+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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Time crawled by in the SUV, parked ten yards before Sarah Murray's house, across the street. Now they were there, all they could do was wait, and both of them slid into a state of educated patience, learned over years in the field.
The only problem with this watchful state was that it allowed their minds to go for a stroll. They stayed in an autopilot, set to register any movement at the front door or around the house, while their thoughts took a break far and away from the case. For Brock and Gillian, the far and away became the boundaries of the SUV, as they grew aware of themselves alone together, with nothing to do for the next four or five hours but being alone together.
They kept their eyes out the windshield, on the quiet house, where the porch lamp was the only light on, casting a warm glow on the grass. And they let silence pool between them.
Brock went over the ups and uppers of the day, because there had been no down from the moment Cassidy mentioned her name. And he allowed himself to acknowledge something he'd admitted only once before, when they were working the Ghost case back in DC: he felt physically attracted to her.
Ever since they met that summer noon at Boloco, almost two years ago, everything about her—or them—had always been strictly intellectual. He anticipated his sarcasm and agreed there had been some... emotions, now and then. But none of them positive. Whenever he felt something about Gillian, he was pissed at her rogue, reckless ways, or he was afraid she'd end up dead due to her taste for taking risks and her skill to get always in danger's way.
Really.
Okay. He liked brainstorming and profiling with her. That was not a negative emotion. But it was born from an intellectual pleasure at the chance of working with someone who actually understood him.
But earlier on, at the inn's garden, he was forced to face for the first time that he wanted her—should we profile that, Brockner? It'd been the very first time he'd had a conscious desire of getting physical with her.
Not true, Brockner. You felt it last year too, when she showed up at your place. Back then you regretted missing the chance to kiss her back.
Well, back being the key word.
And what about that dream in Portland? No back that night.
Brock blinked. He certainly didn't like being reminded of that ludicrous dream. In time, he'd rationalized it as a reflection of a couple of things coming together in the strange way dreams had to mix it all.
A couple of things being Gillian and Viv, right? His sarcasm was having a field day, making his ideas about gender discrimination squirm like dying maggots.
Anyway. He'd heard Gillian leave to meet that detective, and then he'd fallen asleep while recalling a special moment with Viv. It was only natural both situations mixed together to produce that bizarre, unwanted dream of him and Gillian...
Brock's sarcasm knew better than charging head-on against his thick walls of denial. So it changed flanks: so that dream had nothing to do with his protective instinct toward her, which in time had evolved into a very possessive... thing.
Brock reacted in time to swallow a scoff. Possessive! All he'd ever done was trying to kick her out of his life!
His sarcasm's silence was worse than any comment. He fought back a heartfelt sigh. Yeah, he was the king of fools, trying to push her away because she'd dared to reach him. Because he'd decreed he wouldn't feel anything anymore. Yet she'd come around, and forced him to face that no matter how much he wanted to be dead, he was still alive. And not only that. She'd also shown him he was important to somebody. There was someone out there other than his daughter who cared about him, and enjoyed doing with him what he loved most. Someone who understood him through and through.
And when he dared to admit how this whole deal of unrequited attention actually echoed in him, the nightmare stormed back into his life. The underlined omega still dripping fresh blood. It seemed to be everywhere he looked. Surrounding him. Cornering him. So he'd fought his way out. The chain broke by its weakest link, as it should. But he didn't stop to notice what that link was—actually, who. He broke free and stroke back against the imaginary enemy he needed in order to stay afloat. Else he would've drowned in insanity, overwhelmed by so many hurting memories coming back to haunt him by worse than ever.
And she'd taken it. All of it. His pain and his rage and his nonsense. Until the nightmare gave away and he was finally able to look around and see.
Gillian's quiet, stubborn love underlying her every action. And his own response, spontaneous and just as unexpected. Everything he'd clung to when he was struggling for his life soon after.
