Nick comes out of the locker room with heavy limbs and a heavier heart, leaving the station as a biting wind greets him in the parking lot. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and heaves a deep, beaten sigh. When he blinks the fog away, he sees Gail walk out from behind him, wonders how he didn't see her there before, and just as suddenly realizes that he misses her.
Loves her, but isn't in love with her, and misses her.
She doesn't look at him and he can't tell if it's by device or if she just doesn't see him, but he's caught in a haze as he watches her walk onto the curb, pale and ghostly and defeated. She passes her face into her hands and he thinks he sees her muffle a sob, knows he sees her muffle a sob. Can tell by the slump of her shoulders, the hunch of her back, her neck craned as her body jostles once, subtly; can feel it in her gentlest of cues.
Gail Peck existed in a realm of venom and thorns. Sharp and bitter guarding a fragile heart, and sometimes Nick forgets that he hides parts of himself, too. Remembers when he catches glimpses of tenderness that break through the cracks, when her smiles reach her eyes and they dance like fire.
Standing alone with her shoulders rising and falling in waves, Gail's walls have completely crumbled, barriers flooded by tides of grief and frustration. A pit forms in his stomach as he realizes that she's stopped trying to hide it, can almost hear her whimper from where she stands. He itches to come to her, drawn to Gail Peck even after all that's happened. Maybe because of all that's happened. She left him, or he left her, but he's tied to her regardless in a way that keeps him up some nights.
Ford was nothing if not revelatory. Cathartic. Devastating, and maybe, just maybe, after everything that's passed, Nick tells himself that she needs a friend in him more than her hate. It's a rationalization he's loath to deny.
He takes a half-step towards her, but when she looks up, walks into someone else's arms, he's stopped in his tracks. Doesn't know if the bitter taste that comes up his throat brews from watching her suffer, or take solace in someone else.
Holly smells like jasmine.
Gail walks straight into her without a thought and Holly takes her in, firm, gentle, and jasmine. They don't say anything and Gail lets herself go, into Holly as arms wrap around her waist, teeth clench and her throat tightens. The tears come quietly, hot and salty on dark fabric as Holly remains warm against a bitter, frozen evening.
Gail breathes in deep, cotton and flowers and the faint scent of rubber. Loosens her hold. Swallows past what's caught in her throat and Holly takes a step back, tucks away blonde strands behind her ear. Her thumb brushes across her cheek.
"I'll take you home."
Gail is a proud woman, has been from the very start. She expresses herself on a spectrum of mean and sardonic and rarely sincere, but Holly looks at her, just looks at her with calm brown eyes that dissolve any need to guard herself and she feels safe.
"I don't want to be alone tonight."
Holly nods once and her mouth curls softly upwards. "I'm here."
She leads her into the apartment, beelines to her bedroom and it occurs to Gail that everything is so different, familiar and foreign all at once. She finds herself caught between grief and elation, feels guilty for the latter considering, but when she watches Holly stand beside her bed, realizes that she has someone to come home to now, grief and guilt dissolve into white noise for another day.
She reaches into her dresser, pulls out an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, tosses it to Holly, who catches the garments on her shoulder. Confusion registers on her face and Gail tilts her head, shrugs. "I made you drive me home and now you're babysitting me because I don't want to be left by myself." Holly's expression softens. "The least I can do is give you something comfortable to wear."
Holly concedes without a word, sitting on the bed as she toes her heels off. Gail moves to the bathroom, looks at herself in the mirror, can only see a woman weary with the exhaustion of loss. Can't tell if she does it consciously, but finds herself watching Holly undress from behind her and wonders if she should look away. She doesn't, lets herself linger for a few moments, takes in the sight and the sudden sense of voyeurism sends a heat up to her ears.
She huffs once, dryly and Holly looks up at her.
"You okay?"
Gail looks into the mirror, at Holly, and turns around, leaning on the sink.
"This is how it works when two girls get dressed."
Gail slips into bed and rolls on her side, faces Holly and looks at her like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Morning comes quietly and Gail wakes from a dreamless sleep. Forgets for a second that she has to go to work. That they all have to return and face the day with a vacancy no one's ever ready for and it's Jerry all over again.
A dim gold shimmers in through drawn curtains, speckles of dust billowing through streaks of escaped light. Gail hears the sink running, feet shuffling outside her door as Chris talks, muffled words almost audible. She thinks she hears Chloe's name, stops listening because it's too early. Too soon to return to that world just yet.
She has her fingers intertwined with Holly's, held close to her chest. Holly breathes softly, deep, constant and warm against the back of her neck. Their legs rest tangled and it occurs to Gail that Holly's are soft. Smooth and so are her fingers, her knees, pressed gently against Gail's, her mouth, which she has the urge to kiss. Holly is a soft creature. One of labs and coat closets, batting cages and eccentricities that receive Gail's jibes with crooked and delicate smiles and not offense flitting in her eyes.
She catches Nick watch her sometimes like she's a stray animal and replays Chris break up with her, hard and heartbreaking in her mind when she's alone and sometimes when she's not, but there's no malice in Holly, who comes to her at work without her lab coat, with a blue file, a stuttered excuse, who looks at her with genuine worry and care and when her hand trails across her own forehead, knocks her glasses slightly out of place and she begins to stammer through an unnecessary (but welcome) confession (she almost sighs in relief), it occurs to Gail that sometimes she forgets some people aren't hardened by bad guys and dead friends. Holly is soft and delicate when Nick is haunted, Chris is lost. Holly trusts.
Gail inhales deep, sighs out into their fingers and shuffles in her place, legs untangling and re-tangling, turns to face her, whose eyes flutter open in response. Gail smiles. Watches her lips, kisses her warmly and Holly pulls at Gail's hips, closer and she still feels safe.
It's not a spur of the moment impulse in an interrogation room. Not afraid she won't come home tonight. Isn't light and dizzy from champagne and wedding music. When Gail kisses her, slowly and fully, it's a conscious, careful gesture and it says thank you, thank you, thank you, at once wordless and expressive. She feels Holly smile against her, hand running down her thigh, to her knee and back up, to her waist, her shoulder blade, her neck and her lips and she opens her mouth more, breathes Gail in with a quiet hum at the back of her throat.
Holly whispers a goodbye on her way out of the apartment, but doesn't leave immediately, lingers in the doorway for a moment and steps into Gail, breath catching in her throat as Holly's hands grasp her waist. She initiates a kiss for the first time since the wedding and it's more like she's saying hello.