+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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Connor came down the stairs and spotted Gillian's phone buzzing on the table.
"Mom! You've got a call!" he said.
Gillian replied from the kitchen. "It's okay. I'll take the message."
"Need a hand?"
"No, thanks, baby."
Connor frowned. What was with her? Over the last week, since she was cleared to get up from bed, and Tanya came only on working hours, Gillian had been acting so strange. Too light, too casual. Even when it came to help the team from home.
"Can you set the table, please?"
"Sure."
Connor started picking up the things from the table and his eyes fell on Gillian's phone.
Missed call – Agent Brockner
Why wouldn't she take Brock's call?
"Tonight if possible, son."
The boy turned around and found her bringing dishes and glasses to the breakfast bar.
"Where's your sling, Mom?"
"I can't cook single-handed," she replied, an edge of warning in her voice, for him to drop the watchdog mode. "Can you move?"
Connor came to the bar as she brought the bread basket and the juice pitch.
"It was Brockner on the phone," he said.
Gillian turned her back on him to grab a steamy plate overflowing food. "I know," she grunted.
Connor took everything to the table, curiosity eating him up. So he grabbed Gillian's phone and opened the list of incoming calls. At least a dozen of them were Brock's. One for each day since he'd left Boston—as he'd promised. All of them missed. Gillian hadn't even taken one of Brock's calls.
"What the hell?" the boy grunted under his breath.
He heard Gillian come out of the kitchen and around the bar to do what he wasn't doing and finish setting the table. He ignored her. Her passwords were no mystery to him, so he accessed her voice mail and played on speaker the last message, recorded barely a minute earlier.
"Gillian, it's Brock. Again. Just wanted to know how you're doing. Please call me."
Gillian was about to grab the hot plate. Instead, she spun around as if bitten by a scorpion when Brock's calm, deep voice filled the air. She found Connor looking at her with her phone in his hand.
"Drop it," she said, her voice dry enough to turn Florida swamps into the American branch of the Sahara.
She knew it was just genetics, which didn't mean she hated it any less when Connor didn't drop it, but played the next message, dated the day before.
"Gillian, it's Brock. Just wanted to check on you. Call me, please."
She shot a death glare at Connor that would've caused PTSD to the toughest Black Ops commando. Not to her son. He moved his finger and there it was, the next message.
"It's Brock, Gillian. Please call me. I just wanna make sure you're fine."
And the next one.
"Hi, Gillian, it's me, Brock. I'd like to know how you're doing. Call me, please."
Gillian turned her back on Connor and went to the bar. Her dull voice was the epitome of apathy.
"Can we have dinner?"
Connor dropped her phone on the table.
"I'm not hungry," he replied, oozing contempt.
Gillian heard his footsteps rattle up the stairs and sighed, head low between burdened shoulders, while Brock's voice still sounded behind her.
"Gillian, it's Brock. Just checking in. Please call me. I'd like to know how you're doing."
