A/N: So this is written as if certain scenes from 1x08 Depraved Heart never happened. Gillian never goes to comfort Cal and Torres never has any suspicions about who the woman on the video is. Finally, this takes place sometime after 2x20 Exposed, but before the beginning of the third season. And you will see some dialogue/scenario from Depraved Heart, just set in different places without certain interruptions, if you know what I'm talking about. I hope you all enjoy! This is a lot longer than my usual writing, but it doesn't work as anything but a one-off in my opinion. And please tell me what you think. I've been seeing so much of this piece, it's just a blur in my mind at this point. There might maybe be a sequel if you guys like this and I can somehow wrap my head around the idea I have, but it will probably remain as is. Thanks in advance for reading and sorry for this giant author's note.
Cages and Crosses
"We know this is an... Unorthodox request, but we really need your help. Doctor Lightman, our prison is severely understaffed in the suicide watch wing, but we don't have the funds for more staff. We've had four suicides just yesterday. We need to stop any more. Can you help?"
Gillian looks at Cal, eyes wide in shock, but clearly against the idea.
"I don't know that we can help you, Mr. Thomas," Gillian tells the man who runs the prison. "What exactly are you asking us to do?"
"Just interview the inmates. Tell us which ones are serious about wanting to kill themselves so we can better protect them. And we'll put the ones who aren't really suicidal back in the general population."
Gillian spares another glance at Cal, practically begging him not to take the case. The whole thing makes her stomach turn.
"You do know that this isn't a one hundred percent science, yeah? Seventy, eighty percent at best?" Cal asks.
"We're aware," Mr. Thomas says. "But twenty to thirty percent are still less than are going to die if we do nothing. We're desperate. We'll sign away any accountability should anything happen."
"Cal, we can't take this case," Gillian insists, taking hold of his arm.
"Of course we can," he says, brushing her off.
She tries not to take offence, knowing that suicides are her partner's kryptonite.
"Can you bring 'em in or do we need to go down to the prison?" he directs at Mr. Thomas.
"Cal, I have a bad feeling about this," Gillian pushes.
Mr. Thomas glances at her, almost apologetically, but turns back to Cal.
"We can bring in those that we believe are lower risk, but you'll have to come in for the higher risks."
"Foster, I need you to do the psych evaluations for all the inmates. Get Eli to set up the cube. I'll do interviews there with Torres," he tells Gillian.
She gives him one probing look, desperation in her eyes. When she doesn't find what she's looking for, she sighs quietly.
"Okay," she agrees carefully, moving to get prepared.
"And Gillian?" he asks, making her turn back around. "You're coming to the jail with me. Twenty minutes."
Gillian's lips tighten in concern, but she nods.
"Twenty minutes," she confirms, then turns and walks away.
She goes first to the lab, where she finds Loker. She passes on the message that he needs to prepare the cube, then asks him to get some cameras set up in her office, with views around her desk. When he agrees, she thanks him and gets back to her office.
She digs out her copy of the DSM-V and photocopies the diagnostic material for major depressive disorder. She prints copies of the checklist she typically uses also. Sticking her papers into blue folders and stuffing those into her bag, she stands, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and goes to meet Cal in the lobby. And she hopes with every fibre of her being that this won't all come around to bite them in the ass.
The jail smells dank and musty. Cal breathes in through his mouth as he enters the building, rust red bricks crumbling in old age. He grabs Gillian's elbow protectively as they enter, leading her gently through security and towards the waiting Mr. Thomas.
"Follow me," he tells them. "You'll want to stay away from the cells."
Cal's grip tightens, pulling Gillian even closer to his body as they walk down a short hallway, cells lining either side. Men push forward, leering and catcalling at Gillian, but he holds her safe and close until they've passed.
"Alright, Foster?" he asks quietly.
She nods minutely, creating some space between them, but not removing herself from his grasp entirely. She always feels safer close to him.
They're led down a wide corridor to another wing with isolated cells, softened edges and clear to the pacing guards.
"We'd like you to visit our fifteen most at risk as declared by our resident psychologist," Mr. Thomas explains.
"I'd like to see her notes if possible," Gillian says.
"I'll do my best Doctor Foster," Mr. Thomas replies with a smile.
"Thank you," she says gratefully.
"Here is the first, Johnny MacArthur. And the case file," Mr. Thomas says, handing the cardstock file folder to Gillian.
She nods her thanks and follows Cal into the room when the guard opens the door.
She introduces herself and Cal and lets Cal ask questions for a baseline before starting in on her psych evaluation. Johnny is surprisingly honest and Gillian gets through her questioning fairly quickly. When she finishes with the checklist, she tilts the file so Cal can see the positive diagnosis.
"Do you want to kill yourself, Johnny?" Cal asks, leaning forward in his chair.
"No, not particularly," he says.
His head shake yes is enough to disprove him.
"Did you ever try?"
He hesitates.
"Yes," he decides, his vocal pitch wobbly and unsure.
"Tell me about that," he suggests.
"It was before all of this. I was just going to cross the street normal, but something made me just step forward into traffic. Stranger pulled me back," Johnny says, shrugging.
Cal thinks of Johnny Wheels, face set in determination edged with only a hint of fear as he rolled his chair by the platform and waited for the train. He remembers hearing the whistle as it neared, and running as fast as he could, pushing people out of the way to grab the chair and pull it back even as Johnny tried to shoot forward. He remembers being that hand pulling someone back.
He's silent for so long, Gillian steps in to take over the questioning, taking concerned glances over his face. When he snaps back to the present, a microsecond flash of sadness appears on his face.
It takes them all day to get through the fifteen inmates, determining that all of them are serious about their desire to take their lives. Tomorrow, they face the ones with the real questions, the ones nobody can be sure about.
Travis Stone sits in the chair opposite Gillian's desk, hands cuffed in his lap, and she takes the seat next to him, turning to face him. Cal sets himself up in Gillian's desk chair and swivels into a position in which he can see Travis perfectly.
"Hi, Travis. I'm Doctor Foster and this is my associate, Cal Lightman," she offers, smiling in warm greeting.
"Hi," he offers.
"Can you tell me why you're here today?" she asks, voice gently plying, but strong.
Cal fights a smile at how easily it all comes to her, prying information out of people while still being sweet.
"To tell you I'm not going to kill myself, so you can get me off suicide watch," he tells her.
"Alright," she says, picking up her clipboard and pen. "I just need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?"
Travis nods, relaxing in his seat.
"How have you been feeling lately?" she begins.
"Okay, I guess," he says honestly. "I get a bit sad sometimes, but look at where I am. There's nothing there."
"The prison?" she inquires, tilting her head.
"No. That damn padded room. They don't let me do anything or go anywhere. Of course I'm gonna be a little upset."
"Of course," she agrees. "Do you ever feel hopeless?"
"No," he tells her, his eyebrows shooting up. "Well, I guess a little. But, only because I think I'll be stuck on suicide watch forever."
"And why would you think that?
"No one believes me, that's why. They all think I want to die."
"And why would they think that?"
"I don't know!" he bursts, then immediately looks sorry, sitting looser in his chair and refusing to meet her gaze.
"I'm sorry Doctor Foster, it's just that they don't know anything about me. How can they think they know what I want?"
"They're just trying to keep you safe, Travis. So, you never think of suicide, then?"
"Of course not," he smiles. "I've a lot to live for. My mom, my sister, my best friend."
"That's nice to hear," she smiles genuinely and turns to Cal for confirmation.
She can't hear every nuance of his voice without either some lab equipment or a room with better acoustics. And she's never been able to read people visually as well as Cal. He gives her a nod and she turns dutifully back to Travis.
"How are your sleeping habits?"
"I get enough. Um... Eight or nine hours I think."
"And your energy?"
"It's still up there. I do work out a little. Push-ups," he smiles.
Gillian smiles back. She glances down at her papers to see what she has left to inquire about and remembers to mark down his feelings of hopelessness.
"Now, Travis, how do you feel about yourself? Do you value yourself?"
His eyes dart around the room before resting on her.
"Sure," he says. "There are a lot of good things that I am or can do."
"You don't feel worthless?" she presses.
"No, not really."
"How about guilt? Do you feel that?" she asks.
"No," he answers, voice tight.
She looks to Cal with a small shake of her head. She's had a great deal of experience in her Pentagon days working with clients who lied about their feelings.
"Travis, this is a safe place," she begins softly. "You can trust me."
"I know," he says reluctantly.
"I'm going to listen to you. I'm going to help you. But, I can't do that unless you tell me the truth of your feelings. Can you do that?"
Cal watches Travis swallow, a sign of strong emotion, then sigh. His face briefly shows something near his mouth that appears to be remorse, but it's gone as quickly as it came.
"Do you know why I'm in jail?" he asks, looking only at Gillian.
"No," she shakes her head.
"I killed a man, put a bullet through his skull," he admits. "And I feel guilty about that every day. I did it to protect someone, someone he was going to kill, but I'm not- wasn't a murderer. He was... Scum. But in killing him, I betrayed myself. And I haven't been able to forgive myself."
She scoots closer, just slightly, and briefly touches against the back of his hand.
"We all have crosses to bear, things that cage us up in guilt. But you can't let it destroy you," she encourages, smiling. "You seem like a very moral man."
Travis smiles back, even as she pointedly looks at Cal.
"I'm not going to kill myself, Doctor Foster. I swear," he insists.
She presses her lips together, knowing she doesn't have the ability to be positive in these circumstances. She wants to believe him, she just can't be sure. She looks up from her papers, suppressing a sigh.
"I just have a few more questions... "
"He isn't clinically depressed," Gillian says to Cal once Travis is escorted from the room.
"There's a credible account of a depressed mood and subjective information, too. And, he is said to be fidgety, restless. But, his guilt is appropriate for his explanation. That's only two of the necessary five criteria for a diagnosis."
"Alright," he says, nodding. "I'm gonna take a run at him in the cube. You coming?"
She looks surprised, eyebrows arching.
"You don't want me to start in on the next inmate?"
"Nah, Foster. Need you on this one. You two seem to get on well."
"Okay," she nods. "I'll follow you in a minute. I just have to file this."
She keeps to her word, filing the folder in a locked cabinet before making her way to the cube. She opens the door and steps in, finding her place next to Cal and across the table from Travis.
"You gonna kill yourself if we let you off the watch?" Cal asks, tilting his head to observe the young man's response.
"No, I'm not," Travis replies.
"Yeah? Say it then."
"I'm not going to kill myself," Travis says, his face completely neutral for a beat before flashing genuine disgust at the idea.
On instinct, his head turns to catch a glimpse of Loker, remembering when he met the young sociologist, studying herd behaviour and planning to jump off of a bridge.
"I'm just looking," Loker says, his voice pitched high in his youth as he gestures at the setting sun over the bridge. "It's beautiful isn't it?"
Cal studies him, stance widened and head cocked. He looks for agony on his face, for fear, for determination, for anything, but he finds nothing at all.
"You gonna jump? You gonna kill yourself?"
"No," he says, brushing his wily curls back from his face. "Not gonna jump, just gonna look."
He's a great liar. He's mastered showing nothing at all on his face. Cal wishes he had Dr. Foster's talent for hearing the truth in tones. Maybe that would give him an answer.
"You are. You were gonna jump."
"I'm not gon-"
"Why do you want to die? What is it that's got you so empty?"
Loker falters, sadness and anger and shame all mingling on his face for a moment before it hardens once again into expressionless alabaster.
"I-I... "
"That's an admission then. C'mon, gimme the reason."
He's silent, then he gulps.
"I don't have anyone," he admits softly, head hung low.
Cal smirks and turn to walk away, turning back around after a few steps.
"You coming or what?"
Cal continues to goad Travis, rephrasing the question over and over until he's sure the answer's not going to change. He makes sure Gillian asks, too, listens in case there's something he can't see.
"All the guilt you feel. It doesn't make you hate yourself?"
"Sure it does," Travis admits. "But it only fuels my desire to make it better, to do something to help."
"You sure on that one?"
"Of course."
"Alright," Cal says in closing.
"Thank you, Travis," Gillian adds. "For your honesty and cooperation."
"Thank you, Doctor Foster, for giving me the opportunity."
"No," Cal insists into the phone, shaking his head. "That can't be right."
His face falls as he hears Mr. Thomas' voice, softened in distress, telling him with complete surety that Travis Stone had just killed himself, hanged himself in his cell.
"He didn't show anything," Cal says. "He didn't lie even once."
"Yeah, yeah you're right. There's no being sure."
"Thanks, goodbye."
He hangs his head as he hangs up the phone, scanning his office blindly. He hasn't hurt this way in a long time. He hasn't hurt this way since his mother. The memories hit him with a sudden clarity, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Your mum, she came home today from the ward and she... She killed herself. I'm sorry, Calvin."
"I... She what? She did what?"
"She killed herself, son, swallowed a bottle of pills. I'm sorry."
He doesn't even try to collect himself. He just lets the wrath consume him.
"Because of you, because of what you did to her!"
"She was depressed, Calvin," his father reasons, slowly and evenly.
"Fuck you!", Cal replies. "Just... Fuck you!"
"Cal..."
The name comes out desperate, but before the rest can be said, the phone line goes dead, Cal's finger pressing hard on the button.
He looks up suddenly to a knock at his door, trying really hard to keep the emotions off of his face, but knowing that they would be picked up anyway. Torres stands in his doorway, blue file in hand, but lowers it from her chest as she steps into the room.
"Something happened," she says, gesturing to his face.
He breathes for a moment, calms his heart.
"Travis Stone committed suicide."
"Oh," she says, inviting herself to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "He didn't show anything when you questioned him."
"I know," he says, restraining from gulping and showing how deeply affected he truly is. "It's a tragedy."
"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, it is."
After a moment of silence, she starts speaking again.
"It's like your professor's patient, Louise something. Nobody could see anything, but it was there. Maybe that's what it was for Travis, too."
Cal tries desperately to keep the flinch from his face, breathing out from his nose before addressing Torres.
"Let it alone."
"I'm sorry," she lifts up her hands in surrender. "I forgot it meant that much to you."
She stands and leaves, leaving Cal to bleed emotions all throughout the room as he remembers his mother's suicide once more.
When he tells his friend, Jeffrey Buchanan that he has to leave that very minute, he looks so distressed that Jeffrey decides to go with him, just throws his backpack over his shoulder and asks where to. Cal almost smiles as he leads his somewhat new friend to the nearest train station and says he needs to get home to London right away.
They catch the first train and mostly the time passes silently. But, when they're getting near and dusk is falling, Cal twists his fingers together and looks up.
"My mum killed herself," he whispers roughly, staring straight ahead at the city passing by through the glass.
There's a surprised silence, then an empathetic smile.
"I'm sorry, Cal. I can't imagine."
The authenticity of his sympathy is the only thing that keeps Cal from falling apart.
Cal stands on shaky legs, moving around the room quickly. He gathers notes, prints stills from the video interviews with Travis and stuffs them all into a second blue folder. He sticks a permanent marker between his teeth and heads for Foster's office instead of his own. Here, no one will bother him, no one will see the things he doesn't want anyone to see, except her. He takes a seat in one of her leather chairs facing her desk, spreads papers out on his lap and circles everything that could have anything to do with Travis' suicide. There's a sign somewhere. There has to be a sign. Cal is not going to stop until he finds it.
Gillian gets a call about Travis Stone's suicide just a short while after Cal. She expresses sympathies and apologies on behalf of the Group to Mr. Thomas, and then makes it her mission to find Cal. She knows Cal, knows that he is a lot more sensitive than he appears under his stoic facade. She knows that cases like these hurt him more than anyone thinks, even more than he thinks. Travis Stone's suicide is going to hurt Cal so much more than any other because he had investigated the young man, searched out his motives and pulled so many truths from him. If he thinks he missed some sign, he would completely engulf himself in the pursuit of finding the evidence, in finding the reason, even if none existed.
She finds him in her office, sitting in one of her leather chairs in front of her desk with his head in his hands and blue folders open across his lap. She sighs, making her way to the chair next to his and sitting down gingerly.
"I missed it, love," he says softly. "Didn't see it."
He shakes his head, sighing.
"You'd think I'd have learned by now. Always be watching for the signs, always intervene before it happens. I did it so many times, but... I missed it."
"You didn't miss anything. His psych evaluation was three whole criteria shy of a diagnosis and we both checked all of his answers for deceit. We were thorough, we did what we were meant to. Sometimes, you can't predict these things."
He stares at Gillian, nearly angry at her insistence of his blamelessness, their blamelessness.
"There's always a sign. There's always something. It can be hard to find, but it's always there. And maybe I may not see it yet, maybe the tools aren't even invented yet. But if I don't look, how will I ever-"
"Forgive yourself?" Gillian interrupts, tilting her head to one side.
He frowns at her, pouting slightly in her direction.
"I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm gonna say it to you anyway," she tells him, resting a comforting hand on his forearm. "It doesn't matter how many you find a reason for. It wasn't your fault."
She sighs, takes a breath, and continues on.
"You've carried crosses you weren't meant to bear. You've repented endlessly for sins that you haven't committed. This is not your fault. Sometimes, it's impossible to know."
He disagrees, of course he does. His mother showed agony on her face. Johnny Wheels showed fear and determination. Loker showed a nearly frightening lack of emotion. There's always a sign.
She looks at him, his eyes still turned away in obvious guilt. She presses her fingers against his jaw, not pulling him towards her, but indicating with even pressure that he should look at her.
"Look at me," she demands sharply when he doesn't, the intensity of her tone spurring him into action. "This is not your fault. You hear me? There's nothing you could've done. Now, am I lying to you? Did you see a lie?"
He takes in a sharp breath, shaking his head.
"No," he tells her. "You don't lie to me."
"Good. Now do me the same honour, Cal. Say it," she says, tears welling in her bright blue eyes.
They've dulled now in the mere intensity of her pain.
He sets his shoulders in preparation, mustering the courage to spew the lie. He can't look into her eyes, he knows there will be tears there, so he stares at the skin just beneath. He sees the way her long lower lashes curl against her flesh, flesh that droops and betrays the sadness that weighs on her. He realises that it hurts her to watch him consumed with pain this way, trying desperately to hold himself together while unravelling the reasons for every suicide he comes across because of the one that he could never understand. He sees that she gets tangled up in the web of pain and anguish also. So, he opens his mouth and tells her what she wants to hear.
"It wasn't my fault," he says, his voice tight and strained and so much quieter than he expected.
A rush of tears comes unbidden to her eyes at his vocal expression of guilt, but she has to go on.
"Again," she demands.
"It wasn't my fault," he says, almost inaudibly now.
"Again."
"Gill," he pleads, turning over his arm so she's touching against his wrist instead, so she's feeling his pulse so fast against her fingers that she's reminded of hummingbirds hovering, wings just a blur beside them.
She watches the intense expressions that come over his face, the sadness and the shame. She sighs, but shakes her head, blinking against the onslaught of tears. If it were her, he would keep pushing, even if it hurt him to see. Sometimes, hurting someone was the only way to heal them. Sometimes, you have to rebreak a bone so it can be set properly and heal the way it should.
"Again," she insists. "Say it 'till you mean it or you're just lying to me. And you promised no more lies."
"It wasn't my fault," he whispers, defeated by her determination.
"Again."
"It wasn't my fault."
"Again."
"It wasn't my fault."
She looks up at the patterns on the ceiling to keep the tears from falling as she continues to hear the guilt in his voice, suffocatingly strong, even as the words slowly gain strength and conviction, even as his blame begins to lessen. He'd never understand how much his pain wore on her, how much of what he felt that she couldn't help but feel with him.
"Again."
"It wasn't my fault."
"Again."
"It wasn't my-" the rest of the sentence is swallowed by his sobs.
Gillian bites her lip, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. She slips her fingers against the back of his head and pulls it down to rest against her collarbone, the way she would a child. She can feel his tears, warm and wet, against her chest and sliding downwards into her cleavage. He's murmuring against her breastbone, warming her flesh. She'd assume it to be a continuation of his chant of innocence.
"You're okay," she warms at him, pressing kisses against his hair. "You did it, babe. You meant it."
She lets her own tears cascade down her cheeks as she holds him so close, running her fingers repeatedly through his hair and rubbing against his scalp in a loving gesture. His hair is so much softer against her fingertips than she'd imagined. She doesn't want to let him go. He'd done this for her so many times. She was glad to have a chance to return the favour, to know what it felt like to hold her best friend so close to her body in pure comfort, mutual comfort.
She can feel the moment his embarrassment hits him and he moves to pull away. She squeezes him tightly in an affectionate embrace she makes to seem is meant for herself, but is really for him, and presses one last kiss into his hair. When she releases him, he sits back in his own chair, wiping his eyes with the edge of his sleeve with a childlike innocence.
He stares at a spot on her blouse where his tears have formed a shape, debating whether it looks more like a heron or a swan. Deciding on the latter, because someone as purely beautiful as Gillian fit so well with that image, he takes in a breath.
"Thank you," he tells her hoarsely, flicking his eyes up to meet hers.
She's almost surprised by the vulnerability he shows her in that simple action. She smiles and sniffles, reaching to her side to grab some tissues off of her desk. She presses one into his hand and uses another to dab at her own eyes.
"That's what friends are for," she shrugs, balling up her tissue and dropping it onto her lap.
He squeezes the tissue in his hand and forces her to return her attention to his eyes by boring holes into her with his. He shows her all the love he feels for her, all the happiness she brings him.
"Nah, you're not my friend, Gillian. You're my family."
"Come with me," Cal calls out to Gillian as he breezes by her in the hallway.
She turns, surprised, and follows him through the winding hallways of the Lightman Group to his office. He opens his study door and gestures her through.
"What is it?" she asks when he closes the door after her.
"Just sit down," he says, anxiously running his fingers back through his hair.
Gillian sits on the couch in Cal's study, legs curled to her side as Cal goes to set up a film and starts it running, coming to join her. He strokes his fingers along the back of her hand and she turns it over in offering. He takes it, drawing comfort from the contact.
"Isn't this-" Gill begins to ask, realising quickly that she was already familiar with the middle-aged brunette on the screen.
She'd seen the film flickering in his study, but he'd always turn it off as soon as anyone got near.
"Yeah. It's my mum," he admits, squeezing her palm.
She watches intently as the woman speaks to the camera, hearing the way her voice sounds hollow and soft; sad, seeing the way her eyes droop and her mouth turns down as her brows tangle up. The intensity of it all is what makes Gillian look to Cal, horrified.
"That's the max right there," he says. "You see that?"
"Yeah. That's top intensity sadness, agony."
"Nobody saw it," he says. "Nobody protected her."
"Nobody knew, Cal. But, because of you, now a lot of people will be helped. You've helped a lot of people already."
"I didn't help her."
"I just want the weekend to go home to my children."
She remembers the words, how obviously pained they had seemed to her. But it's a mixture of the two things she'd studied to expertise in; psychology and human emotion in the application of deception detection. She is supposed to see this. It wasn't supposed to haunt a shaken teen all the way into middle adulthood, not when there was nothing he could've done, not when the science that has become as natural as breathing for them hadn't even come into existence yet.
"We can't go back in time, Cal, and we can't be expected to know everything. And you put so much of yourself into searching out answers, but not every question has one."
She frowns, finding it difficult to get her point across.
"Look what it's made you. It's made you crazy, sure. But it's also made you the most empathetic and caring man I've ever had the pleasure of being friends with," she smiles. "You have to let go of the guilt, though, or you'll never be happy."
"Happy?" he asks and she hates that she can hear the aching in it.
"Yes, happy. You deserve it, you know."
"Yeah, I guess I do."
He pauses, touring the room with his eyes before landing on her, fixing his gaze on her face.
"Go out with me, a proper date," he requests, smiling as he takes in her surprise.
"Pardon me?" She squeaks.
"You're pardoned. Go on a date with me? It'd make me happy."
"I-" she begins, suppressing the smile that wants to bloom over her face like spring flowers.
"I think I could make you very happy, too. You deserve it, you know," he quips.
"Okay," she sighs. "I'll go out with you."
And she lets the smile overtake her, seeing his honest joy at her response. It would make her very happy.
Cal regrets ever denying himself the simple pleasure of holding her hand. It's love and support and something that feels a lot like forgiveness in one. And it's all he needs as he stands up tall in front of the gravesite, watching Travis' casket go down into the ground as his mother and sister cling to each other, sobbing. There's a hollow ache of remembrance in it as he looks up to the grey sky, threatening to splatter its own tears over them all.
It rained the day of his mother's funeral, a heavy downpour. He had no umbrella, but he didn't want one. The water was freezing against his skin and he was so, so cold. It was his mother, being lowered into the ground. His mother, who had given him cuddles and cookies and kissed his forehead before bed. It was his mother, who carried around this maternal warmth for nearly all of his life, until his father shattered her, leaving her only a shell of the wonderful woman she once was.
He doesn't even cry, just sets his face hard in obvious agony and actively avoids his father's searching gaze. The two hadn't shared a single word since that phone call. Cal doesn't think he'll ever forgive his father for what he'd done or himself for doing nothing to stop it.
His Aunt Tara comes over to stand beside him, tilting her large black umbrella over him, too, sheltering him from the downpour. She holds out a hand in offering and he wants so much to take it, to feel a loving warmth not unlike that of his mother before her spirits were broken. He doesn't. It's not like he deserves that kind of comfort, not when he couldn't tell that his mother's colder hands would lead to this, that her sadness would take her to a point where she wanted not to live anymore, even if it meant abandoning her family, abandoning him.
"She loved you. You know that, right?", his aunt insists, withdrawing her hand with a flash of sadness.
"Yeah," he says hoarsely. "I know."
He could never admit that he wasn't really sure in that moment.
He squeezes Gillian's hand, so goddamn warm in his and blinks against tears. She moves closer against his side, offering any comfort he's willing to take. He lets go of her hand to draw her body near against his side and holds her there with a gentle hand against the back of her head, somewhat desperate to feel the warmth of her skin.
"I'm so glad that you're here with me," he tells her. "Doesn't hurt so much with you this close."
She smiles, resting her head so gently against his shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere," she replies.
He can hear the candour of her response so simply that he can't help but don a small smile also.
"I love you," is his rough whisper into her hair.
She doesn't answer him and he worries for just a minute before he feels her kiss his cheek gently. And in that gesture alone he knows she feels it too.
"Loved you a long time," he confesses. "Just never thought I could deserve to be this happy, have someone that could love me this much."
"You knew," she gasps gently.
"'Course, I did. I just didn't think I deserved you, not until now."
"I'm glad you're here with me," she says, borrowing his words.
And when the first drops of rain splatter against their skin, Gillian opens her navy blue umbrella and she holds it over the both of them, sheltering them both from the downpour. And this time, he welcomes the warmth.