He'd free fallen into darkness, disoriented, afraid. It hadn't been his choice. He hadn't had one, period. The fall had been broken by the opening of the chute but he'd been at the mercy of fate and of course fate had proven unkind.
Thick foliage caught, held, and then dropped him, branches tearing, impaling and then there was nothing until the awkward dragging, watching the moon appear in tease before hiding behind trees, clouds.
There was no concept of time. It didn't exist. Just fever dream anecdotes of old women healing and young eyes watching, curious, frightened. Consciousness was a blur and unconsciousness brought images of Gillian. His Gillian. He wanted so badly to be within the comforting circle of her arms and the truth of it tormented, antagonized. It was not to be. He'd die alone. It was inevitable.
The words were indecipherable, liquids unpalatable. The frowning was universal. He understood that. Sometimes he'd get a smile. He understood that too.
Young eyes turned less frightened, more fascinated. They enveloped him, watching, touching the pale skin of his arms, but were soon shooed off by the women. They'd come back. They always did. Cal began to look forward to their visits. Children carried little baggage.
He'd grown stronger and began to attempt more communication. How far was the city? The women shook their heads, the men dismissed him. He was persistent. He always was. His attempts to convey his urgency finally amounted to something. Okay, they'd lead him close, but not too close. Not that he could blame them. But it didn't matter, no, not at all, just as it didn't matter he'd survived.
Because that was when they'd arrived. They'd won the race, so his threadbare life was once more called into question.
The warmth of a body had replaced the crypt chill of concrete and Cal slid his eyelids apart but just a crack. He didn't want the illusion to fade. It always did but he struggled to hold on to it, even more than usual. He was quite impressed the comfort hadn't disappeared. Not yet.
His dream (he was sure it was a dream) brought his hand to the hip of the figure spooned in front of him. The movement was slow, speculative. How far would the unconscious allow? How long before he awoke spitting dust and blood?
It was smooth, only obscured by the thin fabric of an undergarment. His hand moved to a flat belly, still warm, still solid. Her tank top had rumpled upward in sleep and he didn't have to see to imagine.
He was pressing his luck. Any moment she'd disappear and he'd be tumbling into nothingness again. It was a familiar pattern.
Brushing his lips against the slender curve of her neck brought the sound of a tiny moan to his ears and he smiled, happy in the moment. Happy, despite the probability of it slipping through his fingers like sand.
The figure moaned again before turning over and burying her head against his chest. "You're still here," she mumbled.
"So are you."
Gillian pulled back to sleepily blink into his eyes. "Not a dream?"
"You tell me." He kissed her forehead.
She studied him from under a deep frown, her eyes growing more lucid as moments passed. "I'd like to see your face." One hand reached up and gently traced the scar cutting through his brow and down his cheek. "Are there more of these you're trying to hide?"
"Would that bother you?" His voice sounded wary, even to him. Gillian would never cast him aside for a few scars but how could he be so sure of her reaction if this wasn't real? What if his childhood fear of loss had accompanied him into his delusion?
"No." Her fingers continued to explore, brushing through his beard, soft, loving and he closed his eyes in relief and lingering exhaustion. "Would you allow me to shave it off later?"
He opened his eyes again but only part-way. Darkness still blanketed most of the bedroom, save for thin wisps of moonlight against the comforter. Sleep beckoned once more. "Would that make it more real for you?" For me?
"Maybe."
"Knock yourself out then." His lids slid down, blocking his sight of her once more but warmth followed.
She'd been smiling.
Her expression was one of annoyance and challenge. No more secrets? Prove it.
The terror in her eyes and tears running down her cheeks when she began to suspect he may not escape from beneath the man's gun.
Their first kiss was before an audience, but surprisingly only for one another. It had been emblazoned on his brain for months. He could still feel it when he drifted.
The panic and then relief when he and Reynolds got to her before her attacker could take his plan to fruition.
Her face, luminous, on the balcony with Frank Sinatra crooning. Gillian drunkenly swaying with him in an impromptu dance which almost brought out his confession. Almost.
When he awoke again, the warm, loving figure was gone once more and a low tormented moan began to rattle upward from deep within.
No. Please.
He'd rather be dead than endure another day.
Or maybe he was. Maybe this was hell – continuously giving before taking away. Cruel. Effective.
Flipping over, he expected to smack against something cold and unyielding. Instead he sunk into softness. A pillow. And it smelled like her.
He pulled a long breath in, inhaling it, isolating it, making sure it wasn't a fluke.
Gillian's scent didn't vanish in the gap between sleep and wakefulness.
The sob burned his throat on escape but he didn't allow another to follow when opening his eyes and sitting up to focus on his surroundings.
Soft pastels. Two textured walls running perpendicular to one another. Goose down pillows. Oak furniture. A soothing Monet print above the bureau. Photos. So many photos. Family, friends, Emily, him. Books on her nightstand. Cal squinted at them. Squinted at their fine layer of dust. Odd.
So many details. Should there be this many details?
There should have been a Mombasa canopy. He'd always expected her to be the type to enjoy flowing lace but she didn't have one. She never had. He should ask her why.
Cal scooted over and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. He was clad in pajama bottoms but shirtless. A shiver trembled through and had him up and moving toward the bureau, hoping for some overly large t-shirt or sweatshirt he could borrow. What month was this again?
He didn't know.
Was the chill inward or outward?
He couldn't tell.
The aroma of bacon had him pausing, one arm pushed through a sleeve, the other caught mid-air.
He wasn't much of a breakfast person but his salivary glands kicked in with ferocity at the same time his stomach twisted in pain.
When was the last time he'd eaten?
He didn't know that either. It was starting to piss him off how little he knew and some part of him somewhere recognized the emotion as a good thing. Anger touched based with reality.
Following the smell of food, he padded out of the bedroom, his feet soundless against the plush carpet of the hallway.
Cal stopped several feet from the kitchen, watching as she moved between stove, sink and counter. She didn't see him and he had several moments to study her. Her hair was longer now. He hadn't noticed before. Gillian had it pulled back in a ponytail that wavered the opposite direction as she moved. Blond highlights had been replaced with a touch of silver. She'd aged. Subtle but there. That was probably his fault, at least in part. Still beautiful though. Time would never change that.
She twirled toward him with lovely grace he envied.
There was misjudgment though. And surprise. She'd meant to tend the sizzling bacon on the griddle, tongs in hand. But his appearance must have rattled her. Had she forgotten already?
Grace gone, she stumbled, one hand reaching out for the counter, brushing the edge of the griddle. A soft cry escaped as two burned fingers went to her mouth on instinct.
He'd frozen but just for a moment. Not even that. Then he was moving toward her, by her side, inspecting the injuries on her left hand, on the pads of her index and middle fingers. One was red, one starting to blister.
Guiding her to the sink, he ran the water cold and gently pushed her hand under the flow, hearing her gasp, instantly sorry.
"My grandmother used to put butter on burns." Her voice shook slightly.
"So did mine. Merit to some old remedies but not all, yeah?" He smiled at her. "That one was always on the creepy side."
A giggle burst from her and she leaned into him. The giggles became incessant and it didn't take him long to realize his t-shirt was becoming damp from laughter merging with tears and then disappearing completely.
He cut the water and pulled her properly against him, kissing her hair as her breathless crying shook her body in spasms, the sobs harsh, unrelenting.
The smell of burning bacon was filling the room when he noticed she'd also lost some weight. Her lovely curves were a little bit more jutting.
They'd both been looking over the ledge into oblivion but with the acrid blend of blackened breakfast contrasting with the scent of conditioner in his nose, it occurred to him that this was real. It had to be. No hallucination or delusion could be this intricate, could it? But then again, he'd never been crazy or dead before either…