Author's note: Thank you for the response, I appreciate all of the reviews. I'm not sure how long this will be, how often the updates will be or even how coherent the time line will be. I'm so excited about getting into the crime fighting that I don't want to bother with the exposition, ha. We shall see.
Chapter 2:
No one could explain her progress, no one could explain her recovery or the way her body patched itself so quickly, so seamlessly. Gail Peck didn't have a scar, a scratch, a bruise. Gail Peck's body was the very measure of human perfection.
Unfortunately for Gail Peck, she really has no idea who, or what, she is anymore. Human, machine, alien, freak? A month ago, she'd been staring into the bottom of a bottle, her heart crushed beneath the weight of a woman's judgment. A month ago she'd finally caught a glimpse of the life and the future that she thought she could have. Then- then the rush of disappointment, the crushing weight of it. Spiteful words and love-worn, watery eyes. She'd turned and walked away and hadn't looked back. She hadn't answered the phone calls or the panicked texts. She'd cut her out of her life. She doesn't need the heartache, doesn't need the distraction or the utter madness that tends to envelop her mind when the forensic pathologist is mixed into her life. So, she patrols the streets at night.
Every evening after her roommates are tucked firmly into bed, she pulls on a pair or leather fingerless gloves, laces up her combat boots and tucks her leather pants into them snuggly. A worn zip up hoodie, grey, pulled up around her head, a black scarf covering her mouth. She is transformed. She is powerful. She is in complete and total control for the first time in her miserable life.
She flies around the city during the evenings, drifting, listening and waiting for someone to call out, for the sounds of fire and the sounds of fists against flesh. Bullets don't hurt her, the hands that come down upon her flesh feel like whispers- barely there, soft. She knocks them out, never kills-she doesn't have to- and ties their hands together with the plastic zip ties she swipes from the lock up. She does her best to avoid cameras, avoid any press altogether. She's there to do a job, to make the city safer, to make up for all of the people and things that she's lost.
It isn't particularly fulfilling most nights if she is honest with herself- the loneliness sticks in her gut and twists every morning when she sneaks back into the apartment she shares and nonchalantly starts the espresso machine, showers, and waits. Waits for news of yet another perp being dropped in the laps of her superiors, babbling nonsense about a woman who'd assaulted and knocked them out. She laughs quietly to herself every time Frank announces the situation in the morning.
Some call her a vigilante. Some call her a hero. She doesn't know what she is anymore.
It's been months since she last went out with her friends, afraid of the power she now possessed, afraid of letting herself get drunk or too comfortable and letting herself drift into the comfort of someone's arms- her arms. The woman she tried to get out of her head. The woman who had finally stopped calling. The woman she avoids at all costs. Holly doesn't need the baggage, doesn't need the stress. She's better off without her. She tells herself that every morning as she dresses, tells herself every night as she's driving her fist over and over again into the faceless villains poisoning the city's streets.
She doesn't tell anyone, can't. She performs at work better than she ever has, receives commendation after commendation. Her mother, her father, Steve- so proud.
She's not sure she's ever felt so hollow. She doesn't sleep anymore, doesn't have to, really. Let's the wind streak pass her half lidded, burning eyes as she flies, becomes reignited. Promises herself, promises Toronto, one last go around before she heads back for coffee and parade.
She tries to avoid her at all costs at work. When it's impossible, she keeps the conversation professional and light. Tries to ignore Holly's tired eyes, her imploring words. She swallows the burning in her throat and passes by quickly. Tries to ignore Holly's thoughts- so sad, so sincere and searching and goddamn beautiful and filled with promises- glides past the pathologist swallowing the tears that threaten to consume her blue, wide eyes. Stops only when she feels the warmth of the brunettes hand on her arm.
The words sound so stricken and come tumbling out of her mouth. But she knows what's coming. She's heard it all before even if Holly hasn't said it. She shakes her head, walks away. Tries not to hate herself when she hears the soft shudder of breath. Fails.
She's used to it.
She tries not to watch the brunette at night, tries not to keep tabs. She's not very good at that, either. Something in her chest is heavy until she watches the light in the brunette's room click off each night, can't help but strain her ears to hear the click on the lock as it slides into place. Releases the breath she never realizes she's holding.
She cares. And hates that she cares. And believes that maybe one day, if she jails enough criminals and protects enough people that maybe the part of her, the empty place in her chest, would be made whole.
That plan goes bottom up one particularly chilly evening. It's already been one hell of a night and it's not getting better. She feels the scream before she hears it, her heart leaping up into her throat at the sound. She knows that sound. Knows the lips it's been ripped from so well.
She finds her almost instantly, has the mother fucker holding a knife to the woman's throat on the ground, beaten to a pulp, before the brunette can even blink. She brings her fist up once more to deliver a final, devastating blow, her mind clouded and red with rage, her body shaking, her stomach in knots. The pounding of her heart is loud in her ears and heavy in her heart and she realizes that she's gasping, raggedly, with every swipe of her fist.
She feels a hand come over her own, warm against the leather.
"Hey," the brunette says softly, "Hey. It's okay. I think- I think it's okay. I don't think he's going to hurt me- or anything else- for a while. Just- relax, okay?"
She breathes deeply, closing her eyes, lowers her fist. Avoids the pathologists eyes and snatches her hand back, pulling the zip ties out of her back pocket. Ties his hands together, a little tighter than normal. Prick.
A heavy silence envelops both of the women as Gail stares down at her feet seemingly frozen to the spot despite the fact that she could be gone, well, in a flash, and Holly stares at her, brow furrowed, her lip between her teeth.
The words come out of the blonde's mouth before she has a chance to think about them, the words slightly muffled from the scarf in front of her face.
"Are you- okay, Holly?"
A stunned look- a hitch in her breath-
Oh. Shit.
"How- how do you know me? Who-" She takes a step closer, tries to make out the blonde's features in the murky light of the alley.
"No. I- uh- I've got to-"
You're the one, aren't you? The masked vigilnate or whatever dropping criminals off at 15, right? That's you?"
She doesn't know what to say. The words feel heavy on her tongue.
"And- you know me. How do you know me? I feel- have we met, maybe?"
She needs to leave. She needs to take the perp and she needs to spring into the air or leap the building in a single mother fucking bound but she's frozen and Holly is coming closer and then the brunette is cupping her face with a scraped palm and she can't help herself, she sinks into the touch and closes her eyes.
A second or two- and then, she hears it. The puzzle clicking together in the brunette's head, the realization coming down upon her like a ton of bricks.
A gasp, a sudden tight pressure on her face and then-
"Gail? Is that-"
And the hands come to the scarf, remove it. Holly's eyes are wide, her mouth slack and wide open and the blonde just nods and doesn't say much else.
But Holly is gentle and even though the woman's eyes are searching and her thoughts are so fucking jumbled, she just cradles her face, doesn't ask any questions. Lets the blonde shudder and surrender in her arms.
The brick digs into her back suddenly, her eyes shut for another reason altogether as she feels a pair of soft lips pressing against her own. A tongue tracing the seam of her lips, the feel of them so familiar and then her own, parting, Holly taking full advantage, her hips pinned tightly against the blonde's, hard against the old brick facade.
Holly pours herself into her, the longing, the panic and fear, the desperation and the affection. She's missed it. Missed the feel of the pathologist's body blanketing her own, missed the pressure of her bite on her shoulder and the sound of the gasp in her ear as she slips her leg between the older woman's.
She lets herself feel for the first time in months.
Lets herself forget and get lost and feel human and real for the first time in so long.
Since the last time she had Holly and she can't help it. The wanting- it's all consuming.
And she welcomes it.
Review if you like. Thanks.
Whit