+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 rested her back against the door, a shaky hand still on the lock and the other to her aching chest. She gasped for air once, twice, but her lungs seemed to be crushed under a heavy rock. A muffled cry escaped her trembling lips. Her brain was overloaded, trying to process all the flaring alerts bombing it. She looked up at the ceiling. Not good. The floor still felt like sliding from under her feet, and now the room seemed to shrink, about to collapse. Closing her eyes made everything spin harder, but at least she didn't feel as if the walls were about to crumble down on her.
The soft knock on the door, behind her back, made her jump a yard away from it, and face it as if some hideous monster pounded on it to slam it open and attack her.
Brock's whisper, calling her, helped her to shake off the delusion. Only to bring her back to reality.
She pressed her hand to her mouth in time to muffle a cry, and staggered backwards until the edge of the bed touched her legs. Then she spun on her heels and scampered to the bathroom. She yanked off her dress and swimming suit and got in the shower.
Once she felt the warm rain running down her body, she was able to breathe again. She rested her back against the hard, cold tiles and slid down to sit under the shower. She held her knees tight to her chest and stayed like that, breathing heavily. Until another desperate cry shook her. A moment later she couldn't tell her tears from the rain, and lowered her face to press her mouth against her knee, scared of her own groans.
It hurt like hell. Her heart was about to shatter in a thousand pieces as the ruthless claw of fear ripped her apart inside. She tried to focus on anything. She couldn't fight it, so she had to let it all out. And what else would she think of, but Brock? The last minutes had been like a nuke straight to her deepest emotions, blasting away any pretension of balance.
She'd thought it'd be some mature, polite conversation, in which Brock would try to help her rationalize her feelings. She knew they needed it to clear the air between them. And maybe it would turn out to be actually helpful for her. They'd agree some sort of professional friendzone, considering they were bound to come across each other all the time at work—and they were both hopeless workaholics. What she'd refused to do that night back in Boston.
Only a few hours ago, she was thrilled because he was in such a good mood, and they'd made the profile together, and she'd managed to keep from pissing him off for a whole day.
That'd been her scenario from day one.
Always treading on thin ice with him. Keeping her stupid awe to herself. Worrying about him because he just had to go all protective over her, but wouldn't accept her help if he got hurt. Enjoying the privilege of working with him.
But now everything had gone just... She didn't even have a word for it, because she was still incapable of processing what happened.
Yeah, she knew he cared about her—he was the stupid caring man. And he understood some things about her nobody else even noticed. But other than that...
Yeah, he'd always appreciated her skills and found some kind of satisfaction working with her—save when it came to planning a procedure, that is. But other than that...
They might share an addiction to chasing down bad guys by figuring out their sick logic. But other than that, she was the opposite to most of what he'd stood for his whole life!
Just before he caught up with her outside her room, she thought she'd figured it out. Maybe he'd thought her so-called feelings for him were mostly some crazy fantasy about having sex with him. If so, intercourse was the easiest way for her to shake it all off. So maybe he'd thought it'd work. It'd help her find a clearer perspective. And she was an attractive woman after all, so it wouldn't be much of a sacrifice for him.
But it was Brock, which meant he'd always stick to his proper manners. He'd never say, "let's have sex and clear those silly fantasies of yours"—she let out a shaky, choking giggle through her tears at trying to picture him saying that.
Brock was a gentleman. So he had to say it in the most proper way. I wanna be with you.
She didn't have a chance to think it all the way through. But the idea was there when he showed up at the second floor and kissed her. So she'd played along. Because maybe he was right about the having sex bit. And there had to be a first step to reach the bed, right? That'd been the only reason why she hadn't punched his lights out. At the first moment. A split second later, she would've punched him only if he pulled away.
She shivered from head to toes just by recalling his kiss.
And then... Then...!
She thought she was finally calming down. She was wrong.
Only recalling those three words from his lips caused a new row of tears and groans and quivering.
What the hell!?
How could he ever say something like that!
To her of all people!
The worst of it all was that there was no way Brock would make something like that up. Maybe he'd exaggerated, carried away by the moment. But if he said he loved her, or had feelings for her, it was true.
She covered her face with both hands, trying in vain to suffocate her cry.
