hiding a grimace from his aching muscles.
"Yeah, your face tells me otherwise. Spin."
"Spin." She placed her glass on the table and gestured for him to face away from her.
He held his breath as she helped him pull the shirt over his head – there was possibly a bruised, if not broken, rib, he decided.
She shook her head, lips pursed, as she took in his bruised torso, the white vest highlighting the unfamiliar colours.
He watched her move past him and disappear into the bathroom, returning with cotton wool and a bottle of clear liquid.
"Witch hazel," she identified, shaking the bottle. "Old wives tale for bruises. My Nana had me practically bathing in the stuff when I was a kid." She settled back down behind him. The strong chemical smell filled the air as she unscrewed the cap and doused the cotton wool.
Cal hissed when it made contact with his skin. "S'cold!"
"Wuss." She dabbed the liquid onto his skin, moving the vest to the side and back. She capped the bottle and put it on the table. Then, much to Cal's surprise, she laid her hands back on his shoulders and began massaging the tensed muscles.
Her fingers rubbed and squeezed over his skin, pressing deep circles into the knots under her touch.
He fidgeted at first, squirming in his seat until he relaxed into the ministrations, his head lolling forward. His breathing evened out, occasional guttural moans sounding as she hit sensitive spots. She could feel the vibrations of his approval running through his body.
She traced across his back, slowly and gracefully kneading the muscles, goosebumps rising across his skin. She hated to break the silence, but it seemed a good opportunity to mention, "I think, maybe, you should talk to someone."
"I'm not talking to a shrink," he replied instantly, his tone hushed but definite.
"Okay, then," she smiled, expecting that response. "Talk to me."
"You're a shrink."
She could see his cheeks rise into a smile, so leant in close to whisper "And how does that make you feel?"
He chuckled, before giving another deep sigh. "I'm fine, love. You don't need to worry about me. Just... keep doing what you're doing."
She smiled and followed orders until her fingers felt like they would cramp any second. "I'll get us another drink."
He nodded, turning back around. His eyes were under heavy lids, the stresses of the day washed from his body but not his mind.
She sat next to him, passing a replenished tumbler of whisky.
He was slouched into the seat, his head resting on the back. "Thank you," he said, his hand patting her knee and staying there. He hoped she knew he meant it for everything that day, for always fighting for him even when he'd given up.
She shuffled down in her seat and slipped her arm under his, entwining their fingers. Resting her head on his shoulder, she heaved a small contented breath. He fell asleep not long after, his head slowly meeting hers. She smiled, closing her eyes.