If Cal could pace, he would. But his leg kills him most of the day and it's worse when he tries to move around; he doesn't seem able to learn that staying still is his best option (he's also meant to be keeping his leg elevated as much as possible). He does take to the couch for half hour blocks, with his leg up on the cushion to 'rest' it but he's nervous and has too much energy and if he can't literally pace around, then he does try to move (usually just getting up to look out the window), to keep himself busy. Gillian is going on three and a half hours now and he manages distraction for not even half that time, before he ends up just standing by the front door, leaning against the frame of the door that leads into the living room. If he was smart and maybe less paranoid, he would be standing in the dining room window, so he could see her coming up the path.

It starts to get dark early and he really starts to worry. He thinks about calling the police. He thinks about confessing to the marshals. Something must have happened to her. He calculates the distance on the bus, how long it would take, what would be a reasonable amount of time for a phone call, travel time back to Kasson, walking pace from the bus stop; but he can't work out what is taking so long. He keeps going back to something bad happening, something wrong with their plan; it was by no means fool proof.

When its black inside, Cal hops to the light switch and flicks on the hall light. He puts on the outside light too, to make it easier for Gillian to see as she comes up the path; he has to believe she will be. Soon. Hopefully. He really doesn't know what he'll do if she doesn't come back. He doesn't think she's taken off, though it would be a good opportunity to do so (he doesn't want to believe that. Doesn't want to think her capable of abandoning him). He knows he'll call the marshals though, confess to their stupidity, hope she's ok. They'll find her, even if she has done a runner. But inside, he doesn't know how he'll feel. Thinking about it even now in brief little bursts until he forces himself to change the subject, makes him feel odd and uneasy; all he has is Gillian.

So when he hears a key in the lock, not only does he jump out of his skin in shock, but panic and fear and relief go through him all at once. He reaches for the door as it opens, hopping in closer and yes, its Gillian and he practically falls into her, gripping her fiercely. It takes a second for Cal to realise she's not shoving him away, but holding onto him tightly too, and they stand in the front door, with it wide open, and the cold air coming in around their ankles, for long seconds before Cal's leg starts to ache and makes him need to move again.

"God I was starting to worry," he starts to tell her even as he peels her away from him. "What took so bloody long?" He's not angry. But his tone isn't entirely jovial. Too soon for that.

"The bus," Gillian mumbles.

Cal notices the wateriness to her eyes, the red of her nose, the tiredness in her demeanour. He shuffles back, lets her into the house, shuts the door as she pulls the woollen hat from her head, her hair static and messy beneath it. He wants to call her on maybe pushing herself to do too much right now (which is his fault) but he remembers his daughter. "Did you get her?" He asks urgently, crowding in Gillian so she has to answer him; not that he thinks she wouldn't.

"Yes," she confirms. "She's fine."

More relief goes through Cal, so acute it seems to pinpoint the rightmost edge of his stomach. "Where is she?"

"Staying at a friend's."

"Which friend?'

"She didn't say," Gillian responds almost warily as she takes off her jacket and scarf.

Cal edges back a little, gives her room to breathe, doesn't notice that she's gasping a little, like she's having trouble with it. "What did she say? Did the marshals go to see her?"

"She said she's fine, she's been worried about you, doesn't know what's going on and doesn't know what to do."

"What did you tell her?"

"To stay safe."

Cal stops to study his partner for a moment. She meets his eye but she seems to be hiding something and he doesn't know what or where to begin. He's not sure what to ask next.

"She's being smart Cal. She's staying with someone she trusts," Gillian looks him right in the eye for that one and he gets it. Emily didn't know what was going on, so didn't know who to trust. He supposes it's a good thing she didn't just go off with any man in a suit. Although the marshals would have ID. Still, could never really be too sure. And if she couldn't get hold of him to confirm either way... OK good. She was safe (he supposes. He doesn't know how far of a reach Willis has. If something happened to Emily, would Cal even ever know?). And Gillian spoke to her so that was a good thing too. He trusts both of them.

Cal sighs out his relief. And he looks at Gillian again. "You look cold."

"I am," she admits softly, absently hugging her arms around her body now she has no jacket on, and they're still standing in the entranceway.

"Well." He thinks of what he can do for her now. Not much really, with his broken arm and bung leg. "How about, go have a hot shower, and I'll heat up some soup?" He can still open a tin and stir a pot.

"Sounds great," Gillian looks grateful. Or relieved. But she still seems... off.

Cal steps back further, wondering what else happened on her trip; did something spook her? He'll get it out of her later then, after they eat and she's warm once more. There's no need to interrogate her the minute she gets through the door again (she wasn't overly receptive yesterday when she was straight out of the hospital either) and for now it doesn't seem like someone's trying to shoot up the house. He really is grateful to just have her back. And that she got a message to his daughter. Gillian moves to step around him but Cal catches her arm. She stops immediately, turns back, eyebrows up in question. "Thank you," he tells her and really means it. She gives a nod and they stand for a second so the other knows that it's completely genuinely sent and received. And then Gillian's moving again and Cal goes to the kitchen.

He manages to heat up soup, but Gillian takes a really long time in the shower. He does shuffle down the hall to listen at one point, but still hears the water (and her coughing), and gives up, goes to wait on the couch, the soup on the lowest setting to keep warm. When Gillian appears in the living room half an hour later, he struggles to get up to serve their dinner. Gillian stops him, insists that she'll get it. Cal feels bad (he did offer to cook for her, sort of) but he's also physically pretty useless right now. And it feels nice to be looked after a little; he's already spent too much time living alone with Emily away at college. If he were still married, he and Zoe would have their house to themselves, would have the time for each other, could have the inclination to travel or something else; they were supposed to be enjoying being empty nesters.

So much for that.

(If he were still married to Zoe, she would be here with them right now.)

Gillian's put the soup in deep bowls, which is good, because Cal is a little awkward with adjusting his body weight and if he sits too long, his ass gets numb. Gillian settles on the couch at the other end, an elbow knocking against the toes exposed from the cast on his right leg (because he sits with it stretched out over the cushions), but it doesn't hurt. She pulls the blanket over her legs, and Cal's too by default. She's wearing the thick sky blue hoodie again and he easily gets the impression she's still cold despite the shower; she hugs her soup bowl against her chest.

"It snowing out there?" He asks casually.

"Yeah," Gillian confirms.

So that's why she was cold. But it doesn't explain why she's still cold.

Cal takes a spoonful of tomato soup. It's not bad, considering it's from a tin, but it's not great; there's a weird after taste. But he eats it and Gillian eats most of hers. When she's had enough he asks for the rest and she passes it over. Hands now free, she pulls the blanket up closer to her chin. Cal's pretty warm and his skin tingles beneath both casts, making them feel itchy and claustrophobic, but he wouldn't give up the semi-cuddling on the couch. Not cuddling but... sort of snuggling. Without the snuggling part. What was that called?

And she was his friend, not his girlfriend.

Gillian closes her eyes as Cal finishes up the last of her dinner too. He's not sure she's gone to sleep exactly, but she looks pretty content half-lying there and as much as he wants to start asking questions about her trip out into the even wider world, he doesn't want to disturb her. She did him a big favour, it's earned certain discretions. So Cal digs out the remote for the television from the back of the cushion and puts it on, taking the volume down a few notches. He surfs around for something interesting and finds the movie What Dreams May Come. He thinks he detects Gillian's eyes flicker open to see for a second, but when he does glance over at her, her eyes are still closed.

One of her thighs is pressed against his unbroken shin and it feels too warm and fleshy and so real. He thinks he can smell soap between them but he's not sure and he's probably just imagining it. It feels warmer under the blanket now. Even the toes of his right leg, which are usually numb with the cold and exposure, feel sweaty. And that's gross. Cal shifts his weight a little, giving his backside some relief (he's spent entirely too much time on his ass these last days). Gillian gives a little sigh and her head lolls further to the side. Cal watches her for a moment, then feels a bit like a creep, even if she doesn't say anything.

He goes back to the movie, trying to pick up the plot line, but failing. Visually, it's interesting, or at least something to keep his eyes engaged, even if his brain goes back to wandering. He thinks about his daughter and hopes she really is ok. He thinks about Gillian going to make the phone call on his behalf. He wonders how much longer they're going to be there in Minnesota, before they get moved on to their permanent homes (he doesn't want to think about it too much, so quickly moves on).

And then something else distracts him entirely. It practically rips his attention from the TV and his day dream. It sounds like someone drowning; a wet gurgling sound. It takes him half a second to identify the sound as coming from Gillian. It's the way she's breathing, like there is water in her throat. It sounds the same as it did last night when she first got there and had snuck into bed to get warm. (Ok, he invited her in.)

It's a bit like listening to nails on a chalk board. And Cal lasts half a minute before he purposefully shifts his leg that she's lying on and jostles her a bit. She closes her mouth, adjusts her head, seems to settle again. But at least that horrendous breathing has stopped. He wonders if she wheezes when she's awake too, can't say he's noticed, but thinks he might start paying a bit more attention from now on. She did him a big favour and now he owes her one.

Cal goes back to the movie; Gillian goes back to sleep. And five minutes later that hideous gurgling sound starts up again and Cal is more focussed on her than the screen. He wonders if making her sleep flat on her back would help. Wonders if she should be sitting up more. Wonders if she's too cold. He wonders how he's meant to help her, or if he can. He knows she has medication somewhere and he thinks to maybe wake her up to take it. Gillian coughs a little, settles, goes quiet again. Cal gives up on chivalrous notions of waking her with a steamy beverage to help open up her lungs (or something. He's not entirely sure what to do with the gurgling. Is it mucous in her lungs? Or something else?)

When Cal goes back to the movie for the third time, Gillian starts coughing. And it doesn't stop. She keeps going, little tickly delicate coughs at first, then they get louder and more serious and she's gasping at the end of the bouts, hardly able to catch her breath before the next one starts, and Cal starts to feel the prickle of panic. He doesn't know what to do. When she starts to sound like she's choking, he caves and leans forward, grabbing her shoulder or arm (hard to tell with the blanket covering her up) and shakes her hard. "Gill, wake up," he says firmly (lots of practice waking a sleeping daughter).

She startles into consciousness, her breath sucking in sharply. But it doesn't come out and her eyes go wide in fear. Cal is about to remind her to breathe again when the breath shudders out of her in a great wracking cough and she's pushing to sit up (pressing desperately against his broken leg) and falls against his shoulder. She coughs again and again and Cal can feel her whole body spasm with the effort. He's really starting to worry; wants to do something to help her but feels helpless. His right arm is half around her ribs (and she constantly knocks into his cast as she convulses, which makes his arm ache) and his back twinges from the awkward angle he's sitting at. But he doesn't move. With his left hand he tries to curl back the hair from around her face, let her get some fresh air, but he's uncoordinated with that hand and ends up just caressing her head and face, whatever he manages to get to.

Gillian gasps a last breath and goes quiet and still. Cal moves his left hand to rub her back softly (he can feel her spine, even through the sweatshirt; which is not a good sign). He thinks the coughing fit might be over but when Gillian pulls away (practically gulping air) he sees a little sliver of red against her bottom lip. He's bringing his right hand in before he thinks, definitely doesn't ask permission to invade her personal space. He swipes the back of a finger against her mouth and the sliver of red becomes a streak. He's surprised, recognises it as blood, and feels his face tingle. He looks to Gillian and sees she's pale, and breathless, and there's sweat against her forehead. And more importantly, she looks horrified as she looks at his shoulder.

Cal tilts his head and sees the grey t-shirt he's wearing is smattered with blood droplets. The panic turns his stomach so suddenly he feels sick.

Shit.

Gillian's hand goes to her mouth next and Cal tries to get away from her. Bloody awkward with his broken arm and leg, but while Gillian sits there dazed, he does manage to untangle himself from her and the blanket. "I'm calling an ambulance," he tells her. Because coughing up blood is seriously not good.

"No," Gillian croaks a protest but he's already hobbling to grab the phone from the kitchen. He's mostly stepping on his broken leg and sharp pain shoots up to his knee but he's determined and he's scared. Gillian follows him. He glances back at her as he dials, sees she looks the same; a bit like a zombie. "I'll be ok," she tries to tell him, but she looks ill and is ill and she should just...

"I'm calling them," Call tells her, half listening to an automated message asking him to select the service he requires.

"Cal," Gillian tries again but she's so feeble it's almost comical. "An ambulance?" She's trying to play the low profile card but again, he's not listening. It's not like he can put her in the car and drive her there himself. He can barely walk, let alone handle a gas pedal (besides, he is actually under instruction from the doctor that set is leg to not drive anyway). And he's not letting her drive herself. No way.

Cal doesn't even answer her. He turns his back, answers the operator when he's prompted and explains the situation. Some of the situation. His friend is having breathing problems. Has just coughed up blood (actually, quite a lot of blood). He figures he can explain to the doctors about the meth lab and chemical damage. Or maybe Gillian will have to, because he doesn't actually know what the damage is.

She didn't tell him.

And she starts coughing again.

PJ

Damn, Cal wishes he could pace. He doesn't like waiting, doesn't like sitting still. There's not a mad rush going on as doctors and nurses go in and out of Gillian's cubicle, but he's still anxious; doesn't like being kept in the dark either. They drew the curtain and left him to wait in the corridor. They didn't seem overly anxious in the ambulance either; gave her oxygen and took her blood pressure. Gillian hasn't lost consciousness but she does keep coughing and after one particularly bad bout, there was more blood. Cal's worried but Gillian just seems drained. He shouldn't have asked her to go make the phone call. It was two outings, two days after she got out of the hospital, and it was too much.

The medical staff spend at least an hour (probably closer to two) with Gillian before a nurse tells him he can go in and see her. Cal gets up as fast as he can, balancing on his left foot, quickly getting the crutches under his arms (was a little cramped in the ambulance with them) and starts swinging his way around the curtain; the nurse holds it open for him. Gillian's on the bed, under a white hospital blanket, canellas under her nose, with her eyes closed. Cal's right at her side before she cracks them open to look at him; opens them wider when she recognises that it's him.

Cal hops a little as he shifts the crutches. "Do you mind?" He asks as he moves to perch on the edge of her bed. Gillian makes a half assed effort to give him a bit more space but she barely moves and he rests against her hip anyway. "All right?" He asks softly.
"Yeah," she responds, but sounds breathless, a little wheezy.

"Really?" Cal presses. It's not that he doesn't believe her; it's that he really wants to be sure.

"Yeah," Gillian says again.

"What happened?"

Gillian shifts and gives a small wince.

"Are you in pain?"

"Just a little. From the coughing."

Cal's not surprised. It sounded like she was trying to get rid of a lung.

"Want me to get someone?" Cal asks gently.

"No," Gillian answers shortly and he doesn't know what to make of that. Condescending? Or frustrated? "They think it's just a delayed reaction to the chemicals I inhaled."

Cal's stomach feels uneasy. He's not sure she's said it aloud before; it feels like the first time he's hearing it (that admitting it aloud means it happened: they were in a meth lab explosion). Gillian doesn't add anything else and so Cal isn't sure what to say. He thinks it's because she got too cold, but he doesn't have a medical degree, so what would he know?

"They're going to let me go in a few hours," Gillian does add.

Cal nods. "That's good."

"Did you?"

Cal meets her eye. "Yeah I called them. Felt I should, seeing as we were told to stay put."

Gillian flashes guilt, then nods this time, slow and deliberate, calculating.

"They're gonna give us a ride home."

"Did you tell them about?"

"No."

PJ

Gillian wakes early, maybe a little cold. It seems that despite wearing long trousers, socks and a sweatshirt to bed, she can't keep warm. She's fine if she's up and moving around, but she is aware of huddling all night and being uncomfortable and maybe a part of her feels weird about Cal's expression last night when she got into her own bed and he hovered in the doorway asking her if she was fine where she was, reminding her he was just down the hall if she needed him. It's hard to tell at this point who needs whom. It very much seems that they are leaning on each other. And yeah, a part of her thinks incessantly all night about getting up and going to get into bed with him, while another part wrestles with the idea that he is her friend and she isn't entirely sure she wants to get into bed with him just for the warmth, or for something else.

Everything about this situation has been turned upside down.

Finally realising she needs the bathroom, Gillian gives up on the hope of going back to sleep, and gets out of bed. The room is lighter but still pretty dim and the world feels silent and heavy. Cal sleeps with all his doors (and curtains, it seems; his room is much lighter than hers) open, so she has to close the master bedroom/bathroom door (quietly) to use the toilet. She debates over flushing; it's a noisy process, but also unpleasant to leave it (they aren't that close). She goes for it anyway and washes her hands slowly, letting the tap run a small trickle (because that's less noisy), which means it takes extra time for the hot water to come through. By the time she's done (her hands are pink because the hot water is just too nice), she's feeling paranoid about every noise she creates, every movement she makes; her body feels foreign and her chest hurts.

Before she turns away to get back into bed though (she definitely plans on at least snuggling under the covers for a little longer), she hesitates and looks towards Cal's bedroom door. It's early, she knows, but she wonders if he's awake. She goes to the wood and pushes it a little, so that it inches open and she can see to the bed. He's asleep. Or at least, he has his eyes closed. Gillian inches the door open a little bit more to make sure she can see him accurately. All of the curtains are wide open in there and the falling snow makes illusions on the wall opposite. The snow should mean it's not this cold. Which means it's probably just her. Cal's warm though. He kept her warm the other night. And she can't bear the thought of her cold sheets now that she's not in them. She barges the door fully open with her shoulder and crosses the room quickly. She bends to the mattress, lifting the edge of the blanket and he stirs. "Move over," she whispers.

He grumbles something but obliges with a grunt and a wince (of pain, she thinks and feels bad for making him move. She should have gone around) but as soon as there's a corridor big enough for her to slip into, she does so. At least on this side, his left side, there is no plaster cast. Which means there is no barrier at all to snuggling in against him. She hugs against his arm, slipping her fingers in against his palm (a technique known to stop wandering hands, not that that was why she did it), rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. Cal grumbles a little in his throat but he doesn't shove her off, doesn't move much at all and after a moment, Gillian falls back asleep.

PJ

Cal drifts in and out most of the night. His leg almost constantly aches and whenever he manages to forget for a moment and tries to turn over (because it's so damn uncomfortable sleeping the entire night on his back), sharp pain reminds him of exactly what has happened and exactly where he is. So when he comes to awareness, his butt numb, he's only half surprised to find Gillian there. He remembers her coming in and he remembers moving over (great relief for his ass) and he remembers her cuddling against him. What he doesn't remember is the holding hands part. Or the bit where she has her other hand right over his nipple (lucky he's wearing a shirt). Yeah, that bit he's pretty sure he would have remembered. And it probably would have kept him awake.

He's awake now.

He lies still for a moment, his heart rate going up a few notches, his body temperate rising suddenly as well. It's too warm for him with two of them under the covers. And definitely excessively hot with Gillian practically lying on him. The extra body warmth makes him feel tingly with sweat and his leg itches like crazy on a spot on the back of his calf. Seriously, stupid fucking cast. It's driving him insane and it's only been five days. He wants to reach down to scratch at his leg but it's nothing but a lesson in futile. He can't even stick something that far down to get at the itch. He's thought about the logistics of it. He couldn't come up with anything long enough to start with, nor something that would be firm enough to relieve his skin, but flexible enough to go with the slight bend of his knee.

He needs a distraction, and even then it's barely enough.

Gillian stirs against him and oops, all his fidgeting has woken her. He lays still again, the itch seemingly starting to fade, but he's not sure. The urge to scratch is still overwhelming. Gillian's fingers squeeze against his and the hand on his chest brushes firmly against his t-shirt covered flesh before it withdraws. "Hi," Gillian whispers, shifting her head a little. He catches sleepy blue eyes for a second before they're gone again, her forehead against his neck.

"Morning," he tries, his voice not too croaky from misuse.

"You slept," Gillian notes.

"Yes?" Cal agrees, not sure what her point is.

"You didn't sleep the other night."

That's because she was there. He almost says that aloud. It could have been embarrassing. Or not, because he could just elaborate that he wasn't used to another body being in his bed, or that she slept so damn closely that he kept waking up. But neither of those excuses sounds entirely safe either. So he stays quiet. And he doesn't notice how itchy his leg feels for a few seconds. Gillian makes a good distraction. She always has.

"Did you sleep ok?" Cal tries to steer the conversation away from himself.

"I did."

"You got cold?" He guesses. He's not sure he remembers if she said anything to him when she came in.

"Yeah, earlier this morning."

He supposes it's not a good thing, her seeming inability to regulate her body temperature properly, but it's working out all right for him. "You're feeling better?"

There's a slight pause, but she does confirm that she is (and there were no drowning sounds or coughing that woke him up). She pulls away from him a little more and tilts her hip away from him again. He feels her startle and attempts to grab her (but fails with his casted hand. He just gets tangled in the sheet and crushes his fingers.) "Careful," he warns quickly as Gillian gains her balance herself. "There's not a lot of room."

Gillian's head comes up and she looks behind her. She is literally on the edge of the mattress. Cal attempts to move over a little bit more, give her more space, but she stops him with that hand on his chest again. "It's ok," she tells him. "I'll get up."

Damn.

He wants to think of a good reason why she shouldn't get out of bed but his brain isn't working fast enough yet. He needs coffee, food, and ten minutes to wake up. Also the bathroom. Gillian flicks back the covers, disentangles their fingers, and knocks her head against his jaw as she manoeuvres out of the sheet. She murmurs a sorry and stands, pulling the hoodie down to cover the small of her back again. Cal isn't sure how she can sleep in that thing and not die of heat exhaustion.

The skin is nice.

Gillian says she's ok but Cal isn't entirely convinced. She moves slowly as they go about breakfast and coffee and she doesn't suggest they do anything in particular after that. She does put on a load of washing, asking if he has anything he wants to throw in (and later, when he goes to the bathroom one time and hears the machine beeping that it has finished and he puts some of the clothes in the dryer, he grabs a handful of her underwear: first sighting). She doesn't even get dressed, just hangs out on the couch with him, getting up for food when he agrees to her suggestions. They watch TV for a few hours, and then, bored with that, they play cards. Gillian accuses him of cheating, even though he can't read her face for the life of him. Sometimes he thinks he sees something clearly, but then with her (well, at least since she admitted to deceiving him all those years and never letting it slip), he's not sure.

They were meant to have a conversation. About what they were going to do in regards to the case that got them here. And about what they were going to do once they were moved to their new permanent home. But Cal doesn't have the heart to bring it up just yet (the phone call and resulting blood coughing incidences of yesterday far too fresh in his mind). He feels he's pushed at Gillian either too much or too hard, maybe both, so thinks he should just back off for a moment. It's only a day and it's nice to just have the time to spend with her (because when he considers all the ways in which he might not have any time with her at all, he thinks this mundane little day is a pretty damn good compromise). His leg itches though, half way down his thigh and he thinks he can reach it with his finger if the gap between the plaster and his skin is big enough.

"Hang on," Cal tells Gillian, tucking his cards under his left thigh and leaning all the way back so he can get in to his right. He tries his index finger first, then his middle finger, but the middle one just brushes the edge of the itchy spot, infuriating it a little more. Cal gives a grunt of derision and looks to find Gillian firstly frowning, then switching to amused. "Need something longer," he tells her. A knife from the kitchen would do it. A butter knife.

"Blow on it," she tells him and gets up off the couch easily, knocking the cards that were on the cushion between them into disarray. She puts her cards down on the coffee table while Cal does a double take. It sounds like she just said she was going to blow him. But that can't be right (seriously, it cannot be right. Unless... No. No, no, he must have misheard). She leaves the room and disappears for a few minutes and Cal thinks he might have made it to the kitchen by now to get that knife and help himself out.

Cal wiggles a bit, kicking the cards into a bigger mess, trying to get at the itch. It is seriously so damn close. He hasn't often wished he were bigger, but right now he desires his fingers to be just a little bit longer. He feels a growl of frustration in his throat. Gillian comes back into the lounge with a hairdryer. She plugs it into the wall while Cal watches her incredulously. Seriously? He can't even...

"Move over here a bit," Gillian directs when it's clear the device doesn't quite reach him on the couch. She makes him stand right by the wall (so much for a bit), with his palms pressed against it like he's preparing for a full body search. When Gillian kneels by his hip he does actually start to feel a little uncomfortable. She looks up at him, her blue eyes clear and slight amusement on her face (perhaps the orientation of the situation is not lost on her either). "This is going to... help."

Cal gives her a frown, doesn't know what to say, doesn't really know what to expect. She turns the hair dryer on, sticks a finger into the top of his cast (on the side that is nowhere near his groin) and pulls a little, like she can peel back the plaster from his skin. He gets the hint and presses his leg back against the gypsum as much as possible and there is a gap big enough; he can get his finger in there after all. Gillian angles the air so it blows down his leg and even though the distraction of her being so close was working just fine on its own, the cold air against his skin, which at first does nothing, helps. A lot.

He wants her to blow his whole leg.

Heh.

Cal chuckles a little and Gillian looks up at him again. "What?"

"Nothing," he responds. "It's a good trick."

Gillian gives a sly little smile. "It helps?"

"Yeah."

"Anywhere else?"

"My knee," Cal smirks.

Gillian twists her mouth, shifts the air back and forth across the top of his thigh. "Sorry. I only know a few tricks."

Gillian is on her knees in front of him, turning tricks.

Heheheh.

Gillian catches his grin and smiles pleasantly in return.

"I'll take what I can get," Cal tells her, shifting his weight forward onto the toes of his left foot and hands, so he's putting less pressure on his bad leg (it makes his muscles ache to hold it off the ground and yet even resting the cast on the carpet makes the point of the break hurt). Gillian makes this a little bit more bearable. He thinks life would be dull without her in it. And he's grateful that they've been kept together. If he was going to be stuck in this with anyone, he would want it to be her. 'This' being the witness protection thing. Cal realises he hasn't seen her smile that genuinely amused, that carefree, in a while.

Gillian shifts to the back of his cast, using her finger to wiggle into the gap and he presses his thigh forward this time, as much as possible. He tries not to think about her being that close to his butt and when something brushes firmly against it, he's startled, thinking it's her hand before realising it was the hair dryer. She murmurs a 'sorry' but keeps going and even though his skin isn't itchy back there, the cool dry air feels wonderful compared to the sweaty claustrophobic plaster.

Gillian is patient so it's Cal that calls off the blow job (he's got to stop thinking like that). Mostly, he gets tired of standing that way, not that he doesn't appreciate the air and not that it doesn't feel incredible, he just gets tired of holding his weight on one foot and trying to keep the heavy cast from being weight bearing. He goes back to the couch, swinging his leg up to the cushions (cards are a complete wreck at this point) and shifting his butt down so his head is resting on the arm rest. He's more comfortable that way but he still makes sure to leave room for Gillian. She goes to the put hair dryer away, though he's tempted to suggest she leaves it out. He closes his eyes and feels her weight against the cushions when she returns. The TV goes on quietly and Cal drifts some more. And then he falls asleep.

Cal puts his fork back in his empty bowl. "That was fantastic. Haven't eaten that well in a while."

"You need someone to take care of you," Gillian says, then is embarrassed; her face feels warm.

Cal gives a small smile; his slightly amused smirk. "It's becoming more apparent."

Gillian gets up from the table, even though she hasn't finished (she wasn't overly hungry to start with, seeing as she has done nothing at all today). "Do you want some more?" She asks as she also takes his bowl. She moves into the kitchen.

"Nah I'm stuffed."

She watches as he struggles to his feet, leaning on one of his crutches and the table, then the door frame, to leave the room. Surely the hospital would have sent him home in a wheelchair. Cal in a wheelchair? She laughs to herself. Nope, can't imagine it (the way he goes, he would probably ignore it even if there were one provided). She rinses out their bowls (but leaves the dishes for tomorrow), puts the leftover food away in the fridge, and goes into the other room again (eating at the table was merely an exercise in breaking up staring at the walls. There are different walls in the kitchen/dining room to look at).

Cal nudges the remote towards her when she drops down next to him, so she flicks the television on and starts hunting. She gives up on finding something entertaining to watch, so settles on a music channel playing classics from her childhood (nothing contemporary at all), and reaches for the nail polish she found under the sink earlier when she was getting the hair dryer for Cal's leg.

'Dreams' by Fleetwood Mac is ending when she checks her toenails to see if the nail polish has dried. She puts her socks back on and looks over at Cal. He's asleep again and it's good to see; he needs to rest (he's meant to be healing, and he doesn't seem to sleep so well when he's in bed). But she also thinks about waking him and making him go to bed. It's late and he'll probably wake early now. He napped before dinner too.

Today was a good day. It felt like a turning point of sorts. Cal slept and her lungs didn't feel as bad as they did when she woke up really early that morning. They even feel better than they did when she first got out of the hospital just a few days ago. And she, in general, feels good. More energetic, less tired, more focussed. Not that she's been exercising her brain in particular. There are still cards in the couch (she couldn't get them all around a sleeping Cal) and she's done nothing this afternoon and evening but dry the last of the laundry, paint her toenails and listen to music (watching the occasional music video). She didn't really cook anything elaborate for dinner either (it was nicer to get off the couch and do something somewhat constructive, rather than try to impress). Tomorrow, though, she thinks they should do something practical; maybe work on that email for the Lightman Group (though she's not volunteering to go out and send it. Not yet).

Socks on, the song ends, and ads start playing next. Gillian turns the power off. The room goes suddenly quiet and she looks over at Cal. He doesn't stir. He sleeps with his mouth open a little and seems vulnerable. Gillian slips the remote to the coffee tablet and gets up, untangling a leg from the blanket that was half over her lap (she also doesn't feel as cold as she did).

"Cal," she says. He still doesn't stir. It's kind of weird standing there, watching him sleep. It's not the first time she's caught him napping on a couch, but this is the first time she's stopped to think about it (usually she's on a mission to tell him something or get answers or go somewhere).

"Cal," she tries again and leans down to his shoulder, giving it a squeeze and a shake.

He startles and opens his eyes. "What?"

"Come on, let's go to bed."

He seems disorientated for a second.

"It's late," she carries on, letting him go.

Cal sits (struggles, actually) and manoeuvres himself to get up. Gillian reaches for his crutches (both together for once) and hands them over. He takes them without refusal, without fuss, and she puts out the lights and heads down the hall ahead of him, lighting the way as she goes and getting to the bathroom first. She doesn't linger in there, knowing he's half asleep and will want to get in behind her. She calls that the bathroom is free and goes out the hallway door to her room. She turns down the bed spread and kneels on the mattress (doesn't need to change into pyjamas) when she realises she forgot to say goodnight to Cal. She lies there with the light on, the covers up to her chin, debating with herself about sleeping with him. Not sleeping with him, but going to sleep with him. He calls out a 'goodnight' and she echoes it and listens to him getting into bed. She waits a beat longer, but she's lost her nerve. So she puts the light out and lies in the dark, still thinking about him as she goes to sleep.