It's silent in her office. She brushes the edges of her sling with her fingertips, all too aware of what could have happened to her today. Alec isn't here. He should be here. He hasn't even called her.
On an intellectual level, she knows that she's supposed to be feeling like this. On an intellectual level, she understands everything: the stress, shock, trauma. But on an emotional level, she can't deal with this. She tries not to blink – every time she closes her eyes, it feels like the darkness of the night is sinking in on her again; she feels the grittiness of the asphalt, someone attacking her from behind. (She imagines she'll sleep with the lights on.) The grotesque images come when she closes her eyes – the women with their eyes burned out, blood seeping through the gauze, dripping down their thighs. It's horrific, but so are the crime scene photos. She could have become a statistic. She knows that. She knows a lot of things.
The door hinge squeaks, and she finds herself gasping, hand gripping the armrest of the chair.
He sets a paper cup of tea on her desk. His head tilted, "You all right, love?"
She turns and her lips quirk into a shaky smile. "Yeah." She can see the way his lips twitch – he knows that she's lying. She knows that he knows. He doesn't say anything.
"Want to talk about it?"
She sighs, reaches for the cup. "Nothing to talk about." She winces when she takes a sip. He pulls up a chair, sits by her. His eyes are curious, a little concerned, flicking over her.
She tries for the joke. "You couldn't have brought me some nice Godiva chocolates instead of this?" She gestures towards the tea.
"Can't help it," he says. "I'm an Englishman. Nice strong cup o' tea is what heals me."
She arches a brow. "I thought it was a beer."
"That too."
Her fingertips ache to do something; she taps a rhythm against the desk. She's not all right – she's sitting here, a bundle of nerves, refusing to move, to do anything. Her mind is acting against her, providing her with scenarios, with live video of what could have happened to her, splicing the crime scene photos with her own memories. Her hand shakes so badly she ends up spilling a bit of the tea on herself when she reaches for the cup. She inhales sharply, trying to figure out what to do with her other incapacitated arm. He's too quick for her. He takes a napkin, dabs at the tea on her hand.
She expects him to pull away.
He's secretive, silently slips his hand into hers, the pad of his thumb tracing the path of the napkin. It feels comforting.
"Tell me something," she says. And he gives a slight nod. "Did your long con plan for this?" She gestures toward her sling.
"I – " he says, and she's never heard him falter often, "I expected there might be … collateral damage."
She blinks, processing his words. She nods her head slowly, before repeating, "Collateral damage."
He can see it in her face. It's barely restrained; pure emotion, lingering in the wrinkles near her eyes, the form of her lips. Anger. Sadness. "I didn't know that he would … go after you."
"But you expected him to go after someone here."
"Yeah."
She thinks he's being callous, he suspects, eyes focused on her face. Her lips are pursed, her shoulders tense, and he thinks that maybe she's even swearing at him in her mind, calling him names that he would never expect to hear her say out loud.
She chuckles, and it's soft and bitter. "Warning me would have ruined the experiment?"
He looks her straight in the eye, fingers curling, tightening around hers. "Gillian, you know I never meant to hurt you."
There's a ghost of a smile on her lips. "No one ever means to hurt anyone else, Cal."
He shrugs. "Maybe." His other hand comes up to stroke her cheek; it's an unexpected move, even for him. "You plan on going home tonight?"
She sighs. "Thought I might stay here." She looks up. "Bright lights, you know?"
"Then I think," he says, standing, "it's time for us to order some takeaway."
"Chinese?"
"Sounds good." He holds his arm out.
"Where are we going?"
"My office."
She laughs boisterously then. "You really know how to treat a girl, don't you?"
"Well, who wants to sit around looking at microexpressions with Loker around?"
"Yeah," she says, sarcastically. "That would completely ruin the ambience."
"You're not going to try and psychoanalyze me over lo mein, are you?"
She smiles. "As long as you don't try and read my every microexpression."
He tries for a joke. "It's a gift," he sighs, "and a curse."
They walk down the hallway together, heading up towards his office. She sits on the leather sofa he has, and he sits beside her. He looks at her, then: "Why don't you get some sleep? You look tired."
And then there's alarm, a little fear, anxiety. He runs his fingertips in her hair, along her scalp. She sighs.
"I'll be right here," he adds. "I promise."
She imagines this is how he treats Emily. She leans against him, toes off her shoes, and hangs her legs off the couch. He massages small circles against her scalp as she closes her eyes, imagines anything. "Don't eat without me," she mumbles, eyes feeling heavy.
"I wouldn't dare," he whispers.
She smiles as she finally falls asleep, drifting more and more into his personal space. He watches her when she sleeps, cautious about the possibility of a nightmare. She looks peaceful. He lets her sleep, orders the Chinese food.
She doesn't dream of blood.