Caught up in her new flood of hurt and anger, first at his revelation of how little he cared for himself, then at his seeming lack of care for her, she did little to adjust her driving into more caution. In New York Gale rarely drove at all, and she had always regarded rules of speed limits and road regulations as more of suggestions to consider rather than laws. Her foot heavy on the gas pedal, she wove around other vehicles as though she were on a life or death mission to get to the hospital rather than a more routine seeking of information.
She doesn't really register Dewey's suggestion of eating until she pulls into the hospital parking lot, nearly scraping the bumper of the rental against the curb in the process. Rolling her eyes, she doesn't look at him as she unbuckles.
"Hospital food. Appetizing. No thanks."
Never mind that she hasn't eaten since...when? Yesterday afternoon? She's had other things to focus on, especially today.
Glancing over at Dewey as she gets out of the car, she sees him holding onto his hand as if he was keeping it from reaching out to grab the wheel and rolled her eyes. "What? I wanted to get here fast. You're fine."
Of course he knew that Gale wouldn't want anything to do with hospital food, but it's not like he can ask to take her out to lunch; one, they're investigating a masked serial killer, and two, she'd take it as him asking for a date, and that's a sure fire way to get his throat ripped out. He'd just have to grab her something anyway and *lightly* insist she take it; if there was one thing he was going to put his foot down on, it was that she was going to be healthy.
Dewey realized the irony of the thought. Not only in the fact that on the surface Dewey didn't care for Gale at all, despite the fact that he did, but that he refused to take care of himself; his solution to any form of pain was medication or alcohol. The effects were temporary but it was more effective than anything a doctor prescribed. He knew it was a dumb solution, but he just...didn't care. As a matter of fact, he wanted it to kill him, but his body had already taken such a toll from stabbings and concussions that it built a tolerance.
He felt he deserved a slow death, though. Not just so he could feel the physical equivalent of Gale's mental anguish but to feel the pain of ever Ghostface victim - hell, he'd take whatever Samantha's sister was given. Speaking of which, he realized now that they were at the hospital, Gale's sudden break of the pedals pulling him from his mind.
Right, his stream of thought started with her. He really messed up when his tongue slipped by mentioning New York; he started getting too comfortable too fast, and it was clear Gale wasn't as quick to open up as much as he was. When he had realized the mess he put himself into, he wanted nothing more than to contact her and return to her waiting arms, but that was wishful thinking; if he contacted her, she'd unleash the powers of Hell straight into his eardrum. So, he never said a word to her. He thought it would be better if she accepted the fact that he was gone, or dead even.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, but the apology came after her comment about his trembling hand, so he expected her to take it as an apology for thinking she was going to kill him in an accident. The tremor in his hand hadn't stopped, but it shook considerably less when he clutched onto it with his other hand. He was craving a drink, and badly too, but with a serial killer on the loose, one that tends to always go after him, he knew he couldn't. He almost hoped this investigation was going to take them until midnight, just so he didn't have to deal with the impossible task of going to sleep during a withdrawal.
Still smarting from the slipped comment about her being alone in New York, Gale deliberately kept her body and face angled away from Dewey as she turned towards the hospital. She couldn't remember Samantha's last name, let alone the name of her sister in the hospital, but she wasn't about to let that stop her. She didn't glance back to see if Dewey was following her until she had almost reached the hospital doors, and then she narrowed her eyes, confused and somewhat concerned at how slowly he was walking, and the way he was holding his hand. Was it his limp? Had he stopped taking pain medication? Was the old nerve damage in his arm and shoulder acting up again?
"You're hurt," she said, a semi gruff sounding statement rather than a question. Because damn it, she did still fucking care. "What do you need?"
"I'm not hurt," he stated, looking up from the ground as he limped to the doors. Shit, she saw him - he had to divert the conversation elsewhere. "What I need is to find the killer," he said as he came up beside Gale. "And maybe a nap," he joked, impish smile crossing his lips. His grin was wiped from his face when a wave of nausea hit him, his gut feeling as if it had been punched by a heavy-weight champion. He felt his back arch slightly when he instinctively curled in on himself from the pain, so he quickly readjusted before it looked obvious that something was wrong; for emphasis, he dropped his shaking hand and hung it beside his thigh, out of Gale's sight.
It had always annoyed the hell out of Gale when Dewey attempted to divert her attention from something with lame jokes. Especially when what she was trying to talk about was serious. She was not even slightly amused now, when it was very clear to her that something was wrong. More than awkwardness or guilt, more than concern for Samantha or her sister or future murder victims. Something was wrong with Dewey, physically, and she continued to eye him, not moving.
She didn't miss the pained, almost anguished look that crossed his face even as he tried to smile, or the stiffening of his back, the tremor of the hand he quickly hid. He might be able to fool someone watching him casually, but Gale had known him far too long to miss his tells for pain. He was showing her now with his gestures that he was hurting badly, more than the usual daily amount, and in spite of her desire not to care, her heart beat faster in her chest with sudden fear.
"You're a terrible liar. That's the real reason you didn't say anything to me all this time, you knew I would know it every time you lied to me," she blurted, the words out of her mouth and in the air the moment they came to her mind. "You're hurt, something is wrong. When did you last see a doctor? I know this is bad, Dewey, don't try to deny it. Someone needs to look at you before you do anything for anyone else."
His face pinched harder when Gale practically opened him like a book. He knew it was true, that he never said a thing to her before he left because he knew Gale would figure out what he was going to do; he had acted like nothing was out of the ordinary - no pulling back or being overly affectionate, just normal. They still greeted each other at the door when Gale returned home. They still sat on the couch and chatted together when they ate the dinner Dewey put together, 'cause God knows Gale can't cook to save her life. They still showered together, taking turns washing the harder to reach placed, tracing over every scar adorned on them. They still slept in the same bed and - fuck, he just wants to capture her in a bone-crushing hug right now!
He wanted to earn back her trust, and to do that is do what he didn't do two years ago; tell her. Even as his mind waged war against his heart, he wheezed out, "Not in a long time. Not that it would matter - I know what's happening," he clutched his arm around his stomach and placed a hand on the wall just beside the hospital doors. "Haven't had a drink in a few hours, and my body's starting to remind me."
"Haven't had a drink in a few hours, and my body's starting to remind me."
As Gale continued to stare at Dewey, her muscles went rigid with the shock of his words, her head actually flinching back slightly. They had hit her like a physical slap, and it was suddenly obvious to her, all the signs she had missed- or more likely, deliberately overlooked. She hadn't wanted to see them for what they were, the clear signs of withdrawal. The empty bottles scattered through his home, the early morning drinking, the dismissal from his job, drinking on the job, behind the wheel…as obvious as it was that he had a problem with drinking, she somehow had managed to downplay this, as concerning as it was, to just that, a problem. Poor choices, bad habits and coping. Not an addiction. Not physical, bodily need to drink.
Looking at Dewey then, she flashed back forty, fifty years ago, to a time when she was once again face to face with an alcoholic whom she loved. Her mother, as weak as their relationship had always been, and as normal as it was for her to watch her, had nevertheless provoked mixed feelings of anger, shame, worry, and resignation in her as she watched her slowly sicken and fall deeper into her addiction. In her memory she saw flickers of her mother's slackened face, heard her slurred voice, ignoring Gale to address men with swollen stomach and sour breath. She remembered how sick she had felt, how full of rage when some of them looked her up and down, calling her honey, telling her she was a pretty girl, and involuntarily, the present Gale shuddered before snapping her focus back to Dewey.
She would never have thought this could happen to him. Not to him, the one man she could ever trust to be dependable, the one person who always tried so hard to do the right thing- far harder than Gale herself. How could Dewey Riley's life become something even somewhat close to the life of those men from years ago?
No. This was Dewey. This was Dewey, and so addiction or not, withdrawal or not, this had to be different. Things could still be different for him, better for him.
She suppressed simultaneously strong yet opposing urges to grab Dewey and shake him until she gave him whiplash or to wrap him in a hug and refuse to let go. Going for the middle ground, she stepped closer, trying to keep her voice as calm and even as she could, even as an undercurrent of anxiety, frustration, and concern colored it just enough that even she was aware she wasn't entirely successful.
"Okay, Dewey. So…this is where things are. There is no way in hell you're going to go after a killer like this. Do you get that you will end up dead? If you're in withdrawal right now, you won't be able to walk for long, let alone run or fight. This is serious, you could die of a heart attack or something even just walking around. You think if you go question a potential murderer, they won't be able to tell you're an easy target? No, you need to get checked out before you do a single thing for Samantha or her sister."
Taking out her phone, she started googling withdrawal, scrolling to find out ways to help. "Look, this should be something that's medically monitored. It says you should be staying hydrated, eating, you might need a medication to help you through it. It says you could hallucinate or even have a seizure."
Starting to get more worried the more she read, she shoved her phone back into her purse, taking his arm again on impulse, this time far more gently as she looked up at him, her expression earnest now with her concern.
"You can't ignore this. We have to go get this taken care of."
There were many things Dewey could agree on, but being put on the sideline wasn't one of them, not when he has the chance to make meaning behind everything that has happened in the past two years. He has gone through several withdrawals at this point, and he survived each one of them; of course, he fixed it with alcohol, but he wasn't going to let himself get help. And he survived being stabbed nine times and now has a funny little limp that constricts with pain when it gets a little too cold, but he was still kicking.
"We don't have time for that," he huffed. "People's lives are in danger, Gale. And not like mine, where I put myself in this position; no, these people, these kids, are having it forced on them."
And so what if he was an easy target? All the killers beforehand thought the same thing and look who came out alive! Granted he was incapacitated at some point during each attack...but that's only because they snuck up on him, which they won't be able to do when he's...hungover and high on painkillers - fuck. Dewey loved Gale to death, but goddammit did he hate it when she was right about him.
It was only after Gale listed off the other side effects of a withdrawal did he decide that *maybe* he could sit down and have some water and food; of all the times before he asked for death, and he had to be at his highest risk of it now? Then again, he was always closer to death when he never asked for it. "Fine, I'll...I'll sit for a bit," he waved his hand in defense towards Gale.
And as things always seem to go, he was practically groveling to her feet when she grabbed his arm again; it wasn't vice-like as it had been last time. It was gentle and...caring. If he wasn't so close to vomiting out his internal organs, he'd kiss her now. Wait - no, that's really forward. And then it was all near lost when she hinted to him that he needed to be taken into the hospital for treatment. "Are you kidding me, Gale? They won't let me leave if I go in there," he protested.
"We don't have time to have to give you CPR or shocks to the heart if you fall down, or a feeding tube if you go into a seizure and bite your tongue off either!" Gale shot back. "This isn't an option, Dewey. I will drag you in there myself and strap you to a damn bed if that's what you need, if that's what you're going to make me do."
Well that sounded...slightly kinky. Trying to hide the sudden flush to her face, Gale pushed on, relieved when he agreed that he would at the very least sit down for a while. Still keeping hold of his arm, worried now about letting go of it just in case he did suddenly fall down into a seizure in front of her, she started to tug him, still gently , towards the hospital doors.
"Yeah, and that's probably exactly what you need, being admitted. But on second thought, if Samantha's sister is in the hospital and so are Samantha and her friends, most likely the killer is too. So maybe it's not a great timing now for you to be on your back hooked up to IVs, even if you actually need to be. But if you fall out on me, I swear to god-"
She doesn't finish the sentence, just shaking her head grimly, lips pressed tightly together. Hand still hooked through his arm, she tried to numb herself to the very noticeable fact of his body near hers and the affect this was having on her.
"Guess we're going for shitty cafeteria food after all."
He won't lie, having Gale this close to him, by her own choice, made his chest untighten itself ever so slightly; no matter how powerful his love was for her, his body's overwhelming want for alcohol was going to be stronger. Granted, being threatened to be tied to a bed wasn't exactly what he wanted to be told, but he expected nothing less from Gale Weathers. She tried to hide it, but he could see a twinge of red peaking around her cheekbone, and it was only then did he realize that what she said would have sounded very different under other circumstances.
A chill ran up his spine at the unintentional innuendo, and he couldn't tell if his face became just as red as Gale's, but he knew it felt hot. Whatever it may be, it would be easier to tell as they pushed through the hospital doors and were greeted with the all-too-familiar blinding white walls; just in case he didn't feel like he was being committed already. In only two decades did the place look like it came out of a different era; he remembered the receptionist desk having a giant box for a computer compared to the small flat screen one there now. He didn't exactly garner any good memories in this place, though.
In '96, he woke up with tubes sticking out of his arms and a sobbing mother. Once she saw his eyes open, his face was rained down upon with kisses. He almost couldn't remember why he was there, but it was quick to rush back to him when he felt a stabbing pain in his back. The Macher House, Halloween playing on the TV, Tatum hanging from the garage pet door, and - oh my God. *Tatum*. He almost hadn't recognized it was her when he first saw her body, but the yellow sweater and orange skirt combo were unmistakable to him in a millisecond. She wasn't making a sound and blood dripped down her arm. Through falling tears and shaking breaths, he got close enough to see that her neck was pointing down at an odd angle. All he could think of then was that she must've suffered, and all alone too.
His sadness and anger brought him out of the garage and back into the house again, but he failed to the notice the ghost-masked figure hiding in the shadows just behind him, and *boom*, a buck knife was shoved into his back. He tried to flee, but the shock and sudden limp brought what would've been a run to a hobble. He couldn't feel his arm either, not even when it was smashed between himself and the door when he collapsed into it. When he looked back at the killer as he fiddled with the doorknob, he saw them standing there; they were a few paces away and stalking slowly behind him, head tilting ever so slightly as the emotionless mask watched the pain written over their victim's face.
His numb hand managed to turn the knob and the door lightly swung open. In the path leading up to the door was Sidney, drenched in tears and blood. "Sid?" he remembers saying before tripping over his stiff foot and catching himself on the banister. He was only able to hang on for so long before his useless arm didn't allow his fingers to clutch onto the column any longer. When he hit the porch, an entire wave of pain rippled across his back; it hurt even more so when the knife that was embedded into his back was ripped out. He can only recall blackness after that before his eyes were burned by the morning sun and breath obnoxiously louder with the gas mask placed over half his face. He dipped in and out of consciousness the entire ambulance ride and could only repeat one word in his head that he kept hearing in the small blips he was awake - 'Surgery'.
He wouldn't be in Woodboro's Intensive Care until 2011, however it was initially because Gale was recovering from a stab to the shoulder; if he was just a few seconds early, he would've taken the stab instead of Gale, 'cause there's no doubt in his mind that he would've jumped the masked freak the moment he busted into the loud and crowded barn. Everything was supposed to be over, but there always had to be a new twist - it wasn't a Stab movie without one. The moment Gale asked how Jill Roberts had known about the position of her wound, his mind clicked into place, and he rushed off towards Sidney's room; unfortunately, Jill was already there and took to beating the more imposing figure over the head with a bedpan, a point Dewey likes to keep out of the story anytime someone unfamiliar with the story asked, when his back was turned. He was already on the floor, but she continued to hit him until blood coated his hair. He tried to move, but his body refused and willed itself to sleep. When he finally woke up, everything was already over - Jill had just taken a bullet to the chest and he and Sidney were given the time to rest and have new wounds nursed.
Now that he thinks about it, maybe that concussion was what made him think leaving his wife in the middle of the night without a word was a good idea - well, not 'good' idea. Speaking of whom, she seemed to begrudgingly accept hospital cafeteria food, however he was sure she wasn't going to take a bite of anything; he'd just have to insist. If she wants to help with his problems, he's going to help with hers - he'd just have to be more…subtle about it.
He was able to convince the receptionist that Gale and himself were friends of Samantha and her sister, whether it be through dumb luck or the reputation of four-time Ghostface survivors Dwight Riley and Gale Weathers arriving at the hospital that the most recent victim of a Ghostface attack was staying in. With the helpful guidance from posted signs on the wall, the pair made their way to the cafeteria. It looked somewhat empty, so at least they'd be able to see if Ghostface was going to pop around the nearest corner; if Sam's attack here was anything to go by, this Ghostface wasn't shy around the public.
Gale hated hospitals. Always had, always would. She had spent as little time as she could in them throughout her lifetime, and yet, somehow she always ended up in them for prolonged periods of time since the first round of murders in 1996, helplessly watching the few people in the world that she cared about confined to their overly white walls and uncomfortable beds.
She hadn't spent a considerable amount of time actually in the hospital rooms themselves in 1996. She had lingered in the hallway of the ICU, knowing that due to the fact that she was Gale Weathers, there was no way in hell that anyone was going to allow her inside to the bedside of the young deputy Riley, not with no "real" relationship to him, the seriousness of his injuries, and his mother or Sidney always being at his side. She wasn't even entirely sure at the time why she felt compelled to be there. Sure, she and Dewey had a flirtation going between them; sparks had definitely flown, and they had shared a kiss. But realistically, she didn't know him well. He was 25 years old and still lived with his mother, and he was a deputy while she was a reporter. The only reason Gale had approached him in the first place was in the hopes that a young, inexperienced rookie would give her information that more seasons cops wouldn't- especially if, as she could tell, he was attracted to her.
It had caught her off guard to realize that she actually liked the young man, that he treated her not just like a sexy semi celebrity or someone he wanted to lay, but with respect and courtesy- like she was not just a woman, but a lady. It was something Gale was entirely unused to, and perhaps that was part of the reason she felt drawn to trying to see him once she learned of his survival. She only caught a glimpse once before being made to leave, and the image of his unconscious face and bandaged body had stuck with her over the next year, often revisiting her in dreams.
Her second time in the hospital had been far longer and more intense. In 1997, Dewey's injuries were even more critical than the year before, and Gale had genuinely believed she had witnessed his death. Learning of his survival, hearing him call out for her, worried about her first even as he himself had neared the end of his life, had brought her to tears; it was the first time she had realized that someone cared not just in the abstract sense that she had survived, but actually was placing her survival as so important that it entered their thoughts as more urgent than their own. It had broken some of the walls around Gale's heart, and as she stayed with Dewey in the hospital for the long weeks that followed, she had realized for the first time that she loved him.
The last time had been 2011; this time Gale herself had been admitted due to the awkward placement of the stab wound to her right shoulder, and then Sidney and Dewey both had needed admission for Sidney's stab wounds and Dewey's concussion via bedpan. If Gale had gone the rest of her life without ever seeing the inside of a hospital again, it would have been not just preferred, but what she considered a personal victory. Yet here they were. And if she didn't keep a sharp eye on Dewey, he could very well end up being admitted again, whether he wanted to be or not.
This had, in Gale's eyes, now become her personal responsibility not just to find and take out a killer, but to keep Dewey safe and stable in the process. So as she walked with him to the hospital cafeteria, fighting her urge to keep a hand on him to literally steer him, her eyes shifted constantly, alert to anyone near them, to any sudden movements that might be made. She was hyper aware that they were very possibly in the same building as the killer and that Dewey was not in a state of readiness to fight.
"Sit," she directed as they entered the cafeteria, almost pushing him down into a chair. "I'll get you something."
Going through the line, she selected a grilled cheese, a small cup of vegetable soup, a bottle of water, and a bottle of Gatorade for Dewey. She got a black coffee for herself. They weren't here for her, after all. Paying and bringing it back to the table, she placed the tray in front of him and took a sip of her coffee, one of her legs unconsciously joggling under the table.
She fucking hated hospitals.
He couldn't quite tell if the smell was making him nauseated or hungry, however he agreed to eat something so he was going to do it; if he threw up, then so be it. Dewey didn't get the chance to approach the kitchen line before Gale guided him to a table and all but practically pushed down on his shoulders to get him seated. She insisted on grabbing food for him and, as much as his stubbornness said that he was capable of getting his own food, his back appreciated the break. An involuntary breath passed his lips as his pain eased now that he wasn't on his feet.
He turned in his chair and watched Gale approach the line, heels clicking on the tile floor. His rational mind was watching to keep an eye out for her just in the event that a Ghostface raced around the corner with a buck knife high in the air, but his monkey brain was watching the sway of her hips and how her hair flowed ever so slightly behind her. He looked away only when he thought he saw a white mask with an agape black mouth peeking through a small window on a door across from the cafeteria entranceway. In the millisecond it took him to look over, the face was gone; Gale had mentioned the side effects of a withdrawal, and he was starting to worry if he was falling risk to hallucinations. He couldn't be sure, not with this very hospital being the last place Ghostface was spotted.
His attention was brought back to Gale when she slid a tray-full of food in front of him. It didn't look as unappetizing as he expected it to be, but if his previous stays in the hospital told him anything, it wasn't going to be that great. His face scrunched ever so slightly as his taste buds recalled the terribly bland sandwich he was given when he was hospitalized in '96, and he had to convince his mom to get something from a vending machine just so he felt satisfied.
He was hungry though, starving even. He hadn't eaten in two days and was warding off his rumbling stomach with the wave of numbness booze gave him, but he couldn't exactly get a drink at the moment. He huffed from his nose and grabbed one half of the grilled cheese, taking a bite off the edge to gauge its taste; it wasn't awful, but the bread was obviously overdone, if the crumbs and burnt spots didn't give it away before. Once the food hit his stomach, however, he couldn't resist munching down until it was gone from his hands.
He sucked the greasy remnants from his fingers and simultaneously grabbed the water bottle placed next to the tray. Untwisting the top, he caught a glimpse of Gale in his food hungry craze sipping on a coffee. Of course she wouldn't get herself something. He gulped down half the bottle, refreshing his lips, before he placed it down and grabbed the other half of the grilled cheese. With one hand occupied, he used the other to grab the soup-filled bowl by its rim and gently place it in front of her with its provided spoon. He went back to his grilled cheese and, before taking another bite, said to her, "Eat."
Gale watched Dewey without bothering to hide the fact that she was doing so. She was grateful to see that he was actually eating and drinking and seeming to need it badly. It seemed to be doing him good; he didn't look as shaky or pained, focused on the food. She didn't quite realize she was smiling, watching him, out of relief more than any humor or enjoyment, until he put the soup in front of her and instructed her to eat. Confused, looking back at him, she slid it back closer to him.
"That's for you. You need to be eating to try to stay on top of the effects of this."
"I also need you to eat," he stated, swallowing down another chewed bite of the grilled cheese. "It'll help ease my peace of mind," he added, gesturing to his head with a pointed finger. He was trying as inconspicuously as possible to get her to eat; Dewey was one of the, in his mind, *very* lucky few to see Gale's figure under all the pantsuits, so he could tell she was underweight - maybe not by a lot, but it was significant to him. She hadn't looked as shrink wrapped the last time he saw her in New York, so he didn't understand why she'd be...oh.
He understood now. When he left without a trace, she had no idea as to why, and a possible reason, in her mind, was that he fell out of love because of her looks. She always bolstered about how she could give a rats ass about what people think of her looks, but Dewey, being one of, if not the only, person on planet Earth to break through her tough exterior, knew of her insecurities, even if she refused to say it; he could always tell by the way her eyes shifted or when her leg started to bounce. Of course, he thought, and always had, that she was the most beautiful person in the world, inside and out, but he couldn't blame her for thinking he thought otherwise; what other conclusions could she come up with?
He looked at his grilled cheese before dropping it onto his tray and averted his gaze straight into hers. "I'm not eating if you don't."
Gale stared at Dewey as he insisted that he needed her to eat, still confused as to why he was making such a point of this. What did he need "piece of mind" for, how would her eating a barely lukewarm bowl of soup accomplish that? What did he care if she ate right this second?
When he actually put down his sandwich and verbally challenged her, seemingly prepared to follow through, Gale huffed out loud, exasperated. He was the one with an issue here, not her. But he was looking at her with that steady, unwavering gaze that she recognized as his own version of stubborn. Dewey normally was pretty laid back about most things, at least when it came to letting things go without a lot of argument, but he was very capable of digging in his heels when he decided that a stance was worth doing so for.
What Gale couldn't figure out was why the hell he was taking a stance on her eating a bowl of soup. And then as she looked down at herself, trying to imagine what Dewey was seeing when he looked at her, she suddenly saw herself differently, almost as though she were looking at the body of another person. She saw that the bones of her hands looked a little too prominent, that the V of her blouse showed more collar bone than cleavage, and the line of her clothes hung slightly off, a too loose for their intended style. Was this really how she looked? Was this what everyone saw?
Her ears reddened, and she snatched the bowl back almost roughly, her leg starting to jog without her being conscious of it under the table. "Fine. But don't fucking watch me."
She waited until she was sure he looked away before making herself start to eat.
He sat back in his seat ever so slightly when Gale agreed to eat the depressing-looking bowl of soup, a small smile pressing his lips; he had won. Following her demands, he looked down at his tray and cupped a hand in front of his eyes to block all view of her; he was already poking the beast by challenging her, there was no need to prod further. What gave him satisfaction was that he knew she was doing it for herself and not him - there was no way to convince him otherwise after he saw her glance at her figure before grabbing the bowl with the speed of sound back over to herself.
He resumed with eating the half eaten grilled cheese, and, for a first, appreciated the silence, because that must've meant she was eating. He ate the remaining bit of the burnt sandwich with the same speed as before, and when he was finished his stomach asked, begged, for more, but Dewey himself didn't want to ask more from Gale than he already just had. He brought the hand covering his view of Gale fully across his eyes and rubbed them; the adrenaline that pumped through his body to give him enough energy to wolf down the food he refused to eat for a couple of days was wearing off, and now he was tired.
His heart skipped a beat when he removed his hand from his eyes and he swore he saw a white, elongated face shrouded in a black cloak staring at him from across the room, but in one blink, it was gone. He shifted in his chair and looked wildly with his eyes around the room, but the few other people in the room weren't reacting at all; either every person in this room suffers from some form of hallucinations or he was going mad. He knew why it was happening, but it scared him. Not just because his mind was projecting his worst fear in an imaginary physical form, but because if the real Ghostface was in the room, he might not be able to tell.
Gale ate the soup quickly, not because it was at all enjoyable, but to get it over with. She kept glancing up at Dewey to make sure he really wasn't watching her; it was embarrassing enough for her to tell her, more or less, that she looked like shit without him watching her eat on top of it. As she finished the last spoonful her stomach growled, seeming to wake up and recognize the need she had been ignoring even as she reluctantly addressed it. Gale had become used to blocking out much, be that her emotions, unwanted memories, or her own body's signals, and it startled and irritated her to have her body seemingly suddenly rebel against her control of it.
Well, she was just going to have to force it back under control. She didn't have time or patience for anything in her life not to be right now, given how much was already beyond her control as it was.
She did notice when Dewey rubbed his face, his head tilting down, and narrowed her eyes, assessing him closely. Was he still sick? Was he about to pass out? She still had a mind to flag down a nurse or doctor or someone and force them to at least check his vitals and heart, whether he wanted it or not.
When Dewey's head shot up suddenly and his eyes started roaming, fear and near panic brightening their surface, Gale froze, every muscle instantly on alert at his heightened state. Her head swiveled to follow the direction of his looking, expecting to see an all too familiar gaping mask and a black robed figure, or maybe a dead or dying body on the floor. But she saw nothing, even when she turned around entirely and then stood, turning in a full circle.
"What is it?" She asked urgently, keeping her voice low. "Where did he go?"
It hasn't occurred to her that Dewey could be hallucinating. She moves to stand slightly in front of him where he sits, tensed and in a defensive posture as if ready to defend both herself and him, still looking for a glimpse of the killer she assumes she missed seeing.
Once he saw Gale move from her seat, he knew it must've not been a hallucination; what other explanation was there? But how would he have gotten away so fast? He didn't care about whatever movie logic Meeks or Reed could've come up with to explain it, he knew how the real world worked, and nobody could disappear as fast as that Ghostface did.
"I don't know," he mumbled, voice shaking ever so slightly. "He disappeared so fast, I..." He couldn't finish the sentence - he didn't know what there was to say. He spotted his lame hand shaking again and he held it still with the other. He had never had a withdrawal this bad before. Anytime before, it meant he ran out of bottles to gulp down and he had to take a quick trip to the gas station just a little over five minutes away from the trailer park and then he'd be back to feeling numb in no time.
His back started to ache again now that he was sat upright, but he couldn't pull himself out of that position. His breath became heavier from the pain his body was gradually starting to feel and he had to shut his eyes when a headache pounded on his forehead. There was a pain in his chest, almost like it was being constricted, and his heart was beating a million miles per hour. All noise surrounding him went quiet and he curled in on himself for comfort, but it all came to a head when a faint, cracked voice whispered, "Hello Dwight."
Dewey shot from his seat and his hand instinctively went to the concealed weapon strapped to his thigh; the chair he sat in slid on the floor before toppling over from the sheer momentum. He looked around sporadically for the source, breath heaving out of his lungs and the faintest of tears pricking his eyes. His free hand was outstretched in front of him, palm facing outward in the event he had to push back an assailant, however, nobody came - but he can't be fooled, he won't! They have to be here!
Gale continued to stay on high alert, one hand moving to slide inside her oversized handbag, touching her concealed handgun inside. Still scanning under tables, over the cafeteria sele tion line, and at the door of the cafeteria entrance, she looked for movement, a flash of black, listening for screams. Nothing. Looking back down at Dewey, she asked, "Where did you see him though? By the door? In the kitchen?"
But as she looked at him, she saw the way he held his hand again, as though to keep it from coming off of his own wrist, the true fear and suffering in his eyes. He looked clammy and sweaty simultaneously, and when he closed his eyes, beginning to nearly hyperventilate, Gale's eyes grew wide with newly focused anxiety. Dewey looked more than frightened or worried, he looked sick. Genuinely sick.
Gale had never been against a glass of wine or two, but looking at her husband- for in that moment she thought of Dewey still as her husband- she fucking hated alcohol and all the lives it had torn apart.
"Dewey," she began quietly, as her suspicion of the Ghostface sightings possible unreality began to set in. "You don't look well. I think-"
She gasped when he suddenly stood, so hurriedly and with such panic that he knocked over his own chair and she barely managed to step back to avoid it knocking into herself. She turned her head hurriedly, and still seeing nothing, no one, turned her focus back to Dewey. He was still agitated, his breathing ragged, sweat at his temples, and she could see how badly his hand shook as he stretched it out in front of himself. She saw the tears in his eyes, and as clarity came to her, Gale bit her lower lip, her heart compressing with fear not of a killer, but for Dewey.
"Dewey," she nearly whispered, her own voice trembling slightly before she made strict effort to bring it under control. Clearing her throat, she stepped closer.
"Dewey. There's nothing here. You're okay, we're both okay. Listen to me. Breathe."
Her hand grasped his outstretched one, entwining their fingers, and if it hurt to touch him so intimately then, it would have hurt more to let him keep floundering. She squeezed his hand, and her free hand reached up to touch his cheek, her hand cool, but nowhere near as cool as the skin of his face. She kept her eyes locked on his as she spoke again.
"We both are okay, nothing is in this room. We're okay."
His hyper awareness made him hear Gale louder than normal. He couldn't quite comprehend what she was saying; how were they ok? The killer is here! Why wasn't she as on edge as he was?! The room started to look hazy, the corners of his vision blurring and swirling. His feet were restless, constantly readjusting themselves in the same spot. His chest was heaving outward to its limit, the stretching of his muscles causing severe pain to the tightness he felt in his ribcage. His back muscles were constricted, making his back as rigid as a wooden board.
He was going to pass out, he could feel it. His brain pounded inside his skull as it overworked itself trying to comprehend just what the hell was happening. His breath was becoming shorter by the second. "I can't breathe," he thought. "I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe-"
Suddenly the ringing in his ears fazed out of existence and his vision slowly cleared. He realized something was touching him, his hand specifically. He flinched and tried to pull back, but whatever it was had their hand locked with his. Wait, a hand? Who was holding his hand? He got his answer when another hand, presumably the person's second, placed itself on his cheek. His eyes shuttered at the contact, but opened wide when he saw Gale stood before him.
Her soft spoken words broke through his eardrums and he was left confused. Nothing...was there? How? He heard him right in his ear-! His thoughts were interrupted once he realized her gaze, looking straight into his own; they were soft, but underlined with fear. If the killer was in the room, she looked way too comfortable. But why was she scared then? His brain finally registered the comforting hand on his cheek and the fingers entwined with his; she wasn't scared of Ghostface, she was scared for him.
Hold on, she was touching him? And it wasn't aggressive? Goddammit, why was he questioning anything? She's touching him! The thing he longed for for two years. A relaxed breath escaped through his nose and he unconsciously leaned into her hand.
He can breathe.