+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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Gillian wore her best poker face and gauged her voice to a casual but respectful tone.
"Afternoon, sir," she said, circling his bed. "Glad to find you awake."
Brock's eyes moved from the window to her—she noticed his eyelids were a little less swollen than they were in the morning—and blinked slowly at her greeting. Gillian fought the awkward feeling that he would've scowled at her for being there, were he able to. Because he stared at her as if he wished he could ask her to leave him the hell alone.
"Sir, guess the nurses told you about yesterday's surgery and that you mustn't try to speak. But do you think you can listen to me for a minute and let me know if you agree with what I'm about to tell you?"
There, business. It helped her to fight back her urge to either take his hand and kiss his hair or run out of the room. Well, maybe both.
Brock blinked slowly again. He knew she hated hospitals, yet he'd found her every night by his bedside since she'd rescued him from the hill. Then why did she look in such a hurry to speak up and leave?
Gillian nodded back and sunk her hands in her pockets. "Okay, here's the thing. We're all set to take you and Russell home on Sunday. I mean, to Boston. But something came up that made me wonder if it was the best for you."
Brock managed the hint of a frown, until the cast on his nose convinced him it was a bad idea.
Gillian grimaced. "It's your daughter, sir." She knew that would set off all his alarms, so she went on. "She was dead worried about you 'cause she was unable to reach you. So she asked Connor if he'd heard anything from me, whether if you were back in town, or still here in Maine. So Connor called me yesterday..."
Brock didn't try to frown again when she trailed off. He just stared at her, hoping she'd stop beating about the bush. Which she did.
"I took the liberty of calling Andrea, sir. I'm sorry. I'm sure you didn't want her to know about this. But the truth is that you're gonna be on the mend for the next two or three months, and you're gonna need assistance. And Andrea is not a little girl anymore; you cannot hide this from her."
Now Brock ignored the cast to frown. His mouth didn't seem to be at the end of his face anymore, so he couldn't even try to grimace.
"I didn't tell her exactly what happened," said Gillian, her voice begging him not to kill her at the first chance he got. "I just told her something went wrong, and you and Russ got hurt." She was relieved to see his frown relaxed. "But when she heard you're gonna be in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and then you're still gonna need some more weeks to be literally back on your feet, she asked me to take you to DC. So she can check on you every day at the hospital, and then stay with you when you're discharged."
Brock blinked slowly. Not what he would've chosen to do, but he couldn't do anything about it either. He didn't want Andrea taking care of him when he was going to need assistance even to go to the toilet for some time. Maybe he could...
"Chief Cassidy promised to find you a good caregiver." Exactly what he meant. "So Andrea can cook and be around and feel helpful, but she won't be forced to do the hard part of it."
Of course she'd thought of it. She'd been a single mother since Connor was in kindergarten, and a cop. So she knew how to deal with a child when things went south and she got bruised.
"Is it fine for you, sir? D'you wanna go to DC instead of Boston?"
If you'd only come along... Brock just blinked, because he wouldn't have said that, even if his mouth hadn't moved out until further notice. But he did want at least to thank her.
Gillian kept looking at him, as to make sure he was really okay with her making all those calls about his private life. So she only looked down when he did. Something in the way his eyes slid from her to the bed made her do the same. And she found he was trying to move his hand, only able to raise his fingers.
She glanced up at him with a questioning frown. "What is it, sir?" she asked, concerned. "What d'you need?"
You? Brock met her eyes and looked down at his own hand again. Why didn't she get it? She'd held his hand every night for hours, until morning came and she had to go. Why couldn't she just do it now?
Gillian frowned deeper, her eyes down like his once more. Then she saw his hand was at the edge of the bed. Out of instinct, to keep it from dropping off the bed, she put her hand on his.
"Careful, sir. Don't try to..." She trailed off when Brock closed his eyes at her touch. Like the legs of a dumb spider, his fingers tapped along her palm until it rested on his. Then the dumb spider's legs closed around her hand, as if to keep it where it was.
She felt the weak pressure and it was enough to squeeze her throat. Especially when he let out the attempt of a sigh.
"It's okay, sir," she muttered. "Everything's gonna be fine."
Of course it would—especially if she stayed around. Another thing Brock could never voice. So he kept his eyes closed and let the touch of her warm skin remain his only bridge with the world.
Gillian waited for a couple of minutes. Brock seemed to be falling asleep and she didn't dare to move and disturb him. When she thought it wouldn't startle him, she reached with her spare hand and pulled the armchair closer, to sit down without letting go of his hand.
Good, she wasn't leaving. Brock gave in to the exhaustion caused by that little interaction. No matter how lucid he was, it was always as if his mind and his body had broken all diplomatic communication. Getting it to do even the simplest, smallest thing was an upsetting battle his mind lost eleven times out of ten. So it was easier to let his body have its way and wait for a better moment to try to boss it around. Lucky him, his mind agreed with his hand about keeping Gillian's.
She sat there with a concerned frown shadowing her eyes, which wouldn't leave Brock's face. The way his fingers kept pressing hers, even when he was hardly conscious, worried her. What had those men done to him back at the compound? What, for him to be in such need of anything that could tell his numb mind that it was over and he was safe. Even if it meant holding on to the last person on earth he would normally want around.
Thirty minutes later, she gently pulled her fingers free from his grasp. He didn't even blink. She grabbed her bag and her jacket and went back to his side.
Brock kept very still while she moved around. Also when she caressed his hair. He knew it meant she was leaving for a while. She'd be back by nightfall, to stay until morning. He also knew she'd die out of embarrassment if she ever found out he was awake and aware of what she did. She might leave and feel too ashamed to come back. And he didn't want that. Especially if they were taking him to DC in a day or two, and God only knew when they'd meet again.
