Something in his voice felt like a slap across her face, pushing her back to her senses. She wanted to curse out loud at realizing what she'd just done. No. She wanted to get out of the SUV and run away. For good. What had gotten to her? How could she twist like that what was nothing but his good intentions? Why did she end up being the bitter one, and for all the wrong reasons?
Brock looked out again and Gillian felt as if he'd just turned his back on her. Damn idiot! Their first chance to talk about something other than the case and she'd screwed up this big! She took a whole minute to loathe herself. Until it hit her. Then she felt even worse. Because there was no something-other-than-the-case with him. Jeez! When would she ever learn? There was nothing else they could talk about, because there was nothing else between them other than work! There had never been and there would never be!
She noticed how different this silence was. Thick, awkward. She'd really screwed up. Poor Brock! He was only trying to be polite! Why did she have to be such an ass? She felt the compelling urge to apologize, and honesty was the only option with him.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said in a repentant low voice. "I didn't mean to be so rude. It's just that I can't help it, this feeling when it comes to you..."
She trailed off and Brock felt his ears stir up like a dog's. He turned to her once more, waiting for her to go on. Because he just couldn't risk filling in this blank.
She lowered her eyes and shrugged, any attempt of saving face forgotten.
"That for you I'm nothing but trouble."
"I never saw you that way, Gillian."
She met his eyes, puzzled at his quick, categorical reply.
Brock pressed his lips together, regretting his outburst. Now he had two choices: shut the hell up or go totally suicidal. So.
"And I'm not here because of what happened in Boston."
Nice, Brockner. You're here because of what didn't happen back then. But you were vague enough to let her pick what you're talking about.
She stiffened. What!? Oh, no! Not the pending pity talk! How on earth did they come to it?
A cat strolling lazily across the subject's lawn allowed Brock to look away from her.
"We're not having that conversation, sir," she muttered, a warning edge in her voice.
He watched the cat and managed to answer as if commenting on the weather.
"Of course not. This isn't the time, or the place." But you bet we're having it soon enough.
His tone suggested she could come down to Def Con two and lock back the nukes. Maybe even play a little smartass, as a desperate attempt to smooth things over after what she'd just done—if that train wasn't actually long gone.
"It won't be the time until after Doomsday, sir."
Dead end, Brockner. At least she's trying to find a humorous turn to it. Change flanks. He scoffed.
"You afraid?" Daredevil Gillian? C'mon, take the bait.
She scoffed back—not falling.
Brock kept his mix of serious and tease.
"Once we close this case, then."
"Yessir."
He couldn't help a mild smile at her irony and shot a sideways glance at her. The minefield had become one of her quick banters, and he wanted to keep it that way. It'd help her lower her defenses. About an inch.
"You think I'm bossing you around."
"You're entitled to, sir."
"I shouldn't need to."
"Sorry, sir. That gambit ain't working. Sir."
"Gambit? I don't do gambits, Gillian."
"Of course not, sir."
Gillian felt grateful he kept looking out, because his soft chuckle melted away all of her attitude. She couldn't keep it up when the stupid man insisted in being so nice.