+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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Brock stopped two steps before walking into his apartment in Boston: the door was unlocked. He drew his Glock and approached it without a sound. It opened at his touch, and in the dim light coming in through the window, he saw that the small open kitchen and the living area were empty. There was something on the breakfast bar. He tiptoed in and paused to check what it was. An FBI badge? He patted his pocket to confirm his was there. Then whose badge was that? A soft creak from his bedroom caught his attention. He sneaked the few steps to that door and paused again. It was closed. He was about to grab the knob when he spotted the blood on it and a chill of pure horror ran down his spine. Because then he knew whose badge was that on the bar. Just like he knew what he was about to find behind the door, in his bedroom. The underlined omega painted in fresh blood on the wall. The defiled body entangled in the sheets, on his bed.
His chest was a chunk of burning ice, the air didn't seem to get to his lungs anymore, while he couldn't take his eyes away from the bloody knob. Then her name came to his lips, and something pushed him to shoulder the door open as he called out, "Gillian!"
The throbbing pain stopped Brock when he tried to sit up in bed. Two soft hands rested on his arms, guiding him gently back to lie on the pillows. It was dark all around, and Brock felt stunned and out of breath. One of the hands slid behind his head as a cold hard edge touched his lips. His clumsy fingers found the glass and he drank the water eagerly, grateful for the refreshing feeling down his dry throat, still squeezed by horror. Once empty, he just let go of the glass, and it was moved away from his face. Then the situation tried to reach his muddled mind. He heard the glass set on the nightstand table.
"Gillian...?" he managed to mutter.
"Yes, sir, it's me."
Her voice was but a whisper and one of her hands rested on his arm again. So it'd been only a dream? She was there, alive?
"You okay...?"
His muffled question made Gillian's eyes sting, as she tried to trace Brock's face in the shadows of the room. The idea of Brock having a cop dream about her, sore and stunned as he was, threatened to wipe away her self-control. She would've so taken him in her arms to hold him until he fell asleep again.
Her hand slid down to find his and press it softly, to show him she was really there. She needed a moment to find her voice. "Yes, I'm fine, sir. And you're fine, too," she said in a gentle, soothing tone.
The sigh that escaped Brock's lips made her swallow hard.
"Good...," he mumbled with a numb nod.
Sleep was taking over again. But she'd just said it: they were there and they were fine. And her words, her voice, the light weight of her hand, were the most reassuring things he'd found in years.
"Try to rest, sir."
So comforting, so calming. There couldn't be any nightmares if he followed her voice.
His fingers tried to press hers as he fell asleep again. Gillian let out a shaky sigh and didn't move until she heard him breathe deep and relaxed. Then she realized her thumb was caressing the back of his hand. Once more, she had to fight back the impulse to kiss his hair. Sleep, Brock. I'll be right here by your side. No matter what.
