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Entry tags:
Fic: A Series Of (Un)fortunate Events (Rookie Blue, Chris/Gail/Dov)
Title: A Series Of (Un)fortunate Events
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing(s): Chris/Gail/Dov
Word Count: 8286
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dov doesn't notice that Gail has moved in for almost a week.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 2:1 - Butterflies.
Dov doesn't notice that Gail has moved in for almost a week. At first he thinks she's just there to take care of Chris, sleeping over a lot because they're back together, not like she doesn't have a home of her own to go back to. Which is fine with him, sort of, and anyway, Chris just got stabbed. So he lets it go.
Then her stuff starts sneaking into the bathroom. A toothbrush, which is probably fair enough, shampoo, some puffy spongy thing in the shower whose function he could not describe for the life of him. And then a hairdryer, perfume, makeup, and what seems like about a million tiny bottles she cannot possibly need just for a sleepover. (Honestly, he doesn't see how she could ever need them, but whatever. Girl stuff.) Clothes hanging over the couch. Food in the fridge.
"What's this?" he asks, waving a bowl of ... something at Gail.
She shrugs. "Leftovers?"
"Leftovers for what?" They're definitely not his, and it doesn't look like anything Chris would willingly eat.
She looks at him like he's an idiot. So, pretty much the way she always looks at him. "Lunch."
"Your lunch."
"So?"
"So, shouldn't your lunch go in, I don't know, your fridge?"
"Dov, what's your point?"
His point is that she's trying to move into his apartment without him even noticing, without even giving him a choice. Or not trying; obviously, it's something she's already succeeded in doing, and he's only just catching on.
"My point -"
And then Chris walks in. Not threateningly or anything, jut giving him that look like I hope you're playing nice, and it's like the most effective guilt trip ever. So much for that, then.
"My point," he says, "is that your lunch is totally gross."
Gail rolls her eyes, like she's actually mad at him for not starting a fight with her, but it's not like she's going to do it either, not with Chris right there. "Whatever," she says. "Just put it back in the fridge when you're done complaining, okay?"
Okay, so maybe he didn't exactly win that battle. But at least now he knows they're at war.
-
"Dude, I'm just saying -"
"What, Dov?" Chris stops suddenly, so Dov pretty much has to skid to a halt and backtrack. And then he almost wishes he hadn't, because Chris' expression is - well. Not happy. "What are you saying?"
He waits, tapping his hands on his blues, for Jerry and Sam to pass. And then Oliver, and Noelle -
"You know what?" he says finally. "Maybe this isn't the best place for this."
Chris shrugs. Clearly not amused, and not willing to play along. "You're the one who wanted to do this now."
Yeah, he was. And now he sees what a colossal mistake that was.
"Yeah," he says. "Just forget it."
"So you're cool with Gail staying over, then?"
Of course Chris would push this now. Dov really wants to point out that she's not just staying over, she's practically living there, but he doesn't think that argument is really going to fly right now.
"Yeah," he says, sighing. "Whatever. I'm cool with it."
-
Wrong decision.
-
"Seriously?" he shouts through the bathroom door.
"Can't hear you," Gail calls from inside; even from here, Dov can hear the satisfaction in her voice.
"Yes, you can," he shouts. Obviously she can, or else she wouldn't be answering him. "Just turn off the water."
"But I'm about to get in," she says, and he can hear her just fine, so he doesn't know what her problem is.
"Yeah, and I just need to get in there for one second."
"That's what you said yesterday. Are you sure you can count?"
"Gail, just get out here."
One second. Honestly. And even if he needs more time than that - well, he was in there first, and it isn't his fault she swooped in and stole the shower the minute he turned around.
And then the door cracks open, and - seriously, is she trying to kill him? She's not even wearing anything, just a towel wrapped (not very securely) around her, and if she's not trying to kill him herself, she's definitely trying to get Chris to do it for her.
"What?" she asks, sharply, like he's the one interrupting her morning routine. And Dov - well, he tries to avert his eyes. Really.
"You stole my bathroom," he says, eyes darting between her and the empty hallway behind them.
Gail shrugs, which does - interesting things to the towel she's wearing. No. Bad things; it does bad things to the towel she's wearing. Or almost not wearing.
"You weren't in it," she says, which is technically true, but only because he had to duck out for, like, a second. That still doesn't make what she did not stealing.
"I was about to be."
"And I was about to be in the shower, so what's your point?"
"You know what?" he asks. "Fine. Go ahead. Be my guest." The water's still running anyway, and Chris will probably go nuts about the bill if they stand out here arguing any longer.
"I will," Gail says - no thanks, not that he was expecting any - and disappears back into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face.
Fine. He can wait.
She comes out twenty minutes later, when he's almost decided to just give up and get dressed already, brushing past him in the hallway. Her hair's still wet, her tank top sticking to her like she didn't have time to dry off completely, and she smells - whatever, she smells good. She just got out of the shower, she's supposed to.
"All yours," she says, low in his ear, and he rushes in before she can change her mind.
It's a hot day; maybe cold water is all he needs.
-
"Late night?" Traci asks, and Dov waves it off, still yawning. Then he looks at Gail.
"Not for me," he says, as pointedly as he can; she rolls her eyes and looks away.
"All right," Frank says up the front, and Dov tries to concentrate. "I know it's been a long stretch, so I'll keep this short and simple."
"Look, I said I was sorry," Chris whispers, leaning over, and Dov shakes his head.
"We've made some progress," Frank continues, "but we're not quite there yet, so -"
"Dude," Dov says. "I'm just saying, maybe you could ask your girlfriend to keep it down a little. There are other people living there, you know."
"Like you're one to talk," Gail says. "You're the one who was dating a stripper."
"She kind of has a point," Chris says, and Dov's about to fire back a retort before he realises that no-one is talking any more.
"Epstein, Diaz," Frank says. And then, "Peck. Care to share with the class?"
"No, sir," Gail says, shooting Dov a glare like it's all his fault. Like she hasn't got a big mouth, too. "Sorry, sir. We're listening."
"I hope so," Frank says. "All right. You all have your assignments, you know what to do. Serve, protect, and let's get this thing done."
"Thanks for nearly getting us all into trouble," Gail says, once the briefing's over, and Dov stops, staring at her.
"Me?" he asks. "Nice. You were talking in there too, you know. Not to mention that I'm not the one who kept everybody in the apartment up last night."
"Meaning you," she says, which is when Chris steps in.
"Guys," he says, coming up to stand behind Gail. Like he has to protect her or something, which is ridiculous; if anything, Dov's the one who needs protection from her. "Can't we all just pretend to get along? For one shift?"
"I can if he can," she says. She stalks past him, pausing long enough to pause and whisper, low enough so only Dov can hear, "Jealous?"
"Perfect," he calls after her. "Thank you for that. That's just great." He's talking to no-one, her retreating back far enough away that she probably can't even hear him any more, but he doesn't really care. "Way to pretend to get along."
Chris is giving him a weird look, though, and so are most of the people who actually can hear him, so he shuts up. "Sorry," he says to Chris, even though he's really not. "I'll try, okay?"
"That's all I'm asking," Chris says. It's not, really - if this goes well, he'll be asking for something else tomorrow, Gail letting him drive her car or making each other coffee - but Dov lets it go.
One shift. He can do this. (Probably.)
-
By the end of his shift, Dov has:
Been spit on once, been verbally assaulted four times, changed one flat tire, answered three noise complaints, arrested two people, sat in on one interview, taken eighteen pages of notes, drunk five cups of coffee, and only fought with Gail twice.
All in all, it's not a bad scorecard.
By the time he gets home all he really wants to do is grab a beer, collapse on the couch, and sleep until next week. Except Gail's there, Gail's always there, sitting on his couch and drinking his beer and leaving her shit all over his floor.
He pauses on his way back from the fridge, bends down to pick up something that's definitely not his lying on the floor. Something, it turns out, soft and lacy and distinctly bra-like.
"Gail," he says, waving it at her, trying to keep his voice even. So it's her bra, so what? "Is there any way I could get you to please not leave your stuff just lying around?"
"Dov," she snaps, snatching it off him. "Don't touch my underwear."
"I wouldn't have to," he says, "if you'd just, oh, I don't know. Pick up after yourself? Maybe go home occasionally?"
He expects her to fight back, to have some cutting remark ready, but instead she just shrugs. "I like it here."
"You like it here," he echoes. "That's fantastic."
(The only problem is that it comes out sounding - almost sincere? Not nearly as sarcastic as he'd meant it to be, at any rate.)
She still doesn't fight back, and - honestly, that's fine with him. He's too tired, anyway. (And Chris is just in the shower, he'll be in here any minute, and maybe this will make him happy.) So he sits down on the couch, picks up a controller, and then - after a long, considering moment - hands another one to Gail and asks, "Want to play?"
She looks at it almost as if he's handed her something toxic, and then shrugs. "Fine. I'll probably kick your ass anyway."
Judging by the way she's holding the controller, he doubts it. "Yeah, whatever. Just press the button in the middle."
"I know which button to press."
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because you're - god, you're impossible, you know that?"
"I know," he says, smiling. It's almost the nicest thing she's ever said to him.
"Whatever," she says, rolling her eyes, but she's smiling, too. "Just shut up and play so I can beat you."
He laughs. "Okay, this I have got to see."
By the time Chris is out of the shower, they're five minutes into a grudge match that's a little harder (okay, fine, it's way harder) than Dov expected it to be. Not that Gail's actually good, it's just - he must be tired, or whatever. In any case, he's tired enough that he doesn't even notice Chris until he speaks.
"Are you guys playing video games?" he asks, and Dov turns around. Only for a second, but by the time he glances back at the game, his character is dead.
"Hey," he protests. "Not fair. I was distracted, you can't just kill me while I'm not paying attention."
"So maybe you should keep paying attention," she says. "Besides, we're in the middle of a game, what do you want me to do?"
Dov sighs, and then turns back to Chris. "Yes, we're playing video games. Or at least some of us are. Some of, apparently, are cheating at video games."
"I wasn't cheating," Gail says. "You just weren't watching."
"And you took advantage of that."
"How was I supposed to know?"
"Because -" But he cuts off when he sees Chris, smiling like he and Gail are getting along or something. Which they totally aren't. They're fighting right now, in fact. "What?"
"Nothing," Chris says, hopping onto the couch next to Gail and taking a swig of her beer. She slaps his hand away, laughing, and something in Dov's chest tightens. It's been a long day. "This is just - nothing. I'm glad we have tomorrow off, is all."
"You and me both," Dov says. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm about to take your girlfriend down in a rematch."
Gail smiles, eyeing him, and says, "Bring it on."
(Okay, so: As far as days so, this maybe isn't the worst.)
-
Dov wakes up way earlier than he wanted to, but this time, it isn't the shower or Gail's hairdryer that wakes him. Instead, it sounds like a family full of rabid badgers got loose in their kitchen.
It turns out, it's just Gail.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and she stops, a frying pan in each hand, in front of a kitchen counter that looks like the result of a botched home invasion.
For a minute her mouth sets, like she's going to tell him it's none of his business, and then she says, "I'm making breakfast."
"Are you sure you aren't coming to club me to death in my sleep?" he asks, nodding at the frying pans.
She shoves the frying pans onto the last available bit of free space on the counter, looking embarrassed. (Well, almost. This is still Gail he's talking about.)
"I was trying to do something nice," she says, frowning as if the words sound as weird to her as they do to him. "And I figured, since it's our day off -"
"You'd trash the place and make a run for it?"
"No," she says. "I was making pancakes."
"Yeah," he says, taking a step forward. Tentatively, because she's still well within range of the frying pans. "I don't think that's how you do that."
"What, and you're some kind of pancake expert?"
"I have been known to eat my fair share of them," he says. "And I've actually been in a kitchen before, so ..."
"I've been in a kitchen."
"To cook?"
"Oh, yeah, and you cook so frequently. Which is why you know the number for the pizza place off by heart but can't even turn the stove on."
"I can turn the stove on," he says, brushing past her. And then -
Well, it's harder to do with her standing there judging him, okay?
"Yeah," Gail says, stepping up beside him. "That's what I though. Here, you have to turn this one."
"Then why is it still not working?" he challenges.
"Because - because, I don't know, it's broken or something."
"No, it's because you have to turn the other one." Dov does so, and almost to his surprise, the stove actually turns on. "See? Told you it was that one."
"It's both of them," she says, which - okay, yeah, she's actually right. But at least now they know.
"Well," he says, taking a step backwards to put some space between them, "at least now you can make pancakes."
"Yeah, except I can't find a recipe," she says. And then adds, "Besides, you don't cook pancakes in the stove. You have to fry them."
"With two frying pans?" he asks, gesturing at the counter.
She shrugs. "I didn't know which one to use. Besides, who has two frying pans? What, did you and Chris both have one or something?"
"Nope," Dov says. "Both his. He insists they're both useful, but ..."
"Since neither of you actually cook," Gail supplies.
"Yeah," he says. "Since neither of us actually cook, they pretty much just take up space. Although you could probably use them as a pretty decent weapon, if you have to."
"So why don't you just get rid of them?" she asks.
"Because," he says, moving a little closer again. "I'm pretty sure Chris has been waiting to find a nice girl who cooks to make him breakfast in the morning."
"Yeah, well, he can keep waiting," she says. "I'm having cereal."
"Oh, come on," he says. He's not even sure why, except that, for a brief moment, she looked almost serious about this, and - well, whatever. Maybe he just wants pancakes. "I'll help you. I mean, how hard can it be?"
"Seriously?" she asks. "This, from the guy who couldn't turn on the stove a minute ago."
"Hey," he says. "We both failed at that." Which makes her laugh, so.
"All right," she says. "You're such an expert, tell me. Which frying pan do we use?"
"This one," he says, picking one of them up at random. Well, not at random; it's the one on top.
"Really?"
"Obviously."
"And what makes it so obvious?"
"Well, it's ... you know." He turns the frying pan over, looking for something to help him out. "Very pancake-y."
"Pancake-y."
"It's a word," he says. "Now put that other one away and come help me."
"You mean, the non-pancake-y one?" she asks, but does it anyway, while Dov rifles through the fridge looking for milk. And ... whatever else you need to make pancakes. Butter?
"How the hell do you make pancakes, anyway?" he asks.
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because, oh, I don't know. You were the one trying to make them?"
"Yeah," she says. "Trying. I thought you'd have one of those shake and bake things."
"Yeah, because Chris and I make pancakes all the time."
"Well, how was I supposed to know?"
"All right," he says. "You weren't. But that still doesn't help us."
"Okay," she says. "Well, what about flour? We need flour, right?"
"I don't know, but it sounds right." He reaches for the highest shelf, the one full of stuff that Chris bought and he never uses, and pulls down a sack. Unopened, by the way. "Here. What else?"
"Um," she says. "I don't know. Sugar?"
"Sugar," he says, handing it to her. "Got it. Anything else?"
"Eggs?"
Dov looks in the fridge, and then -
"Yeah, we don't have eggs."
"All right," she says, squaring her shoulders. "Maybe it'll be okay?"
"Yeah," he says, managing to sound more confident than he feels. "Maybe. So, what's first?"
"Do I look like I'm following a recipe here?"
"All right, well, how about we just chuck it all in?"
"Just like that?"
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
She pauses for a minute, and then says, "Okay, chucking it all in."
He holds the bowl while Gail mixes, stirring through the ingredients like she's done this before. Which is pretty impressive, given that he's fairly certain she hasn't. All mixed together, it kind of looks like paste, but it smells okay, so - really, how bad could it be?
(Okay, so it turns out, they're bad. Really, really bad.)
"What the hell is this?" Gail asks, flipping the first pancake - and he uses the term loosely - onto a plate a few minutes later.
Dov looks at it, and cringes. "Mush?"
"It smells okay."
"It doesn't look okay."
"Why don't you just try it?"
"Seriously?" he asks, looking at it again. "You want me to eat that?"
"Oh, like it's the worst thing you've ever put in your mouth."
"Hey, isn't that supposed to me my line?"
She rolls her eyes, still holding the pancake in front of his face. "Come on. It's not like it's going to kill you."
"How do I know that?" he asks. "Maybe that was your plan all along to get rid of me."
"You watched me put the ingredients in," she says. "Besides, I carry a gun every day. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't do it by cooking."
"This is not cooking," he says, but against his better judgement - she's just so insistent, okay, looking hopeful like maybe this isn't as big a disaster as it looks - he takes a bite from the pancake.
And then spits it out into the sink.
"Dov!" Gail says, setting aside the plate. "I made that."
"And for the sake of our friendship, I'm going to try to pretend that you didn't."
"Oh, come on. It can't have been that bad."
"It tastes like a Barbie doll threw up in it."
"Ew," she says. "Be serious."
"Do you want to try it?" he asks, picking up what remains of the so-called pancake.
She looks at the plate warily, and then back at him. "No."
"Come on," he says, taking a step forward.
"Dov," she says, backing away. "No!"
"You know you want to."
"I do not," she says. She moves as if to take another step backwards, and runs solidly into the counter again. It seems like fate, and Dov moves in with the pancake -
- and gets a handful of flour squarely in the face.
"Hey," he says, coughing. "What was that for?"
"If you come at me with that thing again, you'll find out."
"Oh, yeah?" he asks. Well, two can play that game. He reaches past her for the flour, and flicks some towards her. "You know, that doesn't actually make you look any paler than you usually are."
"Hey," she says, and picks up another handful of flour; Dov tries to back away, but their kitchen really isn't that big, and there's barely an inch left of space thanks to Gail's breakfast experiment.
This time, it goes in his hair.
"Nice," she says. "Now I can imagine what you'll look like when you're old and retired."
"Oh, is that how you want to play this? Really?"
He's about to reach for the flour again when he hears someone cough, and he turns around to see Chris staring at them, shell-shocked.
"Chris!" Gail shouts, running towards him like they're playing tag and he's the safe spot. "Save me!"
"What's going on here?" Chris asks, looking more puzzled than anything. Gail's hands clutching at his shirt leave white handprints.
"We made breakfast," Dov says, though, honestly, he can see how Chris might have missed that.
"What exactly did you make?" he asks.
"A mess," Dov says, at the same time Gail says, "Pancakes."
"A pancake-y mess," Dov clarifies. "Seriously, you do not want to try these."
"They're not that bad," Gail protests, like she's still hanging on to that.
"You didn't try them," Dov reminds her.
"Wait," Chris says, like he's still stuck a couple of steps behind. "The two of you made breakfast?"
"Yeah," Dov says.
"Together?"
"Well -"
"You cooked?" That one's directed at Gail, looking down at her like the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for him. Dov doubts that - in fact, the very thought of 'Gail' and 'sweet' together in the same sentence kind of melts his brain a little - but right now, he's not sure Chris is going to listen. Or that he even cares that they completely trashed his kitchen.
"I tried," she says, gazing up at him, and Dov has to look away. It's just - nauseating.
A moment later, reality seems to set in.
"So," Chris says. "Is there actually anything to eat?"
"Um," Gail says, and looks back at Dov. Like he's supposed to save her or something, have her back.
"Why don't we go out for breakfast?" he suggests, and she smiles at him; he thinks she almost looks grateful. "Gail's treat."
"Dov's treat," she says, smirking at him, and - whatever. She's not making them wait for her while she showers first, at least, so maybe it's worth it.
-
They stay at the diner for way longer than they need to, ordering every type of pancake on the menu (and Dov and Gail both smacking Chris when he tries to order waffles), he and Gail occasionally flinging sugar at one another and, he's pretty sure, royally pissing off the waitresses. But they still have to go back home eventually.
"Wow," Chris says, standing in the doorway until Gail actually has to nudge him forward. "I did not remember it being such a mess in here."
That's because he was too busy swooning over Gail's failed attempt to make him breakfast, but Dov doesn't say so.
"This isn't a mess," Gail says, "it's a disaster zone." And then, turning to Dov, "Have fun cleaning up."
"Oh, no," he says, blocking her attempts to get past him. "Not a chance. I am not cleaning this up all by myself."
"But I have to -" she starts. Then she looks at Dov, then at Chris, and then back at Dov. "Oh, fine," she says finally, sighing like it's all his fault she trashed their apartment.
"Great," Chris says. "I'll pitch in too, I bet it won't even take us that long."
Dov seriously doubts that; he's pretty sure there's pancake batter on the walls, and that's probably not the worst of it. But, hey, they have to start somewhere, right? Chris takes care of the food, wrapping it up neatly and putting it back in the cupboards, securing it in tupperware containers Dov wasn't even aware they owned, while he and Gail start with the stove. Most of it's okay, but the cooktop's a complete mess, bits of pancake spattered into the crevasses somewhere between half-cooked and charcoal.
"Okay, seriously," Chris says, turning around. Evidently he's finished with the food already, moving on to clearing up patches of flour and sugar sprinkled on the floor, the counters, even the top of the fridge. "What the hell did you two do in here?"
Dov looks at Gail, and after a second, she starts laughing. And, really, the whole thing is so ridiculous that so does Dov, watching Gail tremble as she struggles to keep it in, doubling over again when he tries to meet Chris' eyes.
"I can't believe you told me to just chuck it all in," Gail says, obviously trying to pull herself together. Somehow, the acid bitch routine doesn't work quite as well when she's still smiling like that.
"Me?" Dov asks. "You're the one who said we didn't need eggs."
"I said maybe we didn't need eggs," she says. "And you agreed with me."
"Wait," Chris says, looking confused; obviously, he didn't really understand just how big a disaster this whole thing was. "You tried to make pancakes without eggs? What did you use instead?"
"Instead?" Dov asks.
Now Chris pretty much just looks horrified. "What did you put in them, then?"
Gail shrugs. "Sugar. Flour. Milk."
"And?"
"And ..." Gail looks over at Dov, and he shakes his head. "And that's it."
"But you - you cant -" And then Chris just pretty much stands there, his mouth open, working soundlessly.
"Wow," Dov says. "You literally made him speechless."
"Not like it hasn't happened before," Gail says, totally casual except for the way she looks at him, sharp.
"You can spare me the details," Dov says, and pretends there isn't a little part of him that's hoping she won't.
"I don't understand," Chris says finally. "If you really wanted pancakes so badly, why didn't you just ask?"
Dov glances at Gail, and then back at Chris. "You know how to make pancakes?"
"Yeah," he says, like it's no big deal. "My own recipe. It's really good."
Of course it is.
"You're such an idiot," Gail mutters, but in a way that isn't really cutting at all; in a way where maybe she means the opposite. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"It was your idea," Dov protests. He means for it to sound indignant, but instead it just comes out kind of amused.
"Yeah, whatever," she says, and then takes a step back. "Wow, we're almost done here."
"Yeah," Dov says. "Too bad I'll never be able to cook anything in here again without thinking of the most disgusting pancakes ever."
"What do you mean, again?" Gail asks.
Dov looks over to Chris for support, but Chris just shrugs. "Sorry, bro, but you never cook."
"I could cook," he protests; it's even maybe true. If he had an actual recipe. And eggs.
"Whatever," Gail says, but she's still smiling; it's almost a good look. "I'm going to go have a shower and wash this crap out of my hair." She looks at Dov, then, for just a second too long. Or maybe it just feels like it is. "If that's okay with you, of course."
"As long as you don't use all the hot water," he says. And then adds, mostly for completeness' sake, "Again."
"And what are you going to do about it if I do?"
He can think of a lot of things. None that he can say out loud - particularly not in front of Chris.
"Oh," he says. "I'll do something."
"Yeah," she says, laughing. "I'm terrified, I'm sure." And then she leans over - still standing right next to him, so she almost touches him as she does so - to kiss Chris. Dov looks away. To check that the kitchen really is clean. Obviously.
"So," Chris says, once she's gone. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Dov has no idea which part he's talking about, and even less idea what his answer should be.
-
Dov ends their first shift back covered in dirt, sweat, and a lingering haze of pot smoke he doubts any amount of dry cleaning is going to remove. Basically, he feels like crap and looks even worse, so of course Gail is there, strolling into the men's locker room like there's absolutely no reason why she shouldn't. She looks him up and down, then glances between him to Chris in a comparison that's probably unflattering on the best of days, which this most definitely is not.
"Wow," she says finally. "What happened to you?"
She's addressing both of them, really, and Chris is the one who answers.
"We chased down a couple of subjects robbing a store," he says. When he says it, it sounds almost dignified.
"Potheads," Dov clarifies. "Stealing a handful of candy bars and a dollar thirty-eight they took off the counter."
"Easy takedown?" she asks.
It should have been.
"Dov ..."
"I tripped," Dov finishes, when Chris doesn't. Like he doesn't feel like enough of an idiot already; now he has to relive it. "And then we chased them down the street, through an alley, across a parking lot and into the gutter."
"Into?" Gail asks, wrinkling her nose, and Dov looks down. Yeah, he wishes he didn't mean it quite so literally, either. And then she says, "Okay, well, we definitely need to get some drinks. After you shower."
He'd really just rather go home, but there's something about the way she's looking at him - something about the way she's been looking at him, ever since yesterday, maybe since before that, almost like she likes having him around. And he just - he likes having her look at him that way.
"Fine," he says. "But I am not buying the first round."
She shrugs. "I will. I had a huge bust today."
Good for her, he thinks, and is only mildly shocked when it isn't even sarcastic. "Okay, then," he says. "It's settled."
"Good," she says.
He waits for a beat, and then, "So, are you going to leave now, or should I just strip down in front of you?"
(He wishes it weren't almost a genuine offer.)
"Leaving," Gail says, quickly enough that it almost hurts his feelings. But only almost, because he's not an idiot. "I'll be outside when you're done."
It doesn't take long for Dov to get cleaned up - his uniform is probably another story, but that's tomorrow's problem - and get to the bar with Chris and Gail. Traci and Andy are already there, sitting at what he's already started thinking of as their table, and he and Chris join them while Gail goes to order drinks.
When she gets back, it's with three beers and six shot glasses on a tray that looks like it can barely hold them all. Traci looks at it, and then up at Gail, clearly amused.
"Someone have a bad day?" she asks, and Dov raises his hand.
"That would be me," he says.
Gail sits, wedging herself in between him and Chris, and passes him one of the shots. "Yeah, and I'm trying to fix it, so drink up."
Traci looks even more amused at that, like the concept of Gail trying to fix anything that doesn't directly affect her is a completely foreign one; a week ago, Dov would have been right there with her.
He downs the shot, and Gail places another one in front of him. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was trying to get him drunk, but he does, so he takes it without complaint.
Andy looks pointedly at the drinks in front of him, and Gail stares back at her.
"I'm sorry," she says, in a tone that couldn't possibly be less apologetic. "Did you want one?"
"We'll get our own," Andy says, sounding less offended than amused. And then she looks over at Dov, and he can see why. "Besides, I got the report from Oliver."
Of course she did. Dov wouldn't be surprised if half that guy's conversations were titled Ways Epstein Screwed Up Today.
"So tell me," Gail says. "I only got the boring version."
Dov really didn't think the version he gave was especially boring, but the way Andy tells it makes him question that; not just a detailed rundown, but complete with commentary repeated what has to be verbatim from Oliver, and by the end of it, Gail's practically doubled over with laughter. She's also sitting really close to him, holding hands with Chris on top of the table but with her thigh pressed against Dov's underneath it, and he'd totally think it was an accident. Except that every time she moves her leg always finds its way back, and she has to be at least half as aware of it as he is, but she makes no effort to move away from him.
Dov tries not to let it get to him, but every time he shifts, he - what? Is afraid that Gail's going to make a big scene? That she's going to accuse him of hitting on her? Or maybe just that she's going to move, which -
(Oh, hell. He thinks that would be bad enough. Which means that right now he's pretty much the worst friend ever, maybe twice over.)
Luke comes over to get Andy after that - waiting until she's finished totally humiliating Dov, of course - and Traci disappears a few minutes later, claiming she has to get home to see her kid. Which leaves Dov with Chris and Gail, halfway through his beer and already feeling a little buzzed. Now that the rest of the table's free, he should probably move over, but just as he's pretending to consider it Gail laughs at something Chris said, clutching Dov's arm for support, and, well. It's been a long night, and the shots are starting to kick in, and he's only human.
"Maybe we should get going, too," he suggests, once he can clear his head again. "We've got to get back to work in a few hours."
"What's your point?" Gail asks. Direct as always.
"I just thought -"
"Yeah, that's never a good sign," she interrupts him.
"What, so I should just stop thinking?" he asks.
"That would be a start," she says.
"Yeah," he mutters into his glass. "I guess it would."
-
They don't get out of the Penny without at least another couple of rounds, and Dov's paying for it when he wakes up. By the look of Gail when he runs into her in the hallway, so is she.
"Don't tell," me, he says. At least this stand-off is a familiar one; it makes him feel almost like he's back on solid ground. "You want the bathroom."
"Technically, I got here first," she says. Which is true, but only by a matter of seconds.
"You're impossible, you know that?"
"I know," she says, smiling, and Dov suddenly remembers playing video games with her, the first time he maybe felt like they were something other than enemies. And then, just when he's almost managed to pull himself together, she says, "You're welcome to join me."
"I'm kidding," she says a minute later, while Dov's still trying to process what just happened. And of course she is, he knows that, obviously, but - hell. For a second there he didn't think she was, and maybe that's why he feels like he can't breathe.
She disappears into the bathroom before he can get it together enough to say anything, which is probably for the best. Right now, he feels like he's just been hit in the head with a ton of bricks, and he's pretty sure only half of that is because of his hangover.
When Chris comes home Dov is on the couch, mostly because it's closer than his bedroom. "Dude," he says, and Chris sits down across from him. He didn't even know Chris was gone - which, okay, is probably not surprising. He was a little distracted. "Where were you?"
Chris shrugs. "I went for a run," he says, like it's no big deal, like he didn't drink at least as much as Dov did last night. Or this morning, whatever.
"Seriously?" Dov asks. "What are you, crazy?"
"It helps clear my head." Like it's that simple. For Chris, it probably is; everything seems to be simple for him. "Where's Gail?"
"Shower."
Chris nods. It's kind of ridiculous; slow and thoughtful, like Dov's just revealed the secrets of the universe instead of telling him his girlfriend's in the bathroom.
Unless - shit. Unless that's not what he's thinking about. Dov doesn't think he gave too much away with one word, doesn't think he said it like, Gail's in the shower, and by the way I'd really like to be in there with her, sorry she's your girlfriend and all. But Chris still looks thoughtful, so.
And then finally Chris says, "You two seem to be getting along lately."
"What does that mean?" Dov asks. Trying for nonchalant, and probably failing spectacularly.
"Nothing," Chris says, laughing. Okay, so maybe he's not busted. "Just that, you know. It's nice. You two getting along."
Dov silently begs him not to say it, but of course he does.
"My best friend and my girlfriend."
Yeah. His best friend and his girlfriend.
"I really am glad," Chris says, and Dov wonders if the universe is trying to punish him for something. Maybe he was a really, really bad person in a past life. (Or in this one; he has been lusting after his best friend's girlfriend, and karma's a bitch. He learned that much from his parents.)
And then Chris settles in, gets comfortable. So. Obviously, they're talking about this now.
"Gail ..." he says, pauses like he's thinking of the right thing to say. If he's planning on kicking his ass, Dov wishes he'd get it over with; it can't be much worse than his hangover right now, anyway. "Gail's not like she seems. I mean, when you get to know her."
Okay, so this isn't exactly the talk Dov was expecting.
"She acts a lot tougher than she is. And I know she can take care of herself, but -"
"You want to take care of her," Dov guesses.
Chris shakes his head. "No. I mean, yeah, but that's not what I'm talking about. I just mean - I'm glad you two are friends. Or whatever."
"Chris," Dov says. He really just - he can't listen to any more of this, he just can't.
"No," Chris says. "I mean it. I know you both like to act like you don't get along, and that's fine. But I think she needs you. And I think that sometimes you need her, too."
Which is when Gail comes in, and seriously, Dov's never been more glad to see anyone in his life.
"Talking about me?" she asks, flopping down next to Chris. She's wearing a faded tank top and shorts, still drying her hair, and she still looks vaguely nauseous. Dov thinks she looks beautiful, so basically, yeah, he's beyond help at this point.
"Nope," Chris says, which Dov thinks is a little weird. It's not like what Chris said seemed like some big secret or anything. "Just guy stuff."
"Guy stuff," she says, looking sceptical. "Whatever. I'm starving."
"How could you possibly eat right now?" Dov asks. "Even you talking about food makes me feel like I'm going to hurl."
Slowly, deliberately, Gail leans forward - which isn't a terrible thing, from Dov's vantage point - and says, "Food."
"Okay," he says, getting up. "That's it. I'm having a shower."
"Have fun," she shouts after him. "I'm going to have some breakfast."
He hates her. He really, really hates her.
(Oh, fuck it. He's totally in love with her.)
-
Their next shift, he's partnered with Gail. Because the universe hates him.
For the past week, he's been wishing for a slow night; it just figures it'd happen now. When he's stuck in a squad car with Gail, listening to the chatter on the radio like it's eventually going to give him something to do, trying to ignore the way she keeps leaning over into his personal space.
First, she wants a mint. And then a sip of Dov's coffee. And she's not sure her radio's working properly, can she check his, and a million other things that are probably totally innocent but leave Dov feeling like the car's about two inches big and he's going to have a heart attack any minute. Or just give in and kiss her, which would probably be worse; a heart attack might not kill him, but Gail definitely would.
"Where the hell is all the action?" he asks finally. "We've been sitting on this corner for an hour and I haven't even seen a friggn' jaywalker."
If this is driving him nuts, it has to at least be bothering her, but she just shrugs. "Who cares? I'm just glad I haven't had to chase anybody into a gutter."
"Very funny," he says. This should be distracting him, giving him something else to think about, but all he's capable of noticing is the way Gail twists slightly as she shifts in her seat, the sound of her uniform against the fabric, the way she smells. Nobody should smell that good after an hour of being stuck in one of these cars, it's ridiculous.
"You know," she says, "maybe if you stopped thinking so much about everything that's not happening to you, you'd notice the things that are."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, reflexively glancing out the window. "Is something going on out there? Am I missing something?"
"Yeah," she says. "You're missing something."
Dov can't help it; his heart starts racing. "Well, what is it? Should we get out there? Should we call it in?"
For a minute, Gail just stares at him, like she can't believe what she's seeing. But seriously, she's the one just sitting there. And then finally, she says, "You know, for a smart guy, you can be really stupid."
"So ..." He tries to process that. "There's nothing going on?"
She sighs, sitting back in her seat. Her hair fans out behind her, almost white in the light from the streetlamps. "No," she says. "Apparently not."
-
It's not just that one shift. It's every shift, every day, every single time he's around her - she used to just be Gail, occasional pain in his ass, but now she's Gail, girl he's secretly in love with, and it's killing him. Not just seeing her with Chris, though that's bad enough; yesterday, he watched her eat breakfast - straight out of the box, over the sink, not exactly every guy's fantasy - and he practically had to leave the room. It's ridiculous, and he's pretty sure he can't go on like this much longer.
So he's not exactly surprised when it all falls apart. In the men's locker room, of all places. (Though he will say this for it: At least Gail's not there this time.)
He's had a bad day. Not a particularly long one, but bad, lots of little things adding up to one crappy mood, owner: Dov Epstein. So maybe he kicks the lockers a little. They're always telling them it's important to let off steam, right?
"Whoa," Chris says when he walks in a minute later. Hands held up in front of him like Dov's actually dangerous; it's almost a compliment. "Did I come in at a bad time?"
"I'm just frustrated," Dov says. At least it's the truth.
"Crappy day?" Chris asks.
"No," he says. "Yes. I don't know." And then - it's not the right time, and it's definitely not the right place, he's pretty sure there are a couple of beat cops in the showers but he's going to explode if he holds it in any longer - he blurts out, "I think I'm in love with your girlfriend."
Chris kind of looks mildly surprised for all of a few seconds, and then he says, "Yeah."
"Yeah," Dov repeats, dumbfounded. "What do you mean, yeah?"
"I mean ..." Chris shrugs. "I kind of figured."
Dov expected a lot of things, but mostly, he expected Chris to react. You know, visibly. Because this is a pretty huge moment, a pretty huge betrayal, and it should - shock him, or something. Dov wouldn't even object to being punched right now, but only because he knows he deserves it.
What he didn't expect was a shrug and I kind of figured.
"Wait," Dov says. "What the hell do you mean, you figured?"
"I mean, you know."
"No, I don't know."
A pause, and then, "It's kind of obvious."
Obvious. Well, that's just great.
"Besides, I just - I guess I don't really blame you. I mean, Gail's great, you know?"
Yeah, he knows. "But Gail doesn't -"
Chris shrugs again. "Gail's Gail."
Which Dov thinks either means she's oblivious or she'd have cut your balls off if she even suspected it, so he's probably in the clear.
"Yeah," he says finally. And then, "Are we, you know -"
"We're cool," Chris says, looking like he actually means it. Sometimes, Dov really just does not get that guy. "But I get to order dinner tonight."
"Let me guess," Dov says. "Pizza?"
Chris just grins. Like nothing even happened back there.
Yeah, Dov really, really doesn't get it.
-
They pick up pizza on the way home, heading straight for the couch and a DVD. It's oddly normal, domestic; the three of them squashed together on one couch because the other one's at a terrible angle for seeing the television, a six pack of beer on the table because they're too lazy to want to get up again, pineapple on half the pizza because Chris likes it even though it's an affront to Italian cuisine. Dov still can't believe he didn't somehow screw it all up.
Once the movie's over Dov shifts, moving towards the other couch. He doesn't get more than halfway out of his seat before Gail grabs his wrist, pulling him back down and almost on top of her.
"Where are you going?" she asks. Beside her, Chris gets up to put on the sequel. Which sucks, but whatever; they're all still a little too wired to go to bed.
"Over there?" he says, a little confused. "I just thought you two ..."
"You're an idiot," she says, which doesn't really make any sense. But then Chris comes back, and instead of sliding over to him Gail stays where she is, still holding Dov, her head practically resting in his shoulder.
Chris barely even glances at them.
"Thank you?" Dov says, and then the movie starts, which pretty much cuts off any chance at actual conversation. Which is probably a good thing, because Dov is pretty much rendered speechless the minute Gail puts her hand on his thigh, idly drawing circles over the fabric.
Dov expects Chris to be oblivious, but he's not; his glance over at them says it's more that he just doesn't care. Dov tries to relax - reacts tentatively, rests his arm across her shoulders, which seems to be okay, what the hell is going on here - but every time Gail's hand brushes a little higher, and every time it almost makes him jump.
"Gail," he says finally, leaning over to whisper in her ear. She's really, really close. "What are you doing?"
She doesn't answer him. Instead, she shifts so Dov has no option but to sit back, then settles against him, her back to his chest, his arm moving of its own accord to circle her waist as she puts her feet up on Chris. Who promptly starts rubbing them, never taking his eyes off the television, like this is all completely normal.
"Dov," she says, once she's apparently comfortable. Dov's glad at least one of them is. (Two of them, if you count Chris. He should probably count Chris.) And then she snuggles in even closer, and - okay. It might be a little weird - a lot weird - but he thinks he gets it. Maybe. What this is. What they're doing. Other than completely blowing his mind. "Just shut up and watch the damn movie."
And, seriously, there's not a whole lot of arguing he can do when Gail's actually snuggling him. So.
"Ten-four, Officer Peck," he says, and holds her a little tighter.
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing(s): Chris/Gail/Dov
Word Count: 8286
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dov doesn't notice that Gail has moved in for almost a week.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 2:1 - Butterflies.
Dov doesn't notice that Gail has moved in for almost a week. At first he thinks she's just there to take care of Chris, sleeping over a lot because they're back together, not like she doesn't have a home of her own to go back to. Which is fine with him, sort of, and anyway, Chris just got stabbed. So he lets it go.
Then her stuff starts sneaking into the bathroom. A toothbrush, which is probably fair enough, shampoo, some puffy spongy thing in the shower whose function he could not describe for the life of him. And then a hairdryer, perfume, makeup, and what seems like about a million tiny bottles she cannot possibly need just for a sleepover. (Honestly, he doesn't see how she could ever need them, but whatever. Girl stuff.) Clothes hanging over the couch. Food in the fridge.
"What's this?" he asks, waving a bowl of ... something at Gail.
She shrugs. "Leftovers?"
"Leftovers for what?" They're definitely not his, and it doesn't look like anything Chris would willingly eat.
She looks at him like he's an idiot. So, pretty much the way she always looks at him. "Lunch."
"Your lunch."
"So?"
"So, shouldn't your lunch go in, I don't know, your fridge?"
"Dov, what's your point?"
His point is that she's trying to move into his apartment without him even noticing, without even giving him a choice. Or not trying; obviously, it's something she's already succeeded in doing, and he's only just catching on.
"My point -"
And then Chris walks in. Not threateningly or anything, jut giving him that look like I hope you're playing nice, and it's like the most effective guilt trip ever. So much for that, then.
"My point," he says, "is that your lunch is totally gross."
Gail rolls her eyes, like she's actually mad at him for not starting a fight with her, but it's not like she's going to do it either, not with Chris right there. "Whatever," she says. "Just put it back in the fridge when you're done complaining, okay?"
Okay, so maybe he didn't exactly win that battle. But at least now he knows they're at war.
-
"Dude, I'm just saying -"
"What, Dov?" Chris stops suddenly, so Dov pretty much has to skid to a halt and backtrack. And then he almost wishes he hadn't, because Chris' expression is - well. Not happy. "What are you saying?"
He waits, tapping his hands on his blues, for Jerry and Sam to pass. And then Oliver, and Noelle -
"You know what?" he says finally. "Maybe this isn't the best place for this."
Chris shrugs. Clearly not amused, and not willing to play along. "You're the one who wanted to do this now."
Yeah, he was. And now he sees what a colossal mistake that was.
"Yeah," he says. "Just forget it."
"So you're cool with Gail staying over, then?"
Of course Chris would push this now. Dov really wants to point out that she's not just staying over, she's practically living there, but he doesn't think that argument is really going to fly right now.
"Yeah," he says, sighing. "Whatever. I'm cool with it."
-
Wrong decision.
-
"Seriously?" he shouts through the bathroom door.
"Can't hear you," Gail calls from inside; even from here, Dov can hear the satisfaction in her voice.
"Yes, you can," he shouts. Obviously she can, or else she wouldn't be answering him. "Just turn off the water."
"But I'm about to get in," she says, and he can hear her just fine, so he doesn't know what her problem is.
"Yeah, and I just need to get in there for one second."
"That's what you said yesterday. Are you sure you can count?"
"Gail, just get out here."
One second. Honestly. And even if he needs more time than that - well, he was in there first, and it isn't his fault she swooped in and stole the shower the minute he turned around.
And then the door cracks open, and - seriously, is she trying to kill him? She's not even wearing anything, just a towel wrapped (not very securely) around her, and if she's not trying to kill him herself, she's definitely trying to get Chris to do it for her.
"What?" she asks, sharply, like he's the one interrupting her morning routine. And Dov - well, he tries to avert his eyes. Really.
"You stole my bathroom," he says, eyes darting between her and the empty hallway behind them.
Gail shrugs, which does - interesting things to the towel she's wearing. No. Bad things; it does bad things to the towel she's wearing. Or almost not wearing.
"You weren't in it," she says, which is technically true, but only because he had to duck out for, like, a second. That still doesn't make what she did not stealing.
"I was about to be."
"And I was about to be in the shower, so what's your point?"
"You know what?" he asks. "Fine. Go ahead. Be my guest." The water's still running anyway, and Chris will probably go nuts about the bill if they stand out here arguing any longer.
"I will," Gail says - no thanks, not that he was expecting any - and disappears back into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face.
Fine. He can wait.
She comes out twenty minutes later, when he's almost decided to just give up and get dressed already, brushing past him in the hallway. Her hair's still wet, her tank top sticking to her like she didn't have time to dry off completely, and she smells - whatever, she smells good. She just got out of the shower, she's supposed to.
"All yours," she says, low in his ear, and he rushes in before she can change her mind.
It's a hot day; maybe cold water is all he needs.
-
"Late night?" Traci asks, and Dov waves it off, still yawning. Then he looks at Gail.
"Not for me," he says, as pointedly as he can; she rolls her eyes and looks away.
"All right," Frank says up the front, and Dov tries to concentrate. "I know it's been a long stretch, so I'll keep this short and simple."
"Look, I said I was sorry," Chris whispers, leaning over, and Dov shakes his head.
"We've made some progress," Frank continues, "but we're not quite there yet, so -"
"Dude," Dov says. "I'm just saying, maybe you could ask your girlfriend to keep it down a little. There are other people living there, you know."
"Like you're one to talk," Gail says. "You're the one who was dating a stripper."
"She kind of has a point," Chris says, and Dov's about to fire back a retort before he realises that no-one is talking any more.
"Epstein, Diaz," Frank says. And then, "Peck. Care to share with the class?"
"No, sir," Gail says, shooting Dov a glare like it's all his fault. Like she hasn't got a big mouth, too. "Sorry, sir. We're listening."
"I hope so," Frank says. "All right. You all have your assignments, you know what to do. Serve, protect, and let's get this thing done."
"Thanks for nearly getting us all into trouble," Gail says, once the briefing's over, and Dov stops, staring at her.
"Me?" he asks. "Nice. You were talking in there too, you know. Not to mention that I'm not the one who kept everybody in the apartment up last night."
"Meaning you," she says, which is when Chris steps in.
"Guys," he says, coming up to stand behind Gail. Like he has to protect her or something, which is ridiculous; if anything, Dov's the one who needs protection from her. "Can't we all just pretend to get along? For one shift?"
"I can if he can," she says. She stalks past him, pausing long enough to pause and whisper, low enough so only Dov can hear, "Jealous?"
"Perfect," he calls after her. "Thank you for that. That's just great." He's talking to no-one, her retreating back far enough away that she probably can't even hear him any more, but he doesn't really care. "Way to pretend to get along."
Chris is giving him a weird look, though, and so are most of the people who actually can hear him, so he shuts up. "Sorry," he says to Chris, even though he's really not. "I'll try, okay?"
"That's all I'm asking," Chris says. It's not, really - if this goes well, he'll be asking for something else tomorrow, Gail letting him drive her car or making each other coffee - but Dov lets it go.
One shift. He can do this. (Probably.)
-
By the end of his shift, Dov has:
Been spit on once, been verbally assaulted four times, changed one flat tire, answered three noise complaints, arrested two people, sat in on one interview, taken eighteen pages of notes, drunk five cups of coffee, and only fought with Gail twice.
All in all, it's not a bad scorecard.
By the time he gets home all he really wants to do is grab a beer, collapse on the couch, and sleep until next week. Except Gail's there, Gail's always there, sitting on his couch and drinking his beer and leaving her shit all over his floor.
He pauses on his way back from the fridge, bends down to pick up something that's definitely not his lying on the floor. Something, it turns out, soft and lacy and distinctly bra-like.
"Gail," he says, waving it at her, trying to keep his voice even. So it's her bra, so what? "Is there any way I could get you to please not leave your stuff just lying around?"
"Dov," she snaps, snatching it off him. "Don't touch my underwear."
"I wouldn't have to," he says, "if you'd just, oh, I don't know. Pick up after yourself? Maybe go home occasionally?"
He expects her to fight back, to have some cutting remark ready, but instead she just shrugs. "I like it here."
"You like it here," he echoes. "That's fantastic."
(The only problem is that it comes out sounding - almost sincere? Not nearly as sarcastic as he'd meant it to be, at any rate.)
She still doesn't fight back, and - honestly, that's fine with him. He's too tired, anyway. (And Chris is just in the shower, he'll be in here any minute, and maybe this will make him happy.) So he sits down on the couch, picks up a controller, and then - after a long, considering moment - hands another one to Gail and asks, "Want to play?"
She looks at it almost as if he's handed her something toxic, and then shrugs. "Fine. I'll probably kick your ass anyway."
Judging by the way she's holding the controller, he doubts it. "Yeah, whatever. Just press the button in the middle."
"I know which button to press."
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because you're - god, you're impossible, you know that?"
"I know," he says, smiling. It's almost the nicest thing she's ever said to him.
"Whatever," she says, rolling her eyes, but she's smiling, too. "Just shut up and play so I can beat you."
He laughs. "Okay, this I have got to see."
By the time Chris is out of the shower, they're five minutes into a grudge match that's a little harder (okay, fine, it's way harder) than Dov expected it to be. Not that Gail's actually good, it's just - he must be tired, or whatever. In any case, he's tired enough that he doesn't even notice Chris until he speaks.
"Are you guys playing video games?" he asks, and Dov turns around. Only for a second, but by the time he glances back at the game, his character is dead.
"Hey," he protests. "Not fair. I was distracted, you can't just kill me while I'm not paying attention."
"So maybe you should keep paying attention," she says. "Besides, we're in the middle of a game, what do you want me to do?"
Dov sighs, and then turns back to Chris. "Yes, we're playing video games. Or at least some of us are. Some of, apparently, are cheating at video games."
"I wasn't cheating," Gail says. "You just weren't watching."
"And you took advantage of that."
"How was I supposed to know?"
"Because -" But he cuts off when he sees Chris, smiling like he and Gail are getting along or something. Which they totally aren't. They're fighting right now, in fact. "What?"
"Nothing," Chris says, hopping onto the couch next to Gail and taking a swig of her beer. She slaps his hand away, laughing, and something in Dov's chest tightens. It's been a long day. "This is just - nothing. I'm glad we have tomorrow off, is all."
"You and me both," Dov says. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm about to take your girlfriend down in a rematch."
Gail smiles, eyeing him, and says, "Bring it on."
(Okay, so: As far as days so, this maybe isn't the worst.)
-
Dov wakes up way earlier than he wanted to, but this time, it isn't the shower or Gail's hairdryer that wakes him. Instead, it sounds like a family full of rabid badgers got loose in their kitchen.
It turns out, it's just Gail.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and she stops, a frying pan in each hand, in front of a kitchen counter that looks like the result of a botched home invasion.
For a minute her mouth sets, like she's going to tell him it's none of his business, and then she says, "I'm making breakfast."
"Are you sure you aren't coming to club me to death in my sleep?" he asks, nodding at the frying pans.
She shoves the frying pans onto the last available bit of free space on the counter, looking embarrassed. (Well, almost. This is still Gail he's talking about.)
"I was trying to do something nice," she says, frowning as if the words sound as weird to her as they do to him. "And I figured, since it's our day off -"
"You'd trash the place and make a run for it?"
"No," she says. "I was making pancakes."
"Yeah," he says, taking a step forward. Tentatively, because she's still well within range of the frying pans. "I don't think that's how you do that."
"What, and you're some kind of pancake expert?"
"I have been known to eat my fair share of them," he says. "And I've actually been in a kitchen before, so ..."
"I've been in a kitchen."
"To cook?"
"Oh, yeah, and you cook so frequently. Which is why you know the number for the pizza place off by heart but can't even turn the stove on."
"I can turn the stove on," he says, brushing past her. And then -
Well, it's harder to do with her standing there judging him, okay?
"Yeah," Gail says, stepping up beside him. "That's what I though. Here, you have to turn this one."
"Then why is it still not working?" he challenges.
"Because - because, I don't know, it's broken or something."
"No, it's because you have to turn the other one." Dov does so, and almost to his surprise, the stove actually turns on. "See? Told you it was that one."
"It's both of them," she says, which - okay, yeah, she's actually right. But at least now they know.
"Well," he says, taking a step backwards to put some space between them, "at least now you can make pancakes."
"Yeah, except I can't find a recipe," she says. And then adds, "Besides, you don't cook pancakes in the stove. You have to fry them."
"With two frying pans?" he asks, gesturing at the counter.
She shrugs. "I didn't know which one to use. Besides, who has two frying pans? What, did you and Chris both have one or something?"
"Nope," Dov says. "Both his. He insists they're both useful, but ..."
"Since neither of you actually cook," Gail supplies.
"Yeah," he says. "Since neither of us actually cook, they pretty much just take up space. Although you could probably use them as a pretty decent weapon, if you have to."
"So why don't you just get rid of them?" she asks.
"Because," he says, moving a little closer again. "I'm pretty sure Chris has been waiting to find a nice girl who cooks to make him breakfast in the morning."
"Yeah, well, he can keep waiting," she says. "I'm having cereal."
"Oh, come on," he says. He's not even sure why, except that, for a brief moment, she looked almost serious about this, and - well, whatever. Maybe he just wants pancakes. "I'll help you. I mean, how hard can it be?"
"Seriously?" she asks. "This, from the guy who couldn't turn on the stove a minute ago."
"Hey," he says. "We both failed at that." Which makes her laugh, so.
"All right," she says. "You're such an expert, tell me. Which frying pan do we use?"
"This one," he says, picking one of them up at random. Well, not at random; it's the one on top.
"Really?"
"Obviously."
"And what makes it so obvious?"
"Well, it's ... you know." He turns the frying pan over, looking for something to help him out. "Very pancake-y."
"Pancake-y."
"It's a word," he says. "Now put that other one away and come help me."
"You mean, the non-pancake-y one?" she asks, but does it anyway, while Dov rifles through the fridge looking for milk. And ... whatever else you need to make pancakes. Butter?
"How the hell do you make pancakes, anyway?" he asks.
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because, oh, I don't know. You were the one trying to make them?"
"Yeah," she says. "Trying. I thought you'd have one of those shake and bake things."
"Yeah, because Chris and I make pancakes all the time."
"Well, how was I supposed to know?"
"All right," he says. "You weren't. But that still doesn't help us."
"Okay," she says. "Well, what about flour? We need flour, right?"
"I don't know, but it sounds right." He reaches for the highest shelf, the one full of stuff that Chris bought and he never uses, and pulls down a sack. Unopened, by the way. "Here. What else?"
"Um," she says. "I don't know. Sugar?"
"Sugar," he says, handing it to her. "Got it. Anything else?"
"Eggs?"
Dov looks in the fridge, and then -
"Yeah, we don't have eggs."
"All right," she says, squaring her shoulders. "Maybe it'll be okay?"
"Yeah," he says, managing to sound more confident than he feels. "Maybe. So, what's first?"
"Do I look like I'm following a recipe here?"
"All right, well, how about we just chuck it all in?"
"Just like that?"
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
She pauses for a minute, and then says, "Okay, chucking it all in."
He holds the bowl while Gail mixes, stirring through the ingredients like she's done this before. Which is pretty impressive, given that he's fairly certain she hasn't. All mixed together, it kind of looks like paste, but it smells okay, so - really, how bad could it be?
(Okay, so it turns out, they're bad. Really, really bad.)
"What the hell is this?" Gail asks, flipping the first pancake - and he uses the term loosely - onto a plate a few minutes later.
Dov looks at it, and cringes. "Mush?"
"It smells okay."
"It doesn't look okay."
"Why don't you just try it?"
"Seriously?" he asks, looking at it again. "You want me to eat that?"
"Oh, like it's the worst thing you've ever put in your mouth."
"Hey, isn't that supposed to me my line?"
She rolls her eyes, still holding the pancake in front of his face. "Come on. It's not like it's going to kill you."
"How do I know that?" he asks. "Maybe that was your plan all along to get rid of me."
"You watched me put the ingredients in," she says. "Besides, I carry a gun every day. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't do it by cooking."
"This is not cooking," he says, but against his better judgement - she's just so insistent, okay, looking hopeful like maybe this isn't as big a disaster as it looks - he takes a bite from the pancake.
And then spits it out into the sink.
"Dov!" Gail says, setting aside the plate. "I made that."
"And for the sake of our friendship, I'm going to try to pretend that you didn't."
"Oh, come on. It can't have been that bad."
"It tastes like a Barbie doll threw up in it."
"Ew," she says. "Be serious."
"Do you want to try it?" he asks, picking up what remains of the so-called pancake.
She looks at the plate warily, and then back at him. "No."
"Come on," he says, taking a step forward.
"Dov," she says, backing away. "No!"
"You know you want to."
"I do not," she says. She moves as if to take another step backwards, and runs solidly into the counter again. It seems like fate, and Dov moves in with the pancake -
- and gets a handful of flour squarely in the face.
"Hey," he says, coughing. "What was that for?"
"If you come at me with that thing again, you'll find out."
"Oh, yeah?" he asks. Well, two can play that game. He reaches past her for the flour, and flicks some towards her. "You know, that doesn't actually make you look any paler than you usually are."
"Hey," she says, and picks up another handful of flour; Dov tries to back away, but their kitchen really isn't that big, and there's barely an inch left of space thanks to Gail's breakfast experiment.
This time, it goes in his hair.
"Nice," she says. "Now I can imagine what you'll look like when you're old and retired."
"Oh, is that how you want to play this? Really?"
He's about to reach for the flour again when he hears someone cough, and he turns around to see Chris staring at them, shell-shocked.
"Chris!" Gail shouts, running towards him like they're playing tag and he's the safe spot. "Save me!"
"What's going on here?" Chris asks, looking more puzzled than anything. Gail's hands clutching at his shirt leave white handprints.
"We made breakfast," Dov says, though, honestly, he can see how Chris might have missed that.
"What exactly did you make?" he asks.
"A mess," Dov says, at the same time Gail says, "Pancakes."
"A pancake-y mess," Dov clarifies. "Seriously, you do not want to try these."
"They're not that bad," Gail protests, like she's still hanging on to that.
"You didn't try them," Dov reminds her.
"Wait," Chris says, like he's still stuck a couple of steps behind. "The two of you made breakfast?"
"Yeah," Dov says.
"Together?"
"Well -"
"You cooked?" That one's directed at Gail, looking down at her like the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for him. Dov doubts that - in fact, the very thought of 'Gail' and 'sweet' together in the same sentence kind of melts his brain a little - but right now, he's not sure Chris is going to listen. Or that he even cares that they completely trashed his kitchen.
"I tried," she says, gazing up at him, and Dov has to look away. It's just - nauseating.
A moment later, reality seems to set in.
"So," Chris says. "Is there actually anything to eat?"
"Um," Gail says, and looks back at Dov. Like he's supposed to save her or something, have her back.
"Why don't we go out for breakfast?" he suggests, and she smiles at him; he thinks she almost looks grateful. "Gail's treat."
"Dov's treat," she says, smirking at him, and - whatever. She's not making them wait for her while she showers first, at least, so maybe it's worth it.
-
They stay at the diner for way longer than they need to, ordering every type of pancake on the menu (and Dov and Gail both smacking Chris when he tries to order waffles), he and Gail occasionally flinging sugar at one another and, he's pretty sure, royally pissing off the waitresses. But they still have to go back home eventually.
"Wow," Chris says, standing in the doorway until Gail actually has to nudge him forward. "I did not remember it being such a mess in here."
That's because he was too busy swooning over Gail's failed attempt to make him breakfast, but Dov doesn't say so.
"This isn't a mess," Gail says, "it's a disaster zone." And then, turning to Dov, "Have fun cleaning up."
"Oh, no," he says, blocking her attempts to get past him. "Not a chance. I am not cleaning this up all by myself."
"But I have to -" she starts. Then she looks at Dov, then at Chris, and then back at Dov. "Oh, fine," she says finally, sighing like it's all his fault she trashed their apartment.
"Great," Chris says. "I'll pitch in too, I bet it won't even take us that long."
Dov seriously doubts that; he's pretty sure there's pancake batter on the walls, and that's probably not the worst of it. But, hey, they have to start somewhere, right? Chris takes care of the food, wrapping it up neatly and putting it back in the cupboards, securing it in tupperware containers Dov wasn't even aware they owned, while he and Gail start with the stove. Most of it's okay, but the cooktop's a complete mess, bits of pancake spattered into the crevasses somewhere between half-cooked and charcoal.
"Okay, seriously," Chris says, turning around. Evidently he's finished with the food already, moving on to clearing up patches of flour and sugar sprinkled on the floor, the counters, even the top of the fridge. "What the hell did you two do in here?"
Dov looks at Gail, and after a second, she starts laughing. And, really, the whole thing is so ridiculous that so does Dov, watching Gail tremble as she struggles to keep it in, doubling over again when he tries to meet Chris' eyes.
"I can't believe you told me to just chuck it all in," Gail says, obviously trying to pull herself together. Somehow, the acid bitch routine doesn't work quite as well when she's still smiling like that.
"Me?" Dov asks. "You're the one who said we didn't need eggs."
"I said maybe we didn't need eggs," she says. "And you agreed with me."
"Wait," Chris says, looking confused; obviously, he didn't really understand just how big a disaster this whole thing was. "You tried to make pancakes without eggs? What did you use instead?"
"Instead?" Dov asks.
Now Chris pretty much just looks horrified. "What did you put in them, then?"
Gail shrugs. "Sugar. Flour. Milk."
"And?"
"And ..." Gail looks over at Dov, and he shakes his head. "And that's it."
"But you - you cant -" And then Chris just pretty much stands there, his mouth open, working soundlessly.
"Wow," Dov says. "You literally made him speechless."
"Not like it hasn't happened before," Gail says, totally casual except for the way she looks at him, sharp.
"You can spare me the details," Dov says, and pretends there isn't a little part of him that's hoping she won't.
"I don't understand," Chris says finally. "If you really wanted pancakes so badly, why didn't you just ask?"
Dov glances at Gail, and then back at Chris. "You know how to make pancakes?"
"Yeah," he says, like it's no big deal. "My own recipe. It's really good."
Of course it is.
"You're such an idiot," Gail mutters, but in a way that isn't really cutting at all; in a way where maybe she means the opposite. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"It was your idea," Dov protests. He means for it to sound indignant, but instead it just comes out kind of amused.
"Yeah, whatever," she says, and then takes a step back. "Wow, we're almost done here."
"Yeah," Dov says. "Too bad I'll never be able to cook anything in here again without thinking of the most disgusting pancakes ever."
"What do you mean, again?" Gail asks.
Dov looks over to Chris for support, but Chris just shrugs. "Sorry, bro, but you never cook."
"I could cook," he protests; it's even maybe true. If he had an actual recipe. And eggs.
"Whatever," Gail says, but she's still smiling; it's almost a good look. "I'm going to go have a shower and wash this crap out of my hair." She looks at Dov, then, for just a second too long. Or maybe it just feels like it is. "If that's okay with you, of course."
"As long as you don't use all the hot water," he says. And then adds, mostly for completeness' sake, "Again."
"And what are you going to do about it if I do?"
He can think of a lot of things. None that he can say out loud - particularly not in front of Chris.
"Oh," he says. "I'll do something."
"Yeah," she says, laughing. "I'm terrified, I'm sure." And then she leans over - still standing right next to him, so she almost touches him as she does so - to kiss Chris. Dov looks away. To check that the kitchen really is clean. Obviously.
"So," Chris says, once she's gone. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Dov has no idea which part he's talking about, and even less idea what his answer should be.
-
Dov ends their first shift back covered in dirt, sweat, and a lingering haze of pot smoke he doubts any amount of dry cleaning is going to remove. Basically, he feels like crap and looks even worse, so of course Gail is there, strolling into the men's locker room like there's absolutely no reason why she shouldn't. She looks him up and down, then glances between him to Chris in a comparison that's probably unflattering on the best of days, which this most definitely is not.
"Wow," she says finally. "What happened to you?"
She's addressing both of them, really, and Chris is the one who answers.
"We chased down a couple of subjects robbing a store," he says. When he says it, it sounds almost dignified.
"Potheads," Dov clarifies. "Stealing a handful of candy bars and a dollar thirty-eight they took off the counter."
"Easy takedown?" she asks.
It should have been.
"Dov ..."
"I tripped," Dov finishes, when Chris doesn't. Like he doesn't feel like enough of an idiot already; now he has to relive it. "And then we chased them down the street, through an alley, across a parking lot and into the gutter."
"Into?" Gail asks, wrinkling her nose, and Dov looks down. Yeah, he wishes he didn't mean it quite so literally, either. And then she says, "Okay, well, we definitely need to get some drinks. After you shower."
He'd really just rather go home, but there's something about the way she's looking at him - something about the way she's been looking at him, ever since yesterday, maybe since before that, almost like she likes having him around. And he just - he likes having her look at him that way.
"Fine," he says. "But I am not buying the first round."
She shrugs. "I will. I had a huge bust today."
Good for her, he thinks, and is only mildly shocked when it isn't even sarcastic. "Okay, then," he says. "It's settled."
"Good," she says.
He waits for a beat, and then, "So, are you going to leave now, or should I just strip down in front of you?"
(He wishes it weren't almost a genuine offer.)
"Leaving," Gail says, quickly enough that it almost hurts his feelings. But only almost, because he's not an idiot. "I'll be outside when you're done."
It doesn't take long for Dov to get cleaned up - his uniform is probably another story, but that's tomorrow's problem - and get to the bar with Chris and Gail. Traci and Andy are already there, sitting at what he's already started thinking of as their table, and he and Chris join them while Gail goes to order drinks.
When she gets back, it's with three beers and six shot glasses on a tray that looks like it can barely hold them all. Traci looks at it, and then up at Gail, clearly amused.
"Someone have a bad day?" she asks, and Dov raises his hand.
"That would be me," he says.
Gail sits, wedging herself in between him and Chris, and passes him one of the shots. "Yeah, and I'm trying to fix it, so drink up."
Traci looks even more amused at that, like the concept of Gail trying to fix anything that doesn't directly affect her is a completely foreign one; a week ago, Dov would have been right there with her.
He downs the shot, and Gail places another one in front of him. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was trying to get him drunk, but he does, so he takes it without complaint.
Andy looks pointedly at the drinks in front of him, and Gail stares back at her.
"I'm sorry," she says, in a tone that couldn't possibly be less apologetic. "Did you want one?"
"We'll get our own," Andy says, sounding less offended than amused. And then she looks over at Dov, and he can see why. "Besides, I got the report from Oliver."
Of course she did. Dov wouldn't be surprised if half that guy's conversations were titled Ways Epstein Screwed Up Today.
"So tell me," Gail says. "I only got the boring version."
Dov really didn't think the version he gave was especially boring, but the way Andy tells it makes him question that; not just a detailed rundown, but complete with commentary repeated what has to be verbatim from Oliver, and by the end of it, Gail's practically doubled over with laughter. She's also sitting really close to him, holding hands with Chris on top of the table but with her thigh pressed against Dov's underneath it, and he'd totally think it was an accident. Except that every time she moves her leg always finds its way back, and she has to be at least half as aware of it as he is, but she makes no effort to move away from him.
Dov tries not to let it get to him, but every time he shifts, he - what? Is afraid that Gail's going to make a big scene? That she's going to accuse him of hitting on her? Or maybe just that she's going to move, which -
(Oh, hell. He thinks that would be bad enough. Which means that right now he's pretty much the worst friend ever, maybe twice over.)
Luke comes over to get Andy after that - waiting until she's finished totally humiliating Dov, of course - and Traci disappears a few minutes later, claiming she has to get home to see her kid. Which leaves Dov with Chris and Gail, halfway through his beer and already feeling a little buzzed. Now that the rest of the table's free, he should probably move over, but just as he's pretending to consider it Gail laughs at something Chris said, clutching Dov's arm for support, and, well. It's been a long night, and the shots are starting to kick in, and he's only human.
"Maybe we should get going, too," he suggests, once he can clear his head again. "We've got to get back to work in a few hours."
"What's your point?" Gail asks. Direct as always.
"I just thought -"
"Yeah, that's never a good sign," she interrupts him.
"What, so I should just stop thinking?" he asks.
"That would be a start," she says.
"Yeah," he mutters into his glass. "I guess it would."
-
They don't get out of the Penny without at least another couple of rounds, and Dov's paying for it when he wakes up. By the look of Gail when he runs into her in the hallway, so is she.
"Don't tell," me, he says. At least this stand-off is a familiar one; it makes him feel almost like he's back on solid ground. "You want the bathroom."
"Technically, I got here first," she says. Which is true, but only by a matter of seconds.
"You're impossible, you know that?"
"I know," she says, smiling, and Dov suddenly remembers playing video games with her, the first time he maybe felt like they were something other than enemies. And then, just when he's almost managed to pull himself together, she says, "You're welcome to join me."
"I'm kidding," she says a minute later, while Dov's still trying to process what just happened. And of course she is, he knows that, obviously, but - hell. For a second there he didn't think she was, and maybe that's why he feels like he can't breathe.
She disappears into the bathroom before he can get it together enough to say anything, which is probably for the best. Right now, he feels like he's just been hit in the head with a ton of bricks, and he's pretty sure only half of that is because of his hangover.
When Chris comes home Dov is on the couch, mostly because it's closer than his bedroom. "Dude," he says, and Chris sits down across from him. He didn't even know Chris was gone - which, okay, is probably not surprising. He was a little distracted. "Where were you?"
Chris shrugs. "I went for a run," he says, like it's no big deal, like he didn't drink at least as much as Dov did last night. Or this morning, whatever.
"Seriously?" Dov asks. "What are you, crazy?"
"It helps clear my head." Like it's that simple. For Chris, it probably is; everything seems to be simple for him. "Where's Gail?"
"Shower."
Chris nods. It's kind of ridiculous; slow and thoughtful, like Dov's just revealed the secrets of the universe instead of telling him his girlfriend's in the bathroom.
Unless - shit. Unless that's not what he's thinking about. Dov doesn't think he gave too much away with one word, doesn't think he said it like, Gail's in the shower, and by the way I'd really like to be in there with her, sorry she's your girlfriend and all. But Chris still looks thoughtful, so.
And then finally Chris says, "You two seem to be getting along lately."
"What does that mean?" Dov asks. Trying for nonchalant, and probably failing spectacularly.
"Nothing," Chris says, laughing. Okay, so maybe he's not busted. "Just that, you know. It's nice. You two getting along."
Dov silently begs him not to say it, but of course he does.
"My best friend and my girlfriend."
Yeah. His best friend and his girlfriend.
"I really am glad," Chris says, and Dov wonders if the universe is trying to punish him for something. Maybe he was a really, really bad person in a past life. (Or in this one; he has been lusting after his best friend's girlfriend, and karma's a bitch. He learned that much from his parents.)
And then Chris settles in, gets comfortable. So. Obviously, they're talking about this now.
"Gail ..." he says, pauses like he's thinking of the right thing to say. If he's planning on kicking his ass, Dov wishes he'd get it over with; it can't be much worse than his hangover right now, anyway. "Gail's not like she seems. I mean, when you get to know her."
Okay, so this isn't exactly the talk Dov was expecting.
"She acts a lot tougher than she is. And I know she can take care of herself, but -"
"You want to take care of her," Dov guesses.
Chris shakes his head. "No. I mean, yeah, but that's not what I'm talking about. I just mean - I'm glad you two are friends. Or whatever."
"Chris," Dov says. He really just - he can't listen to any more of this, he just can't.
"No," Chris says. "I mean it. I know you both like to act like you don't get along, and that's fine. But I think she needs you. And I think that sometimes you need her, too."
Which is when Gail comes in, and seriously, Dov's never been more glad to see anyone in his life.
"Talking about me?" she asks, flopping down next to Chris. She's wearing a faded tank top and shorts, still drying her hair, and she still looks vaguely nauseous. Dov thinks she looks beautiful, so basically, yeah, he's beyond help at this point.
"Nope," Chris says, which Dov thinks is a little weird. It's not like what Chris said seemed like some big secret or anything. "Just guy stuff."
"Guy stuff," she says, looking sceptical. "Whatever. I'm starving."
"How could you possibly eat right now?" Dov asks. "Even you talking about food makes me feel like I'm going to hurl."
Slowly, deliberately, Gail leans forward - which isn't a terrible thing, from Dov's vantage point - and says, "Food."
"Okay," he says, getting up. "That's it. I'm having a shower."
"Have fun," she shouts after him. "I'm going to have some breakfast."
He hates her. He really, really hates her.
(Oh, fuck it. He's totally in love with her.)
-
Their next shift, he's partnered with Gail. Because the universe hates him.
For the past week, he's been wishing for a slow night; it just figures it'd happen now. When he's stuck in a squad car with Gail, listening to the chatter on the radio like it's eventually going to give him something to do, trying to ignore the way she keeps leaning over into his personal space.
First, she wants a mint. And then a sip of Dov's coffee. And she's not sure her radio's working properly, can she check his, and a million other things that are probably totally innocent but leave Dov feeling like the car's about two inches big and he's going to have a heart attack any minute. Or just give in and kiss her, which would probably be worse; a heart attack might not kill him, but Gail definitely would.
"Where the hell is all the action?" he asks finally. "We've been sitting on this corner for an hour and I haven't even seen a friggn' jaywalker."
If this is driving him nuts, it has to at least be bothering her, but she just shrugs. "Who cares? I'm just glad I haven't had to chase anybody into a gutter."
"Very funny," he says. This should be distracting him, giving him something else to think about, but all he's capable of noticing is the way Gail twists slightly as she shifts in her seat, the sound of her uniform against the fabric, the way she smells. Nobody should smell that good after an hour of being stuck in one of these cars, it's ridiculous.
"You know," she says, "maybe if you stopped thinking so much about everything that's not happening to you, you'd notice the things that are."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, reflexively glancing out the window. "Is something going on out there? Am I missing something?"
"Yeah," she says. "You're missing something."
Dov can't help it; his heart starts racing. "Well, what is it? Should we get out there? Should we call it in?"
For a minute, Gail just stares at him, like she can't believe what she's seeing. But seriously, she's the one just sitting there. And then finally, she says, "You know, for a smart guy, you can be really stupid."
"So ..." He tries to process that. "There's nothing going on?"
She sighs, sitting back in her seat. Her hair fans out behind her, almost white in the light from the streetlamps. "No," she says. "Apparently not."
-
It's not just that one shift. It's every shift, every day, every single time he's around her - she used to just be Gail, occasional pain in his ass, but now she's Gail, girl he's secretly in love with, and it's killing him. Not just seeing her with Chris, though that's bad enough; yesterday, he watched her eat breakfast - straight out of the box, over the sink, not exactly every guy's fantasy - and he practically had to leave the room. It's ridiculous, and he's pretty sure he can't go on like this much longer.
So he's not exactly surprised when it all falls apart. In the men's locker room, of all places. (Though he will say this for it: At least Gail's not there this time.)
He's had a bad day. Not a particularly long one, but bad, lots of little things adding up to one crappy mood, owner: Dov Epstein. So maybe he kicks the lockers a little. They're always telling them it's important to let off steam, right?
"Whoa," Chris says when he walks in a minute later. Hands held up in front of him like Dov's actually dangerous; it's almost a compliment. "Did I come in at a bad time?"
"I'm just frustrated," Dov says. At least it's the truth.
"Crappy day?" Chris asks.
"No," he says. "Yes. I don't know." And then - it's not the right time, and it's definitely not the right place, he's pretty sure there are a couple of beat cops in the showers but he's going to explode if he holds it in any longer - he blurts out, "I think I'm in love with your girlfriend."
Chris kind of looks mildly surprised for all of a few seconds, and then he says, "Yeah."
"Yeah," Dov repeats, dumbfounded. "What do you mean, yeah?"
"I mean ..." Chris shrugs. "I kind of figured."
Dov expected a lot of things, but mostly, he expected Chris to react. You know, visibly. Because this is a pretty huge moment, a pretty huge betrayal, and it should - shock him, or something. Dov wouldn't even object to being punched right now, but only because he knows he deserves it.
What he didn't expect was a shrug and I kind of figured.
"Wait," Dov says. "What the hell do you mean, you figured?"
"I mean, you know."
"No, I don't know."
A pause, and then, "It's kind of obvious."
Obvious. Well, that's just great.
"Besides, I just - I guess I don't really blame you. I mean, Gail's great, you know?"
Yeah, he knows. "But Gail doesn't -"
Chris shrugs again. "Gail's Gail."
Which Dov thinks either means she's oblivious or she'd have cut your balls off if she even suspected it, so he's probably in the clear.
"Yeah," he says finally. And then, "Are we, you know -"
"We're cool," Chris says, looking like he actually means it. Sometimes, Dov really just does not get that guy. "But I get to order dinner tonight."
"Let me guess," Dov says. "Pizza?"
Chris just grins. Like nothing even happened back there.
Yeah, Dov really, really doesn't get it.
-
They pick up pizza on the way home, heading straight for the couch and a DVD. It's oddly normal, domestic; the three of them squashed together on one couch because the other one's at a terrible angle for seeing the television, a six pack of beer on the table because they're too lazy to want to get up again, pineapple on half the pizza because Chris likes it even though it's an affront to Italian cuisine. Dov still can't believe he didn't somehow screw it all up.
Once the movie's over Dov shifts, moving towards the other couch. He doesn't get more than halfway out of his seat before Gail grabs his wrist, pulling him back down and almost on top of her.
"Where are you going?" she asks. Beside her, Chris gets up to put on the sequel. Which sucks, but whatever; they're all still a little too wired to go to bed.
"Over there?" he says, a little confused. "I just thought you two ..."
"You're an idiot," she says, which doesn't really make any sense. But then Chris comes back, and instead of sliding over to him Gail stays where she is, still holding Dov, her head practically resting in his shoulder.
Chris barely even glances at them.
"Thank you?" Dov says, and then the movie starts, which pretty much cuts off any chance at actual conversation. Which is probably a good thing, because Dov is pretty much rendered speechless the minute Gail puts her hand on his thigh, idly drawing circles over the fabric.
Dov expects Chris to be oblivious, but he's not; his glance over at them says it's more that he just doesn't care. Dov tries to relax - reacts tentatively, rests his arm across her shoulders, which seems to be okay, what the hell is going on here - but every time Gail's hand brushes a little higher, and every time it almost makes him jump.
"Gail," he says finally, leaning over to whisper in her ear. She's really, really close. "What are you doing?"
She doesn't answer him. Instead, she shifts so Dov has no option but to sit back, then settles against him, her back to his chest, his arm moving of its own accord to circle her waist as she puts her feet up on Chris. Who promptly starts rubbing them, never taking his eyes off the television, like this is all completely normal.
"Dov," she says, once she's apparently comfortable. Dov's glad at least one of them is. (Two of them, if you count Chris. He should probably count Chris.) And then she snuggles in even closer, and - okay. It might be a little weird - a lot weird - but he thinks he gets it. Maybe. What this is. What they're doing. Other than completely blowing his mind. "Just shut up and watch the damn movie."
And, seriously, there's not a whole lot of arguing he can do when Gail's actually snuggling him. So.
"Ten-four, Officer Peck," he says, and holds her a little tighter.
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