+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 observed Brock's lips pursed in his little smile and realized she was staring like an idiot again. How long had they been in silence now? She moved in her seat and Brock glanced at her. She automatically faked a yawn. She didn't give a damn if he thought she wasn't in shape to keep the watch through the night. All she wanted was to not screw up again, and the only safe way to do it was keeping her bigmouth shut.
"Why don't you get a shut-eye?" asked Brock, the old school gent. "No need for both of us to stay awake all night to watch the house."
Partnership canon stated that falling asleep was the rudest thing to do on such a tedious watch. But Gillian wasn't about to miss the excuse to keep quiet. So she accepted with a tight smile. She leaned back to rest against the angle of the door and her seat, curled her legs up a little, slipped her hands between her thighs and closed her eyes.
Brock looked away, all of a sudden too tempted to kiss her goodnight. And he smiled yet again, hearing her breathe deeper and slower into slumber. He liked it, her sleeping by his side.
The dash clock read two a.m. when he heard Gillian move. She was sound asleep. He saw she was sinking her head between her shoulders, arms pressed to her sides. She was cold. Turning the heat on would make him drowsy—hope you appreciate the pun, Brockner. So he took off his suit coat to cover her.
As he did, his eyes omitted to consult with his brain and slipped down, catching another glimpse of blue lace beneath her blouse. He tucked her in, scoffing to himself. No rush to see the whole piece, he realized. Not until he was certain it'd be followed by Wednesday breakfast. However, he felt the slight tinkling in his fingertips, letting him know they wouldn't mind at all, sliding oh so gently down her pale skin, tracing her collar bone on their way to the blue lace.
The idea surprised him. Especially because it didn't feel awkward or embarrassing at all. He didn't need to ask himself how long it'd been since he last harbored any kind of fantasy about a woman. It'd been when he'd first met Georgia, fifteen years ago.
Gillian relaxed under the light weight of Brock's suit coat, and his cologne flooded her sleep from the fabric right under her nose. In her dream, she woke up at dawn to find Brock still reading the file he'd brought to bed. He didn't stop reading when she stirred, and moved his arm to make room for her against his side. She stuck to him, her nose against the soft fabric of his black pajamas. Before falling asleep again, she rested her hand on his and murmured, "Get some rest, Brock..."
He froze in the SUV, a surprised scowl down on her hand around his. Did she just call him Brock? As if handling the most fragile and valuable china, he let go of his suit coat and turned his palm up, for Gillian's hand to rest on it. His eyes moved over her face. Yes, she was asleep. So she'd talked in her dreams? His fingers closed slowly around her hand and he leaned back on his seat, still studying her. Unless his ego played him ugly, Gillian was dreaming of him. And in her dream, maybe they were just a few hours away from Wednesday breakfast—and he hadn't gotten any sleep yet.
He felt the sudden need to take her in his arms and let her sleep against his chest. It'd be so much easier for them. Hold her tight and put the words to rest. Let her wake up like that. Save themselves what he could tell would be some difficult conversations before they got to any kind of honest understanding about their feelings.
He looked out with a heartfelt sigh, his thumb brushing distractedly the back of her hand. Maybe it had to do with his time in Portland's hospital, but this simple touch brought him a deep calm.
For a moment he wondered why he didn't feel anything like guilt. Fourteen years ago, he'd sworn to love no other than Georgia for the rest of his life. Yet there he was, cherishing the light, warm weight of another woman's hand in his. Wishing to cradle her in his arms. And it had nothing to do with desire. It was something so much deeper.
Yet, no matter how deep it rooted inside of him, this feeling never came across his love for Georgia. Something he never thought possible. Maybe it had to do with how different they were, Georgia and Gillian. Brock didn't think they had anything in common, other than being in love with him. So it made a little sense, his feelings for such contrasting women being so different?
Now he knew he wasn't betraying Georgia. He would always love her. The resigned, always-mourning love he sustained for his memories of her. Actually, his loving her memory already shared room with his feelings for Gillian, without any kind of conflict whatsoever. If hearts were coins, Georgia and Gillian would've been heads and tails of his.
Brock relaxed further in his seat, eyes out on the house, Gillian's hand in his. It was so good, not needing to cheat on himself on behalf of some imaginary guilt he didn't really feel anymore. He welcomed this truce with himself. It was something he needed. Because Gillian being Gillian, there was no telling how things might unfold between them. Not for the best, that for sure, if he was busy dealing with fake guilt as an excuse to keep from acknowledging what he really felt.
Gillian let out a soft sigh that made Brock glance at her and smile yet again. It was odd, seeing such an energetic, always-vigilant woman in the surrender of sleep. Odd as in oddly... sweet, he had to correct himself.
It took his mind but a blink to recall her heated words months ago, that rainy night at her office, after arresting Ledger on the copycats case.
Brock felt angry at himself, like every time he thought of how he'd hurt her back then. No wonder she was so mad at him—the one and only time she'd ever been mad at him. The way she spoke about her feelings... Like an accusation, expecting him to take offense and leave. The way she'd said she loved him, like a desperate gambit to get rid of him and have a break from all he'd put her through over those few days.
In the quiet shadows of the SUV, with her hand in his like during those endless nights at the hospital, Brock looked past the bare facts, to wonder for the first time about her reaction back then.
Why would she wield her feelings like that, seeking only to be left alone? His mind of cogs and wheels mused over it in no hurry. It didn't make sense. He could expect any other person to use their emotions as a shield, eventually. But not Gillian. Because she might be brilliant and driven and brave. Even hot, as he was able to admit now. But one of the first things he'd learned about her was her issues dealing with her own emotions. She invested a good deal of energy on keeping them under control. Hiding them, even fighting them. She'd shoot her own foot any time before admitting her deepest feelings and risking to look weak. Then why blurt out like that? Why expose her feelings as a last-resource defense against him?
