The house, it looks like nothing from the outside. Just another house on a street of Middle America. But it's not really. It's a safe house, or at least, it's meant to be a house where she can be kept safe for a little while. A US Marshal pulls the vehicle into the drive way and Gillian stirs from fantasising about the house next door, which looks newly renovated, or maybe just new, because it looks modern, two storeys, brick and weatherboard, the driveway curving gently up a slight hill. This house though, it's just nondescript. Another holiday home built in the '70's, an odd turquoise colour; not out of place on a street of pastels.
There's a single tree in the unfenced yard and snow on the ground, piled, like someone took the time to shovel the walk, but patchy to let the green of the grass come through; it's thawing. But it's still icy cold and Gillian feels every strained breath deep in her chest like someone's rammed a fist down her throat to her diaphragm. She huddles into her coat a little more, pulls the collar tighter against her throat, trying to deny to herself that she feels that awful from merely stepping out of the car.
The marshal carries the small bag she had with her in the hospital (she doesn't know why, because there is absolutely nothing in it she wants or needs. Except the medications) and leads the way to the front door. He's in a suit, like he's nipped out at lunch to bring his wife home from the hospital, and Gillian wonders if this is the exact image 'they' were going for. She doesn't quite remember what the cover story is meant to be, despite being briefed before she signed her discharge papers; they worked one out for her, seeing as she wasn't really in a position to be able to do it herself. She figures they wouldn't let it go that easily; there may even be a test later on.
The marshal, medium height, brown hair, thirty something by the look of it, whose name began with G - either something Graham, or Graham something – knocks twice, short and sharp, subtle and discrete, then produces a key and opens the door anyway, his body angled, secretive. Gillian follows him. The inside is nothing like the outer image. In here its wooden floors, greys and beiges on the walls, tall ceilings; Gillian can see expansive windows and doors in the kitchen. From the entranceway she can see into the living room on the right (thick shag rug, homely but modern furniture, widescreen TV) and the dining room/kitchen on the left. But she's distracted because someone else is here and panic spikes in her stomach for a split second, despite the marshal moving forward and being seemingly completely unfazed, but it's Cal.
It's Cal.
And the relief overwhelms the panic. He's in front of her quickly, his hands at her arms, dipping his head to see her face, eyes piercing and worried. "Gill," he murmurs and pulls her into a hug, tight and painful, but she doesn't have the heart or the strength to resist him, to push him aside. "I was worried sick," he just about whispers and she knows, because she started worrying about him too. She was in the hospital for three days and she had no idea where he was or even if he was ok. The marshal's, they're not a very talkative bunch, not unless they want something.
Mr Graham/Grant/Gram? puts her bag down at the edge of the hallway, which recedes off towards the back, to a doorway, possibly the toilet by the look of it, and then faces them. His eyes are brown, Gillian didn't notice before. Cal gives her one last squeeze, his arm digging painfully into her back (why does that hurt so much?) and steps back a little. He moves weirdly, a little hop and a spasmodic shift of his weight. Gillian notices the full leg cast on his right appendage. And then another on his arm, same side.
Oh.
Shit.
He isn't ok.
"We'll need to brief you on..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cal cuts in immediately. "Can I get a minute to talk to my partner? First time I've seen in her days."
The marshal looks stunned for a second, then the tiniest hint of embarrassment crosses his face, before he purses his lips. But the joke is on Cal, because there's that short double knock on the door again (is it meant to be a code?) and then two more men let themselves in. Gillian doesn't get a chance to ask Cal what happened to him, because they're bustled into the living room (where it looks like Cal has been living on the couch for the last however many days he's been there, probably by himself) and they're given the run down, the full extent of it.
Right now, they are in temporary holding, particularly while Gillian was still having medical attention. More permanent lives were being set up for them now, including new identities and a place to live (and once that information is finalised, the marshals will be back to inform her and Cal, and move them to the new location). They need to decide on new names within the next twenty-four hours so that their identities can be changed. The marshal's expect to get them moved within a few days.
Gillian feels her lungs tightening at just the thought of it. She remembers federal agents coming to see her in the hospital, taking a statement from her, suggesting the idea of witness protection (she's not really sure what she saw). She had to sign before she passed into their care. She could only assume Cal did the same (and it looks like he did). At the time, she didn't even think about what his decision would be. She probably just supposed they were in it together; it looked like they were. Or, she had only been thinking about herself.
There are conditions of being in the witness protection program though: they have to testify when the case goes to trial. Actually, that is the main one; in exchange for protection, they have to testify. Whether they remain in the witness protection program after that is up to them. They can leave at any time before trial if they so wish; can leave right now in fact. They can even return to their lives in DC and take their chances that they won't be killed as a result of what they have witnessed. That being said, the marshal's recommend they don't contact anyone from their old lives. No one, who has refrained from contact, has been killed under the program. But the choice is theirs.
They are allowed to pick their new names but their new lives will be set up by the US Marshal's. They don't get to decide where they were going, when, or what they will do once they are there. But they will be kept alive. And the threat must be sufficient enough if they've been taken away before the IV has even been removed from Gillian's arm.
Any questions?
"Yeah," Cal raises his hand slightly, as if he were in school, and Gillian finds it hard to tell if he's being facetious or not. He doesn't seem overly affected by what's happening (aside from the hug at the door) while Gillian's insides are churning uneasily; she's trying to remember and listen but it's starting to overwhelm her. She can feel it escaping onto her face. If Cal even glanced over, he would see.
Two days ago, while she was lying in a hospital bed, it felt literally like she was going to die and now the threat to her life is going to be hanging over her for a long time, possibly for the rest of it. They haven't even been given a specific court date because no arrests have actually been made yet. The federal agencies are still working to make their case (they need evidence as well as their eye witness testimonies). Who knew how long that could take?
"What about my daughter?"
"We're trying to locate her now," one of the newly arrived marshals answers. He seems to be in charge. The marshal's all have common names, like Smith and Wagner, but Gillian can't remember who is who. She is tired and having difficulty concentrating.
"What do you mean 'locate' her?" Cal presses.
"Your daughter seems to be missing right now."
"What do you mean missing?"
Gillian catches the rise in pitch of his tone: fear. She turns her head to him on the couch, sees the scabs along his cheek and temple, noticing for the first time there is a large bruise over his eyebrow, like someone has tried to punch him in the eye and missed slightly. She has been through hell, but maybe he has too; and she wonders just exactly what it is that he has been through.
"Marshal's called into her dorm, but were unable to locate her. We're doing our best."
Cal grumps something and Gillian reaches for his unscathed left hand, slipping her fingers beneath his; she can't think of anything reassuring to say. He looks at her and squeezes her hand tightly. She gets it, he is freaking out, but there isn't anything he can do from here. He has to let the marshals do their work; they're good at their jobs, she hopes. Gillian figures if he were able bodied, he would have flown out to California himself to find his daughter. Especially if she was potentially in danger.
"Can I call her?"
"Doctor Lightman it is best if you let us handle it for now."
"Cal," Gillian whispers. She isn't trying to be dramatic or secretive; her voice just isn't strong at the moment. She hasn't really talked much in the last few days and there's a nasty bitter taste in the back of her throat.
Cal looks over at her again. He sighs, doesn't look happy at all, but he does concede. And Gillian suspects it's just a matter of time before he takes action anyway. Marshal Wagner/Walker? takes his victory, gives them his card again, warns them to be careful and to stay put for now, then leaves with his colleagues. Gillian suddenly notices how quiet the house is, the neighbourhood. It feels a bit like being the last people alive on earth. At least, for a second. Cal turns to her almost immediately, before the front door even closes, his eyes intense. "You all right?"
"I'm fine," Gillian manages to not sound strange this time.
"No really." He kind of looks her up and down quickly. "What are the doctors saying?" He slips his fingers from her hand quickly and brings his palm to her cheek, scooping back the hair that half attempts to hide the burns on her neck. He does it before Gillian can react, before she can hide (she doesn't know how he even knows they're there. He can see them?), and then she realises, she doesn't want to, doesn't feel the need. Not from Cal. He isn't tearing her apart, he's asking her to let him in a little. And they are in this together. Alone, it seems.
All they have is each other now.
"I'm going to be fine," Gillian repeats. "In a few weeks." All going to plan anyway. Hopefully.
Cal nods. "Good. All right." He seems to relax. "They wouldn't tell me anything at all. Wouldn't even tell me if you were here as well." He lets her hair go, brings his hand back to hers in her lap. He's sitting awkwardly on the couch cushion, his full leg cast stretched out to rest on the coffee table; it restricts the movement of his body so he can't turn fully towards her and he kind of vibrates with constrained energy.
"Here?" Gillian queries. Come to think of it, as she was driven here, she hadn't recognised the city.
"Kasson," Cal supplies softly.
"Where?"
"I think that's the point."
"Where's Kasson?"
"Bout twenty minutes from Rochester."
Gillian's head blurs. "In which state?"
"Minnesota."
"Minnesota?"
Cal nods.
"How long have you been here?"
"They flew me out of DC as soon as the plaster and ink dried."
Gillian looks down at his arm; the clean, white cast absolutely looks new. Of course it would be. She hasn't lost time. She woke up in the ambulance; she remembers the medical flight (and now she realises they did tell her where they were taking her: the Mayo clinic in Rochester). "How bad is it?"
Cal lifts his broken arm, gives it a little wave back and forth, like he needs to draw her attention to it. "Not so bad. Broken ulna."
A 'nightstick' fracture. The nick-name explained the most common way of breaking that particular arm bone.
"And your leg?" Gillian eyes the vast expanse of white. It goes right from his toes to nearly the top of his thigh, by the look of it. She notices that he seems to be wearing pyjama pants, with one leg almost entirely cut off around the plaster (the edge all ragged and uneven like he did it himself). He can't be at all comfortable.
"Tibia something. It'll be fine." Cal wiggles his fingers at her. "Same for the arm."
"Did you have to have surgery?"
"Nope. They set it and patched me up and sent me out here."
To Minnesota.
"What happens next?"
Cal gives a shrug and his face clouds slightly. "Not much we can do is there?" It doesn't feel much like a question he is expecting an answer to. Nor one he really wants to even voice. He changes his face to give her an open earnest expression and she figures he's had about three days to think of all the ways he can't possibly do anything while his entire leg is encased in gypsum. Cal watches her for a moment. "Is there?"
Gillian deliberates for a moment but her thoughts are scattered and hard to hold on to and she is not prepared to answer. She is too tired and she's not given it any thought. She glances at the clock above the fire place. Ten thirty. In the morning. And it has already been a long day. "I don't know," she answers Cal, because now it really does seem like he's waiting for her answer.
"You look tired."
"I am."
"So what happens next, is a sleep."
"First, a shower," Gillian rolls her shoulders, feeling the muscles threatening to bunch uncomfortably and the first threatening twinge of a headache.
Cal lifts his right arm, drops his head to his armpit and sniffs. "Could probably do with one of those too."
Gillian smiles and pushes herself up from the deep couch (deep enough for two people to lie on next to each other).
He doesn't smell that bad, really.
PJ
Cal is already set up in the master room; he sheepishly tells her he didn't think to do otherwise (he means be gentlemanly and leave the bigger room for her), but she doesn't care. She doesn't need the prestige, just a mattress and a pillow for her head after she takes a quick shower. There are towels, easily enough, on a tall shelving unit behind the door. Cal points out the new toothbrush waiting for her under the sink; he's hobbling around behind her with one crutch under his good arm and a couple of bulky casts. The shower is stocked with shampoo, soap, body wash, bath bombs, a loofa (all new, some still in the plastic). Cal informs her that there are clothes in the closet in her room (so he's obviously been snooping around). Then he tells her he'll see her later and shuts the bathroom door of the master bedroom to give her some privacy.
Gillian starts to feel so tired, she might just fall asleep standing. She doesn't know why they bothered giving her a bag from the hospital. She didn't have anything of hers with her, still doesn't. Everything was left behind; it wasn't like she had the chance to pack. She wonders what kind of clothes are in the closet (and just how much snooping Cal did) and decides she's just going to nap naked if she has to. She might literally end up on the floor unconscious in a minute anyway.
The warm shower is nice and the steam opens up her lungs, making it the easiest to simply breathe she's felt in days. She washes her hair, sending the last of the acrid ashen smell down the drain, and, finally feeling refreshed and like she's human again (and a bit more energetic too), she goes from the bathroom to the hall and the few meters to the spare room in a towel only; no Cal in sight. He's right though, there are clothes in the closet, and the drawers, and in the two small compartments at the top, there are socks, panties, bras (as well as an assortment of men's underwear). With their tags on. And nothing that fits her properly. She wonders whose house this is. Who's clothes they are. Who stocked the place? What kind of cover there is for the neighbours, who surely must find it strange having different people showing up and leaving again?
She dries off carefully and too slowly; the overwhelming fatigue starts to set in again and she thinks more about sleeping than giving in to how weird it is that someone went to buy underwear, possibly for her... At least the tags are still on. And if the panties aren't meant for her, she'll go buy more to replace them. She pulls the tag from a pair of safe black cotton and slips them on. They're loose. She thinks she might have lost weight in her three day hospital stay. The next drawer down lends a grey t-shirt, way too big for her (it's probably for a guy), but she uses her teeth on the plastic tag and tugs it over her head. It smells like a store. But she still doesn't care. She gets into bed. Pulls the blanket over her head to block out the light. And closes her eyes.
She wakes suddenly to a tapping and she's panicking for a second, her heart sharply spikes against her lungs, not sure where she is or what's going on; it takes a few seconds to catch her breath. There's daylight but she's sleepy and she's disorientated. Her name is whispered from across the room. She pushes back the blanket, has to take several swipes to get the hair out of her face, pushes herself up to see and squints over at the door. Cal. "What?" she mutters, still more panicky than annoyed. She was dead asleep. Completely out of it.
He's hovering but when she speaks he lets the door swing open a bit more and he does a funny hop/shuffle/skip to the bed, pressing down on his broken leg (no crutch this time) and wincing as he goes.
"I don't think you're meant to be trying to walk on your leg," Gillian notes.
"Yeah," Cal says. He reaches the bed and leans his hands down on the mattress. He oddly looks like a five year old eagerly trying to please an adult. "Are you awake?"
"I am now."
"It's been hours," he tells her and she has no idea of the time now or what it was before when she actually got into bed, has no idea if he's serious about her being asleep for hours, or if he just got bored on his own. It barely feels as though she even closed her eyes and she could already do with more. If she looks though, she can see the shadows are in different places around the walls. "Thought we should talk."
Gillian watches him for a moment, not sure what to say. He woke her up to talk? "About what?"
He shifts, straightens up, swings his broken leg around, looks as though he's going to lose his balance and fall to the floor, but angles his backside and bounces onto the mattress so he's sitting beside her. Gillian gives up on leaning on her elbow; it's losing the feeling anyway. She snuggles into the pillow again, closes her eyes, waits.
"Thought we should get our stories straight," Cal murmurs.
Gillian opens her eyes again, has to tilt her head back to see his eyes. "What do you mean? You want to get the lie the same?"
"Yes," he responds slowly, cautiously, watching her. "Our lives."
It sounded like he said 'our lies' and Gillian has to think about it for a second. But she's pretty sure he said 'lives' which means he must have misheard her. She goes with it.
"How do you want to play it?"
Gillian closes her eyes again, thinking. How does she want to play it? The truth is: she doesn't know. Actually, she isn't entirely sure she knows what he's talking about; he's asking her about what happened right? "I need to think about it Cal." She pauses and he doesn't say anything so she opens her eyes again, looks up at him. He's watching but he's not judging or pressuring. "I don't even know where to start."
"The beginning?"
"I'm not sure I remember what happened." There's a flicker of something on his face and Gillian suddenly knows: he remembers all of it. Every detail. She was knocked unconscious by the explosion pretty much as soon as it went off. But it seems that Cal remembers other details about what happened afterward. The curiosity inside her is sharp; she wants him to tell her. Because even though she gave a statement to the federal authorities, she's not sure what she said even then. She was not well and medicated and she had just been through a major trauma. With time to think, she remembers big holes in her story, like trying to recall a dream and realising that logically, it didn't entirely make sense. But she's going to have to do better than that when this whole thing eventually breaks down and they go to court. Hopefully this will all break down.
"How long do you think we'll be here?" Gillian murmurs.
She can hear Cal sigh, even if he maybe tried to be subtle about it. "Dunno," he admits. "Hopefully not the rest of our lives," his tone is distasteful.
Gillian's not sure what to make of that. She doesn't know if it will be safe to simply return to their old lives once this is all over. There could be retaliation. A public shootout wasn't the only way to get back at someone.
"Have you already given your statement?" Gillian asks, wanting to keep conversation going. What she wants is to be able to ask Cal what he thinks about it all, but she also feels she needs a chance to build up to that; mostly for her sake. It seems too scary, too surreal.
"Had a chat with them the other day."
Gillian thinks this is good (at least they're both at the same point in the process) and looks up at him again. For a short moment, she sees him staring despondently across the room. He meets her eyes for a second but she closes hers, tries to shut him out again. She wants to lie in bed and feel sorry for herself; she doesn't really want to think about any of it. Her lungs are damaged and her skin is burned, and worse: the chemicals have done something to fog her brain (that she really, really hopes will wear off). But Cal was broken in that explosion as well and he's been here for three days by himself with no information, possibly thinking the worst. And, there was a chance they would have been split up; she thinks maybe they should have been, technically. But they're not. They're together. And that is at least something. So as much as she wants to be completely selfish about it, and tell him to leave her alone so she can think and go back to sleep, she doesn't. Because that's not who she is.
She forces herself to sit up and takes his left hand in hers. His fingers are a little cold and although he seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, he doesn't pull away from her. They sit for a moment, her under the covers in a grey t-shirt and underwear that's a little too big (she can feel it slipping down with that move), and him on top of the blankets, tense and still (Gillian can feel it in the way he holds his arm), both thinking and neither talking. Gillian wonders what goes through his mind; he doesn't seem his normal calculating self, which is not surprising if he's come to her to fish for information, but it does put her on the back foot; usually, he takes charge (if she were someone else, he would probably try fishing a little harder).
"They did say we could pick our own names," Gillian notes softly.
Cal hums next to her and his fingers tighten.
PJ
Despite wanting to be, Gillian isn't very good company. They ordered pizza and she had a slice, picked at another, but found she wasn't very hungry. Cal had cash (Gillian realised she had none at all) and she didn't feel like cooking; took one look at what was in the fridge and decided she couldn't bothered trying to make any sense of it all. Cal barely managed to follow her around the house on his broken leg and awkward use of a crutch (which she found equally cute and annoying. It seemed he had missed her, but he really should be resting the limb as much as possible) while she gave the kitchen a quick inspection, and settled on the couch. She knew he wasn't meant to be walking on the cast, seeing as it was still new, but the obvious pain he felt and the warnings she tried to give were unsurprisingly ignored.
They talked a bit, but about nothing concrete, each trying to figure out what the other was thinking without giving too much away. And it was exhausting, trying to play that game, all that mental acuity. Gillian fell asleep on the couch. When she wakes again, Cal is watching TV, his broken leg stretched out to rest on the coffee table again. He has put a blanket over her and for a moment she watches him, a hand curling the wool up against her chin. He looks the same, but he's different. She's so used to him in movement; strutting around the office, getting in someone's face. To see him sit still, to observe him when he doesn't know she's watching, is different, almost strange. And he looks worried.
"Is the TV too loud?" Cal asks, not looking over, startling her a little.
"No," Gillian croaks out, her chest feeling heavy and panicky. She has gotten too cold and she can feel it in her lungs. She shifts, stretching out a leg, finding too much of Cal too close. He grabs at her ankle, pulling it towards him so the length of her leg unfolds. He rests her foot against his sternum and readjusts the blanket, moving absently at first, then tearing his gaze from the television. He does it so naturally, so easily, the manhandling; Gillian doesn't have the presence of mind to be weirded out by the fact that she has a leg just about resting in his lap and her foot at his chest. The toes of her other foot are under his thigh and his fingers find bare skin as he moves the blanket (she put pyjama pants on after she got out of bed). He fusses for longer than necessary, until Gillian clicks that he is trying to cover himself up as well. She shifts some more, finds excess blanket, shoves it towards him; sits and spreads it out to cover the both of them equally.
"There's more pizza," Cal gestures to the box on the table with his casted hand.
"I'm ok," Gillian declines politely. The thought of cold cheese turns her stomach. She closes her eyes again, tries to work on calming her breathing, staying in control.
"You sure you're all right?'
"Yes," Gillian repeats, opening her eyes to look at him again.
His face is concerned. "You breathing is terrible when you're asleep. I was thinking about waking you."
Gillian watches him a moment longer, her heart beating in a funny way. She doesn't know what to say; doesn't know how bad it was, doesn't think she can tell him it will be fine. She closes her eyes first and listens to the words on the television, is surprised at the dialogue. When she opens her eyes to confirm her suspicions, she's right: Cal is watching an old rerun of 'I Dream of Genie'. It makes her smile, despite the heaviness still lingering in the air, and she has to hide it against the blanket again.
"Those were the days," Cal speaks. "When a woman did what her husband told her."
Gillian gives a huff of disapproval and digs her big toe into his sternum.
"Ouch!" Cal protests loudly, grabbing at her ankle with his left hand, while rubbing at the sore spot with the fingers poking out the top of his cast. "I'll send you to bed with no supper."
"Please," Gillian says with disdain and twists her foot free. She sits, shifting it out of his easy reach. "You couldn't chase a cat from the room right now." Cal gives her a cold stare but she ignores him. "Speaking of supper," Gillian throws back the blanket. "Want tea?"
"Yep," Cal agrees. He doesn't get up to follow her this time.