It was dark out.
But, then, it was always dark as far as Gail was concerned.
Apparently that's what happens when a psycho serial killer hits you in the back of the head with a crowbar to keep you from struggling as he's trying to shove you into the trunk of his car.
You wake up in some place that smells like antiseptic and wonder why no one took the blindfold off you yet.
She'll never forget Oliver's voice as he struggled to answer, the way it trembled.
"Everything's going to be fine, darling," he'd said, "you just sit tight while I find that doctor of yours."
But he'd been wrong.
Nothing was fine.
Nothing would ever be fine again.
Traumatic brain injury.
Blunt force trauma.
Occipital subdural hematoma.
These were the words that defined her now.
Gail Peck.
Ex-cop.
Ex-girlfriend.
Ex-everything that mattered.
Sure, she got a killer pension out of it. And sure, she got to sit around her apartment–found and furnished by her mother once it became apparent that living at the Frat with Dov and Chris would no longer be feasible–and drink all day long if she wanted, and no one could judge her for it. (And even if they did, they would the assholes for judging the traumatized blind lady just trying to make it through the day, and not her for being the drunken mess sprawled on the floor of her apartment.)
But it was no fair trade off for her sight.
For her job.
For her life.
She'd pushed everyone away. Let her anger and her darkness scaffold her walls, let them build her defenses taller and thicker and so, so much stronger.
Even if she weren't blind, her world would still be dark. She'd shuttered herself off from the light, hidden herself behind her defenses, far, far out of the longest reach.
It got easier and easier to make them leave. Her mother and father, frustrated by her unwillingness to move beyond, to get back up and keep fighting.
"Why," she'd asked them over and over again, every time Elaine dropped by with information on some new avenue open to the disabled hero cop, some way she could get out and serve the community, be a symbol of strength and resilence. Every time Bill brought up questions about what she planned on doing with her life now.
"Why bother," she asked time and time again, "I'm a Peck. Pecks are cops. I'm blind. Cops aren't blind. What else is there?"
Eventually they stopped asking, stopped suggesting. Now when they came over, it was to bring food, to drop off clean laundry, to tidy up her apartment. Their guilt rolled off of them in waves–she could smell it through their faux-cheer and feel it in they way they couldn't seem to bear to touch her. Most of their visits were spent in silence and, honestly, Gail preferred it that way.
Steve was a little harder. He'd always been bull-headed. He was the one who dragged her out into the world she was all too content to leave behind. He took her to the park, where she felt the warm heat of the sun on her face for the first time in months, and heard the idle chatter of people passing by, going about their daily lives completely unaware of just how swiftly everything could be taken away. He took her out to eat, for long drives in the car where they sat silently and listened to the radio count down the hours. He even, despite her threats, made her go grocery shopping with him, gently placing his hands over hers on the cart like their father had when they were children, and walked her slowly through the aisles, never leaving her.
It had been terrifying.
But for a minute, just a minute…
Even with the heat of her brother's big body behind her, his hands guiding hers, she felt almost normal. Almost like maybe she could figure out how to live again, remember how to be the woman she'd lost.
But her friends, they were the easiest.
And the worst part was that she understood, absolutely.
She wasn't their friend anymore, not their coworker, not their partner.
She was a symbol of everything that could go wrong.
She was a lesson, a warning, a scarecrow in the field, warning them away.
It was easier, she realized, when the visits and the calls all slowed down. It was easier to forget what she'd lost, who she'd been.
She couldn't hold it against them for realizing it too.
Oliver suggested the dog.
She'd told him to fuck off, of course, but he'd never been one to take her threats seriously. Probably had something to do with the teenagers at home; that'd raise anyone's threshold for drama, she figured.
Of all the people at the 15, Oliver was the one to visit every other day. On his lunch hour or on his way home. The fatherly figure, her former superior, her brother-in-arms. He was the only person she'd broken down in front of, the person who came back into her hospital room after the doctor left and held her as she shook in shock and grief.
He was the one person to whom she gave any leeway.
Which is why, when he brought over the dog that he'd arranged for her, the dog she'd very clearly said "No" to, Gail just sighed and opened the door.
"Gail Peck," Oliver said as he fit the sturdy handle of a harness into her grip, "meet Frank."
And that was the beginning of Gail Peck's second life.
It turned out that having a guide dog took a lot of work. And time. And effort.
"All things you have plenty of time for," Steve said when she told him as much. From the disgusted chortle he made, Gail was pretty sure she'd at least hit him with the piece of garlic bread she threw across the table.
But, work she did. Grumbling and complaining and grudgingly, yes, but she did.
She and Frank went to their training classes. They practiced their drills, they learned to live with each other.
It wasn't easy, and sometimes they stumbled. But when they did, they stumbled together. And then picked themselves up and tried again, usually with a quick scratch from Gail and a long lick from Frank.
Slowly, slowly, Gail began to trust her companion.
Gail, who had always found trust so hard to give, learned how to have faith in someone–something–else.
She might have been blind, but she'd never felt more free.
Gail's world–for weeks, for months, limited to the familiar layout of her apartment–expanded exponentially.
First, there was homework.
"Walk up and down the stairs at your building a couple of times, let Frank get used to them in case of a fire or other emergency," the trainer told them.
"Take him around the block–don't try crossing the street yet, just get used to each other as you walk along a city street."
"Grab some coffee at the cafe a few blocks down from your building–pay attention to him as you approach crosswalks and then treat yourself to a coffee inside before heading back."
"Take Frank to the park, the one just about a mile's walk from your apartment, and let him get used to the neighborhood."
After so many weeks and months of doing nothing, of drinking and sleeping and being so, so angry at the world, to be so suddenly doing something was hard at first.
It exhausted her.
More than once Gail fell asleep on the couch, listening to some show or another on the TV, and woke up to a dog snoring, curled up on the couch at her feet.
But they got bolder and bolder, and soon they were traveling all over the neighborhood together, Gail building a map in her head as they went.
Down the stairs, out through the lobby, take a left at the scent of fresh-cut flowers, walk walk walk until you hit the lights, wait for Frank's signal, run your hands along the wrought-iron fence, two three four five six, left at the seventh spike, up the step, hear the jingle of the bell on the door, and there, inside the warmth of the cafe.
She'd always been good at maps, at seeing the streets, the layout of the city, in her head. This was no different–now she just used different markers.
And had a big buddy helping her along.
When they graduated from training together, when they demonstrated to the therapists and the trainers that they were a good match, that they fit well and listened to each other and trusted each other, Gail'd felt a kind of pride she thought she'd never experience again.
Steve took a picture–"Every graduation deserves a picture," he told her and then ducked to avoid her right hook–and snuck it up onto the mantelplace next to her Academy graduation photo.
"It's weird," he told her, "but I think you look happier in the one with Frank."
But Gail didn't think it was weird at all.
She thought it made perfect sense.
Oliver and Steve talked her into going to the Penny.
"You can't sit in your apartment and drink alone," her brother told her as he wrestled on the floor with Frank, "it's sad. I don't want to be the guy with the weird, sad sister. You're coming with us to the bar."
"Come on, Peck," Oliver joined in, "we've missed you. No one can make Dov squirm as well as you can. Plus, you can hear all about McNally's screw-up rookie–you will not believe some of the shenanigans this kid pulls."
She caved, but only after they all agreed that Frank would be coming as well.
"Sure thing," Ollie told her, "can't leave the battle buddy behind."
She ended up calling Traci. She wasn't quite confident enough to do her makeup or choose her clothes for going out without the help of someone whose eyes actually worked.
"And," she told Steve later when he complained about not being asked, "someone who actually had a decent fashion sense. Just because I can't see don't think I don't know that your tie probably clashes with your shirt and you're wearing two different socks, my color-blind older brother."
She was nervous. Terrified, actually. This wasn't a walk to a coffee shop or navigating public transportation to get to a doctor's appointment.
This was the first time she'd be back in one of her old haunts since the attack. Since she lost her sight.
Traci probably noticed the way Gail's hands shook, the way she couldn't keep her leg from jittering as makeup was applied to her face, but she didn't say anything.
And Frank, god bless him, didn't say anything either. He just lumbered up to her and laid his hot, heavy body against her leg, letting her feel that he was there, soaking up all the fear and the nerves. She pet his head and scratched behind his ears while Traci finished, grateful for the comfort. Grateful for his soothing presence.
The first thing Gail noticed about the bar was how loud it was.
She'd realized, here and there, how some of her senses were adapting to compensate for her sight, but it wasn't until she walked into the Penny, flanked by Steve and Ollie, that it truly sunk in. Or maybe she just wasn't used to the noise and the people and the music anymore.
Either way, it was loud. And for a second, it threw her.
But then they found their way over to a table and ordered drinks, and she felt herself settle in.
At least it hadn't been as bad as she'd imagined–everything stopping, everything falling silent, everyone's attention on her. She could live with the volume if it meant that no one made a big deal out of her presence, if it meant that no one acted like her being there was anything out of the ordinary.
Of course, Gail knew, feeling Frank settle at her feet, it was.
In the end, it was fun. Gail almost–okay, did–enjoy herself. She drank, she laughed, she spilled half of a beer in Chris's lap … it was honestly almost like nothing had changed. Like she hadn't changed. She could still picture every stupid face McNally made, could imagine Nick shifting uncomfortably in his chair when she asked what he'd been up to all these months. And through it all, she had Steve there, and Ollie, and Frank.
Her boys.
Helping her get through.
The only hiccough came at the end, as they stood up to leave. Gail stood up and shrugged herself into her coat before reaching down for Frank's harness, just at her side where he was always ready, just waiting for her to need him.
Except this time, tonight, he wasn't there. And for a moment, she panicked. She'd just figured out how to make things work, how to feel like a person again.
And it was because of Frank. The big, stupid lug who woke her in the night with his snoring, who loved to breathe his hot and smelly dog breath into her face when it was time to wake up. Her link to the world outside her own home, outside her own mind.
And he wasn't there.
"Steve," she said, not caring about the waver to her voice, "where's Frank?"
But then she heard the familiar little bark, the bark he gave whenever someone he knew came into her apartment.
And a stranger's voice, the voice of a woman she didn't know, didn't recognize, in response.
"Frank–! How did you get here, buddy? Where's your owner, they're probably looking for you–"
Gail called out, "Here–the dog. Frank, he's mine. Would you mind bringing him back to me?"
And then he was back, licking happily at her palm as she grabbed for the harness and gripped it tightly.
"So you're Frank's owner," the voice said in a tone that was a combination of amused and intrigued.
Frank barked again, clearly pleased, and their "Frank, shush" came out in unison, and the other woman laughed at Gail's confusion when the dog quieted.
"I'm Holly," she said and gave Gail's free hand a gentle, warm two-handed shake, "and I'm sorry for distracting your dog. You won't believe the coincidence, but I fostered him as a puppy–he must have recognized my scent or my voice."
And Gail wanted to be nice, wanted to be pleasant and laugh at the odd situation. But her heart was still pounding and the creeping icicles of loneliness and solitude had pierced her tender heart once again. Those months between Perik and Frank had been so dark, and she'd been so lost, that even the thought of becoming that woman again, of returning to that place of angst and pain struck fear into her very core.
It made her sour and angry and so, so tired.
"Too bad you didn't teach him to stay," she said in a cold voice, ashamed of her tone the moment she heard the words leave her tongue.
But the other woman just laughed.
"True," she said, "but then we'd never have met, and that would be a shame, don't you think—"
But Gail didn't fill in her name for the woman. She just threw what she hoped was an intimidating glare at her and then turned back to her brother.
"Let's go, Steve, I'm tired and Frank still needs his walk."
Later, when she was in bed and waiting for Steve to come back from the walk he'd volunteered to take the guide dog on, she thought back on the night.
A success, for the most part. Even with the moment of panic when Frank wasn't at her side. The sound of the other woman's laughter, the smile Gail could hear warming her voice, played over and over again in her head.
Her only regret, she thought as she kicked off a sock, was not being able to see the look on the other woman's face as she walked away.
But, it's not like she would have been able to manage that feat with eyes that worked either.
She fell asleep smiling.
Gail was in the middle of pouring herself a cup of coffee when someone buzzed from the lobby.
"Hi," the voice came in, fuzzy but cheerful, "is this Gail? Apartment 504?"
She knew immediately who it was–she'd been hearing the voice in the back of her head all week long–but asked for confirmation anyway.
"Officer Shaw gave me your address–he said to remind you about that time you were hungover and he assigned you to work a body dump with Officer Price if you didn't believe me," Holly said, her tone suggesting that she knew exactly where that story would end.
"Stop–stop," Gail answered back and hit the button to open the door, "just come up already."
A quiet knock signalled her visitor's arrival, and as Gail let her in she was a little jealous to realize that the woman must have taken the stairs and wasn't winded in the least. At least not that she could hear.
But what she could smell, as Holly walked in, were–
"I brought donuts, Officer Shaw said they were your favorite apology gift," Holly said. "Should I just leave them on the table?"
"Apology gift," Gail asked as she nodded. She had no idea what this woman was talking about.
"I felt bad about Friday night," she said, "so when I saw Officer Shaw yesterday at a crime scene, I asked if he knew how I could get in contact with you."
The bite of donut Gail swallowed turned to clay in her throat. This was why she didn't go to the Penny. Everyone felt bad for her. Everyone pitied her. She was the freak who used to be one of them and–
Holly interrupted her thoughts once again .
"–I shouldn't have made light of Frank running over to me, or come on to you. I can't imagine how disconcerting that must have been to realize he wasn't where he was supposed to be."
Holly rested a warm hand on her knee before continuing as Gail sat, unsure what to say.
"I'm really sorry, Gail. But I'm glad that we ran into each other at the bar, because I'm happy to know that Frank has gone to such a good home. He was a wonderful puppy and I hope he serves you well."
The chair creaked as Holly rose to stand, and for a moment Gail was silent.
"Wait," she called out as the woman made her way to the door, "what about the coming on to me?"
The woman's smile was so wide, so bright, that Gail didn't need the use of her sense of sight to see it–she could feel it's radiating rays spread out into all the corners of the room.
"Oh," Holly answered, "well, that–I don't have any apologies for that. Beyond the timing, I mean."
Gail laughed–it felt like forever since she'd laughed.
"Come back," she said, "you might as well help me finish all these donuts."
This time Holly laughed, and when she did, Frank lent his voice into the chorus as well, barking loud and excitedly.
"Frank, shush," they said in unison, and he settled under the table at their feet.