Gillian wakes in the night and again, she is disorientated. This is not her bed and she is not at home. Then: this isn't the hospital either. And then, oh yeah. She shivers hard and tries to reposition to get comfortable, curling up on herself, hunching, constricting her muscles, but she is too far gone; not enough of a glow to the embers to get the fire going again. She's freezing. She pushes back the blankets, feels the chill of the air deep in her lungs (and the ache that goes with it), and decides against getting out of bed. And yet if she doesn't get up for more clothes, she isn't going to warm up anyway. Conundrum. May as well. If she goes quickly...
She throws back the covers and gooseflesh doubles over her arms and legs. She swings off the mattress and tiptoes across the bare, icicle floorboards to the dresser and pulls the top drawer to find socks. They are still in the packet and she is dismayed she didn't think to unpack a little bit more that evening when she wasn't half asleep and already freezing to death. She doesn't know what time it is now, but it is beyond cold. She fumbles with the pack of socks in the dark for half a minute, shivering, gooseflesh marring over her skin second after second, the crackle of the encasing loud, but she as she's finally giving up and thinking to put the light on, she tears back the plastic easily all of a sudden. She pulls thick cotton over icy toes.
In the closet, still feeling around in the dark, she finds a sweater, but they also have tags on them still and her teeth are too weak for the plastic, even though she tries a few different angles; she worries she is going to cut her gums. She needs scissors, and she needs them fast, because she is seriously going to turn into a snowwoman. She grabs the pyjama pants she shed before getting into bed (thinking she was going to be too warm) and just about hops the few steps to the bathroom in socked feet and bare legs, putting the light on in there to see where she's going and what she's doing. She goes to the sink and opens the top drawer beneath. There are products in there, soaps and shaving foam, razors, toiletries (most of them still in the packet). She tries the next drawer. Cotton buds and Q-tips, tissues, condoms, a box of tampons. The third drawer contains more bath bombs, tiny bottles of various products; Gillian doesn't even bother to rummage. In the cupboards she finds tissues, cloths, toilet paper, a first aid kit, and there was, thankfully, scissors in it. She cuts the tag and starts to pull on the sweater.
"Gill?"
She freezes. Well, she is already frozen, but she stops moving, and turns to the master bedroom door; the bathroom isn't an en suite, but there is direct access from the main bedroom. The door is currently wide open. And she has the light on. She has woken up Cal. She starts to go to the door, and stops herself again. She has no pants on right now. "Sorry," she calls instead, trying to be soft but also wanting him to hear her. She tugs the sweater down sharply and starts on the pyjama bottoms.
"You all right?"
She hears something that sounds like him getting out of bed and rushes her legs into the trousers. She goes for the door to stop him. "I'm fine." Looking into his room she can see the light spills right across the bed, over the pillows. He's sitting up, the blanket across his lap, his left leg resting on the carpet; she was right, half in the process of getting out of bed. "I'm sorry to wake you."
"I was awake."
"Oh." She pauses. He waits. "I got cold, that's all," Gillian tempts to stand back, to return to her bed.
"What did you need in the bathroom?"
"Scissors," Gillian responds with another shiver. She folds her arms around her body, trying to get warm; she can't feel her toes and the sweater doesn't seem to be helping. She thinks about that second pair of socks when she gets back to her room; the blankets might help too (and failing that, a hot shower). "Why weren't you asleep?"
"Can't."
"Did you try?"
Cal gives a snuffle of a laugh. "Yeah I tried for several hours. It's two in the morning."
Gillian's eyes travel over to the digital clock beside his bed. He's right about the time. "Are you ok?" She asks him as she goes over to the bed.
"Yes. Well, as much as can be expected. Bloody uncomfortable this," Cal gestures to the bulky lump of his broken leg beneath the covers.
Silence.
Gillian doesn't have any answers for that. She wonders if he has pain medication, whether it's even pain that keeps him awake, or just that the cast is huge and difficult to manoeuvre.
Gillian looks at the time again. Her eyes hurt. She needs to sleep; lots more sleep. That is the best way for her body to heal. Tomorrow she is... going to do something more productive; anything would be more proactive than all the sleeping she has done. She had been restricted to a hospital bed in an isolated hospital room for three days and now she at the very least needs to figure out what the hell is going on. She fidgets with the bed spread, smoothing it, like she is going to tuck him in. "Well, goodnight," she starts to turn away yet again.
"I'm warm."
Gillian does a double take. In the gloom, she can see Cal watching her. His expression is mostly impassive, but there is something else in it... like a challenge. "You're cold," Cal supplies, leaning back on an elbow, gesturing with his broken arm to the other side of the mattress. "Jump in. Get warmed up."
Oh, she thought he meant he was warm like a fever but what he meant was: he had body warmth (that he's willing to share). That did sound appealing. Especially because her own sheets would now be cool (if they were even remotely warm before she got out of bed). Cold ripples jaggedly up Gillian's back and her decision is made. She reaches down for the mattress, absently intending to tell him to scoot over.
"You have to go round though."
Gillian straightens up. "I'll get the light," she suggests instead, half embarrassed, forgetting all about his leg, thinking that she was going to cuddle up against him.
Like she normally did with the men she shared a bed with.
She scolds herself against those thoughts.
PJ
She sleeps shallowly, and it isn't surprising, because despite being warm, Cal doesn't rest very peacefully. He shifts a lot; he doesn't turn over, just shifts his weight uneasily back and forth like the rocking of the ocean. Or an earthquake. Gillian is pretty sure she kicked him in the leg at one point and heard him wince. After that she moved over. She was still warm enough; her body temperature regulation kicking in again. It had felt nice to cuddle up to someone (not really cuddling. Aside from kicking him, they didn't touch. But she kept close until she was warm again). When she wakes in the morning proper, she actually feels rested, refreshed, ready. The room is gloomy and Gillian suspects it could be snowing. It doesn't feel as cold as it had in the night.
Cal has his eyes closed but Gillian doesn't think he is asleep; she isn't sure he has slept much at all really. Every time she woke to turn over it seemed he was awake. Poor guy. When Gillian sits up, pushing back the covers, a little sweaty with a thick hoodie on (turns out, it's light blue), Cal's eyes come open and he looks over at her. He is still on his back, exactly like he had been when she put the light out.
"Morning," she tries, her voice scratchy and her lungs feeling tight. She gasps a little for air.
"Morning," Cal repeats easily.
Gillian goes around the bed, finger combing her hair, trying to avoid the thought that he is seeing her first thing in the morning before she is properly coherent. If she doesn't look at him, then he can't see her. She shuts the bathroom door and uses the toilet, then washes her hands and picks the sleep from her eyes. She studies herself in the mirror for a moment, realising she hasn't actually looked in a long time (maybe she was avoiding herself a bit too). She's about the same, familiar blue eyes, freckles, the lines at her eyes. She seems washed out of colour though, darker marks out under her eyes and if she tilts her head, she can see the red bloom of the chemical burns against the side of her throat, sweeping up behind her ear. The worst patch is right on the top of her shoulder. She pulls back the sweatshirt to see properly, but there isn't a lot of give, and she can only see the brown edge of the scab that has formed (she realises when she showered yesterday, that she did it absently, or in a fog, and that if she doesn't be careful, then she could end up doing some damage). At least it doesn't hurt anymore. She has something she's meant to put on it to help it heal but she's neglected to do that too.
There is a gentle knock at the door. "Just a minute," Gillian calls in response, going to answer it.
"Oh sorry. Wasn't sure you were still in here. Thought you might have gone out the other door."
Gillian opens the entrance on Cal. He's in a grey shirt and his cut off pyjama pants (they are blue and green tartan). His hair is sticking up in the back and he looks worn, for just a second. He hops awkwardly on his left foot as he turns his body back around to face the doorway, the cast resting on the ground when he stops still. He winces when he puts too much pressure on it (any pressure. Even resting it on the ground is too much pressure just yet) and Gillian thinks about protesting again that he really shouldn't be walking on it, resting on it, putting any weight on it whatsoever; it could interfere with healing. But what is the point?
"I'm done," Gillian tells him, stepping back to let him in. She has half a thought to help him, but she won't really be able to support his weight. And he does so like to remind her that she mothers too much, especially when he's frustrated. So she goes back to her room and stares at it from the door frame. A bed and breakfast. That is what the room looks like. Floral bedspread, simple furniture, art depicting landscape scenery on the walls, bright neutral tones. Gillian wonders if this is someone's holiday home. Or a time share. It's weird to think this house exists just to hide people in for a few days at a time. What do the neighbours wonder?
Deciding to get dressed, and actually explore the closet a little, Gillian is dismayed at the choice of clothing; nothing fits her properly, it's all either far too big or slightly too big. And nothing is much of her usual choice. She does find some jeans that actually aren't too bad on her, then throws on another generic tee beneath a bland jersey. All the underwear looks like it's from Walmart. None of it is a good match to her body; she can feel it slipping down her hips as she walks around the bedroom (they're too big and the elastic too weak). Nothing else in the drawer appeals in the slightest and, besides, she makes up her mind to just go shopping. Not only would a little retail therapy make her feel better, but having things around her that she has actually picked out would ground her as well. Or help her feel less lost. Or something. She has been here just under twenty-four hours, and the house, the situation, the isolation, is already starting to get under her skin. There's nothing like exploring a new town, she tells herself, reasoning that an excursion will also cut down on staring at four walls. She isn't even sure where they are. Somewhere in Minnesota. What would be the harm in going out?
Cal is in the kitchen when she makes her way in, still in his pyjamas and grey t-shirt. Gillian can't be sure, but he might have been wearing those exact same clothes when she arrived yesterday. She has five grey t-shirts in the drawers in her room (five that are black. Five that are white); Cal might have a similar supply; same for the pyjama pants. "Coffee?" Cal speaks from the window where he is rinsing out mugs at the sink.
"Yeah please," Gillian agrees. She goes to the fridge for milk and notices again that it is practically bare. The essentials are there: butter, cheese, tomato ketchup, jam, milk (about a third left), other assorted condiments, and a lone carrot and apple hanging out in the vegetable drawer. She wonders if the cupboards are just as empty; she hadn't really been looking yesterday (or perhaps just couldn't remember properly). She figures she could go food shopping while she's out. She doesn't think Cal would go with her. Or that he could go with her, really.
"When you're finished?" Cal prompts her from across the small space.
Gillian gives him the milk and goes to the cupboards. Yep, pretty lean. A few instant pastas that only require milk and heat, assorted tins: tuna, soup, spaghetti and peaches. A few packets of herbs. Pepper. No salt. Three different kinds of cereal; two of them opened. She wonders what Cal has been eating here alone. When she turns around, he is sipping his hot beverage, watching her over the rim; his cup has blue cats on it.
"They were stocked when I got here," Cal notes with in incline of his head; he means the cupboards.
Gillian crosses to the bench, where her cup, the matching pink felines, is waiting. Cal hasn't poured her coffee and she is grateful, because she is supposed to lay off it. The caffeine would increase her heart rate, put pressure on her lungs, and she is meant to be taking it easy as much as possible to let them heal (like Cal and his leg). She pours a little coffee, adds a lot of milk, and drinks it tasting weak and bland (she can't find sugar). Cal watches her but is silent and it is strange. The walls feel like they are closer than they actually are. Gillian looks out the large kitchen windows to avoid the gaze of her partner (and the weird panicky feeling). She doesn't know what he isn't saying, but it is starting to get on her nerves.
She suddenly feels really warm.
Gillian moves on to the dining room table and sits.
"How'd you sleep last night?" Cal starts.
"Good. Once I was warm. Thanks for sharing your body heat with me."
Cal gives her a slight smile, "It was nice to have company."
"How'd you sleep?" Gillian sips her drink, decides that is the last of it she can handle; the ceramic isn't even warm enough to impact on her fingers.
"I got a few snippets."
"You seemed pretty uncomfortable."
Cal gave a 'yeah, well' shrug.
"Is there something you can take?"
"Over the counter stuff."
"Maybe you should," Gillian suggests.
"Maybe."
"I'm sorry I kicked you," Gillian winces, remembering.
"At least I knew you were alive over there."
Gillian gives him a frown.
"Your breathing was awful."
"It was?" Gillian is surprised.
Cal gives a nod, limps to lean his elbows down on the bench, so he is bent over it. "All wheezy. I thought about waking you up. Making you sleep on a pile of pillows."
Maybe that was why she had woken up in the first place. Or, no, she was cold, that was why she had woken up. And that was probably what made her breathing sound so weird.
"I'm going to go out later. So if you could give me..."
Money. that was how it worked, wasn't it? They were given money. Or a credit card?
"The card?" Cal queries like he's confused.
Gillian's confused. What else would she be talking about? A shopping list? "Yes," she confirms.
"Oh, all right, yeah. Going out where?" He gives her a strange expression.
"Food for starters. But also clothes."
"They didn't stock your room up?"
"Yeah but nothing fits properly," she gives a distasteful expression.
"Nothing in your style?" Cal grins wryly.
Gillian finds herself giving a smile back, even though it feels like he is giving her a bit like more than a friendly ribbing. "Not exactly."
"Uh huh," Cal gives a knowing nod. He pushes himself off the bench and starts his unique little hanging off the furniture/shuffle/limp to the living room. Gillian sees one of his crutches leaning against the end of the dining table (no sign of the other one). Cal comes back, propelling himself off the edge of the doorframe, then balancing his weight on the back of a chair. "Temporary credit card," he slides the plastic down the table to where she is sitting. He also pushes a set of keys at her (house and there is a car in the garage for their use, in an emergency, the marshal's really would prefer it if they stay put. Gillian gives Cal a frown for that one. It's the way he stresses it), a cell phone and a business card (with the marshal's number on it and another cell phone number).
"That's my number," Cal informs her. Burner numbers. Only really good for an emergency (he stresses that point too). Gillian takes the card and looks at the name. Walker. She had been close.
"When you get back," he starts and pauses.
Gillian picks up the credit card (pay wave, so no pins or signatures required) and looks up at him. He seems so uneasy, and she doesn't get it at all. He doesn't ever have a problem bringing something up with her. Why now? Why now, of all the times in their lives, should he decide to hold back?
"Yeah what?" She prompts, keeping her voice obviously light, but feeling irritable.
"We should talk about what we do next."
"Isn't that predetermined?"
"But," Cal presses. "I want to know what you and I are going to do next."
Gillian pauses before speaking again, "I don't get it."
"If we're going to stick together," Cal supplies.
Gillian still doesn't get it. She gets the impression he's trying to subtly suggest something to her but she's either being too dense, or he's being too subtle. She suspects he wants to have the conversation right then and there but she needs time to think about this whole thing (and maybe figure out what he really means). She hasn't had three days like he has to work it all out neatly, thinking of all the scenarios. She agrees to talk about it when she gets back. Then she leaves the room to find appropriate shoes. She might have hurried out of there a little bit.
What does he mean if they were going to stick together? Of course they would stick together. Unless he didn't want to stick together? Gillian hasn't considered that. Not that she has considered much of anything. She had only been focussing on getting out of the hospital. She hasn't put much thought into 'what next' and 'how does Cal feel about all of this?' Or even 'what is Cal doing right now?'
Cal is on the couch when Gillian goes to leave. From the doorway of the living room she asks if he wants anything. He says no, but keeps his attention on the TV. Gillian finds her coat from yesterday, and tugs it on roughly. She also doesn't get why he is all of a sudden acting like he is mad at her. Like this is all her fault? Far from it. Maybe it is a really good idea to get outside and get some fresh air; get some space. Twenty four hours together and they are already under each other's skin (how are they even going to cope with longer?) Gillian almost suggests Cal call her if he thinks of something he does want, but thinks better of it. A little space, a little shopping, a little exploring: that sounds good right now.
As soon as she opens the door the wall of cold air strikes her hard. Her face tingles and she gasps the chill into her lungs; they start to ache straight away. But she takes slow breaths, tries to keep them shallow, without hyperventilating, so the cold doesn't seep all the way through her and cause pain; she has never been so conscious of the way she breathes before.
There's a little snow along the path to the gate (but it's not snowing like she thought). She could probably drive, seeing as there is a car key on the set Cal gave her, but she's not sure of the way, not sure of the road conditions; there could be ice. She's not entirely sure of her capability to drive. She did only just get out of the hospital yesterday. Even now, she's not entirely sure of her capability to walk. She's a few meters from the house and it feels like she can't get enough air. Not only that, but she didn't ask in which direction there were shops, or how far away they were, and she despises him for a moment, for seeming to have all the answers. He had the phone numbers, the credit card, the car keys; he knew which town they were in, which state; all the information. What did he want to talk to her about when he already seems to have it all worked out anyway?
Gillian goes west, and two houses down there is a T-intersection. And on the street sign is a little tag that additionally informs her of a shopping complex. Didn't need Cal after all. And, her lungs seemed to have adjusted to the cold and the mild exercise, because they are doing just fine. After she gets walking a bit more, she warms up and her lungs seem to ease further. She makes it to the shopping complex, on foot, in fifteen minutes. Complex is an optimistic descriptive term. She had been thinking a mall, what she gets is a main street. But it will do.
As she walks down what feels like the main street of Kasson, Gillian does find a little mall. More like a group of shops under a collective roof. She starts there, wanders through a pharmacy, warms up a little more (heating helps); finds a place that will cut her hair for ten dollars without an appointment. She doesn't go into it much, just tells the woman with the scissors she had been in an accident; that was why her hair was singed on one side. The woman seems too embarrassed to make much more conversation. She does a good job of sorting out the damage and Gillian leaves feeling lighter, even with her hair just a few inches shorter (and at least even). She explores further, gets friendly smiles and a few hellos, then moves on to the Walmart-style 'we've got everything' store in the back of the complex. She half suspects this is where her current wardrobe came from. But she looks, hunts around, goes through all the racks, and finds another cuter pair of jeans, a few tops that aren't hideous, a cute jumper that actually fits and at least two bras that should tide her over until they get moved again (and fingers crossed, get a bigger city with some proper shopping complexes).
Kasson feels like a ski town; lots of weatherproof jackets and pants, ski boots, woollen hats and accessories. Gillian eyes up a coffee shop, knowing the smell and warmth instinctively, but declining; it wouldn't be half as nice if she couldn't drink coffee, and leisurely linger, and felt guilty for being away from Cal for too long.
She goes to get food next, enough for a few basic meals (she has no idea how long they are going to stay for). She also gets Cal teabags, because she can't remember if she had seen any in the cupboard. She also gets something sweet (which reminds her to get sugar). What stops her from going entirely crazy and buying out the store? She has to carry it all home again. It isn't far, but she isn't exactly at her peak right now. She could get a cab, but she only has the credit card. And while the shop assistants don't give her a second glance as she waves to pay, she doesn't know what the limit on the card is, and is half afraid she's going to be asked for ID. Of which she has absolutely none. Besides, she doesn't actually know the address of the house they're staying in, doesn't remember the street, didn't pay attention to the numbers. She can find her way back easily enough, but she can't explain it to someone else. It feels like the less interaction she has with the locals the better.
When Gillian steps out of the mall, she discovers Kasson really is like a ski town: it's snowing. She's not equipped for snow at all. Doesn't have the right shoes, the right clothes, a proper waterproof jacket or even a hat and scarf. She thinks about going to buy some now, thinks better of the amount she's already spent (and what she's laden down with) and decides that the house isn't that far away and she can make it if she just puts her head down and goes for it.
She gets back to the house without getting lost, but her shoes are drenched and so are her jeans, almost the entire front side. The snow must have been coming down for a while, because there are drifts forming that she has to stomp through to cross the road. By the time she gets back to the house, there's a few feet on the ground, but no more falling from the sky. She says hi to Cal, who is still on the couch. He gives her a grunt, and doesn't get up to help, or even bother offering to. Gillian takes the food to the kitchen, leaving it on the bench for now, then goes to her room and kicks off her wet shoes. She shimmies out of the rest of her wet clothes, cuts the tags off one of the new bras she bought (one that actually fits her properly) and puts it on straight away. She puts on her other new clothes as well (because they're at least dry and are literally in her hands), then goes back to the kitchen to put the food away. Cal is still on the couch, and it's nice to not be stalked around the house by him, she thinks, especially because he doesn't seem to be in a good mood today. There is a knock at the door and it startles Gillian hard, makes her heart beat roughly.
"Gill?" Cal's voice comes from the other room. Gillian puts a bag of rice down on the shelf and heads for the front door. But once she gets there she stops. She looks over at Cal, in the living room, who is struggling to a sitting position.
"Is it?" Gillian starts and Cal shakes his head 'no'.
"They let themselves in."
So it's not the marshals. Which means Gillian doesn't know who it is. She peeks through the peephole and definitely does not recognise the man on the other side. He stands her height, light brown hair, a shovel in his hand. A broad, black, show shovel. She thinks he could be harmless. She knows a snow shovel makes a good weapon. Cal is hobbling towards her, limping off furniture and wincing on his leg, when Gillian decides to just go ahead and answer the door, sliding back the deadbolt.
The man smiles; all American, perfect teeth. "Hi. I'm Aaron. I live next door. I was out shovelling my walk this morning and noticed you haven't done yours," he turns toward the offending path (which is barely even a foot deep, if that). "I thought I'd come over to volunteer."
Gillian places his accent as Canadian, thinks he's odd, seeing as it just finished snowing, feels a little paranoid, like he was watching from his windows or something, and half regrets her decision to open the door instead of pretending they weren't home. Cal reaches her and grabs at her shoulder to balance himself.
"I wasn't sure you had the right equipment," Aaron gives another smile, an easy laugh; all Canadian perfect teeth then.
"It's not exactly my forte," Gillian explains blandly, sells the lie poorly. Not really a lie. But there's more to it than just that. But she can't read anything sinister in this other man, and Cal doesn't immediately flip out and slam the door shut either, so she goes with neighbourly. She figures that's why Aaron is here. "I'm Gillian," she introduces herself and Aaron politely extends a hand to shake.
"Cal," he introduces himself, giving the fingers of his broken right hand a wave to indicate he's not going to shake. There's a good chance he wouldn't have done so even if his arm wasn't broken, just to be ill-mannered.
"Looks like something got the better of you," Aaron notes jovially.
"Skis," Cal grumps.
Aaron gives an 'ah gotcha' kind of expression.
"It would be really kind of you to shovel the snow," Gillian brings them back to the point, sensing Cal is going to say something to ruin the neighbourly mood; she's got a sixth sense about it now. "You don't think it will snow again?"
"Not today. Maybe tonight though, and I can always come back tomorrow," Aaron gives another winning smile and turns. "I'll get to it."
Gillian reluctantly shuts the door on him, feeling impolite and unsure.
"Why would someone volunteer to shovel the snow?" Cal asks Gillian loudly.
She wants to shush him; the door is not that thick. "To be polite?" She suggests, shrugging off his hand carefully and going back to the kitchen. Cal limps after her until he can reach a dining room chair, then uses that to propel himself to the breakfast bar and a stool; he doesn't sit though.
"Bit weird though," Cal presses.
"I'm just glad someone's going to do it."
Cal gives her a distasteful expression. "Cos I'm not?"
"I didn't plan on it either," Gillian responds lightly, going back to the last of her groceries. Pretty sure she's not up for that kind of physical exertion.
"So you don't think there's anything suspicious about him?"
Gillian turns to him. "Do you think there is?"
Cal gives a noncommittal shrug. "Seemed alright," he mumbles, looking at the bench top. Which means he doesn't, because if he did, he wouldn't be asking for her opinion, he'd be on the phone with the marshals.
Gillian goes back to unpacking the food, thinking over Aaron's face; there didn't seem to be anything hidden in there, nothing sinister that she saw. But then again, she might not be at the top of her game right now. The thought disturbs her, sends an anxious stammer to her heart; she should be more careful.
"So you're going with Gillian then?"
She turns to him again, surprised, unsure; what is he talking about?
"Didn't want to pick something different?" Cal goes on.
Gillian gives him a frown.
"Names. Picking new names. Identities."
He sounds too aggressive and it makes Gillian want to equally leave the house again or deck him; and that response surprises her more. She settles for a little of both: passively aggressively ignoring him for a moment. She puts the hot water on to boil, starting to get mugs to make cocoa (or tea). "You're going to stick with Cal then?" She pushes back.
Cal's face clouds and he sits on the stool he was leaning on, moving so comically awkwardly that Gillian almost laughs and goes to help him. He's clumsy and off balance with all that plaster; she feels a little bad for him again. He's been trapped inside for days. Almost half the week. And he's not sleeping well; she witnessed that one first hand. She starts to realise he's probably been climbing out of his skin, stuck inside, stuck in plaster, stuck in this new reality. And really, aside from the marshals calling in to issue instruction, he hasn't had any contact with anyone, apart from her. Not even his daughter. Who he still doesn't know is safe or not. So he's being grumpy. So he's taking it out on her. She could be a better friend.
"Want a hot chocolate?" She asks him gently.
"No."
"Ok."
Quietly, Gillian goes about making one for Aaron and herself (she wonders about tea for Cal, then leaves it). She can see the other man through the windows of the dining room, easily making short work of the pathway (it hasn't frozen yet). She thinks about Cal going out to shovel the walk; can't imagine it. She wonders if it's something he would normally have done at home, or whether he made it Emily's job (probably). The wetness of the snow is his kryptonite right now.
She also thinks she should have been a bit more wary of a stranger, but that's not on her mind yet. She's still adjusting to being out of the hospital, feeling every tightening of her lungs and learning to not be afraid of it; she's already been through the worse and is getting better with every moment. Besides, she figures it's too new for the bad guy to have figured out where they are, though it would have been easy enough to find out who they were (are?). She starts thinking about the Lightman Group, about Loker and Torres and their employees; is everyone there safe? Which brings her back to Emily, and Cal, who is sitting quietly and glumly at the kitchen counter, picking at something on his thumb. He looks older and worn and she wonders now how she is going to cheer him up, or at least, like she was thinking before, just being a better friend (she half suspects he's hanging around waiting for her to do that and it wouldn't be the first time he's relied on her to make it better for him. It wouldn't be the first time she has).
As she stirs the mugs of hot water, milk and chocolate (and sugar), she remembers the relief she felt in the way he hugged her when she first came through the door, the first time they had seen each other in three days, since the explosion (where they could have died. She could have. The flames had reached her skin). And she remembers too, that she was almost as relieved as he had been, because she wasn't alone anymore.
New plan for this afternoon: get rid of Aaron, take care of Cal.
Gillian picks up both mugs, moves around the kitchen bench and to the front door. There's a convenient little table for her to rest one of the cups on while she twists the door handle, then expertly hooks the door to swing closed behind her after she's passed through it. She didn't think to put a jacket on. And it's cold out there. Aaron has seriously made short work of the walk; he's at the boundary already. Gillian can walk down the path easily and Aaron turns to give her a smile as she approaches. "Wow thank you," Gillian speaks first.
Aaron straightens up, his breath puffing mist into the cool air. It hangs for a moment before blending into the atmosphere. "Thank you," he echoes taking a mug.
"Hot chocolate," Gillian supplies.
Aaron takes a sip, makes the appropriate noises of appreciation. "This is great. I don't get this kind of attention for shovelling our walk." He smiles again and it's flirtatious.
Gillian gives a tight smile, isn't sure how to play it, thinks about Cal, and lets her eyes wander over to the garage.
"Do you want me to do the drive?"
"Oh no," Gillian brings her attention back to the other man, her mug up against her chest to keep her warm; and act as a barrier. "We're not going anywhere."
"Must have been a hell of a ski accident."
Gillian honestly has to take a second to remember what he's talking about. "Yeah we came up for vacation," she lies.
"And now vacation ruined," Aaron finishes.
"I don't know. Provides quality time," Gillian responds without thinking but with a slight smile. She is totally implying Cal is her husband or partner. Well, he is her partner, technically. Or maybe it's 'was' now. She doesn't know. She's starting to get why he wants to talk.
"Yeah that is really nice. It's probably the only good thing about being snowed in," Aaron backs off.
He's right. They have a perfect opportunity to spend time with each other, to talk about the explosion, to talk about what they know, where they stand, what is going to happen next etc and Gillian has been totally avoiding it. And she realises now that Cal is waiting to have the conversation he was probably ready to get to several days ago; is even waiting patiently for her (not entirely novel; sometimes he does respect her call for boundaries). She's being slow. She's going to put that down to the damage the chemical inhalation has done to her head.
Aaron finishes his drink and hands the mug back. He tells her he'll finish the last bit of shovelling. Gillian thanks him again, emphasises it was really very kind of him. He says he might see her around. Gillian smiles politely, doesn't commit either way; she honestly doesn't know if she will.
When Gillian gets back inside, she notices the warmth; it juxtaposes sharply with the iciness from outside. Even more so than when she had gone out earlier. Her lungs are tight and uncomfortable, protesting against everything she's done that morning. Enough to make her find her purse and suck down the beta-adrenergic agonists she has been given to treat her lungs. The medication isn't so far removed from that given to asthma suffers, even delivered in the same way: with an inhaler; designed to open her airways and make breathing easier. The effects of the chemical damage are meant to wear off. She hopes it will be sooner rather than later but she wasn't given a solid timeline for recovery (but she is grateful she's expected to make a full recovery. She thinks she might be lucky).
She tucks the inhaler into her jeans pocket and takes the dirty mugs to the sink in the kitchen. She finds a packet of assorted chocolates open on the counter, about three quarters' empty; there is a little mouse in the house. Through the dining room window Gillian can see Aaron starting to walk away so she goes down the hall to the larger bedroom. Cal is stretched out on the bed, a plastic container in his left hand; he is chewing. Rat found. But he doesn't seem to notice her in the doorway so she watches him for a moment, then says hello.
"Hey," he responds, turning his attention to the container again, digging with his casted right hand.
Gillian approaches. "Those were meant to be dessert."
"And now they're dinner," Cal counters lightly. He stretches the container out towards her and gives it a shake, enticing her. Like she needs it.
Gillian dips in and helps herself. Cal shifts his right leg over, then the left; he makes space for her on the mattress, so she sits. "What do you want for dessert then?"
"Should probably eat some vegetables or something. It's been a while."
"And you need lots of nutrients to grow big and strong."
"Did you have fun playing with the neighbour?"
Gillian is surprised by the question, the change in subject, and his tone. She takes a moment to think of her response. Then finds she doesn't have one. She can't be bothered appeasing him, teasing him, or taking him seriously. Instead, she helps herself to another chocolate and changes the subject herself. "Have you heard about Emily?"
Cal's eyes cut sharply to hers. "Nope."
"I'm sure she's fine."
"How can you be sure?"
"I can't imagine anyone could have gotten to her before the marshals did."
"They said they couldn't find her."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means they can't find her."
"It doesn't mean anything bad," Gillian finishes pointedly. "She could be holed up somewhere studying. Or with a guy."
Cal frowns harshly. "Now why would you say that?"
Gillian gives a slight laugh.
"It's not funny."
"It is," she smiles back.
"It's not," Cal grumps.
"Do you trust them to find her?"
Cal's expression goes wary and he doesn't verbally respond, but it's answer enough. Gillian's jovialness drops and the worry he's obviously feeling paws at her chest; she gets it now. She's not taking it seriously enough, and he's stressing out. And she would be too, if she were in his position, and she hadn't been able to talk to her daughter for nearly a week.
"Green Thai curry for dinner? With rice? And lots of baby spinach? Lots of extra calcium?"
"Sounds like you're cooking."
"I am. Cheating with a 'just add' packet but..."
"Then I'm in."
Gillian reaches for another chocolate. Cal lets the container balance on his stomach and scratches at his head. Gillian realises the bruise over his eye doesn't seem as bad as it had yesterday; more yellow now, less purple (maybe it looks different in a different light?)
"When was the last time you had a shower?"
Cal frowns. "You saying I need one?"
"No."
Maybe. (He did make a point of sniffing himself yesterday.)
"I was going to offer to help."
"You gonna get in and wash my back?" Cal gives her a lewd grin.
"Uh, no, my involvement stops at the bathroom door. I was going to suggest wrapping your casts in, like, a million plastic bags."
"Ugh," Cal groans. "I can't be bothered. Basin of hot water is enough."
"Ok."
"Though my hair is doing my head in."
"You want to wash your hair?"
"Not sure how to manage it," Cal raises his right hand, gives a now familiar wiggle of his fingers.
"I'm offering to help," Gillian reminds him patiently.
"Well," Cal grumbles. He makes a show of digging around for another chocolate. "Yeah that would be good," he mumbles.
Gillian feels like pressing the issue, making him ask her nicely, but like he said before: she 'couldn't be bothered'. "Ok let me know when," she casually suggests instead. That at least leaves the ball in his court. "I suppose you're not hungry now."
"Nope," Cal admits. "Tell me a story, what's it like out there in the big wide world?"
"Small town America," Gillian shrugs.
"Don't down play it for my sake."
"I didn't really see much of it. I bought some clothes and food and that was it."
Cal's eyes wander away as he considers what she has said. "You really think Emily's all right?"
"Yes."
Cal focuses on getting another chocolate. "It's been a week since we talked last. She could be trying to call me."
"And she will figure from your lack of response that something's up."
Cal looks up at her sharply. "You don't think she would... go home or something like that? Try and find me?"
"She would call me, or the office first. And Ria would have told her what happened."
"So she'll think I'm dead," Cal states.
Shit.
Gillian hasn't thought of that. They'd both be dead.
Cal curses softly under his breath and looks away. "If I call her..."
"Maybe you should call her," Gillian starts to come around. She is actually impressed he has held off this long. Especially since it is his daughter they are talking about.
Cal looks over at her again. "What about..."
"The marshals?"
"For a start."
"They can't kick us out of the program."
"I'm glad you're confident about that," Cal shoots back, but something has clouded his eyes and Gillian belatedly recognises it as fear. She hardly ever sees fear on Cal's face and now that she does, she feels a quiver of fear in her own stomach.