A/N: The following is a brief look inside Gail's head during the final scene in 3.02. (It's a deviation from my standard Sam/Andy fare, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless.)
Special thanks to JadeSelena, who wisely made a connection between Nick Collins and the Police Chief Collins, Gail's godfather.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue.
Crouched on a boulder at Sugar Beach, she feels warm and loose. Most of it is the alcohol, but she has a sneaking suspicion some of it is the company. Company whose ass and liver she is currently kicking.
Slamming her glass down, she crows triumphantly, a product of a long-honed competitive nature. She still feels that flash of satisfaction, the warm, familiar glow of victory. Be it shots or collars, a win is still a win.
(It feels good. All these years later, he waltzes in with a smile that still unhinges her, and… Well. It's good to be on top for a moment. Feel like she's in control of something.)
"BAM! That's three in a row."
He's swallowing hard, spluttering through the burn of alcohol in his esophagus, and she laughs. The army may have changed him, but there are some things…
"I wasn't ready," he chokes out, fist moving toward his mouth. "I wasn't ready."
She points at him accusingly, smile on her face. "Yeah. It's good to see that two tours of Afghanistan, and I can still drink you under the table."
"It's good to see you're still in there somewhere," he replies, swallowing again.
It's amazing, really, how quickly a mood can shift.
"Come on," she drawls, looking away. The world didn't stop when he left, and for him to think she wouldn't change is ridiculous. "That was five years ago."
(A lot has changed, she reflects. Not just me. She can't help but think of the scar on his back, the who and when and how. It's a mark she wasn't supposed to see, barging in the locker room like that, but now… She wonders. Wonders about the story. Wonders if he was scared. Wonders what it's like to be here, back in Toronto…)
"You know what, so what?" she decides. "Maybe I am a different person."
"Ah," he acknowledges in a relaxed tone. "Learn to share popcorn yet?"
"No."
"Still sleep with your socks on?"
"When it's cold…" she hedges. It's a perfectly plausible reason.
His grin is bright, that broad, familiar smile that never ceases to lighten the mood. "You still listen to Kelly Clarkson?"
"I was twenty-two… It was one song!" she says defensively. Whatever, 'Since U Been Gone' was catchy. Post-collegiate freedom demanded an anthem, one that signaled an escape from the Peck clutches, however temporarily.
She hears the laughter in his tone and gives up the charade. Her laugh comes freely, easily - The way it's always come with him.
"You're the same person," he concludes matter-of-factly, lips curled upward.
Her mind wanders for a moment, gaze falling to his mouth. His wide, pleased smirk is a distraction, one that has the power to orchestrate a symphony of flips in her stomach. Screw top models and reality TV, if ever there were a person to smile with his eyes…
Pull your shit together, Peck.
She stares for a long moment, considering.
"Friends?" she offers amiably, extending her hand.
"Friends," he agrees quietly, clasping her palm. His grip is strong, warm skin that is equal parts rough and familiar.
She feels a sharp pang in her chest, the heavy weight of realization. It's the first time they've touched since…
Yeah.
"Kay," she says resolutely, popping up from her rock. "I'm gonna go…"
"I'm gonna stay here," he replies, humor in his eyes. He wraps a hand around the bottle, gesturing in silent salute. "Have one more drink. Enjoy this whimsical new addition to our city's edge…"
(His voice is another memory. The way he can inject amusement in his tone; make everything sound carefree. Possibly that's something she has missed.)
"Kay," she repeats, as much to herself as to him. Her laughter is a slow road to 'dangerously vulnerable' territory, and she knows that's her cue to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow."
With a quick spin, she heads for the road, keen on making a graceful and easy exit. Exhaling, she concludes that with appropriate amounts of alcohol, bygones can truly be bygones. It's a relief, all things considered.
Until his voice calls after her, and she stops in her tracks.
"Night, buddy."
It's the sentiment as much as anything, and she's transported in a flash. Memories flood, snapshots of space and time that she has fought to repress since he rode in on that motorcycle: Covert operations in tree houses and sleepovers in the den and that birthday when they tried to string two tin cans together and talk from opposite sides of the yard… Sunny days by the lake and winter break at his parents' cabin and god, the way he used to sign letters that summer he went to sleep-away camp…
Without fail, each day ended with one line:
Night, buddy.
(She remembers Steve teasing her ruthlessly, mercilessly when she was twelve. "Buddy, huh? How much longer you gonna be buddies?")
They were buddies before they were anything else, and like every terrible nickname ever, it stuck as they grew older. Became a term of endearment, a parting phrase like a handshake, even when they were sharing the same bed.
(Especially when they were sharing the same bed. God, that line actually meant something.)
His words are a time capsule from the past, an homage to every moment they were together until the day they weren't.
Night, buddy.
(This is why Gail Peck does not do terms of endearment.)
Turning slowly on her heel, she faces him, at a total loss. She suspects that mocking smiles and derisive retorts aren't going to work, not tonight. The Unabridged, Handle-like-a-Peck Handbook: Brass Edition doesn't cover this situation, that's for damn sure.
He doesn't meet her gaze immediately. Instead, he slings a hand through the duffel she left behind, offering it without a word. She senses he's realized the implications of his off-hand remark, and maybe… Well, maybe she can still make a clean getaway.
With a minute shake of her head, she steps forward and moves to accept the bag.
"Thank you," she nods, the corners of her mouth pulling. Whatever this was – is – there's hope for them yet. She can salvage this; she just needs to maintain professional boundaries. They're colleagues, nothing more.
(Except for the part where he hasn't relinquished his grasp on the duffel, not entirely.)
"I'll walk you home."
It's not an offer.
"I'm actually fine," she replies, hoping to diffuse whatever weird tension has sparked, the inescapable consequence of two ill-timed words.
"I'll walk you," he persists, standing. He's made up his mind; that much she can tell.
"I'm kind of okay," she maintains. There's a small part of her brain – warring with an unacknowledged corner of her heart – that hopes he'll buy a clue.
(Fruitless. He sees right through her. Has never once bought what she's peddled.)
"I'll walk you," he repeats with emphasis.
"I'm fine."
(Dirty, filthy lies. Sure, it's not the alcohol that's affecting her, but when he looks at her like that… Like he sees right through her, pretense be damned. Like five years has done nothing to alter who they are together.)
Not fine. Not fine at all.
They both pause, drawn together and caught in a moment, and she hates it. Hates it. If this stupid beach setting were any more prosaic, Nicholas Sparks might spin them a whole damn novel.
Three, four beats pass.
She can't stop looking at him.
Stupid face and strong jaw and warm brown eyes. God, he's a total asshole for leaving, but...
He is a total asshole who is totally kissing her.
And she's letting him.
No, strike that.
She is actively contributing.
(Fly the red flags and get the kids off the beach; this is major, catastrophic trouble, except...)
She doesn't actually hate it: His eager mouth and wandering tongue and that firm grip on the back of her neck.
This?
Definitely not the way colleagues say goodnight. Not the way friends say goodnight, either.
So much for bygones being bygones.