"Come on," Gillian coaxes, taking the container of chocolates from Cal's reach (there aren't many left). "Let's wash your hair," she suggests, standing from the bed. She's not entirely sure of the things that make Cal feel better (he tends to deal with things in odd rituals she's not always privy to) but she knows that feeling clean helps refresh her, and it sometimes can be a good distraction. Cal's been trapped inside for half a week. She's starting to suspect he's not just in a funny mood, but is actually leaning towards glum. She's not surprised as to why, but there's not much she can do about it, except maybe a few small things she can do to help: wash his hair, work out something to do about Emily. Sometimes being a good friend is just about being there.
Cal looks over at her from his pillow. He looks slumped and tired and like he wants to protest but can't be bothered to. He just looks completely unimpressed. She holds out her hand to him and his face is completely neutral for a second, before he reaches out with his left hand to take it. He just about pulls her into his lap and chuckles a little gleefully as he overpowers her (yeah she gets it, just because he's crippled doesn't mean he's still not stronger than her). One of the crutches is leaning against the bedside table and Gillian takes it up, pointedly giving it to him, which he takes wordlessly and adjusts under his bad arm so he can sort of swing and hop across the room to the bathroom door (also using the furniture when he can reach it). Gillian puts the chocolates on top of the tall boy against the wall and pulls open the top drawer. "Oi," Cal protests at the door frame. "Those are my delicates."
Gillian feels her cheeks warm a little. "Pyjamas?" She queries.
"Next one down," Cal tells her. "Give me a minute," he requests and hangs on to the bathroom doorframe to help himself through it, then closes the portal behind him.
The letter sits on top of the dresser. It isn't in an envelope, just folded up on itself into thirds. But even as Gillian spots it, even with a glance, she can see it is from a hospital, and it's addressed to Cal (she figures the address given is this one, seeing as she doesn't recognise it). Curiosity spikes despite her refusal to act on it (it's private). Gillian pulls open the right drawer this time and finds another pair of tartan print pyjama pants (red and blue, for a change). There's a loud bang from the bathroom and she freezes, heart beating a little quicker, but Cal doesn't start yelling (she does hear a grumble). She goes to the door, hesitates outside it; wonders if she should knock.
The bang sounded like him dropping something and not someone trying to break in (or him falling down), but she needs to be sure. She calls out, asks if he's alright. He says he's fine and she feels silly and over protective and stepping over the line of friendship; she goes back to the pyjamas. She takes them to the kitchen to cut the right pant leg off (guessing the amount), then heads back down the hall to the bedroom, still waiting on Cal to call her in (she didn't hear any yelling from the kitchen).
The letter is still sitting there waiting. Gillian lifts the top fold and can see it is the information about his injuries. She shouldn't. It's way, way, way over the mark to read his mail. She walks to the windows, looks out; curiosity gets the better of her. She wants to know the details and Cal is so blasé about them he wouldn't tell her himself. She's still trying to piece together what happened last week. She can rationalise it all she likes, the truth is: she's being nosey. He moves so slowly, it isn't like she wouldn't be able to put the letter back how she'd found it. She goes back to the tall boy and picks up the paper.
Closed, incomplete fracture to the ulna of the right forearm. Closed, incomplete tibia...
"Gillian?!"
She jumps, hurriedly puts the letter back how it was originally, feeling completely busted, and quickly crosses the room. "Yeah?" She leans in against the bathroom door, listening, and taps on it lightly. Cal calls for her to come in. He's sitting on the edge of the bath, still hanging on to the one crutch with his broken arm, his left gripping the edge of the plastic he's sitting on. He looks at her from across the small space, a little defeated edge to his posture but also defiance in his eyes.
"Let's do it then," he grumps, like this is all her idea and a unique kind of torture, but she doesn't take him seriously.
"Ready?" She prompts coming in. She tosses the pyjamas at him and he plucks them from the air just before they hit his face. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything about them, putting them to the side for later.
"Where do you want me?"
Gillian has done this before with an invalid. Alec broke his leg once and she used to wash his hair over the bath because it was easier than trying to manoeuvre plastic and water to get him into the shower cubicle. But it had been easier then because their shower had a detachable nozzle. So making him lean over the bath while she washed his hair was not as much of a big deal as this was going to be. Once he got the hang of it, he did it himself; he only had a broken leg. A lot of things were easier with just a broken leg. Gillian doesn't know how Cal's going to sneak out to make clandestine phone calls (can't use their burner phones) if he can barely move around the house, let alone outside of it. She's not in much of a position for a fight herself right now, but Cal is definitely in no condition to run.
"On the floor," Gillian decides. She is still going to make him lean over the bath, but backwards, like at a hairdressers. She directs Cal to sit so he is resting against the edge of the plastic (which he does so with a few winces), while she gets more towels off the shelves; she absently thinks they should do some laundry at some point. She double folds one towel and lays it over Cal's broken arm, then uses another to cushion his neck, another to wrap around his throat so it cloaks over his chest; a spare one for her. She has to go back to the kitchen for a mug, to use to cup the water.
When she gets back to the bathroom, Cal has stolen her towel. "My ass was killing me," he explains to her slight frown. Gillian gets the last towel from the shelf (now they really do need to do laundry). She gives him the mug to hold while she leans over and turns the taps in the bath, adjusts the heat and retrieves the shampoo from the shower in the corner.
She starts with wetting his hair, curling her hand around his forehead and ears to try and protect them from flooding as much as possible. He can't exactly help her out with leaning right back, but he does try to angle his head as much as he can. She takes her time, guiding the water with her fingers in the places that are vulnerable to gravity, so she doesn't drench him completely. "Thanks for this," Cal speaks softly.
"You're welcome." It must have been at least a week since he had actually wet his head; it would have driven her insane (it has, at least, been four days. And that is long enough). "What did you do for three days here by yourself?" Gillian asks him.
"Counted the hours."
Gillian sets the cup in the bottom of the tub and squirts out a small amount of shampoo into her palm.
"Not easy to pace at the moment."
Gillian smiles and presses her hand against the crown of his head.
"Tried writing some stuff down, but a bit of a waste of time."
"How come?" Gillian starts making circles to lather the soap. His hair is thin and longer than it's been in a while. With it wet, it looks darker and she's not sure she's seen his face from this angle (or maybe even this close...); his eyes flicker over the wall opposite. It suddenly strikes her that this is really intimate.
"Couldn't read my own writing," Cal gives a slight chuckle.
Oh right yeah, because his writing hand is in a cast.
Gillian gets her other hand involved in soaping up his head, feels the strain of the muscles in her back as she leans over him to reach properly; awkward angle. She tries not to press against him, is too self conscious of how much of their bodies are in contact. Cal turns towards her a little, resting his cheek (it's rough with stubble, practically a beard; he obviously hasn't been shaving at all) against her forearm for a second. He looks up at her and she can feel his eyes. She meets them, gives him a slight upturn of her lip, but goes back to concentrating on what she is doing. "What were you writing?" She encourages. Keep talking; distraction.
"Trying to remember what I could of the investigation before..."
Gillian rinses her hands off under the running water and picks up the mug again; plunges onwards. "Do you remember much of it?"
"Some. Could do with a second opinion."
Gillian starts rinsing out the soap. "We could try again after dinner if you want." She says it far too casually but Cal doesn't call her the anxiety in her tone.
"So long as you take notes."
Gillian smiles, her eyes flickering down to his. He looks up and met hers again. Concentration lost, water dribbles into the corner of his eye. He squeezes it shut tightly, and winces. "Sorry," Gillian apologises, bringing up her spare towel to carefully wipe it away.
Cal blinks a few times, his left hand rubbing at his eye and blinking some more. "It's all right," he tells her, seemingly not worse for wear. "Carry on."
Gillian switches out the mug for more shampoo (it smells like peaches and vanilla even though the bottle says its pear and almond. Go figure) and works in silence for a while. She scrubs her fingernails against his scalp, around the back of his head and makes sure she gets his sideburns; covers every inch to get all the dirt. Cal's eyes close, so she keeps going for a minute longer. "That feels really good," he sighs.
Gillian suddenly feels warm. She rinses his hair out again, then concentrates on spreading conditioner evenly through his short strands.
"Wanna get lunch after this?" Cal asks.
"You offering to make something?" Gillian asks lightly, while implying that she highly doubts it.
Cal snickers.
"Sure. I'm nearly finished," Gillian goes on, while she massages his skull again.
"I wasn't suggesting you feed me," he says lightly. "But I am getting hungry."
"All that chocolate didn't do it for you?" Gillian rinses the conditioner off her hands and turns the tap off.
"Didn't seem to touch the sides."
Gillian sits back on her ankles, the aching easing out of her back and thighs.
"Is that it?" Cal looks over at her, straightening up a little.
"Not yet. I'll rinse the conditioner out in a minute."
"Will you bring me gossip magazines to tide me over?"
"I don't have any, but I could scrounge up a book for you?"
Cal gives a slight smile but it doesn't seem as if his heart is much into teasing her. They sit quietly for a split second before Gillian's talking again; she doesn't know if it's that she can't stand the silence, or whether this is on her mind and she wants to get it out; Cal is an attentive audience, and he's not going anywhere.
"The Group would have all our case notes."
Cal's eyes were looking around the room, but they focus back on her and he's silent a moment longer. "We can't get those."
Gillian supposes they can't, but she still queries him on it.
"Well, can't remotely log in. If someone's monitoring the system they'll pick up the log on immediately."
Gillian nods, agreeing; far too obvious. "Even if we used a public computer," she muses.
"But," Cal starts and pauses. It's probably for dramatic effect but Gillian is listening thoughtfully by now. This already feels much more natural for them; thinking, planning, conspiring. This is what they did for a living; it was, at least, familiar. "It'd take a lot more effort to investigate an email."
Gillian waits for him to flesh out the idea, because she's not quite sure she understands where he's going. Emails could be traced too. She might not have witnessed too much, but it's pretty obvious who the marshal's investigation is centring around based on the questions they asked. All about Jerome Willis. Head of the FBI. So she gets the need for secrecy (and security). They're not dealing with a mobster who probably doesn't have the know-how or technology to indulge in extensive internet searches. But the head of the FBI does. And he has access to a whole bunch of other resources too.
"Would have to create a new account. Using a public domain, on a public computer."
Gillian thinks some more but isn't sure she sees much of a problem with that. "How will they know it's from us?" She means Loker and Torres but Cal already knows this without her having to say.
"They should bloody well know how to read between the lines by now."
Fair point.
"Then we should think about what we want to say," Gillian muses.
"One shot at it?"
"I think that would be wiser?"
"Probably," Cal agrees.
They're silent for a moment, stealing glances, thinking. There would have to be more to work out, but so far, it seems like an ok plan.
"You cut your hair."
Gillian meets his eyes, a hand raising absently to her shorter strands. "Yes," she confirms.
Cal watches her a moment, a beat, before saying: "I like it short."
"Thanks," Gillian sits up again, turning on the taps. She starts to rinse Cal's hair out carefully and he closes his eyes while she works. "If we're going to contact the Group, then you should definitely call Emily."
Cal's eyes open to look at the ceiling, but not at her. "Could probably manage one call on the burner phone and then toss it."
"Mm," Gillian agrees. Or muses. She thinks about other options, possibly better options. If Cal made the call, she would have to get rid of the phone. And that wouldn't be easy in small town Kasson. It would be better to get to Rochester, the nearest biggest city. Or maybe just toss it out the window of the bus on the way. But if Cal made the call from the house it could be traced back to that location (if the software used was good enough) and she wasn't sure they could take that risk. Other people used this house as a safe haven. They wouldn't just be compromising themselves, they'd be compromising the whole witness protection program.
"You're thinking very thoroughly," Cal notes and Gillian realises she's been scraping her fingers over the same spot on his head. She goes back to her work, paying attention this time.
"Pay phone," Gillian blurts.
Cal looks back to her. "What?"
"It's harder to trace an anonymous call from a pay phone. Even if they trace it back to Kasson, they would have a harder time trying to find either of us specifically. No one here knows our names."
"Cept Aaron."
Gillian ignores that (still not sure what he means by it). "It would give us a couple of day's grace."
"But how are we going to know if someone suddenly arrives in town looking for us? Not like we've made a lot of acquaintances that would tip us off."
"Yeah," Gillian agrees, thinking she might be done with his hair and she's now just touching for the sake of it.
Cal studies her for a moment. "Would be even harder if the call was traced to Rochester."
Gillian looks over at him, smoothing her fingers against his forehead as she trickles another cupful of water. "Ok, so we go to Rochester."
He gives her a slightly incredulous expression. "Are you serious?"
"Yes," Gillian stops playing with his hair. The sound of gushing water overwhelms the room.
Cal blinks. "All right."
"Ok," Gillian agrees, finding her heart beating awkwardly. She is suggesting they do something potentially dangerous or, at least, stupid. Not just for them, but for Emily too. "Should we wait for the marshals to find her?" She tries.
"They seem to be doing such a bang up job of it."
Gillian leans over the bath to turn the taps off again. She dries her hands on the towel she has kept for herself, then rubs it over Cal's wet hair. "If she hears some unknown men are looking for her, she might stay away from her dorm." Gillian sits back and looks at her partner.
Cal's expression is suspicious. "Look at you, speculating with no evidence."
Gillian throws the towel in her hands into his face, then whips the towel off his cast before he can react, so she can put it away. She gets to her feet so she's out of reach of retaliation. "I'm just... I'd like to know where she is too," she justifies. She refolds the towel and puts it up to dry.
"I wasn't complaining," Cal responds from the floor. He takes the towel from his neck and tosses it to Gillian. She unfolds that one as well, shakes it out, and hooks it at the top of the shelving unit so it is open and will dry. "Nice to have my partner back."
With her back still to him, Gillian ignores the jibe (or compliment?) and fusses with the towel for a second. The tone he used doesn't sound like a dig, but the words do cut her a little bit; she has been nothing if not on Cal's side, always. He might have had three days by himself to think, but she had three days merely trying to survive. Sorry if she wasn't completely on to it as soon as she got there.
She turns to find him struggling to get to his feet again. It's like watching a turtle trapped on its back. Cal can't bend his right leg at all, so he has turned over to his front and is trying to get leverage off the bath with one good leg and one good arm. He seems to lose the battle for a while, then hangs off the bath and the vanity and pulls himself awkwardly to his feet. As much as Gillian wants to laugh at how funny he looks, she doesn't have the heart. Poor guy. What a nightmare.
Cal straightens up, breathing heavily. Gillian goes to get the wet towel she had used on his hair from the floor. "I'll make lunch then," she says, hooking the towel around his neck (and suppressing an irresistible urge to kiss him). She goes back to the kitchen, and starts pulling condiments from the cupboards and fridge to make sandwiches (steadfastly ignoring the bit where she wanted to kiss him). Not exactly sandwich weather but she has just bought fresh bread and it will do (could have just been a kiss on the cheek or something else that could be construed as friendly). She's already buttering when she hears Cal coming down the hall (banishes the thoughts of kissing again). He's leaning on it as he walks (and uses one of his crutches!) so she hears him easily. He seems exhausted when he hauls himself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar (kissing thoughts gone).
"Will you go this afternoon?"
"Go where?"
"To call Em."
"Yes," Gillian agrees immediately. Her heart beats in that awkward way again, betraying her confidence. Yes, she probably shouldn't; she had agreed to not make contact with anyone from her old life. But this is Cal. This is Emily. She couldn't not. "Wait, you're going to come with me right?"
Cal seems to hang his head a little, but he does meet her eye. "I don't think I can."
"Sure you can."
"I really don't think I can Gill."
She wants to press it, she wants to point out that it is his daughter, but given the fact that he is saying he can't go, well she takes that seriously; when it comes to Emily, it has to take quite a bit to stop him. "Are you ok?" She's concerned now.
"Yeah, I'm just... Not really cracking it right now."
Gillian doesn't press. She goes back to her bread, putting aside the slices once they're spread, trying to think of a way to make it easy for him. Most of the trip would be on the bus; she's not sure how far away Rochester is, but it could be at least half an hour in a car, probably longer with public transport. But then he'd have to get off the bus and manoeuvre the streets and it is awkward enough for him to get around the house. It's implied that he's going to be absolutely useless if, if, they needed to run; he's a liability. Gillian can feel her heart in her throat. So now it's up to her to get a message to Emily.
"Please Gill," Cal starts but she stops him. She gets it. She tells him she'll go. She puts bread on a plate for him, moves fillings closer to him so he can assemble himself.
"Do you think...?"
"Think what?"
"What do you think the marshal's told everyone?"
Emily. The Group. Her family. She's thinking about it now; what were her parents told? Were they given an official version, or just a lot of vague answers? They would have tried to contact her by now, surely. Gillian understood even more what it would be like for Emily. For Cal, worrying about his daughter.
Cal gives a shrug, chews shrewdly.
"I just... I don't like the idea of them thinking the worse," Gillian notes glumly, picking the crust off a slice of bread.
"Which is?"
"That we're dead?"
"You think that's what the marshals told them?"
"I don't know how it works," Gillian admits.
Cal 'hms' and they sit in silence while they eat (Gillian remains standing opposite him). She's suddenly not very hungry, so she picks her sandwich apart and eats the fillings separately (lettuce, tomato and pastrami). "What do you want me to tell her?" Gillian asks when Cal finishes. She takes his plate to the sink and busies herself with packing everything away. She doesn't ask if he wants something else and he doesn't protest when she assumes.
Cal clears his throat. "Dunno. I'm safe."
It sounds a bit like a question. Gillian glances over at him but he's not expecting an answer from her. It looks like he's thinking about it. She takes butter back to the fridge, twists the bread bag and ties it, leaves it on the bench.
Cal reaches over to the side of the bench, where the landline phone sits in its cradle and there's a phone book. There's also a notepad and a cup of pens. He pulls the pad closer, takes a pen, then jots something down on the small slip of paper. "Em's number," he supplies and slides it towards her. "And her dorm, if you can't get through."
Gillian takes the paper, tucks it into the pocket of her jeans, combs back the hair from her face, feeling tense. They are taking a risk. The risk would be worth it though. She can't imagine disappearing on her daughter, can't quite comprehend what Cal is feeling right now; or what Emily is feeling if she has, indeed, tried calling her father and got not answer. Or how bewildered the young woman feels if the marshal's have found her and pulled her from school, her whole life, to relocate her with them in Kasson. If family is also at risk, they go into hiding too.
"Anything in particular you want me to tell her?" Gillian gently asks again.
"Tell her I love her," Cal looks up and meets her eyes. She sees a swirl of feeling, not entirely unfamiliar; she's seen him emotional about his daughter before.
Gillian nods, finds there's a lump in her throat, and concentrates on the bench again. Cal uses the landline to call for bus information. There's a stop a block down and there will be a bus in half an hour. Gillian finds a worried tremble in her stomach. Her hand goes to her jeans, making sure the number is still there. Once she's finished with the kitchen she goes to change, which is just an excuse to mentally prepare herself. Besides this being risky, she's also nervous about talking to Emily. Not because she hasn't done it before or because it will be a little strange (well, it will), but because she knows the young woman is going to be upset or confused and possibly angry and there will be a huge emotional onslaught aimed right at Gillian. Even though this isn't her fault. And she just got out of hospital yesterday. She thinks again about how she can get Cal to the phone himself but it all seems too hard and they're in the dark about so much right now, she's afraid that even making this phone call could completely tip the balance and result in her or Cal's death. Because she knows that people have been killed to keep the secret she and Cal now know.
That's how they discovered it in the first place.
Gillian makes sure she has the credit card (just in case), small change for the bus and the phone call, her medication inhaler, a scarf, a warm jacket and a phone in her pockets before she decides she should go walk down to meet the bus. Cal is on the couch again, staring out of the window. She watches him from the doorway again, seeing more and more, that this whole situation has had a huge impact on him, probably bigger than she wanted to see yesterday. He's too quiet, too still, and yes, there are mitigating factors (his broken leg) but it's still not quite right. She's still not sure what to do about it. It feels like he's retreating into himself. And, she supposes, she's doing the same. She doesn't push like she used to and she's also quiet. Still.
"It's snowing."
"Really?" Gillian straightens up from the doorframe and comes further into the room.
"Yeah," Cal gestures to the window opposite (he is sitting on the couch with his broken leg stretched out across the cushions and the TV on his left).
Gillian goes to the window and looks out. Yes, the snow has started up again. It looks like they've had a few inches of it in the last few hours. The fir trees in the yard are patchy, their branches heavy under the weight of frozen rain. The stretch from the house to the tree line is pristine; at least they'd know if someone has been sneaking around out there... And it always comes back to four days ago now: that house and the explosion and what has brought them to here. They are supposed to be safe, in protection, new identities and a chance to survive to testify. But what if the bad guy finds them? She could be drawing him in even closer if she goes to make that phone call.
Not if.
She will go.
Cal doesn't say it aloud, but it seems to be in the air: you don't have to go now. But Gillian turns back to face him and announces she's going to need a hat. She goes to the hall closet and finds dark blue wool that she pulls down to her ears. Wearing all that gear inside makes her feel warm, but she knows it will be cold outside. She goes back to the living room and plants a kiss on the side of Cal's temple. "See you later," she tells him, not sure what compelled her to kiss him goodbye, but not feeling weird about it (she's forgotten the bathroom kiss compulsion). She walks away without seeing Cal's expression, she doesn't need to, to know he is probably surprised. He murmurs a 'bye' as she reaches the threshold to the hallway and she unbolts the front door, crosses the threshold and pulls it closed behind her.
It is cold, and it still rushes into her face with a shock, but it's not as bad as she thought it would be. She thinks it's funny and a waste of time for Aaron to have shovelled the walk for her, because she still has to pick her way through the new snow to get to the path. Their street hasn't been swept but Gillian can hear a diesel engine in the background somewhere and assumes it's just a matter of time. By the time she's two houses down her legs are drenched and she almost thinks better of attempting to go out. What if the buses have stopped? The snow isn't that thick. It would take more than this to halt them in DC. But this is Kasson. Who knew how they operated? (And Gillian realised she didn't want to find out. She wanted to move on to the next place, get settled in as much as possible, start her new life if she was supposed to be having one. She feels restless and uncertain and wonders if Cal feels the same way in that house. Being outside, with the freedom, makes her realise she feels trapped otherwise, and she doesn't like it).
Gillian reaches the T- intersection that would take her back into town. It's already been cleared and the still falling snow is doing nothing more than keeping the ground wet now. She takes a graceful leap to the clear tarmac and starts walking down the empty street. Her jeans are wet half way up her calf and her toes feel icy (but she has found some waterproof shoes, so at least her feet aren't also sodden). Now that she's walked a bit she's warmed up and doesn't feel as bad as she did when she first stepped out. There's another woman waiting at the bus stop. They make small talk about the weather (whether the snow will worsen). Then the bus rolls up and they get on. There are three other people already sitting, so she picks a seat about half way down. As the bus pulls away from the curb Gillian loosens the scarf from her neck, her skin feeling sticky and damp. She almost reaches for her phone to text Cal, like she would have done normally, but decides against it. They have an unspoken but highly implied policy of not making contact. It's like they've gone completely low tech.
The ride to Rochester does take more than thirty minutes, more like thirty-five, but eventually they're pulling into the inner city and Gillian gets off. No snow here, but she finds out the hard way that the sidewalk is icy and the wind whips between the buildings harshly. She decides to take the block, walking in large circles until she's probably gone a couple of miles but almost ends up where she started. She doesn't think it's a smart idea to make the call from the bus terminal and she might be procrastinating a little. In her stroll she has managed to warm up again and find two internet cafes that might be ok for sending an email from. She's passed half a dozen pay phones, but still walks a block in the other direction and crosses the street before stepping into one.
It's not warm in the booth, but it's sheltered from the wind and Gillian loosens her scarf again. Her stomach is squirming and her hands sweaty. She carefully takes the slip of paper out of her jeans pocket. Her inhaler clatters loudly to the ground and she bends quickly to pick it up, feeling paranoid. She looks around but she can't see anyone watching her in particular. People walk on by, not giving her much attention. Gillian tucks the inhaler back into her left pocket and holds the number in her left hand. She fishes out change from her right jeans pocket and tucks the receiver between her ear and shoulder. She slots coins into the phone, then dials out the number, and listens to herself breathing as she waits for the call to connect.
She's so tempted to hang it up. A massive pang of nerves strikes her hard. And it doesn't help that the call rings for a really long time. She's just about preparing to hang it up, or hoping voicemail will pick it up so she can leave a message, when it's answered. Suspiciously. "Hello?"
Gillian's heart stutters. "Emily? It's me."
There's a pause.
"Gillian?"
"Yes," she cuts in quickly, her heart beating rapidly now. "Listen, I can't talk long. I shouldn't even be calling."
"What's going on?!"
"I can't say too much Em," Gillian interrupts again. "Your Dad wanted me to call you to say he's ok."
"Is he there?"
"No, sweetheart, he isn't but he wanted to tell me he loves you and..."
"But what's going on?" Emily asks once more.
"It's complicated," Gillian almost sighs. She doesn't want to say it over the phone; we're in witness protection. That makes it more real. And she feels as though someone is listening in on this conversation. They could have wire tapped Emily's phone... bugs or traces or something. "Where are you?"
"I'm... at a friend's," Emily responds cagily.
"But you're safe?"
"Yes," Emily answers, sounding cautious now.
This is too hard. There is too much unsaid and now both of them aren't trusting the phone line to be clear.
"You're safe?" Emily speaks next.
"Yes," Gillian confirms.
"What should I do?"
Gillian listens to dead air for a second while she thinks quickly. Damn, she wishes she had forced more of an answer out of Cal. What would he want for his daughter? For her to be safe, that had to be the number one priority. And so far, the marshals were keeping them safe (if this phone call hadn't completely ruined it. Which would be Gillian's/Cal's fault, not the marshals anyway.)
What should she do?
Damn it, she doesn't know.
"Gill?"
"I'm here," she speaks up. "Your Dad would want you to be safe." Which was crap advice seeing as Emily had no idea who to be wary of. "So trust the authorities," she finishes, and hopes that Emily will know what that means. At the end of the day, an official with a badge is going to be more trust worthy than any old person in a suit claiming to be someone they weren't. Gillian wants to tip her off about the email to the Lightman Group, that Emily could get more information that way, but if someone really is listening in on the conversation, then that would just point them in the same direction.
"Tell Dad I love him," Emily says. Gillian promises she will. She doesn't promise she'll be in touch. She can't. But she wants to. Emily doesn't ask how to get in touch, doesn't ask for a number or an address and Gillian can only surmise that the young woman gets it.
They're off the grid.
After Gillian hangs up, her lungs feel tight and she's struggling slightly for air. The phone booth feels claustrophobic, and her change clattering into the tray makes her cringe. She grabs at it blindly, reaching for her throat with her other hand, trying to loosen the scarf or her collar or both. She pushes on the door to exit and falls into cold air. Wind whips into her face so harshly it brings tears to her eyes. She has to turn her head to take a breath but manages to suck in air. She's disorientated for a second and spies a low wall that guards off a small garden in front of whatever building that is. She stumbles to it, pulling at her scarf to let fresh air in against her sweaty skin. She sits heavily, focuses on trying to breathe. That's all. Just needs to breathe.
After a few seconds it starts to feel easier. Gillian puts her hands on her knees, leans forward a little, the wind at her back, and concentrates on taking air in, and then pushing it out of her body again. She wants to text Cal, tell him she talked to Emily, tell him that his daughter is ok and that she's smart. But she's scared to, still feels like someone is watching her. She needs to get out of the city, back to the safe house, back to Cal so she can pass on the message. Was there a message? She inherently knows what Emily would want to say to him.
Gillian gets to her feet, pocketing what's in her hands (paper and coins) and pulls the woollen hat down over her ears again. She tucks her chin into the scarf, adjusts it so that it's keeping the wind out now (she can feel a tickle in her throat that makes her want to cough. But if she starts now, it won't be easy to stop. She knows that from experience). She starts heading back to the bus terminal. Or at least she thinks she is, but she walks a block and doesn't recognise the buildings and she stupidly didn't pay attention to street signs. She was sure it was in this direction, and she's only been walking a block at a time, making turns, so she didn't get lost. But now she thinks she is.
She turns at the corner and tries again but she still doesn't come across the terminal. She thinks it's been twenty minutes now and she needs to get back to the safe house. The things she would normally pay attention to are slipping her mind and she doesn't like it. It was stupid to not even take a tourist map to find her way back and it's the kind of mistake she wouldn't usually make. She doesn't like it, doesn't like the way the tickle in her throat is now more of an insistent urge; she doesn't like how paranoid she feels.
A man on the street bumps her shoulder as she goes past and it makes her heart hammer. A part of her brain tells her to not be silly, to not let the situation get the better of her, to calm down and rationally find her way; she can ask for directions. But a bigger, louder, part of her brain is telling her that she's sick, that she can't get enough air, that it's too cold; she's lost and alone and there are people who are out to kill her.
Gillian thinks she remembers crossing the street at some point and steps down off the sidewalk, only to feel her leg coming out from beneath her and her centre of gravity tilt. She lands hard on the road (ass and wrist breaking her fall) and the sheer surprise of it knocks the last of the oxygen out of her lungs. She can't get a breath in and she can't seem to get her hands under her body to push up again. She's aware she's on the street (more danger from traffic) and that she's lost, and then she feels strong hands on her arms.
"Are you ok lady?" A male voice asks her and she gasps air to try and get a hold of herself. She's deposited back on the sidewalk, sitting on her ass on the cold concrete and there are legs framing around her like sentinels. Or entrapment.
"She can't breathe," someone else says. Everyone backs up a foot and a woman is kneeling near her hip. "Can you breathe honey?"
Gillian keeps gasping nothing into her lungs, they hurt, and shakes her head 'no' (amazes herself with even admitting it). She fumbles at her pocket, manages to take out the inhaler, but her fingers feel weird and disconnected. Emily's number gets caught on the breeze and flies away over her head. Gillian doesn't even have a second thought about someone finding it (it's a string of numbers, who in their right mind could possibly connect it to them? Even if someone found it, and dialled it, the chances that it would be the people they were hiding from would be miniscule).
"Here, let me help you," the woman takes the inhaler from Gillian's palm. She holds it to Gillian's mouth and pushes down on the canister and Gillian belatedly takes a breath. She gets a mouthful of chemicals that taste bitter on her tongue. The woman tries to give her a second dose but Gillian shakes her head away. "I have asthma too," the woman tells her and Gillian gives a grateful kind of expression and tries to take a normal breath. It's easier and she manages to get some air in and some out again; it feels much better already. Let the woman think its an asthma attack. Gillian's not going to explain her lungs were damaged from inhaling toxic chemicals in a meth lab fire.
"She's fine," the woman announces to the crowd. "Just an asthma attack."
"You should take her to a hospital," someone else suggests.
Gillian shakes her head again. "Thank you," she wheezes. "I'll be fine. Thank you."
The little crowd starts to disperse. "Really, thank you," Gillian tells the woman when she has her attention again.
"Will you be ok?" The woman asks. She has dark brown eyes and the peek of brown hair from beneath her pink hat.
"I will be," Gillian nods vigorously. Her ass is frozen now; can't feel it, only knows by default. And her jeans are still wet from the snow in Kasson. Her lungs burn with the cold but she is actually breathing now (short sharp breaths, but oxygen nonetheless). She feels a little more embarrassed as she gets herself under control and starts to get up. The woman jumps in to help her, grasping at Gillian's elbow and tugging.
"Where were you heading?" The woman asks politely.
Gillian just knows the woman is about to volunteer to walk her. "I was just heading for the bus home," she tries to make it casual. Not a big deal, doesn't need an escort.
The woman looks across the street. "You're not far," she notes. Gillian follows her gaze, and thank god, sees the bus terminal a few meters down on the other side. She looks back to Gillian. "Feeling better?"
Gillian nods. "Yes thank you. Much better."
Her lungs hurt like a bitch.
And so does her wrist.
And now her ass is all tingly and numb because its cold and blood is getting back into it.
"I just slipped on some ice."
Which is true.
The panic attack is something else.
"Make sure you use this," the woman presses the inhaler back into Gillian's hand. Gillian says she will. She thanks her again. Then the woman nods and they part ways. Gillian steps more carefully on the curb this time and crosses the road.