+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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Brock heard the firm footsteps and the voices. Two men strode past his room and two more flanked his door. Were those FBI jackets? One of them glanced back at him and he recognized the man: Allen! What was going on? Why would they keep his door now, when he'd been there for days? He heard Gillian's voice as she came closer. She said something to Allen and walked into Brock's room, closing the door behind her.
He'd found a way to frown despite the cast, so he performed a very decent mild scowl at seeing her Kevlar.
Blame the overdrive, Gillian was tempted to smile at his furrowed brow. No medical report could be more reassuring for her than seeing it.
"Don't worry, sir. Everything's fine," she said, circling his bed to go to the window. She looked out, spotted three uniforms checking the parked cars and more of them at the main entrance.
Brock could only raise his eyebrows—really. When she faced him again, she couldn't but scoff.
"Okay, not so fine. Balken's here, in Portland, sir, and we think he may try to get to you or Russell. That's why I have agents keeping your doors."
Brock stared at her. He couldn't be sure how straight he was thinking, but bringing a lot of guns to a hospital, to wait for a violent man like Balken, seemed rather like a recipe for disaster.
Gillian frowned and looked away. Brock didn't agree with her dispositions and neither did her gut. Oh, she really wished he could tell her where she was going wrong. She let out a sigh as she turned around to stroll back to the window. Her head was a stressed mess where she couldn't find any clear logic to follow.
Brock knew what it was like, needing to single out the pieces to find the sense to the big picture. Jackson had been the only profiler he'd ever known able to do it without brainstorming, speak aloud to himself or at least take notes. And he could tell what Gillian needed. He couldn't brainstorm with her, but he could listen. That should be enough for Gillian to bring the pieces together. She had her back turned on him, so he needed to get her attention. Before he figured how to achieve it, she turned around and approached his bed again, eyes down.
"So he's a bigot, a chauvinist and a little of a sadist," he heard her mutter. "But he's also a huge narcissist..."
She glanced at him, to make sure her voice didn't bother him, and found his eyes fixed on her from under his mild scowl.
"What is it, sir?" she asked, concerned, and hurried to his side.
Brock's mouth wasn't quite back home yet. And knowing about Thursday's surgery, he knew it was better that way. But he needed to let Gillian know she was right about Balken. He tried a nod and a slow blink.
Gillian frowned deeper. "Yes what, sir?"
His eyes moved down to her mouth and up again. Yes, I'd like to kiss you, but right now I mean that what you said is right.
Gillian's hand moved up to her mouth on its own accord. Then it hit her. Was it possible? He was lucid enough to follow what she murmured?
"You met Balken, sir?" she tried, expecting he'd do something to prove her wrong. Maybe he was just thirsty.
But his brow relaxed and he nodded again.
Gillian's eyes widened. "And you think I'm right about'im?"
Another slow nod and she was mesmerized. Stupid genius! Beaten, wounded, deep in morphine, and he still felt like profiling! She was sure she shouldn't push him in his condition. But she wasn't about to play the scolding nurse on him—well, strike the scowling and we've got a deal, as soon as we catch Balken.
"Okay. So I think his narcissism is key here," she said.
Brock blinked. Her eyes darted away and around. He knew that look: she was thinking hard.
"He must blame Russell," she said. "The black scum who got away and caused the destruction of his whitey Disneyland. And he must also hate us—you and I—the black-scum lovers who brought him down."
She met his eyes, waiting for his approval. He blinked. She looked away, still deep in thought.
"A narcissist like him wouldn't sneak into the hospital and lurk around, waiting for a chance to kill Russell—or you. Not what a true general would do. But he ain't no fool either. He's bound to know he can't access the hospital as long as it's locked down and watched by security and cops. And I picture him walking in through the main gate, not some hidden side door..."
Even when she spoke slower than usual, it was hard for Brock to follow every word. But what little he did understand didn't quite fit his picture of Balken.
Gillian noticed and frowned. "You don't agree..."
Brock managed to tilt his head to the side.
She narrowed her eyes. What did she get wrong now? She went over what she'd just say.
"You think his narcissism makes him long for revenge, so he wouldn't mind sneaking around for a chance to get back at Russ..."
Now he blinked and Gillian looked away with a slow nod.
How the hell did he do it? He should be dozing lost in sedatives, yet he was able to keep up with her reasoning and even correct her. Damn, damn genius!
"So we should keep an eye on anybody dressed as hospital staff."
He blinked again and then closed his eyes, exhausted. Now she was doing her math right, so it didn't matter if he wasn't able to understand what she said next.
The sound of her voice was soothing. It felt good, her around, talking to him. Like back on the hill. No matter Balken's plan, he was safe because she was there with him. In the end, Balken turned out to be a tough dragon he couldn't take down by himself. Or was it that dragons could only be conquered by the two of them together?
Gillian trailed off at his sigh and didn't fight a warm smile. Brock had fallen asleep while she rambled about Balken. And now she knew what she had to do to keep him and Russell safe.
She rested her hand on his arm. She hated it. Made her feel like some sicko groper on a crowded train. But she did it anyway and waited for a moment. When Brock didn't react to her touch, the sicko groper leaned in and kissed his hair.
"Thank you," she muttered.
Brock stayed very still when she stepped back, waiting for any sound to tell him whether she was leaving or staying. Her voice reached him from the window. She was talking to Cooper. Keep the alert, patrols, press release. He knew she wouldn't trust Russell's and his security to anybody else. So she would stay. That was enough. He could still feel the light touch of her lips. He would've liked to say the same words she'd told him once—no, thank you.
Snow, Andrea and her bright smile a few steps away, Gillian's sweet floral scent. She was in his arms, whispering in his ear as they danced. Not a dream. The memory was so vivid it caused him a chill. Good thing he was still so deep in morphine. Else, his sarcasm would've had a field day slaying butterflies all over his bruised belly.
