+18 - eps.33-35 - The shadow of an old foe leaves Gillian fighting for her life. And as the team hunts down the attacker, Brock and Gillian run out of time to come to terms with their feelings for each other. BONUS TRACK: episode 36 - the breakfast
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Brock...?" she mumbled.
He swallowed hard at her weak voice saying his name for the first time. He leaned closer to her face, resting his elbow right above her pillow as he smiled down at her.
She had a muffled sensation, like a wet trail down her cheeks. If she was crying, she didn't give the last of damns. Because he smiled at her. And his smile was so warm, like his hand on hers. And it was no morphine dream: he was there with her.
Brock scowled at her tears, concerned, but he didn't get to ask anything. She moved her lips, struggling to speak. She needed to say it. That he didn't need to call the nurses. She was fine. But she'd been hiding away from him like the worst chicken. And she remembered the bitter regret she'd felt as she crumbled down on the street. But it was hard. Her mouth felt like wet paper and she didn't want the stupid beep to spike again.
"I... I thought... I knew... Connor was fine, I saw... him... I knew... But you... you..."
She paused to breathe and he said, oh so gently, "It's okay. I'm right here."
Her eyes moved over his face again as she forced her numb brain to form the right words.
"I thought I'd never... never see your face again..." she muttered, troubled and guilty and scared, as tears breached again and rained down.
Brock took her hand to his lips. Could it be that he'd been the last thing that crossed her mind when she was shot?
She closed her eyes, never caring about the tears that still rolled down her face. He caressed her forehead with the back of his fingers. He would've loved to take her in his arms and hold her tight. She moved her head an inch, following his touch, and focused on breathing deep despite the pain. Until she felt able to speak again.
"Can you...?"
"Yes? Whatever you need."
"...stay...?"
Brock set his jaw and commanded his eyes to stay dry, his throat squeezed again.
"Of course," he managed to reply. "I'm not going anywhere."
His words. His deep, low voice. His cologne. His firm hand holding hers. It was real. She nodded, eyes still closed. With him there with her, her brain seemed capable of some simple thoughts. Some things never changed. Nothing like her stupid bitter man to set her mind in motion.
"It's all blurry..." she muttered.
Brock frowned. "It's the anesthesia and the morphine. Give it a while."
"Cognitive..."
His frown turned into an all-out scowl. She couldn't be serious. But he knew her better—'she couldn't be serious' only meant that she was. "We're not doing a cognitive interview now," he said, and her mild frown told him he was right. "You need to rest. We can do it later."
Her lips pursed in a weary smile as she muttered, "Yessir..."
Gosh. If he only knew how wonderful it was, just hearing him. She'd have him bossing her around like this till death did them part. For real. Because it almost had, stupid death, and it didn't feel right at all. Because they were so far apart.
