+18 eps. 12-16 - Gillian and Brock face huge changes in their lives after she leaves the PD and he moves back to DC. But no matter what, looks like they just can't help coming across each other.
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"Look, man, I don't need to know why you did it, okay? But you don't stab somebody in the back when they're already down. I just thought you cared about her. My bad. Gotta go now. If you can't swing by my mom's place, leave me the apartment keys at the office. Good luck."
And Russell had hung up on him. Just like that. Yeah. Russell had blurted out those bitter accusations and hung up on him.
Damn jerk.
No point in trying to talk to him and explain. He wouldn't understand. He didn't want to.
And not five minutes later, when he was already leaving his office, a messenger delivered a package for him.
A box. Wrapped in black paper. With a tiny white ribbon. No card, no message, not a word from the sender.
Like he needed any.
He knew exactly what it was the moment he saw it.
And it had put him on the run.
Just like that.
Now he sat alone in the apartment he would leave within two days, staring blankly out the window at the city skyline, an empty glass in his hand and a soft haze filling his head. He reached out to grab the bottle and refill his glass.
Of course it was a Blue Label. What else.
Of course Gillian had sent it. Who else.
She was going through one of the worse moments of her whole life, and yet she'd taken the time to send him that black box.
Like the black box of a crashed plane.
Her silent way to say thanks from the wreckage.
I thought you cared about her...
Damn idiot! Of course he cared! And that was exactly the problem!
Sipping his third whiskey, Brock was almost ready to face it.
He cared about Gillian. That was why he didn't want her in the Bureau. Because he just couldn't help it. And he couldn't afford caring anymore.
Not when she too cared about him like she did.
Brock felt the urgent need to gulp the whiskey up and refill the glass, haunted by those bright blue eyes always looking up to him, that sharp mind always following his every step, that smartass façade masking her heart of gold.
Hope you tell your dear friend what an ass I am, Coleman. I really hope you do. 'Cause she's gonna laugh in your face. 'Cause she will understand.
She always does.
Now he did gulp the whiskey up.
Back to DC, permanently, to work directly under the Section Chief.
He didn't quite understand that last bit, but the rest he did understand, and it was more than enough for him.
Especially if Gillian and her merry punks were joining the Bureau. They would most likely stay in Boston, so four-hundred miles were sort of enough between him and them.
Between him and her.
Because he cared.
And he didn't want to care. About anybody, anymore. Ever again.
Certainly not about that reckless woman with her infallible instinct to get always in danger's way.
Good job, Brockner. You got yourself a damsel in distress to rescue over and over again. Why turn your back on her? At least you know you'll never be bored when she's around.
Yeah, he had to give her that. Things were never bored around her. And she was so frigging intelligent. Almost a self-taught profiler, no less! And she was so driven and straight. And since he was in a giving mood, she never let herself be caught by a dragon they couldn't beat.
Wait. They?
Yes. Both of them. Together.
Over his nine months in Boston, she'd been the only one who had ever truly understood every word he'd said. And every time she'd used that to catch a dangerous offender. Getting in trouble every time, yeah, but he was there to have her back.
Brock blinked.
Was that why she always ended up in danger when they worked together? Because she knew he had her back?
His fingertips tingled.
Of course she knew. Because she knew him.
Oh, man, this woman. He hated the way she read him through. How on earth was she even able to, when they hardly shared any time?
A flashback.
The feeling of her head against his chest. The feeling of her hands clasping to him. The feeling of his arms around her.
He stopped himself right before closing his eyes with a sigh.
No way he was doing it. Not after four whiskies.
Four Blue Label whiskies.
Courtesy of former Boston PD Lieutenant Gillian.
Sure as hell soon-to-be FBI Special Agent Gillian.
