+18 eps. 17-21 - After a hard case that takes the team to DC in order to catch a blackhat and prevent a bombing, all hell breaks loose on their return to Boston , when the ghost of the Libra killer comes back to torture Brock seven years after the m...
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**picture: reflecting pool, Lincoln Memorial, Washington DC
The last night tour had already left, and the Memorial seemed to breath and relax in the solitude of the cool summer night. Andrea and Connor took a lot of selfies, pulled Gillian and Brock closer to get some more of the four of them together, and left to explore around in their own fashion.
Gillian stood in front of the huge, imposing statue, eyes up on Lincoln's grave face, allowing the unique feeling of the place get to her. Brock was by her side, looking up like her. And once more, silence felt like a bridge between them.
She nodded slowly, as if she'd heard the quiet message of the carved stone. Her eyes darted around the tall ceiling, the massive columns, the dark corners. Brock looked down. They moved at the same time, turned around, walked out. They paused on top of the stairs to admire the view, then stepped down in no hurry. As they strolled to the reflecting pool, Brock tried to think of something to say.
"Do you think we'll be able to catch'im in time?" She kept her voice low, eyes ahead, her hands grasping her shawl loosely.
Her question surprised him. It always did, the way she wasn't afraid of letting him through her bulletproof confident persona.
"I think you've covered every flank we're aware of. Had you overlooked anything, be sure someone would've pointed it out already," said Brock, hands in his pockets, calm and low like her.
Gillian flashed an ironic smile. "You hate politics too. Who knew."
"I don't. I just think work is easier when politic is not in the way."
"You're damn right... You know? Today Russ said something about the subject that keeps going round and round my mind."
"End game."
"Yes. I got this feeling that he's right. But what can drive a deep-web geek, whose whole life is but ones and zeros from isolation, to change his virtual world for the real one?"
Brock raised his eyebrows. He didn't know, and they didn't have enough information to risk an educated guess. "Retribution?" he ventured.
She nodded. "That's what I thought. Now, the million-dollar question is how much of a bomber and how much of a narcissist he is."
"You mean if dying in the process is a part of his final statement."
"And what that statement is. Russ is right: this is too radical."
"Desperate measures for desperate times?"
"Yeah. They must be really desperate. He's bound to know there's no coming back from terrorism."
"Maybe he's at such a dead end in his life that he doesn't care."
Gillian let out a heartfelt sigh. "Don't you miss those good old days when you were just out of the Academy and everything was black and white?"
He tilted his head a little, thinking. "I'd say I miss my first years with the BAU."
She looked up at him, captured by his thoughtful, yet open tone.
He met her eyes for a moment with a little smile. "Not the part about bouncing all over, twenty-four/seven, dealing with the worst kinds of criminals. But the way I approached the cases back then."
"Intellectual challenges," she said. He nodded and she went on. "It all came down to a puzzle daring you to solve it. You saw the victims, got in touch with pain, vicious insanity, fear, blood, unnecessary cruelty. But they were all but pieces of information..."
"Bare facts. They lacked a dimension of reality."
"Yeah, facts, as you say. Not actual human beings."
They stopped by the pool and gazed at Washington Monument up ahead. The still water mirrored the lights, like the bright borders of a dark path stretching out before them.
Brock sighed. "Until you know..." he muttered.
Then it hit him, what he'd just said. He fixed a blank scowl on the water, lips pressed together in a tight line, regretting his last words. Now he could only hope she didn't ask. Or she didn't pat his shoulder and give him her condolences.
But she only nodded and repeated, lost in thought, "Until you know..."
What else was she to say? She could sense how he'd stiffened, as if waiting for the blow. And she didn't want him on the defensive against her. She knew the conversation was over. Even if she didn't want that special moment of understanding to end. This letting their guards down and just talk, share their minds a little, enjoy the way it flowed.
She folded her arms, closing the shawl over her chest. "We should go," she said, still absentminded. "Long day tomorrow."
Brock felt relieved at her discretion. He turned to take a step and found her eyes shadowed by her hair, oddly dark. She looked so pale in the dim light, pale and still like one of the statues around. He fought his impulse to brush her hair behind her ear, to see her eyes. Maybe his glance gave him away, because she brushed her hair off the light's way, with one of those shy smiles he suspected she didn't show to anyone else. And there they were, her deep blue eyes, asking him why he was staring at her like that.
Sorry, Gillian, it's just that I'd never taken the time to actually register what a beautiful woman you are. Well, you know me. I can be that big of an ass sometimes.
"Shall we?" he said, softly.
She looked down as she turned around, really whishing he didn't notice how she'd just blushed. Stupid man, why did he always make her feel like a silly teen? And speaking of teens, where the hell were Connor and Andrea? She scanned around. There, by the car. Waiting for them? Had they taken so long? She didn't think s...
Her thoughts derailed like a train wreck when a gust of breeze brought Brock's cologne to swirl around her. It also revealed the shawl had slipped down from her shoulders—that was what caused her a chill, of course. Then she felt the shawl sliding up her back, and Brock covered her shoulders with it. His moves were swift and accurate, but he couldn't help stroking her skin as he let go of the shawl. It took her a whole deal of will not to close her eyes and smile at his accidental touch. "Thanks," she murmured, eyes low again.
Brock didn't answer, as he fought a brief but hard battle to take his hand back into his pocket, because all of him felt its right place was around her shoulder. Or once more on the small of her back, Brockner? Yeah, why not. To keep her close to your side. Are you gonna take her hand in the dark of your car? Fancy a goodnight kiss?
