Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue.

Rating: T for language.

A/N: I am re-posting this story here, as it was taken down recently because it failed to meet the posting guidelines of this site. It's true title is 'dissecting the bitch exterior', and I hadn't realized that this violated the policy that ensures all descriptions be kept G-rated. I have corrected this now, and it entitled it 'dissecting the rough exterior' instead. I'm so sorry that it was inappropriately posted for so long!

Anyways, I posted this originally during the first season, after 'Girlfriend of the Year', though I am not certain which episode it is actually written to be set after ...

Obviously, things have changed between then and now, in how I view Chris and Gail's relationship, but I do still find it as intriguing as I did then, and I hope you enjoy it!

...

"You're kind of a bitch sometimes ... You know that?"

The words sound so out of place coming from Chris' mouth that she can't help but smile at them. "Yeah, I know," she replies easily and unbothered, glancing up from the scotch she's been sipping at for the past half-hour at a corner table in The Black Penny.

"Why?"

"People like to make sure that I'm aware," she responds, taking a long sip of her scotch and nodding her head towards the chair opposite her. It's the invitation she knows that he'd wait for before sitting down. It's the things like that that make her see just how different they are. He's so courteous, and kind. And she's … well, a bitch.

He lowers himself into the seat, placing his three-quarter-full beer bottle down in front of him. He rolls his eyes a little frustratedly at her answer. "That's not what I meant, Gail, and you know it," he tells her. "I meant: why are you such a … bitch."

She smirks amusedly at his hesitance to say the b-word this time around. Then she shrugs, looking him dead in the eye while taking another sip and remaining stubbornly silent.

He sighs slightly at her blatant avoidance of the question. "That's so typical of you," he tells her, shaking his head lightly. "Ready with a snide response to anything, but shutting down the moment someone asks you something personal. You don't trust anyone enough to open up and be yourself, do you?" Not even me, he adds on in his head. He doesn't say it, but she hears him loud and clear.

Her eyes narrow dangerously, but he hold her vicious gaze and doesn't back down. (Finally grown a pair, then, she thinks bitterly.) He's done backing down. "No, I don't," she replies shortly. "I'm not that naïve anymore," she adds quietly, looking away and clenching her jaw.

"The whole world isn't out to get you, you know," he says, more gently, scooting over to the chair closer to her and blocking her exit path. The conversation's taking a turn that she's not comfortable with, and she briefly glances toward the door before deciding that running away (though not even any option anymore, thanks to his annoyingly strategic move) would be too cowardly. (And Gail Peck is no coward.) "I know you're not that conceited," he continues, taking a small sip of beer and smiling.

Another smile slips through the cracks and she meets his gaze again, shaking her lightly at his condescending humor.

"Why are you such a bitch?" he inquires again. His hesitance to say the word is gone and she can't help but wonder why exactly that is. She ponders if maybe she's managed to rub off on him just a little bit … but she quickly dismisses that idea. Not because it's not possible; but because she really rather hopes that she didn't. Sure, he's a little naïve for the city; but she likes him that way. She doesn't want him to ever be as jaded as she is. (Not yet, anyways, and definitely not because of her; the job will no doubt handle that in the next couple years.)

She sighs lightly, taking a large gulp to finish off her scotch. If she's going to take the plunge and delve into this, she wants as much alcohol in her bloodstream as possible. (She holds her liquor rather well, though, and one glass of scotch isn't near enough to make her comfortable discussing this.)

"I could tell you that I was just born this way …" she trails off a tad hopefully before loudly sighing, "But I really doubt that you'd believe me." The crooked (and adorable) smile on his face tells her that she's right. "That's what I thought," she murmurs dejectedly.

There's a long beat of silence, but he doesn't push her. He knows that he needs to let her speak at her own pace.

"It's easier this way," she tells him bluntly, averting her gaze for a moment before returning it to him. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, so she explains. "People see the bitch exterior, back off … and don't care to dig any deeper." She shrugs lightly, before continuing, "It's just easier that way; means that I don't start to expect anything from them, so they can't let me down."

"I don't really think that that's a good reason," he says, immediately backtracking when she sends him her wickedest of glares. "Just hear me out," he pleads with her gently, greatly relieved when she purses her lips and relaxes her gaze as if to say 'continue'. "You kind of just … hiding from people that way," he explains. She just quirks an eyebrow, severely displeased with his opinion of the matter. (She doesn't hide from anything; she isn't weak.) Again, though, he doesn't back down. (He just … conveniently changes topic, is all.) "Besides, it didn't really work with me, did it?" he prods gently.

She ponders his words in silence, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that during his last little speech he'd moved his hand to rest on the table, just barely touching hers. He takes the opportunity as she stares down at them to cover her hand with his own, squeezing it gently.

"No," she replies quietly, looking back up into his eyes, "I guess it didn't."

She doesn't know how long she's lost in his pale green eyes before he leans in, covering her lips with his own.

It's sweet, and electric, and far too short. But he pulls back, squeezing her hand again gently before flicking his eyes to the door and back. She nods and he stands up, grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair and handing it to her. She stands up as he walks to the bar, missing the feel of his hand against hers. (Not that she'd ever admit to that in a million years.)

Leaving a couple bills on the bar to pay for their drinks, he turns to see her waiting by his side. He smiles, pulling the door open and holding it for her. She takes a deep breath when they walk out into the cool night air. He takes her hand again, leading her towards his truck.

She stops abruptly in the middle of the parking lot, keeping a firm hold on his hand and forcing him to turn around and look at her. With one tug on his arm he's right in front of her. She lifts her hands to rest on either side of his face, pulling his lips down to meet hers in a searing kiss. She pulls away reluctantly a couple moments later, resting her forehead against his.

"I don't trust anyone," she tells him quietly, bringing his earlier observation back to attention. "And … I don't know if I even can." His heart races at the possible implications of her words, and she presses her lips to his once again to calm his arising fears.

"But what I do know," she continues seriously, gently toying with his short hair, "is that I really want to; trust you, that is."

Her words, so different than the ones before, bring an uncontrollable smile to his face. He threads his fingers through her hair, gratefully bringing her lips back up to his. It's a while before they part; (though it still isn't long enough for either of them). When they do, her hands rest lazily on his shoulders while he moves his to her hips, pulling her flush against him.

Looking down at her as she looks up at him through her long eyelashes, he knows that she's taking a big leap here. She's willingly abandoning her comfort zone (something she's probably never done before), all for him. She's letting down her defenses, running the risk of getting hurt … and he needs to let her know that she's not doing it for nothing; that he's not going to hurt her if he can help it.

His words are genuine and sincere, his eyes open and honest, when he tells her, "I'm going to do everything in my power to not let you down."

She smiles, blinking back the happy tears threatening to fall from her eyes (Gail Peck does not cry), before wrapping his arms around her midsection.

And as she gratefully rests her head in his shoulder, surrendering herself to (and relishing the feel of) his warm embrace, she says confidently, "I know."

...

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