The story takes place around 5x03, and deviates from the rest of the season for reasons that will be known by the end of this chapter.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue, this is true. I own nothingggg. But I venture to write about these characters and to tell a story that's not been told before.
Rating it K for now, but this may change at a later date. All feedback is welcome.
Chapter 1
The Shower
There have been times when Gail would shower, and she would turn it to the hottest setting available – the most blinding, harsh temperatures imaginable – and in those instances she would take what little solace she could find.
Those showers were seldom, momentous, and always called for. And she could literally count the number of times on one hand alone:
The night Nick left
The night of her kidnapping
And now, the afternoon following last night's Fite Night.
Gail is not one for hot showers, or at least not particularly hot enough to torch the skin, always favoring to meddle with the cold knob until there was a certain balance. She would even opt for cold showers when she was time restricted, or when Chris or Dov had used up the last droplets of warmth.
But today was a different story.
Today Gail found respite in the heat. She turned it full blast, and stood there just out of reach, waiting for the steam to start forming onto the glass panel of which was she staring idly at.
There was something about it, in how the water would cascade, and Gail would linger just out of reach as if alluding to the belief that she was in control. That if she so chose she could leave entirely and not bathe in the torrent currently making its haste downward to spray the contour of the bathtub.
She knew that the second she stepped under the water, she would lose it all. She would be forced to feel it, and let it consume her like the many stray pellets taking seize of her body. And so she hung in this elusive moment, holding off the inevitable, prolonging it at will until it gave way to succumbing.
She stepped forward and embraced the current, swept away by its demand.
And the tears started to fall. It was like they bypassed the moment of conception and just immediately began to drop right there, right then.
The sob that accompanied the fall was inaudible, the water too loud and noisy to withstand such declaration. Instead it drowned out the copious wails of grief that wrecked habitually through her frame. She found her hand clutch over her left breast as she craned her head back briefly, only to tumble forward and rest against her chest, spluttering as she tried to breathe through the fountain of water.
She's not sure how long she remains in the shower, just letting the water hit her body to burn all the areas that she could not touch, as she rocked slightly on the balls of her feet. It was a bubble she was not used to, but was privy to in the moments she would seek out the shower. In times of need, in times of crisis. It times of sorrow.
Each event warranted this.
And she could recollect with perfect clarity the previous times she sought out this particular coping mechanism.
She can remember how she shed her clothes, as if on auto-pilot as she unwound her body; piece by piece, sorting blindly through her possessions; item by item, in the suspended moment of disbelief. His stuff was already gone. There would be no wedding. And so she continued until all that remained was the t-shirt in her hand, and it was one she refused to drop.
It it was the one she had worn that day – it was one she took as her own, even though it belonged to Nick.
She looked at it, not really knowing if there was a reason for it, or if any thoughts took place – but she did. Until she dropped it and slowly sought out the bathroom.
The kidnapping was another happening entirely.
She recalls how she desperately wanted one, needed it like the air that filled her lungs as she sat on the bed, having been recently examined thoroughly by the doctors and then jabbed thereafter by the nurses. She recalls how they initially didn't want her to, the evidence and statements and all of it being far from over.
But fortunately after some time, and with much persuasion on her mother's part, they relented. They allowed her to use one of the private en-suites, having declined the mildly horrifying offer of being cleansed by the on duty nurse that night.
And so she headed gingerly towards the shower room, eager to let the stream of water drown out the noise gnawing inside her head.
For she was so desperate in her need to purify; to external her internal in such a way that it would not leave a trace.
But now, today, Gail found herself much like the first time as she walked the hallways, up the stairs and the familiar passages. She walked until she found the shower room and locked it up behind her, ignoring the calls emanating from in the living room. She couldn't deal with it right now.
She took her time as she stripped from her uniform, eyes noting the vest as she placed it tentatively down onto the surface before unbuttoning her work top. It was habit. It was typical. It was calculated as she flattened every crease and matted down the material until it was pressed flat. She listened with expectant ears as she adjusted the velcro, welcoming that peculiar sound that made Gail deflate with ease. It was routine. It was normal.
But nothing about this day was normal. She was acting like it was; she was doing things that were, but not a single act felt like it fit in this reality. Or rather, this reality did not fit in her normal.
She caught sight of her reflection as she stepped toward the shower unit.
And suddenly she remembers all those times before where she saw herself mirrored, holding every feature and emotion in such a way that Gail could hardly believe this was her staring right back.
It was quite alarming to see just how stoic she looked - how regular, like Chris had just told her that all her favorite jelly filled donuts from the morning had been eaten, or that Dov had stolen her last pair of clean socks. It was like her signature glance right before she let it rip, this moment where she hinged on completely losing her shit.
Except she didn't, not right then. She breathed in. She watched. She exhaled.
And then she got into the shower.
Because there have been times when Gail would shower, and she would turn it to the hottest setting available – the most blinding, harsh temperatures imaginable – and in those instances she would take what little solace she could find.
Those showers were seldom, momentous, and always called for. And she could literally count the number of times on one hand alone:
The night Nick left
The night of her kidnapping
And now the afternoon following last night's Fite Night,
For it was the day her father passed away.