+18 - eps.33-35 - The shadow of an old foe leaves Gillian fighting for her life. And as the team hunts down the attacker, Brock and Gillian run out of time to come to terms with their feelings for each other. BONUS TRACK: episode 36 - the breakfast
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Gillian woke up to the unchanging dull light coming from the hall. Her lamp was off, so she assumed it was already morning. Brock wasn't around. Her empty stomach roared and squirmed for something solid. Her hand found the button to call the nurses and pressed it hard and long. A familiar face from the day before showed up a moment later.
"Good morning!" the nurse said, approaching the bed with a nice smile. "How are you feeling today?"
"Hungry..." Gillian's voice was a hoarse cawing and she cleared her throat. It hurt, but she forbade herself to let it show. She didn't want to drown in sedatives again. A little pain was a fair price for having her mind back.
"You're still in no shape to eat, I'm afraid. You have at least another twenty-four hours on the IV."
"Please... My belly aches worse than my wound..."
The nurse nodded with a soft chuckle at Gillian's dramatic claim. "Okay. Doctor Cole will come to check on you in a while. I'll ask him." She noticed Gillian's glance at the empty chair by the bed. "Your husband's just out the door, on the phone. I'll let him know you're awake."
"Thanks..."
Gillian's pale smile vanished as soon as the nurse turned around to head out, leaving her to digest the husband bit. She knew it was obvious they'd assume that, which didn't change that the word felt like a punch in her face.
It was the first time in fifteen years, ever since Connor's father left, that anybody had any ground to think she was with a given man. Not easy. Something she considered a valuable achievement she was proud of.
However, the worst thing was that past the expectable rejection at being called some guy's property, it wasn't actually such a terrible insult to her pride. Because the 'some guy' was Brock.
She closed her eyes with a heartfelt sigh that made her aware of every frigging stitch across her chest.
Damn Brock.
First she'd let him scold her and nurse her like a damn babysitter.
Then she'd surrendered her car keys to him.
Then she'd let him boss her around.
Had she been off of morphine, she could've listed every little shameful step she'd taken over the last two years, down the awful road to her mental shrug at being called Brock's woman.
Jeez, she was so totally pathetic.
All those years fighting to restore and strengthen her self-esteem and be in control of her own life. The hard, sometimes painful war she'd waged to be seen and acknowledged as herself, no possessive tags with any man's name attached...
All of it flushed down the toilet for Brock's sake.
Speaking of the devil and tags, Brock came in, still on the phone, the tea bag tag hanging from the paper cup in his other hand.
"Wait, I'll put you on speaker," he said, reaching her side in three strides.
Russell's voice sounded happy over the phone. "She awake?"
"Hey, hun," muttered Gillian, avoiding eye contact with Brock.
