+18 - eps 6-11 - A unique city. A unique police team led by a unique woman. And an uptight fed set on a collision course.
On the second installment of the Blackbird Series, new cases push Brock and Gillian to work closer together, even in order t...
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Gillian glanced around. She'dbeen in and out for a while, but now she felt her head clear. Brock was kneeling by her side, lining up some strips of boards by her broken leg. No hint of a smile on his hardened face. Good, maybe she'd make it after all. Even though the way her chest bones hurt suggested he had a lot to do with it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
She needed a moment to find a weary thread of voice. "Been better."
"We need to take care of your leg."
She nodded and he crouched by her broken leg, loosening his tie.
"I'm gonna need your belt," he said, pulling out his tie.
Gillian nodded again. Someday she would flash a proper smirk at the sight of Brock unbuckling her belt. Someday, after laying hands on a ton of painkillers and a gallon of coffee. Right then, she could only bear the sharp pain, drilling down her broken leg when she moved her hips up but an inch.
Brock stretched out his tie and her belt by her leg, then lined two boards across them. It was going to be another awful the-quicker-the-better.
"Ready?"
Gillian nodded, setting her jaw. She held back a long cry when Brock moved her leg swiftly to rest it on the boards, straightening it as he did and attaching two more boards to the sides. He fastened tie and belt around the leg and the boards, as Gillian smashed her fist on the floor, eyes tightly shut, trying to turn all her pain into anger to vent it out.
"That's it."
Gillian exhaled as Brock turned to her, forcing himself to ignore the way she quivered and gasped out of pain. He kept his best blank scowl and flat tone to say, "Don't move. I'll try to find you some water."
She only nodded, glaring up at the hole where the ceiling had been.
Brock made it to the kitchen, and he was searching the cupboard for any kind of glass or cup, when he heard a shuffle from the bedroom. He paused to listen. It sounded like... crawling? He scowled. Could she be trying to move? What the hell was she up to now? Damned Gillian! Couldn't she just do as he'd told her?
Deep inside he was sort of glad she was in shape to keep up her reckless stubbornness. But he hurried back annoyed, and found Gillian crawling on her back with her elbows and her good leg, suffocating a groan at each move. Despite her pain, she was already by the wall on the hall side, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.
He helped her to sit up against the wall and noticed she kept her head low, her dark hair falling on her face, hiding it from him. And when he tried to meet her eyes, she turned her face away.
"Gillian..." he muttered, his concern showing in his voice.
"I'm fine," she growled, all about her screaming otherwise.
He frowned when she took her fist to her mouth, lips pressed tight together, fighting hard to hold back the tears.
Gosh, she hated being this helpless. To make things worse, Brock pressed her arm. Gently.
"Please, Agent Brockner. I just need a minute."
Her words were more of a warning than a request. So Brock stood up and went to the bedroom door, sighing. Gillian didn't let out a single sound. She kept very still, eyes shut, but he could read her process step by step.
She struggled to armor up in order to keep going. Ignore a physical pain meant to knock out any wise person, lock it up along with the fear, the insecurity, the useless yet inevitable guilt about what had happened to Bellison—all those annoying emotions. Put it all away to focus on what really mattered: those bombs out in the city and finding a way out of there to do her job, in order to keep more people from harm.
Yes, her process was easy to read for him. But it didn't make it any easier to watch.
