"All right now I've had a look at your latest scan," Doctor George pulled Cal's file towards her. "And it's clear. I'm pretty confident we've knocked this on its head."

Cal nodded. But he didn't feel relief this time, not like when he was still in the hospital and was being told he was fine. He didn't really feel much of anything. It was just more tests, more numbers, more of the same thing. The stitches in his neck had already been removed and he had more scars now to add to what was becoming a very long list. The Mitchell incident was over two years ago but the scars on his wrists were still a dull pink. They would take a long time to fade, if they were going to disappear at all. Now that the stitches were gone and the dressings that were protecting them, the little bald patches just under Cal's jaw were visible. He thought about tidying up his beard when he got home. He forgot to listen to the doctor. She was saying something about him having following check-ups every year for a while, just to make sure.

When he got home Cal crawled into bed. He had been running and running and fighting and fighting and he felt exhausted. Gillian would be home with Lewis soon. Cal pretended he was asleep.

PJ

When Cal tried to sleep at night his mind would run on overload. It went over and over subjects he thought he had already put to rest during the day. He thought about work, cases, analysing where he'd gone wrong, the things he had missed. If only he'd gotten to a different conclusion. If he'd worked faster, looked deeper, tried harder. It wasn't like he had screwed up monumentally. It wasn't like he hadn't found the lies and the liars. It wasn't life or death. It was more that he seemed to be slightly off his game. Ria was pointing out more micro-expressions while Cal felt like he was working in a thick soup. Nothing was really clear anymore.

Cal tossed and turned. He listened to Gillian sleeping in the darkness of their room. Their house. Their room. Their bed. His beautiful wife. He thought about everything he'd put her through. It went back for years. But the scariest things of all had happened in the last three. Since they had been married. Sure he'd been a careless shit with their relationship before they got married but he'd been even worse with it afterwards. And that's when he had tried the hardest to be there for her in the best way he knew how. Clearly the best of him wasn't good enough. What if he had nothing else to offer her?

What if he'd died? She would never forgive him that. What if the cancer had been worse? He didn't think he could stand letting her take care of him while his hair fell out and he threw up for days on end. He wouldn't want to do that to her. Or Lewis. They never made promises to each other about in sickness and in health. But then what was he going to do? Leave her? Leave Lewis?

'Crazy shit thoughts,' Cal told himself and rolled over again.

He couldn't leave her. Not only did love her too much for that, he also knew she loved him too much. Which brought him back around to an idea, a theory, he had tried ignoring and denying for years. It cropped up from time to time, right around the moments of particular stress. When Cal was vulnerable and feeling sorry for himself. About his self worth. About what she was worth to him. What she deserved from him. Cal could feel it curling around the edges of his brain now and he hated it. It made him feel sick. He wanted to ignore it, deny it, pretend it didn't exist. He wished it didn't. He wished for a do-over. He wished he could just go to sleep so he didn't go down this stupid garden path to arrive at dumbs-ville. He wasn't making any sense, not even in his own head.

He felt worse now than when he'd allegedly had a cancerous lump in his throat. Wasn't he supposed to feel better now?

PJ

"Cal."

He ignored her. He didn't want to get up. He didn't want to talk. He wasn't hungry. He just wanted to sleep.

"Cal honey, come on," she shook his shoulder gently.

"What?" He asked lightly. His voice was no longer raspy and he didn't have to talk in a whisper to avoid blinding pain. But his voice had a hoarseness to it that meant he was unrecognisable on the phone and he was still being sub-consciously careful.

"You've been asleep for hours."

"Yeah," he agreed. As in, 'so what?'

"So it's time to get up and... come and hang out with me." It sounded as though she had changed her mind half way through the sentence. Cal cracked an eye open at her. She was crouching down next to his side of the bed, giving him that gentle 'mothering' expression of concern. "I'm worried about you," she added softly.

"I'm all right," Cal responded in a mumble. "Docta said."

"Yes, in that way you are all right but..." she hesitated.

Cal watched the way the light in her eyes dimmed a little. He could just imagine the thought processes in her head. She wanted to help him, she was worried about him, but she was also too aware that she tended to smother. How far into the thick of it was the balance? Cal rolled on to his back. Her hand trailed across his chest to rest on his opposite arm.

'I don't want to lose you.'

Cal hadn't realised it at the time but maybe he saw now. She didn't just mean physically. She meant emotionally too. She didn't want him to shut down and close himself away, which this situation absolutely had the potential to do. And that was his modus operandi too wasn't it? Or it had been. Or it still was? He didn't know anymore. He didn't know anything about anything anymore. This was the crossroads. Did he tell her to bugger off and drive a wedge between them? He was aware enough to know that's what would happen. Or did he open up to her and let her in and heaven forbid, actually let her help make him feel better? Because being close to her had always quelled his storm. And he had made promises to her about making sure their marriage didn't suffer.

"I'm worried about me too."

Gillian stood up and shooed him to move over. She climbed into his embrace and held him tightly. Cal pressed his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder. "I just don't feel right," he admitted.

"I think you're depressed."

"Right, that," Cal agreed. Depressed. It was on his top five for most despised words. It tasted bitter on his tongue. And he could taste it. But he knew it was true. He felt like shit.

Being depressed around her somehow felt offensive. It felt like he was throwing back in her face everything that she was to him. It was like telling her that he couldn't be happy despite her. It was like saying her love wasn't enough for him. But Cal knew logically that depression was not something he could control. He could manage it though. And it had nothing to do with whether his wife loved him or not (although he would probably feel ten times shitter if she didn't); it was an uncontrollable chemical imbalance in his brain. That was what made depression an illness. He couldn't stop it anymore than he could have stopped the growth of the tumour in his throat. But he could treat the tumour and get rid of it, fight to be healthy again. And he had. He was. So why not fight the depression too? He had done it before he could do it again. He had even better reasons for fighting it this time around. Not only did he have Gillian, but he had Lewis now too.

"You've been through a lot. Cancer is scary. Surgery, recovery. You're facing your own mortality. And on top of that, you didn't deal with it weeks ago because you were being strong for me and Lewis."

"You sound like a shrink," Cal made sure he sounded exaggeratedly surprised so she wouldn't think he was mocking her. He wasn't. She was being astute. And he was listening.

"What can I do to help you Cal? Do you want me to find you a doctor?"

"No, no more docta's. I can't rememba half the ones I've already got," Cal grumbled.

"I meant someone to talk to."

Cal pulled back a little. "I can talk to you."

She watched him carefully. "Sure. If you feel like you can talk to me." She paused and added, "If you feel like I can help you."

Cal gave her a slightly softer expression. His way of saying yes. Truth was, he wanted to see if she could. Not a test. More like curiosity. She had been counselling him for years about his behaviours and relationships with other people. And that had turned out pretty well. Why not let her help him with this too? She always did it in a respectful way so he didn't feel belittled, or less of a man. He doubted she would make him feel like a nut job over this either. He had been looking after her for years perhaps it was time to let her take care of him. Wasn't that what going to New York had been about? Finding a new balance in their relationship.

Gillian leaned up on her elbow. "Come out side. Lewis is taking apart the garden again."

"We should get him a sandpit."

Gillian's eyes lit up. "Yes! That would be a great Christmas present."

"I'm not sure the garden will survive until Christmas."

"Early Christmas present then." Gillian sat up further and moved off the bed. "Come on," she held out her hand. "Come and hang out with me and your trouble son."

"Your son," Cal grumbled in response. But he took her hand and let her pull him into a sitting position. She pulled the covers away from him. He was in underwear and nothing else. She gently pulled him to his feet and walked him around the bed to his drawers. She opened them and found jeans. She made him step into each leg and then pulled them up his thighs to his hips. She fastened the bottom button of the fly, loving that she had reached for this particular pair. Cal watched her delicate fingers at work. "Oh, you just wanted to cop a feel," he quipped dryly.

"If I was going to cop a feel I would to this," she responded and slipped her hands around the back of his pants to squeeze his underwear clad butt. She gave him a self-satisfied smile and Cal chuckled. Gillian fastened the top button and even tucked in one of the pockets that wasn't sitting flat. Cal was amused by her attention to detail. Gillian turned to his dresser again and handed him deodorant. Cal obliged while she found a shirt for him to wear.

"Arms," she directed. Cal held them out in front of him dutifully, enjoying this game far more than he thought he would. It was like basic care but in no way demeaning. In fact, it was tender and careful, gentle, loving, just what Cal needed. She had looked after him many times; stabbing, depression, appendicitis, cancer, Brandon Bloody Mitchell. And he had only managed to care for her a handful less; car accident, miscarriage, IVF...

Sometimes they needed something like this to ground themselves.

Gillian threaded the arm holes over his hands and gathered up the material to make the biggest gap possible to put over his head. Cal pushed through the hole and Gillian was right there, stepping in to smooth the material down over his shoulder's and back. "Much better," she told him. "Not that I'm complaining about seeing you in your underwear all day." She ran her fingers through his hair, probably combing it into some sort of order. She took his hand again and Cal let her lead him outside in to the sun.

"You're not gonna make me shave my beard off are you?"

Gillian turned to give him a slight smile while they walked. "I actually kind of like it."

Cal raised an eyebrow.

"Especially now that you've trimmed it."

PJ

"You know it's over right? The doctor says you're fine now."

"Yes I know."

"It hasn't sunk in?" Gillian asked gently.

"I don't know what it is."

Gillian smoothed her hand over his cheek, feeling her way in the dark. "Puts everything into a different perspective." It wasn't a question. "You know I admire your strength sometimes. In the middle of a crisis. You hold it together. The first thing I want to do is break down in tears and bury my head in the sand and wish it all away." She spoke softly, her voice caressing in the intimacy they shared in their bed. "But the thing about being strong is that it takes its toll eventually. Physically and emotionally."

Cal sighed contently. He loved listening to her voice. The way she formed words. The lilt of her timbre. Sometimes he wondered what someone as beautiful and smart and sweet as she was, was doing with someone as scarred as he was.

"Still with me?"

"Yes," Cal spoke up.

"You know it's ok to rely on other people occasionally. It's not burdening someone else with your troubles. It's a healthy release. Everyone needs someone to talk to. If you can't talk to me that's ok. You found someone you could talk to. Maybe you should go to see them again."

"You know me luv," Cal trailed his hand up her arm and then down the back of her shoulder to the small of her back. "I don't tend to talk about my troubles."

"I know."

"I'll settle for a hug." Cal could hear her smile in the darkness as she shifted closer still and wrapped her arm around the back of his shoulders.

"I have plenty of hugs at my disposal." She held him tightly and turned her head to press a kiss against his cheek. She couldn't see him. She just knew where he was.

Her touch, kiss, caress, her warmth really did make Cal feel better. He might fall down into the dark pit by accident before he realised what was happening, but it always had been and always would be his choice to stay there or climb out of it again. Happiness was a choice. Being with Gillian was a choice. Being alive was a choice. Living to the fullest was a conscious decision. It was so much better when he was with Gillian; when their connection was powered up to its fullest. How could he even forget that? How could he even doubt that? Depression was a cruel disease. It made him forget who he was. It sucked the light out of everything and left him just as a man. And sometimes, a scared little boy.

"Sometimes I act like a right arse."

"Sometimes we all do."

He knew she was talking about the baby. A subject they hadn't quite found their way to dealing with properly. So far, they were coping.

"Why do you put up with me?"

Gillian sighed. She pulled back and kissed his lips this time. She was warm and soft. "An irrational love that I can't actually deny."

"Have you tried?"

"Once," she answered conversationally. "It didn't work out for me too well."

"Nor me."

She kissed him again. "It's better when I embrace it fully."

Cal gave a slight smile in the dark; his lip curled up in amusement. He loved it when they had the same thoughts at the same time. "I like it better that way too."

"We make magic that way," she whispered. "And I do so love our magic."

"Me too," Cal whispered back. Depression was like an irrational childhood fear of the monster under the bed. If he always ran Cal didn't really know what he was running from; his fear became about the fact that he was running, a desperate need to just escape the dread. If he turned and challenged depression, stared it right in the eye, put the light on, checked under the bed, knew exactly what he was facing, suddenly it didn't seem like such a big problem. And if he had Gillian by his side, the biggest ray of pure white love he had ever known to exist, then how could he possibly be afraid anymore?