The End - Blackbird book 7

19

Gillian's lips moved quietly, as if rehearsing something. She'd always thought of him as 'Brock', but she needed to get used to say it aloud. 'Sir' and 'Agent Brockner' came to her mouth first. Even having breakfast with him, after spending the night together.

"Brock..." she tried. "I... I was wondering..."

He wore his blank scowl and nodded for her to go on. Even both of them half-dressed at his place, it was something she was familiar with. And it worked.

She pursed her lips to hold back one of her stupid giggles. It was weird in a funny way. That scowl was as if an imaginary suit covered him. This was Agent Brockner listening. And she was used to talk to his scowl.

Gillian looked down, found his hand on the cushion between them and took it.

"What does this mean..." Sir. "...Brock? I mean, you and I. What's next?"

Brock knew he could only be completely honest to her.

"I don't know, Regan," he replied, feeling her stir at her own name. "I think we should decide it together. One step at a time."

Gillian anticipated his question, refusing to be the first to answer. "And what would you like to come next?"

He arched his eyebrows and tilted his head. Time to lighten the mood a little. She usually got his attempts at humor. "I'd really like to take a nap, or just sit here a while longer. And not that I want or like it, but I do need to go to the supermarket."

Gillian giggled and tried to scowl at him. "C'mon! I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!"

Brock scowled back, enjoying the break. "I mean it. I'm drained and aching. And whatever's left in my fridge could start a biohazard event any minute now."

Now she laughed at loud. He smiled at such a merry, true sound.

"I hear ya! I've been tempted to ask you for painkillers. But that would kill my self-esteem, not my aches!"

He chuckled, mostly out of relief at her confession. It was great, not being the only one trashed around. He caressed her cheek on the way to brush her hair behind her ear, which seemed... fevered.

"What I'd like next..." he repeated, thoughtful. "You know it's been a long time since I last tried to have anything more than casual sex with a woman. So I don't have the slightest idea what should come next for us." His lips pursed in a somehow sad smile. "I want to have more nights like last night... Well, maybe easier..." He liked it when she scoffed, nodding. "I want more nights with you, even if only to fall asleep together. And more breakfasts watching the news together. I want more work talks over dinner..." He shrugged. "Sharing time, Regan. And things. Just as they come, hard and easy. But, again, I have no idea about what's the best way to get there with you."

Gillian nodded as he spoke, mesmerized by his warm but thoughtful words. She'd never heard him talk so much before, save to give a subject's profile. Wrong. He'd talked to her like this when she was in the hospital, when he told her about her wife. It was sweet, and honest. He didn't try to fake anything, which made his words so much more valuable. So she decided to let her guts respond. They used to be way wiser than her logical crap to try to mask her fears.

"I feel exactly the same, y'know. The problem is..." She breathed deep. "It took me so long, daring to be here, that now... Right now I feel like I do when I get a new case. Y'know, I need to dive in head-on and stay on it until I figure it out... And I don't wanna overload things—overload you..."

"Overload me," he repeated, amused. "You."

She frowned, feeling she'd missed the joke. Brock scoffed again and kissed her hand.

"I'd like to see you try," he said softly.

Gillian struggled to keep a solid state and smiled back.

"On the bright side, I think work will help."

"Work?"

Dammit! Not the smiling frown, stupid man! Not now that I can hardly move! "Yeah, work. You're outta town most of the time. And I go away too, now and then. So I won't get too many chances to screw up. And you won't get sick and tired of me too soon."

He knew she was giving voice to one of her deepest fears, so he kept his act on so she wouldn't feel burdened. "Sick and tired? Of you?"

Jeez! Couldn't he stop echoing everything she said? It forced her to elaborate on things she was far from feeling certain about. Or maybe that was why he did it? Stupid lovely profiler! He knew how her mind worked, and that speaking up about vague notions helped her to see them clearer. But the only thing clear right now was her impulse to hug him and kiss him.

"Yeah. Sick and tired. You see, I'm having some weird leech tendencies as we speak. Something I didn't even know I could feel."

"Leech tendencies..."

Gillian rolled her eyes and decided to go for some show-don't-tell. So she threw one of her legs across his and her arms around his neck, sticking to him as tight as she could.

"Leech," she repeated before kissing him.

Her sweetness detector spiked off the red arc when Brock's arms locked around her and he pulled to sit her on his lap. He leaned back on the couch to kiss her back. It wasn't foreplay. It was just that: kissing. No rush. Just enjoying this new way of contact between them. How was she supposed to keep from melting like butter? Damn Brock! It was not fair!

He rested his head on her arm to look up at her with a soft sigh, his hand rubbing her back in slow and gentle circles.

"I think I can cope with your leech tendencies," he said.

The fangirl was able to push a giggle out of her lips as she rested her forehead against his. He was relaxed as if he were in the most comfortable position, his dark green eyes only half-open to move over her face. And the way he looked at her... Had anybody ever looked at her or kissed her like this in her whole life? Love, appreciation, satisfaction. He was happy to have her there with him. And he intended to keep her. She'd always run away from any man who harbored any kind of feeling remotely close to what she could see in Brock's eyes. It'd felt like a threat to her independence and her identity. A chain with a cannon ball at the other end, meant to hold her back and down.

But she saw none of it in his eyes. All he wanted was giving her a place by his side. A place she was free to decline whenever she felt like it. No tricks, no traps, no chains. She closed her eyes. It felt so good, being in his arms. They'd always seemed the safest place in the whole universe for her. The place where she could lay down her armor, let her weakness show, have doubts, be her deepest, truest self.