Gale lay on her back beside Dewey, her arms crossed over her chest in an unconscious imitation of Dewey's earlier self embrace. She kept her face turned slightly towards him on the pillow, watching him, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of his exhalation. She was relieved to see minimal shaking or twitching and hoped that meant the Tylenol was kicking in.

It felt strange, sharing a bed with Dewey again after so long. Although they weren't touching, they were close enough that Gale could feel the warmth emanating off his body. If she let herself shift just a little, they would be touching, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. And she wanted to. She wanted to so damn badly. But instead she kept her body small as possible and still, watching Dewey breathe.

She had no intention of sleeping, lying in bed or not, but eventually her eyes grew heavy, her breathing evened out to slower rhythm, and she was gradually lulled into sleep.

Inside her dream, Gale was back in NYC, alone in bed in her apartment. She was curled up much as Dewey had been on the couch, her body made small, arms hugging over her chest, when the cell phone, plugged up to its charger on her nightstand, rang, jolting her up and into a sitting position. Gale reached for it with trepidation, not recognizing the number on the other end of the line, already knowing and dreading the sound of the darkly familiar voice she would hear.

"Hello, Gale. Are you alone in the house?"

"You always seem to know everything, you fucker, so why don't you tell me?" she shot back. "I'm behind a triple bolted door in a penthouse with security guards, cameras, and a gun in the drawer beside me. Let's see you get past all that and try your hand at me, do you really think you out of all the seven previous pathetic bastards that came before you will be the one to end me?"

"Oh, no, Gale, not you," the voice chuckled, its tone taking on a darkly satisfied purr. "Not you at all- yet. Right now, your job is just to WATCH."

Before Gale could respond, he hung up on her, leaving her shaken and slightly out of breath, sitting up in her bed. Her head swiveled as she looked around the room, trying to determine if anything looked even a little out of place, if there could be any chance at all that Ghostface was indeed in her home. She strained her ears, listening for the sound of breaking locks or kicked in doors, and when the vibration of texts started to come through her phone, she startled, her heart leaping into her throat.

With a trembling hand, she reached out take it, unlocking it with her thumb print and pin, and opened up the text coming in. It was a video, with the words ALL FOR YOU, GALE typed beneath it. Gale hesitated, her throat dry with dread, but then clicked the arrow to play the video.

It showed the inside of Dewey's apartment, even more disheveled than she recalled. In addition to the dust, disarray, and bottles, the kitchen table and chairs were overturned, and the picture of the two of them had been knocked onto the ground, its glass smashed and scattered over the floor. The camera panned around to show all of this, before the person holding it walked forward slowly, down the trailer hall and into its small bedroom. Inside, Dewey lay barely alive, his chest rising and falling with agonizing effort, his entire body quivering and convulsing as he fought for air. He was streaked with blood, stab wounds marring his chest, deep cuts over his face, and as Gale watched in horror, the camera came closer, zooming in to show the anguish in his eyes. And then there was a sharp, already blood soaked knife coming down again, cutting into his throat.

Gale screamed, wordless, agonized near howls of grief, shock, and protest at what she was seeing. As the knife continued to descend, she could see the faint light dim out in Dewey's eyes, a terrible blankness replacing it, and she knew that she had just watched him die. Dewey was dead, across the country and alone, and there was nothing she could do but watch. As her hand desperately spread over the screen, trying to cover his wounds, trying to reach out and touch him, to make contact with him in some way, she continued to scream, her body convulsing with the intensity of her cries.

In the bed beside Dewey, Gale's body is twitching, cold and clammy, her eyes moving rapidly beneath their closed lids. She doesn't speak, but she is whimpering, softly at first, then louder, the outcry hurt and desperate, giving way into tears that wrack through her but nevertheless do not wake her. Still trapped in the nightmare, she sobs, tears leaking out of her tightly closed eyes.

You only need one Ghostface attack to make you sleep a little lighter at night, and now that he had no alcohol in his system to keep him knocked out, Dewey awoke from his slumber when his ears caught whimpering - and it was close too. When his eyes opened, he realized he had moved onto his stomach and was halfway through a snore. Pushing himself up with his arms, he listened for the crying that stirred him awake.

Within seconds another, louder, whimper came from right next to him in the bed - it was Gale. Once his sleep laced brain caught up with the present, he immediately sat up and looked to her. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness that covered the room, but the moment they did, his heart began to hurt.

Gale was no stranger to nightmares, just as Sidney and he were - it was par for the course for any survivor of a mass murder, let alone four. He spent many nights comforting a hysterical Gale and she him. He forgot any and all restraints he placed on himself when he first saw Gale again and gently rocked her arm while silently calling to her. "Gale, honey," he started, completely unaware of the slip of his pet name for her. "Wake up."

Gale was still deeply immersed in the world of her dream. She didn't hear Dewey call to her; the only noise she hears is the strangled gurgling of Dewey desperately trying to breathe over the screen of her phone, choking on his own blood. She continues to weep with escalating intensity, her chest hitching, choking and almost gagging as she watches him die before her mind's eye.

When Dewey touches her arm, she feels it and registers it not as him, alive and alert beside her, but as the killer, ambushing her from behind, now in her home and ready to finish her off too. Releasing a scream, she thrusts an arm out, both in effort to push him away and to defend herself from attack.

"NO! No no no..."

When an arm came swinging at his face, Dewey caught it with his free hand. He gently placed her arm down and continued to speak softly. "Gale, it's alright. You're ok. I'm ok. Nobody else is here."

He used one hand to gently rub her arm and the other to file his fingers through her hair. When the occasional tear slipped through her closed lids, he brought one hand to her cheeks and wiped them clean. He paid no attention to her efforts to thwart him off; he knew he couldn't restrain her, or else she'd fight even harder.

He softly shushed her desperate whimpers and continued to comfort her - and he'd do it for as long as he need to, and he'd stop when Gale wanted him to.

Gradually, Gale begins to take in Dewey's voice. She recognizes the sound of it first, which initially only further confuses and distresses her. How could he be speaking with blood pouring from his throat? What was he trying to say, what if she missed his last words?

Then their meaning began to sink in, and they were also bewildering. Why was he telling her that she was okay, that they were okay? He wasn't, they weren't. How could he not know this?

Next she became aware of his touch, realizing even while still half in her dream that the hands on her were not holding her down or hurting her. They were gentle, familiar even, and they were rubbing comfort into her skin rather than harm.

Her eyes opened suddenly, at first wide open but not seeing, still coming out of the daze of her nightmare. Then she blinked, once, twice, fresh tears spilling over each time, before her vision clears enough to take in Dewey's face close to hers, soft with concern. Dewey, alive, unhurt. Dewey.

The gratitude she felt in the moment of this realization was immense. It washed over her like a flood, overwhelming in its intensity. In that moment of seeing Dewey, understanding that he was alive, Gale had no memory of or care towards the two years of their separation or the strain between them. All she could care about was he was here, alive, within her reach, and she grasped out for him, almost climbing onto him in her need to touch and be touched by him as tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

"Dewey...Dewey..."

Of the many resolutions to this incident, it wasn't to have Gale's arms wrapped haphazardly around his neck as tears spilled from her eyes like an open faucet. The initial shock of it all wore off fast once he realized that she was *hugging him*, something he thought wouldn't ever happen again in a million years. He shifted in the bed to allow a clambering Gale practically into his lap and proceeded to wrap his arms around her back, thumb rhythmically rubbing up and down.

"I'm here," he reassured as she muttered his name. He could feel wet spots growing on the back of his shirt from her tears, but he didn't mind. She occasionally shuddered from the sudden intakes of breath from hyperventilating, so he rocked ever so slightly. He wanted to ask what her nightmare was about, as he had done several times in the past, however that would have to come later - if Gale even felt comfortable sharing with him after she had come down from the adrenaline high and noticed she was practically latched onto the husband that left her two years ago.

He'd leave it up for her to decided, but he knew that she wanted him in this very moment, and so he'd deliver. His chin sat atop her head, puffs of air blowing out his nose and into her hair. Having forgotten the lost time between them, Dewey placed a chaste kiss to her temple and asked, "Can you breathe for me? In through your nose, out through your mouth."

It felt more than familiar to Gale, to tuck herself into Dewey's arms, her face buried in his chest. It felt more than just comforting and safe- it felt like home.

As Dewey embraced her, rubbing her back and rocking her, Gale tightened her arms around his neck, her heart's heavy thudding beginning to calm down gradually as his own's steadier beating helped settle its closer in pace to his. She kept her head down, eyes shut, and as he rocked her, giving her steady, soothing words and touch, she felt her crying start to slow down into occasional stray tears more than continuous sobbing, her shaking also lessening into brief, sporadic shivers. When Dewey kissed her head, his lips dry but warm and welcome against her skin, she tried to listen to him, to follow his instructions to breathe more purposefully and calmly. Her efforts were shaky and uneven at first, as she sniffled and didn't quite get the rhythm right, but more so than the efforts at breathing, simply being close to Dewey, with him holding her, rocking with her, eventually was calming enough that she stopped crying entirely.

She knew that she should pull back then. She was well aware of where she was now, of the timing and circumstances of the present and the past. She knew that she should pull together her pride and grind out an apology through gritted teeth, retract from touching, and probably go to the damn armchair for the night so there was no possibility of any further touching happening again. But she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She was drained, physically and emotionally, and her body felt heavy; the effort it would take to move seemed too much. And even more than that, she just didn't want to. She wanted Dewey to keep touching her, to keep holding her and stroking her hair. She wanted to feel the solid weight of him in her arms, whole and present and there. And since he was doing it, not seeming to mind it- well, fuck it all, she just didn't have the energy or will to force herself to sit up and walk away.

Instead she let her body rest against him a little more heavily, her arms looser around his neck, and she turned her head so her cheek rested against his chest, her profile now visible to him. Breathing softer, she said nothing, just hoping that at least for another few moments, he would just let her stay there and be held.

He repeated the soothing process even after Gale's breathing went back to normal - he missed the feeling deeply, of being held with such ferocity. Her level breathing blew down the nape of his neck, making the small hairs adorning it stand. A chill ran down his spine and, subsequently, made him release a satisfied sigh. When he felt Gale loosen her hold, he looked down and watched as, instead of moving off, she lay on him like a human-sized pillow. With her cheek now resting on his chest, he could see her face - the damp tear stains under her eyes, her lips lax rather than pursed, and her eyelids shut gently as opposed to squeezed shut when she was having a nightmare just moments ago.

Either she chose to rest here or her body was just so tired from the adrenaline high that she started to fall asleep without acknowledging where she was, but he wasn't going to argue. What he knew he had to do was keep her comfortable, which included warmth, and he doesn't think his body heat would be enough. Slowly and carefully, he slid down into the mattress with Gale still pressed to his chest. Once he lay on his back, he removed a hand from Gale for a moment to pull the covers over them. The blanket wasn't anything special, but it'd make do.

He returned his hand to her hair and stroked his fingers through again - where he loved when she massaged his scalp, he remembered that she loved having his fingers brush through her hair. He wanted to ask her what the nightmare was about, but seeing her peacefully rest on top of him again held him back for the night - he'd ask another time. He hummed comfortably and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him.

Gale felt Dewey's chest rise and fall with his sigh, her head moving along with it, but she didn't open her eyes or lift it up. She breathed, slightly congested, lips parted, but evenly now, the high anxiety and fear from earlier almost back at baseline.

She was close to drifting off to sleep when Dewey started to shift them both backward in the bed, keeping his arm around her, still holding her to himself. Surprised that he intended to keep her close, let alone to actually keep embracing her, letting her lie over him, she opened her eyes, shifting him up towards his face to try to read his expression. She sees only continued gentle attention to her in his gaze, and when he she saw no reluctance, unease, or resentment about her closeness, she let her eyes close again.

As Dewey's hand ran over her head, fingers combing through, Gale shivered not from cold, but the pleasure of how good the repeated gesture felt. She knew that Dewey knew how much she liked this particular affection, and he was choosing to do it for her now. She didn't let herself dwell on what it meant, not then. She just curled into him, head on his chest, hand resting over his heart, and the steady beat beneath her palm was the reassurance that finally allowed her to sleep once more.

Sunlight split through the blinds covering the windows, the beams lying just across where Dewey's head was. His eyes squinted at the brightness, unconsciously lifting his arm to block the light; when his arm raised, he realized a lack of contact on his skin. Glancing down, he saw Gale wrapped around his chest and - wait, Gale?! He had to rub at his eyes to believe what he was seeing, and generally to wipe away the sleep in his eyes.

Her hand was rested over his heart just as it had been back in the hospital when he placed it there - he tried sending a message with the gesture, but he didn't know if Gale understood it. He wanted to tell her, and desperately. That even though it didn't seem like it for the past two years, he loved her. He feels now just as he had felt then that his words would mean nothing to Gale; she always was an actions over words kind of person. He didn't realize until now, but his actions last night ran off of pure instinct; he hadn't thought for a moment of whether or not Gale would be opposed to letting him comfort her, just that he knew how to do it and that he had to.

He watched the steady rise and fall from her breaths for some time - how could he have left this? This feeling, this person? There was a difference in just how his relationship with Sidney was compared to Gale's. With Sidney, they were practically siblings, especially in Dewey's eyes after Tatum's death. But with Gale, he had someone who understood him *and* could comfort him all in the right ways. When he first started watching her on Top Story, he never could have expected to meet his celebrity crush in a million years, and yet there she was in Woodsboro. To Dewey, Gale is just as gorgeous, headstrong, and determined as she was the first they met in person, if not more so.

He reached a hand up to her hair and began brushing through it with his fingers - he might as well enjoy the moment while he can before she kicks him out out of embarrassment from last night.

When Gale began to stir, she was aware at first of a warmth she was unaccustomed to waking up to. No matter how many blankets she put over herself in her penthouse or how high she turned up the heat, she always felt cold in her too large and empty bed. But this morning, she feels strangely comfortable, and she doesn't feel the need to curl into herself and huddle under blankets for a few minutes to steel herself to get out of bed. She doesn't feel hurried to move at all.

Her next awareness is of a steady heartbeat beneath her hand, the rise and fall of someone's breathing beneath her, and a slow hand caressing her hair, her scalp tingling gently at its fingertips' touch. She is with someone, someone who feels familiar, smells familiar- like-

Opening her eyes, she squinted in the light of the sun piercing the dim hotel room, lifting her head enough to make out Dewey's face just above hers. She stayed still as the memory of the previous night, blurred as it was, came back to her, and her thoughts tangled with confusion. She might not remember every detail of her nightmare, but the gist of it was there- Dewey dead, far beyond her ability to speak to or help, the killer tormenting her with his final moments. She remembered with more clarity the aftermath of her fear and grief- and how Dewey had responded.

He had reacted in the face of Gale's tears as he would have at any point in their dating or their marriage, as he had so many times before. He had showed no hesitation or reluctance in holding her, comforting her, in focusing full attention on helping her calm down and feel safe and taken care of. Not in the way that he might have for just anyone who was upset, or even as he might have for Sidney, with a simple hug or arm around her shoulders. He had laid down and gone to sleep holding her. He had held her throughout the entire night.

Even now, Dewey was holding her. He was awake, god knows for how long, and he was still holding her, playing with her hair, even before she had been awake herself to know he was doing it.

As Dewey had noted in his own thoughts, actions rather than words meant everything to Gale. His actions when he left her had said everything to her about his feelings towards her, and that was why she was so confused as she gazed up at him now, brow furrowed as she tried to read him. Because as much as he had acted like he didn't love her for the past two years, last night, this morning, he was acting like he did love her. He was acting like he did when he loved her before, like he loved her in the same way that he loved her before. Not like someone he cared about out of sentimentality of the past, but like someone he was in love with.

She drew in a slow breath, head still craned up to watch his face, her voice a little hoarse when she spoke.

"Dewey…why are you being like this?"

She lifted the hand not resting against his heart briefly, gesturing between them, true confusion in her softly spoken words. "What is going on here, with us? What is this?"

He became so mesmerized by the repeated stroking of her hair that he hadn't noticed Gale turned her head up to look at him until she spoke. He flinched to the slightest of degrees when her voice broke the silence in the room, and his eyes flicked directly into her gaze. He couldn't quite put together an answer to her question. Of course he knew why he was being this way but to Gale, who had every reason to believe he didn't love her, this was completely out of left field.

His mouth sealed, mustache tickling his bottom lip, and his eyebrows pinched together in thought. "I don't know," he said, morning voice making his voice deeper and therefore quieter. "It just feels...right," he added. He doesn't understand why he can't just tell her; it was the one thing he wanted to say for so long, to go knocking back on their penthouse door and collapse to his knees when she opened the door, pleading for forgiveness. He didn't want her to push him away, even though she had every right to, and he wanted to be able to tell her that he'd take back his decision in a heartbeat if given the chance. He didn't notice that his hand was shaking again.

Fuck it - he was sure she would appreciate *a* answer rather than no answer, and frankly she deserved one. "Gale...I-" he began, but a faint ringing caught in his ears. He winced at the piercing sound making his head pound. He broke away the hand that was in her hair and held his head. "You'll never get the chance," the dreaded voice said. "She'll be dead before you can."

Gale continued to regard him, attempting to process the semi answer she had been given. He didn't know? It felt right? Those were two almost contradictory answers, ones she wasn't satisfied with.

"You're acting like nothing happened," she said, her voice still quiet, holding no anger. "Like the last two years were a dream. You're acting...you're acting like you still love me."

Her voice dropped lower as she said the last few words, taking on a tighter quality, and she shifted her eyes away, unable to look at him as she continued.

"If you don't know, I need you to figure it out."

When his hand left her hair, Gale's heart sank. She was sure he was about to break it to her that it had been a thoughtless slip into an old pattern that meant nothing, or a kindness that had gone too far, further than his intent. She started to push up off of him, intending to put space between them, but then she saw that Dewey was flinching, clutching his head. His eyes seemed wide and far away, focused on something she did not see or hear rather than her. Frowning, she moved to sit beside him on the bed, peering at him.

"Dewey?"

"You can't save those girls either," the voice continued to taunt. "You're washed up, Dwight. A sad man who can only find comfort at the bottom of a bottle."

The moment he felt his other hand go free, it latched to his head just as the other one was. He couldn't hear anything that was happening outside of his own head. "When Sidney gets here - and she will - she'll feel the wraith of twenty-five years in one swing. And you'll watch it too.

"I'll make you watch every second of it, even if I have to cut your eyelids off to do it. And when all is said and done, Dwight," the voice rattled, amused at his panic. "I won't kill you. No, I'll let you live with the consequences of what a man deserves when he leaves his life, his family, behind for a fantasy! And when you grow old, or another me comes and guts you, or you kill yourself, I could care less...no matter what, you'll die *alone*."

He couldn't take it. His body couldn't take it. He hadn't noticed he was dry heaving until the voice finally let off - he could feel bile rising out of his throat. As vomit threatened to spew from his mouth, he clasped a hand over his lips and limped as fast as he could to the bathroom. He burst open the door and lifted the toilet seat up just in time before his body couldn't fight off the urge any longer. A horrible cough broke between each expulsion and the suddenness of his upheaval caught up to him, which wasn't helped by the unusual sleeping position from last night, once his back all but cracked when he hovered over the toilet bowl.

Dewey was in another world, obviously disconnected from anything Gale did or said. She continued to watch him with growing confusion that quickly became concern as his other hand joined the first to press against his head and his face contorted, body arching with what looked like physical pain. Withdrawal, she remembered suddenly. It had to be getting worse now that he was hitting the 24 hour mark without alcohol.

Her heart squeezed with continued worry as Drwey staggered up and ran for the bathroom, and she soon heard him vomit. Putting aside her need for answers to her questions, Gale let her own feelings lead her in the moment. Following him into the small bathroom, she filled a cup full of water, wet a washcloth, and knelt down beside him on the floor. Placing the water cup beside him, she wiped his neck and face with the damp cloth, her other hand placed between his shoulder blades.

"You need to drink water," she said quietly, rubbing her hand slowly down his back. "You're still sick from the withdrawal. Today may be a little worse from what I read."

When the purge subsided, his mouth was dry and his vision warbled. He was breathing heavily over the toilet bowl when a damp washcloth was patted onto the back of his neck. The warmness that enveloped his neck was comforting and he couldn't help but turn to the person attached to the hand that held the cloth. His eyes caught Gale's gaze and his beat a little less faster - she had only looked him in the eyes, but it had a profound affect. She used the same cloth to wipe away residue in his beard and her other hand was placed on his back.

Her hand was over top one of his many stab wounds in his back, which meant truly feeling her hand there was impossible as a result of all the severe nerve damage, but he could feel the light pressure there. He pushed himself back onto knees and reached to the corner of the counter where Gale's provided cup of water sat. He almost started regretting staying sober for these next couple of days if the pain and mental tormenting was supposed to be worse than the first day - and the first day sucked ass.

He raised the cup to his lips and gulped down its contents in quick succession - his throat was practically begging for more after each drop hit his tongue. When the cup emptied, his hand dropped to his lap and started shaking again. His other hand immediately shot out and held it still. "This is getting old," he joked dryly, although in a serious context, he meant it.

As Dewey pushed himself up, drinking the water, Gale stood too, placing the washcloth on the sink's edge. She regarded him with continued concern, not missing his shaking hands or effort to control then. She knew it was the withdrawal but she couldn't help but feel that it was her direct questions that had brought about Dewey's panic.

"You should be in the hospital," she informed him. "As a patient., not a stubborn ass wannabe Sherlock Holmes."

She pauses, her mind drifting back to her earlier honest questions to Dewey. She's doesn't want him to shut down or be pushed into retreat through hallucinations again, but her questions feel urgent to her, as though she has a physical as well as mental need to understand.

"We need to get you food and coffee," she began, catching Dewey's eyes. "And I need you to think about what I asked you. If you remember. I...I need you to figure out why you're acting like this. Like...like you love me."

Her words dropped low and unexpected tears came to her eyes that she quickly blinked away. She kept her eyes away as she managed, "Because you- you have to stop. If you don't. Because- Because it's not fair to act like you do if you don't, Dewey. I know you're sick, but it's still not fucking fair."

She unconsciously jigged one leg, arms crossed, hand picking at the fingers of her other hand.

He could tell she was upset, but not in the sense that she was mad. He could understand why she was convinced he didn't love her and that this was just a form of making her comfortable for the moments she or he needed it. It hurt to know she thought he was faking it, but he knew what it felt like to be left by Gale, and he had felt unloved then. She had her opportunities to make it up to him back then, and now he had to make it up to her.

He let go of his shaking hand and gently grasped her shoulder, the one that had not previously covered his vomit filled mouth, and moved in view of her eyes, locking his eyes with hers. "I'm not acting, Gale," he started softly. "You know I'm a horrible actor," he joked.

"I know it doesn't seem like it, and maybe you won't believe me...but I could never stop loving you. I won't," he finally admitted. "Since '96, I've never stopped. And I was a grade A fool, and asshole, to have left you alone back in New York," he added.

"I love you, Gale Weathers. With everything I have."

Gale went still as Dewey grasped her shoulder; the weight of his hand on her, him willingly touching her at all, was still novel enough to make her freeze up when it happened to scrutinize him. She could smell the sweat and vomit on him, but she wasn't bothered by it, too focused on the words coming out his mouth. It was true, Dewey was a terrible actor. That was why she had never been able to understand how he could act like he still loved her when he didn't, right up until he walked away.

But...then that meant the answer was he had. He had never stopped, and still he left. Still he chose to hurt her, hurt himself, by walking away and not saying a word.

As Dewey told her plainly that he loved her, that he always had, Gale sucked in her breath, sitting back on her heels. It was everything she ever wanted to hear from him- that he was wrong, that he was an asshole. That he loved her. It was everything, and yet it still hurt in a strange way.

She blinked, trying to stay in control; she felt she had little right now, that she no longer knew what was right. She knew she loved Dewey every bit as much as he said he loved her. She did believe him; she heard the sincerity in his voice and had felt it in his touch each time. What she doesn't know now is what to do with her knowing.

"I...I needed you to tell me that then," she said quietly. "I don't know what to say. Dewey, I love you. But you know that. You know I never stopped. But this..."

She doesn't finish the sentence, unsure of where to go with it or what she is even thinking. Slowly she stood, holding out a hand to help him up.

"I need to shower before we go to the hospital. I prefer you admit yourself, but if you refuse, there are people we have to go talk to."

He took her hand and heaved himself off the floor. He didn't know what to expect from her response, but of all things he didn't expect for her to still love him - he had built the reality in his head that she would never love him again that to hear her confirmation that she did love him was world-rocking. He was elated that she did, but he didn't know what to do with it.

They couldn't just go back to how things were; a lot has happened in their two years apart. As much as he wanted to go back to their home and spend the evening there like they used to - eating dinner side-by-side, Gale lying her head on his lap as they watched TV, and cuddling up together in bed for the night - he knew now that the consequences of his actions meant he had to work to get that back.