Damn! This was going to be a one shot. But this story keeps whispering to me at night and saying more! More! We need more Gail and Holly. So I'm just doing my part here, trying to save the world, one Golly story at a time. ;) Let me know what you think.


When she said, "Lets get out of here," I was kind of thinking she meant, "Lets go to your apartment so I can take off all your clothes and kiss your face off (or something lower than your face)," but this, sitting on the swings at a park by my apartment, this will work, too. Cause she's right. We do need to talk. Plus, the next time I get the chance to lay my naked body on top of her naked body, the next time I get to touch her everywhere, I am going to be sober for that. I'm going to memorize her body like a crime scene, log it all into evidence, because I've learned you never know when it's going to be the last time. There's a tiny freckle an inch above her belly button, a scar from when her grandmother's nasty old cat bit her on the thigh, a ticklish spot on her right ribcage but weirdly not the left—it's all getting catalogued this time so I can never forget it. Because when someone is so obviously your person—your fucking person—you memorize that shit.

We're just hanging on the swings, kind of dribbling around just due to gravity and not really trying to get anywhere. She's scraping her feet into the dirt aimlessly, or maybe it's some kind of Holly-shaped algorithm or a secret repeating pattern that only nerds understand.

What's going on in my mind? I mean, there's a fucking thousand thoughts clamoring all over each other trying to get to make a bee-line for my mouth first, and some of them should just stay the hell in there if they know what's good for them. Por ejemplo: I love you. And loving someone wasn't something I thought I could really do. I never wanted you to go. I never want you to leave again. That thought keeps trying to climb the wall I constructed between my brain and my mouth, so I had to put armed guards in front of the wall, and eventually a rebel army. And so far the troops have good moral and they are keeping up their end of the bargain, but she's wearing down my defenses.

Cause it's so good to see her. To hear her voice. She held my hand on the walk here, and every muscle in my body simultaneously sighed with relief even while my heart was trying to explode out of my chest.

And she's so freaking cute. She's telling me about her San Francisco job right now and pushing her sexy librarian glasses up on her face. The one that she left me for and then quit for me. She's saying something about how good it felt to run her own lab and know that things are being done with the proper procedures, that she knew exactly where to find everything, and she got to decide when a case is closed and which hot blonde cops to make out with in her car on her lunch break. Wait. I'm not 100 percent sure about that last part.

But she's quiet now, and I think it's my turn to talk. But I really just want to keep looking at her mouth and all the sexy little twists and turns and shapes it makes when she's talking, like a smile just wants to interrupt her mid-sentence. But I should really say something.

"Sounds like you really loved your job," I say.

But she's narrowing her eyes at me like I just said something either in French or completely obtuse. Both are strong possibilities since I sometimes slip into the French my mom forced me to speak fluently and since I can be completely obtuse.

"Are you listening to me?" she says, her head cocked to the side, like the skepticism just can't hold its ground on the other side of her head.

"Er, yes. I guess I'm honestly a little blown away that you're here, Holl," I say, in a statement that is both patently true and not relevant to the question she asked me. "I've been a little lost. I tried to focus all my attention on getting Sophie, and today that kind of took a turn. Like, a bad turn. So I don't think that's going to happen actually. I mean, it's not going to happen. They found a better family for her, so…"

I'm not going to cry.

Holly doesn't say anything, she just digs her feet into the dirt under her swing to stop all movement. She's a statue. Then she grabs my hand and holds it in her lap like it's a treasure a diver just discovered in the remains of the Titanic.

I'm not going to cry.

Holly still doesn't say anything. She just lifts my fingers to her lips and places the tiniest little kiss on my knuckles and looks at me not with pity but with so much compassion that I start to cry. Fuck. My shoulders are shaking, and I'm really sobbing. I'm really going for it.

Holly pulls me out of my swing and hauls me sideways on her lap like I'm a baby or at least a toddler. But I don't fight it. I bury my head in her hair and soak her jacket with my tears. And it feels incredible to just cry. Her arms are so tight around me. She's firm and loving and real.

"I'm so sorry, honey. I know how much you love her, how much you wanted to give her," she says, and I just nod into her hair because that's exactly it.

I have no idea how long we sat like that, but I cried long enough that I'm doing that really attractive hiccuping thing. I finally pull my head out of her hair and look at her, and she gives me this rueful smile that really does kill me. I know I must look amazing, all splotchy and tear-stained. But I also know she doesn't care.

"Common, let me walk you home," she says. "So you can finally put an end to this horrible day."

—-

Sophie was a curveball I wasn't expecting, but it makes me even more glad I'm here. I've only seen Gail like that once. That time at the hospital after her friends were shot. Every part of me is aching for her because she loved that little girl, and she deserved to have this go right for her.

She let me ramble for the last hour. I knew she wasn't really listening to me, but she's like that sometimes. Sometimes she just wants me to talk because it means she doesn't have to, and she can listen to the sound of my voice. And it amazes me. Maybe it's her lizard cop brain, but even when she's actively not listening to me, she has incredible recall. Like, I'll think I have her stumped because I know she wasn't tuned into what I was saying, and I'll call her on it, only to have her recite back exactly what I told her. It's both annoying and mind-blowing at the same time, kinda like Gail.

We're walking to her apartment. It's just a few blocks from here. She's lost in thought, I can tell, and I'm sure she just wants to go home to sleep. I can see how exhausted she is. I wonder if she'll remember all of this tomorrow. She's so upset that I'm thinking I'll have to give her some time to process all this—

"Stop it, Lunchbox," she says, grabbing my hand.

"Huh? Stop what?"

"You're thinking too loud. It's distracting," she says, winking at me as we stop in front of her apartment. I'm about to give her a hug and a kiss and tell her to get a good night sleep and promise to call her in the morning to check on her. But then she says this, and I fall in love. Again.

"Holly? I want you to come inside with me. I want to sleep in your arms. And before you tell me why that's not a good idea, I have two very good reasons. Reason number one: I miss sleeping in your arms. You have very nice, um, arms. Reason number two: If I sleep in your arms, when I open my eyes in the morning, I will immediately be assured that this was not a dream. And that means I won't have to put out an APB for you, which means less paperwork, which means less grumpy interns, which means I get my coffee delivered to me scalding hot, like hotter than the surface of the sun, which is how I like it, instead of lukewarm in styrofoam cup. And that means better police work. Which means a safer Toronto. So, you see, the City of Toronto and I need you to come upstairs with me, put on your pajamas or one of your stupid, weird wookie t-shirts, brush your teeth, and spoon the shit out of me. Ok?"

I raise my hand and open my mouth. I'm going to object because despite her adorable diatribe, I think she needs some time. But before I can speak, she interrupts me.

"Holly, when you were gone, my chest that used to be where my heart lived was just filled with a bunch of spare parts. But now you're back, and guess what?" she says, pulling my hand up to feel her beating heart. "So just please shut the fuck up and come upstairs with me, ok?"

I say nothing because there are no words. I just smile, let her take my hand, and guide me into her apartment. We walk inside, and it's crazy being here again. There's no one here, and it doesn't look like anyone has been here, so I make a mental note to ask her if this is still the cop frat house it used to be. It actually looks kind of like a grown up's apartment. There are no pizza boxes with notes written to each other on them, like GET MILK! or TAKE OUT THE TRASH, DOUCHEBAG, and there's actually a sconce on the wall and a very responsible-looking grocery list magneted to the fridge.

She leads me into her room, not bothering to turn on the lights, and pulls out a t-shirt from her drawer, tossing it to me with a grin. I open it, and it's my favorite med school t-shirt. How ironic of her. She stands there, watching me. So as platonically as I am capable, I unbutton my shirt and take it off, pulling my shirt over my head. I slip out of my trainers and take of my socks. Then I pull off my pants. And then I wait.

—-

Oh please. She's trying to not be sexy right now. But it's not working. She could make my grandmother's wallpaper look sexy. But fine. Point taken. But I don't have to be unsexy. I mean so what if I'm in the weird sweater my mom bought me with the leather collar, and my cheeks are swollen from crying, and my hair is matted to my head. I'm sexy, dammit. So I pull my sweater off, sexily. And I shimmy out of my pants, also sexily. Oops. I forgot to take off my shoes. So this is going to be a little less sexy for a second while I… Shit. She's laughing.

And I'm laughing too because my pants are down around my ankles, and I'm kind of on the floor, stuck, like a seal trying to get peanut butter off its nose.

Holly gets down the ground with me and pulls off my shoes and helps me out of my pants, and we're both crying/laughing, which is the best emotional combo platter. And then she's looking at me in my underwear, and her laughter kind of peters out like a steam engine chugging to a halt at the station. And now she's on top of me, kissing my mouth. She's being gentle, but I'm so hungry for her. We kiss like that—just soft lips remembering each other—for a long time. But I want more. I want to make love to her. I'm going to tell her. So she knows. I pry myself away from that mouth and look at her.

"Holly?"

"Yes, Gail."

"I want to make love to you," I say.

She closes her eyes and kind of groans, which I'd normally take as a pretty positive sign, but I can see she's going to shut me down right now. She's going to say she wants to take it slow and that I've had a really tough day, that we have all the time in the world. She's going to fill the air with all those sensible Holly words. And she's going to be right, of course, because we should just climb into bed together and curl up around each other and let the night relax into day. And take our time. But what I want to do is tangle my limbs with her limbs and bury my face and hands inside her. I want to cup her cheeks and trace her curves. I want to map out her skin. To forget. But also to remember. To discover her again. That's really all I want to do. But she's going to do the sensible thing, and I can't blame—

"Ok."

Well, shit.