Authors note: The final part of this chapter comes from an older story posted here, called One of the Good Ones. It was always intended to be part of the larger story. But if it sound familiar, that's why!

Gail

The thing is, as she tells Steve over dinner, is that Gail doesn't get it.

If she looks back on all the things she has had to do in her short policing career, getting that kid and his mom out of the lake called on less bravery, less psychological and physical resource, less swallowing back of bitter fear, than Gail has had to use in so many other situations in recent memory.

There seems to her to be so many more courage-demanding situations where she has been called upon to perform acts in the line of duty, acts that she thinks are much more medal-worthy if her own bravery is the selection criteria. Like pretending to be a high-class hooker and get in a car to go God-knows-where with a man suspected of making girls disappear. Like surviving a kidnapping. Like deliberately walking into what may or may not be a gun-toting ambush with only Ollie for company. Those things have called on more of Gail's courage resources than pulling two freezing, terrified people from the cold water of the lake one early autumn evening.

This rescue was just an automatic response to the call of what she had been trained to do as a first-responder back at the Academy. So later, when they were notified about the award, a slightly embarrassing announcement in parade in front of everyone, it had taken Gail a moment to recognise the occasion they were talking about, such has been the last year.

And it wouldn't have been so difficult, either, except for the panicked mother. They had been on patrol in the early evening, months ago. It was the beginning of autumn, one of those days where the sun can still muster enough strength to keep the air warm, but then, when it drops, the chill sets in immediately and you can smell the certainty of winter on its way, creeping in under cover of the darkness.

It was right at the end of their shift, and they were about to drive back to the station when they got the call that a kid had fallen into the lake somewhere near them. They'd had to park the car and run the last part of the way, around an old building to the waterfront. It wasn't until they got there that they found that the mother had, completely terrified, made the call and then jumped straight in after her kid. By the time they got there they were drifting together in a clutch of freezing bodies, the mother barely keeping them afloat.

They weren't that far from the edge, so she looked for a flotation device, the kind that are scattered along these heavily populated areas of lake shore. No dice. Oliver tried to call out to the woman, but she didn't answer. She just kept screaming for them, clearly panicked.

Gail automatic assessed the scene, just like they'd been taught in first response training. She ran over the mental checklist of immediate dangers. She knew how cold the water would be at this time of year, which is always a worry. But the biggest worry was the kid. He looked young, about eight, and the mother was barely keeping the two of them above water, her panic clearly spending what energy she still possessed.

So Gail had dumped her belt, her jackets and her boots, cursed silently and lowered herself into the water, kicking off the retaining wall and swimming over to them. When she got to them, the woman thrust the child at her,

"Take him," she had screamed.

Gail slipped an arm around the boy, extricating him carefully, absorbing his weight along with the increasing heaviness of her uniform as it took on the full burden of the icy water. The moment she took the boy, the mother slipped under the water, and Gail had to grab quickly at her arm, kicking hard to keep them all afloat. She pulled hard, trying to maintain a grip on the boy. The mother came to the surface, gasping.

"Just take him, " the mother screamed again, hysterical, pushing away at Gail's hand.

Although she needed help, Gail knew immediately there was nothing she could do with this woman until she got this kid to safety.

"Just stay above the water," she gasped at the mother, as calm but as she could, starting to feel exhausted already. "Stay calm and use your arms and your legs to keep you afloat."

She kicked away with the boy clinging to her, a freezing limpet attached to her neck. It was not the way they were taught to tow someone out of the water, but Gail did not have time to do anything but get him to the ladder as fast as she could in an awkward one-armed sidestroke and convince him, terrified and pale to reach up for Oliver's hand and strike back out to the mother.

Seeing her child on the shore, the mother calmed enough for Gail to tell her what to do, and for her to be able to hook her arms under the mother's and slowly bring her back to the ladder where some newly arrived police from 27 pulled her, already shivering madly, from the freezing water.

"You know, the biggest risk I took was getting some disease from that skanky water," Gail tells Steve, frowning and scooping up a forkful of pasta.

"Yeah, well, it's not about it being the bravest thing you ever did." Steve tells her, slurping up a mouthful of spaghetti. "These things are just PR. It's about the fact it was a mother and child. That," he points his fork at her as he chews, "Is one good little media grab." He sits back in his chair, hands on his stomach. "I mean, think about it, you give a crackhead CPR and everyone's like, 'whatever, that's your job'. But if you do the same to a little old lady on the street, next thing you know you're practically sainted. I mean that old biddy could have the bodies of three ex-husbands crammed in her closet, for all we know."

"Wow." Gail tells him, stopping with the fork halfway to her mouth, staring at him. "Is it possible that you are, in fact, more cynical than me?" she shoots at him, half because she is really starting to wonder who really is the greatest pessimist out of the two of them, but partly because she does actually feel a teensy bit deflated by his comment. Sure, it wasn't the scariest thing that has ever happened to her, but she still kind of secretly likes the fact that she is getting an award.

"No, I was just raised by our mother."

"Mmm, true." Gail concedes.

"I guess it turned out to be pretty lucky Dad was always making us do those swims at the lake." Steve says, leaning back over his plate.

"Oh God. Yes." Gail nods, picking up her beer. "Just don't tell him that."

It was a ritual as familiar as breathing. Every summer, when they went up to the cottage for holidays, their father would make them swim. Every damn morning he'd take them down to the lake and make them swim out to the old barge and back again. It wasn't too far, but far enough for them to hate it. But no matter how much they complained, they had to do it.

"It's just so I know I can leave you kids here and you won't drown while your mother and I aren't around," he'd tell them, dry on the shore in his favourite old hunting jacket.

And no matter how much, or how vociferously they protested that no other kids around had to do that, despite the fact that that their mothers also spent most of their days drinking white wine and gossiping under the trees ignoring them, or that their fathers also went fishing at the North end, leaving the gang of kids largely to their own devices by the lake, it didn't matter. It was only Gail and her brother who had to prove their ability to be left alone near a body of water they'd grown up near.

"Yes, well, their parents don't see the kinds of things I see every day. My kids will be able to handle themselves if anything goes wrong," he would tell them in the no-arguments tone he liked to use every now and then when he was getting them to do things 'for their own good'.

This was his stock standard response to a lot of things. He never elaborated on what those 'things' he saw were, instead clearly preferring to let the sense of foreboding derive from the vagueness of allusion.

And so, when Gail realised that those two needed to get out of the water and fast, she hadn't given it a second thought, she'd just jumped in, trusting her ability to get them out of there. And, later, when she was back at 15, warming up in a hot shower, she thought of her father and his morning military swimming drills and smiled to herself. He's going to love this, she thought, if she ever told him.

"So, when are the awards?" Steve asks, pushing away his bowl and leaning back in his chair.

"Couple of weeks." Gail can't remember the exact date. "Not sure."

"Well, let me know so I can make it."

"What?" Gail frowns. It hadn't occurred to her Steve would want to come. "You're not coming, are you?"

"Of course I'm coming," Steve grins. "Free booze? And Traci's going."

"Ah, that explains it." Gail tells him. "I knew it couldn't have been about me."

Gail

"Question. Is it inappropriate to ask someone why their fake tan line stops halfway up their neck?"

"That depends. Are they a friend?"

"No."

"Then yes."

What if they are a friend?"

"Still probably yes, if it's you asking."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Gail pouts, dropping onto the sofa and adjusting the phone against her ear.

"Well, babe, I have come to discover that you are not exactly the master of tact."

"Hmm," is all Gail says, distracted by Holly's use of babe. She's not sure when she started calling her that, but she kind of likes it. It's casually possessive, but not saccharine. The perfect endearment.

"So, going to tell me what this is about?"

"No," Gail tells her, inspecting a small burn on her hand. Stupid coffee machine.

"Okay then. I probably don't want to know. So, how was your brother last night?"

"Fine," Gail tells her, kicking her legs over the back of the sofa and lying back against the cushions. "Do you know what the first thing he said to me when I got there was?"

"What?"

"Where's Holly?" Gail sighs. "Not hello, not how are you, but where's Holly?"

She hears Holly chuckle

"I think he likes you more than he likes me," Gail tells her.

"I doubt it." Holly tells her. "Besides, don't worry, I like your brother a lot, he's lovely, but I'm pretty sure I still like you better."

"Yeah, well, like that's any kind of competition." Gail scoffs, watching Chris move back and forth in the kitchen like he might be about to start cooking something. She hopes whatever it is, she can be in on it—the eating of it, that is. Gail has worked tirelessly to create and nurture a universe where everyone believes it is a better world if she doesn't cook.

She hears a clatter at Holly's end, the sound of metal hitting metal.

"What are you doing?" Gail asks, suspicious. "You're not, like, cutting up body parts or something, are you?"

"No," Holly responds, all innocence, "Just, you know, sorting some … stuff."

Gail grimaces and decided not to pursue that line of questioning any further. It's best not to know what Holly does with her workdays, she's learned.

"So, how was your party the other night?"

"Yeah, it was actually really fun. It was the good people."

"So, no toxicology folk then." Gail says, sniffing the air. Chris is definitely cooking something. Sausages, she guesses from the meaty, salty smell. She sighs. Does he know how to cook anything else?

"Hah, you remembered."

"Of course I remembered." Gail frowns. Sometimes she thinks that Holly thinks she doesn't listen to anything she says, just because she can't remember what her stupid research paper is about. But who can remember all that lingo without a degree? Gail does not do science.

"Tox are the weird ones and ballistics are the best drinkers, right?"

"Right." Holly sounds impressed.

"Anyway," Gail says, swallowing, deciding to get to the point of this phone call. "You know that award thing, the one Ollie was talking about?"

"Yep," Holly replies. "I'm still waiting to hear that story of brave Gail, by the way."

"Did you— and you don't have to," Gail adds quickly, before Holly can say anything. "… want to come? I mean, it'll be dull, but there's a reception and you know free drinks and stuff after and then some of us might go out. I don't know," Gail shrugs, staring at the ceiling. "If you want to."

"I do."

"Really? It'll be boring." Gail warns her again, suddenly wondering if it's a dumb idea for Holly to come.

"I'm coming." Holly's voice is firm.

"Okay then," She bites her lip, suppressing her smile even though no one is looking at her. "I have to go and make sure Chris eats his vegetables. Ill talk to you tomorrow."

She hangs up the phone, smiles, drags herself from the sofa, and goes in search of dinner.

Gail

Gail has a hangover.

But it's one of the good ones. Really, it is.

This tepid little number is not too much more than a slight drumming in the head and a drag around the eyelids- a pesky but handy reminder that she had a seriously good time last night.

Luckily, she was tempted away from the impromptu party before the drinking got too serious. The secret to a long life- and not being too hungover -she is finally learning, is knowing when it is time to go.

She yawns widely, folding her arms over herself and leaning against the back of the stool, luxuriating in the fact she is in absolutely no hurry at all. She stretches her pale bare legs out to rest along the seat of the stool next to her and smiles.

Nope, this hangover is not too bad at all. It is one of those languid, sleepy aftermaths, the kind you can even learn to enjoy on the right type of day- as long as you treat it as a mere, mild side effect to a night well spent.

And today is just the right kind of day.

Maybe if she had to go to work today she wouldn't feel as good about the low notes of the headache skulking at her temples. But Gail doesn't have to go to work. Not today. Spread, languorous, before her is the delicious promise of a whole, precious, beautiful day off. Yep, stretched all the way to the horizon that is her early shift on Sunday morning is a Saturday away from 15, unsullied by the chasing of brainless criminals through frosty streets, by rescuing idiots who are still driving like it's summer out of wreckage on the snowy highway, or, the worst of them all, enduring a full day of desk duty.

Nope. Gail doesn't have to do any of that today. Nope, this day is all hers and she loves it. In fact, she'd write this day a Valentines Day card if it were February.

And maybe, just maybe, if she hadn't had such a good time last night the low rumble in her stomach that is treading the thin line between hunger and nausea would be more unpleasant. If it had been provoked by another prosaic night of drinking at the Penny instead of from the spontaneous after-work party at their house, she'd probably feel worse. If her memories of last night weren't a blisteringly sultry montage of jump shots from tequila to dancing to a quick escape when things threatened to get truly messy to a whole lot of mildly drunken but seriously fun, seriously hot sex, then yes, maybe Gail would mind this hangover more.

But instead she is really kind of enjoying it. In fact, once the Tylenol kicks in and she has a coffee in her hand, and she can really get down to the business of enjoying this Saturday off, Gail is pretty sure she will be winning this hangover.

And the gravy? Holly is making coffee.

Gail turns to watch Holly lean over her new espresso machine and smiles the smile of the indulged.

Gail would never tell her, but she still relishes the times when she finds an undisturbed moment just to sit back and watch Holly in action -when Holly doesn't know she is being watched, that is. Aside from the fact that she just likes looking at her, Gail find something calming in the precision and purpose that is Holly's every move. Holly has this even-keeled and optimistic-without-being-irritating energy about everything she does, and Gail finds it strangely pacifying.

It wasn't until she met Holly that Gail realised how sedentary she can be in her own downtime. Given the chance, Holly plays sport, reads books and even writes research papers in her free time. Gail could easily spend the same amount of time just kicking back and dreaming into the empty space above the couch by the window in her apartment. Maybe it is a response to the exertions demanded by her job, but Gail relishes stillness- and silence- when she can get it.

But not Holly. Holly is not so energetic that she is fidgety or noisy or any of those things. In fact, she's probably more relaxed than Gail has ever managed to be in her life. But she still has this spirited energy about her, an energy that says how much she likes to be in the moment, fully present at all times. Gail is pretty sure it comes from the fact that, unlike Gail, Holly is completely confident of her place in the world. And it is this particular brand of moxie that Gail finds herself so intrigued and soothed by.

And it is because of this confidence and purpose in Holly that Gail takes a particular, artful pleasure in working out just how to stop her in her tracks. In fact, the power she is starting to feel in educating herself in how this woman operates is becoming incredibly exhilarating.

At first Gail had been happy to take a back seat at first, to take her time to learn the lay of the land- so to speak. Last night had been different though. The courage that is tequila mixed with the promise of no alarm clock and some serious lust generated during those hours on the dance floor had done their work and Gail found herself feeling reckless and brave and more wilfully seductive than she had felt in a long time -probably not since those early, heady, pre-kidnap days with Nick. That was when she had last felt confident in her ability to be alluring. But last night she had felt hot and she had felt cocky -just like the Gail of old- and she had run with it, starting something in the taxi that hadn't finished until the early, grey-lit hours of dawn this morning.

And Holly did not seem to mind at all.

Yep, Gail thought, wriggling her toes on the stool and watching Holly finally figure out how to work the coffee machine, last night had been fun.

But it isn't just about seduction. What really makes Gail delight is learning the other little unique details about what makes Holly tick as a person. Gail hadn't realised until now that she has always been attracted to men with simple tastes, with uncomplicated emotional needs. It never took long to learn how to push their buttons, or to figure out what drove them. Or maybe it is just men in general, Gail thinks, shrugging. She has no idea. All she knows is she has never, ever, needed much subtlety –or to look so closely before. It has always been Gail they have had to figure out, not the other way around.

But there is something about this beautiful, complex woman that Gail finds herself fixed on wanting to educate herself in every tick and trait she can unearth in Holly, to know every single way to unlock her, both mentally and physically.

Already Gail has picked up enough to know she wants to know even more. She has learned that Holly likes handholding, and that she unembarrassedly enjoys giving flowers. She has learned that she doesn't really like to be cooked for (probably lucky), that she approaches most problems with an impressive mix of logic and wisdom and that she hates to miss the news or not to know the answer to a question. She even knows that when Holly is tired she rubs the space between her eyebrows and that when she is really exhausted she talks quietly in her sleep.

But there are other things that Gail likes knowing best: the intimate little things that only she has the right to know about this woman just now. Gail likes knowing that a lip or even a thumb brushed against the base of Holly's neck when she is getting sleepy will make her smile lazily and shut her eyes.

And Gail loves knowing that if she were to sidle up to Holly right now- if she was to place her hands on the back of her t-shirt and press her fingers along that stretch where her back turns the corner into her side and run them slowly downward along her ribs to her hips, that Holly will stop in her tracks, no matter what she is doing and lean back into her, purring.

Gail loves knowing that.

There is a hiss and a beep and finally Holly turns, triumphant, from the machine, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She notices Gail staring at her. An eyebrow shoots upwards.

"What? You look shifty."

"Nothing." Gail sings, biting her bottom lip and smiling, playing virtuous.

Holly comes over and places the coffee cup in Gail's hands, smiling.

"Does anyone, ever, buy your innocent face?"

"Maybe," Gail shrugs, putting the cup on the bench and grabbing onto the bottom of Holly's t-shirt. "Now," she whispers, "turn around."

To be continued. Your reviews are always appreciated.