The End - Blackbird book 7

7. never know

Brock let her speak. When she yanked her hand free from his to cover her face, fighting back her sobs, he stood up. The chief nurse had been around while he drowsed, and the damn woman had left everything open. So he closed the curtains and the door. Back to Gillian's side, he sat on the bed by her legs and took both her hands, pulling them gently away from her face.

"Breathe deep, Gillian. You need to calm down," he said, knowing she couldn't fight the authority in his voice, even softened. "Now look at me."

Her eyes opened to meet his through tears. He smiled and brushed off the hair stuck to her wet temples, feeling her shiver at his touch.

"I want you to listen to me now." He waited until she nodded, and softened his voice even more to go on. "Georgia, my late wife, was an artist, you know. She had her painting studio in our attic, and worked at home. She loved to live such a safe, peaceful life... to an exasperating extent for me sometimes..."

A mild smile took hold of Brock's face. Because it was impossible, talking about Georgia without an affectionate smile. He felt lucky that the time when he couldn't spell her name without breaking down was over. Now, her memory brought a comforting warmth to his chest. Because she was gone. But he'd had the fortune of knowing her, loving her, and most of all, being loved by her. As he processed how he felt, he also realized that telling Gillian about her didn't feel odd. All the way around. For some reason, it felt natural.

"We lived in a quiet residential area back then," he said, holding Gillian's eyes to keep her focused on his words. "And our house had the best alarm system available at the time. Even so, one morning, eight years ago, I kissed her goodbye to go to work like any other morning. And I never saw her alive again."

Gillian's hands wriggled to close around his, a troubled frown pursing her face. Brock sighed.

"One thing Georgia's death taught me is that no matter what kind of life we lead, no one's safe. Ever. Accidents happen. Psychopaths happen. Diseases happen. And there's nothing we can do about it, but learning to live with it." He tried to smile again. "It's hard as hell. But we've got no choice. Every time I see Andrea, I can't help wondering. And it's the same about everyone around me, near or far. Is this the last time I hug my daughter? Is this the last time I feel like punching Cassidy? Is this the last time Coleman pats my arm? Is this the last time Gillian surprises me?" He scowled when tears breached Gillian's frail contention yet again. "You don't have to feel for me, Gillian. I just want you to see that your being a LEO is not a valid excuse to keep me away."

"But.. but..." Gillian stuttered and trailed off when he smiled.

"Remember when the militia captured Coleman and me?"

She nodded. Her fingers pressed his hands tighter at the memory.

"Did you think Coleman was being a bad friend for getting captured and tortured?"

"What?"

Brock's smile widened for a heartbeat. "Thought so. And what about me? When you found me on the hill, pretty much dying. Wasn't it unfair that I put you through that? I forced you to rescue me, to keep me alive, to save me."

"Like you did it on purpose," she grunted.

Brock loved how she was almost pouting. She knew he'd just refuted her plea.

"Well, you may say so. It was my call, escaping the hut to drag the men away from Coleman. I put you through that ordeal, and then had you watch over me all those days and nights at the hospital. So how come you don't hate me when I've been but unfair to you?"

"What? You've never...!" Gillian was too moved to finish.

He let go of her hand to rest his on her wet cheek. "Neither have you," he said, and his low, warm voice pulled a suffocated moan from her lips as she closed her eyes.

He waited, his thumb brushing her skin gently, while she took in a couple of shaky breaths, her face contracted as she tried to stop crying.

She kept her eyes shut, wiping her tears and nose with the back of her hand. Maybe it was the morphine, but she felt exhausted and desperate. It was like hanging from the last grip to an abyss. She couldn't keep her grasp any longer, but she couldn't just let go. The lose-lose situation turned much more painful in the state she was in, and she could no longer be sure what loss she could afford.

"Talk to me," he whispered, in that warm tone designed solely to melt her heart away.

"I... I can't!" she mumbled, covering her eyes once more, unable to face him. "I... Ever since Sheppard left, I never... It's just too late for me... I've... I've been alone for too long and now... I can't... I couldn't..." Her voice broke as she repeated to herself, "Too late... Too late..."

Brock bit his lip, tears stinging his eyes at her helpless conviction. So much like his own conviction when he'd met her two years ago. The same she'd defused in time. He moved from the bed to his chair, which allowed him to lean closer to her face. She felt him move and opened her eyes with a jolt. He read the conflicting fears battling inside her—fear of losing him, fear of keeping him. For a moment, her painful confusion pierced right through him.

He rested his hand on her head, a firm, steady weight to soothe her. She was anxious and scared and ashamed. He needed to give her a little peace of mind. She was too weak to even try to face any kind of definition.

"It's okay, Gillian," he whispered.

She swallowed, trying hard to calm down, and dared to look up at him.

"I'll resume the procedures as soon as we catch your shooter. And I'll ask Cooper to take your team along, okay?"

Her head moved an inch to nod. He forced himself to keep his smile, no matter how tight or sad it was.

"But I'm not staying away, Gillian. I'm sorry, I can't. I won't mention this ever again, if that's what you want. But I'm not giving you up. Ever."

She let out an odd mix of sigh and sob that made Brock fight back his arms to keep from holding her tight.

"Thanks..." she murmured, and closed her eyes.

She was drained. Emotionally, mentally, physically. Brock felt guilty for upsetting her so much. All he'd meant was making her feel better about what troubled her. Yet she was so trapped in her crossroads of opposite feelings, that nothing he said or did would comfort her.

"Sleep now. You need to rest," he whispered.

She pressed his hand. Her voice was but a thread. "Will you...?"

"Yes. I'll be here."

Brock felt his throat squeezed shut when his answer made her relax so much that she fell asleep in under a minute.