Fic: The Life You Save/2
Title: The Life You Save
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: After Purgatory
Rating: M
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: May be your own.
//
I know the darkness pulls on you
But it’s just a point of view
When you’re outside looking in
You belong to someone
~ Brandi Carlile, Looking Out
//
There are three men in the room. They sit back to back, in a close circle, on metal chairs. They are not comfortable, but they aren’t meant to be.
Then the girls appear.
//
And so it begins: Through the blinding, flashing lights and throbbing music, Eames comes into clear, sharp focus almost immediately. He’s never seen anything like it (her) in his life, and he’s mesmerized. He knows, logically, he’s supposed to be watching all three dancers (it’s a job, it’s his job), but he can’t, he simply cannot focus on the other two, those blurry, indiscriminately feminine shapes that pass by. It’s Eames, only Eames and-
-he couldn’t take his eyes off her, even if he wanted to.
The beat and thrum of the infernal music has somehow coincided/corresponded with the beat and thrum of his infernal pulse, the thrum of his blood and the sexual beat in his wrists and between his legs, which he’ll never really be able to admit, or explain, nor will he have to, so he doesn’t think about it too much, because if he had to, what would he say, exactly?
I’m fucking hot for my partner.
No. No no.
No. That would never do. Never. (thrumthrumthrobthrob).
(beatbeatbeatthrumthrumthrum)
Be professional, Bobby. Be. (thrumthrumthrobthrob). Professional. Ahhh-
He grips the sides of his chair so hard his fingers actually hurt and he tries, sofuckinghard to not think about her-
-but she’s lithe and graceful, she’s frenetic and sexual, she’s a dream and a fantasy and the woman he loves and he can’t quite reconcile the vision in front of him with the person he’s known and worked with for 10 years. That Eames is smart and sensible, practical and asexual. This Eames has breasts and legs and hair and she’s moving like a serpent and he wonders how the hell she got so good so fast. Then, he decides he really doesn’t want to know the answer to that.
She looks like she’s been doing this all her life.
But, because she hasn’t, she stumbles and falls, right in front of him and the beat stops and the throbbing stops justlikethat and-
-and of course, purely by instinct and because it’s her he reaches out for her, to catch her. One hand grabs her elbow and the other finds her waist and she leans against him briefly, but long enough for him to smell her perfume and feel the slightly sweaty weight of her and hear her low mutter “Fucking shoes-” and then she’s up and moving again, face averted, moving away from him and it all happened so quickly he wondered if it happened at all.
It did.
One of the club’s thugs is there then (where did he even come from? One of the dark, shadowy corners, pay attention Bobby, pay attention), bearing down on him like a large, dark spectre and Bobby feels the hard, sharp slap of the back of a gloved hand against the side of his face, quick, brutal. His head whips to the left, just once. He closes his eyes, adjusts to the flash of pain, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes.
All movement in the room has stopped. Everyone is watching, waiting.
“You touched her.” The voice is close and low and strangely conversational, right next to his ear. Bobby shifts. His head throbs viciously.
“She…fell.”
“Don’t. Touch. The girls.”
“Right. Sorry. I…won’t do it again.”
“No. You won’t.”
The spectre is gone and the room releases a collective breath and is in motion again thumpthumpthump and through a blur of pain he sees Alex pass in front of him again, her face white and drawn, eyes wide and too-shiny and distraught and fixed on him. Bobby attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite work. He tries to settle himself, to focus, to not draw any further attention to himself-
But it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Nagy makes his move at last. He nods at Alex, then moves his hand, reaches out for her and Alex nods back, smiling. Bobby’s heart lurches and he clutches the edges of his chair so tight his knuckles pop.
(Why oh why why did she agree to this? And why oh why why did I let her?)
Then they’re gone.
//
He somehow manages to hear their conversation over the frantic pounding of his heart.
(You’re exactly what I’m looking for.)
(Oh yeah? What’s that?)
(I’m an artist. I’m always on the lookout for new…subjects.)
(Is that so?)
(You’re…perfect. Come to my place, ok? Let me paint you.)
And there’s another pounding, and a lot of yelling, and Bobby finally, finally, releases the breath he feels he’s been holding for days.
//
Back to the station and hours of paperwork and debriefing. Endless cups of greasy coffee and stale bagels, too bright lights and too sharp noises. Endless questions, queries, and then what? And then? What happened next?
When he finally sees her again, face-to-face, she’s dressed in her blue hoodie and jeans, sensible shoes. She looks like Eames again, small and smart and beautiful. She also looks exhausted, but strangely triumphant and wired, too.
“You did…you did good,” he says.
“Thanks.” She grins a little. “You, too.”
He laughs.
“How’s your face?” She’s suddenly serious, not joking in the least, and moves to touch him, touch his cheek maybe, then she stops, because she remembers where they are, and who might be watching.
He shakes his head, shakes it off.
“Fine. All in a day’s…or night’s work, I guess.”
“Right,” she says, and they stand still, looking and not looking at each other, for who knows how long until (thank god):
“Detectives,” Ross motions from across the room. “We’re ready.”
//
Nagy is almost surreally handsome up close, lounging in his chair, relaxed and lawyerless. His shirt is open at the collar, his hair artfully tousled. Paint-stained fingers. Bobby can almost see how the women might flock to him.
Almost.
Nagy grins outright when they walk in, his bright blue eyes honing in on Eames’s face.
“Hello again,” he drawls. “Detective. Funny how you seem so much more…appealing now that I know you’re a cop.”
“Funny strange or funny haha?” Eames says. She sits, looks neither at him nor at Bobby.
Bobby slams his binder down. Nagy flinches, but only a bit. Bobby opens book, starts flipping pages.
“These women…all girlfriends of yours…are dead.”
Nagy shrugs, grinning. “Not girlfriends sadly, but unfortunate, nonetheless. And, not my doing. I simply painted them. Dancers do have the most sublime bodies.” He pauses, his eyes finding Eames’s again. “Maybe they all died of a broken heart after I refused their advances.”
“Unfortunately, these women didn’t die of a broken heart,” says Bobby, scattering three glossy photos across the table. “They died of a broken neck. Strangled. All of them. Strangulation…very personal…very passionate. You…you’re a passionate guy, right?”
Again the smile, this time aimed in Alex’s direction. Bobby’s jaw clenches.
“I like to think so.”
“Passionate about…life…or art?”
“Art is passion, Detective. I infuse every aspect of my life with it. It is what makes life worth living…don’t you agree?”
Bobby smirks, trembles.
“And where does that passion go…what’s the outlet…after the relationship ends…when it all sours…when it all goes to hell?”
Nagy stops smiling. “Are you suggesting that I killed these women? These beautiful, sensuous creatures?” He locks eyes with Alex. “I could never, ever hurt a woman. I love them too much.”
The sound of Bobby’s fist slamming down on the table makes everyone in the room jump, including Alex, who should be used to such things.
“You just have to see my work to understand just how much I love them.”
“Yeah…I’ve seen your work,” Bobby spits, “and I think you’re a talentless hack.”
Nagy’s eyes flash dark for just a second, but he catches himself, smiles again and sighs. “No great artist is truly appreciated in his lifetime.”
Bobby grips the tabletop. He leans forward. “You killed those women.”
Nagy smiles, leans forward too, looks like he might kiss Eames, or at least, he wants to.
“Prove it.”
//
“We’ve caught a break,” Ross says in the viewing room. “Amanda Keeler. Found an hour ago. Same MO, dancer at Vice.”
“Alive?” Bobby leans close to the glass. He hasn’t felt this murderous since…forever, he thinks. Never. He could happily walk into that room and put his own hands around Nagy’s neck and-
“Barely. St. Vincent’s. We’re hoping she’ll be able to talk in the next couple hours.”
“But Nagy thinks he killed her,” Alex says.
“Yes. And we’ll let him continue to think that.” Ross pauses. “You can use it when you go back in.”
“Who can use it?” Bobby says.
Ross doesn’t speak for a moment, but Bobby knows, he knows what he’s thinking.
“Eames.” As Bobby opened his mouth to protest, Ross continues, quietly: “Alone.”
“No. No fucking way.”
“Eames has already established a connection with him. And you have not.” Ross crosses his arms. Bobby looks like he might punch the wall, or him. “He’s much more likely to give up some information if he feels she’s there for him.”
“There for him? There for him?” Bobby hates the barely controlled tremour in his voice. “Are you nuts? You saw the way he was looking at her.”
“Yes, I did,” says Ross, “which is exactly why Eames need to be the face person here.”
Bobby swallows, with difficulty. What he’s feeling is irrational, he knows: Eames has interrogated male suspects alone plenty of times during the course of their partnership. Why should this be any different?
Because it is, that’s why. It just is and there is no explaining it, no rationalizing it away. He shakes his head, sharply. “I…disagree.”
“Too bad you’re not the Captain, then.” Ross, irritated and puzzled as he is, is clearly enjoying pulling rank, but Bobby isn’t even mad, he’s just panicking.
(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and and run and-)
“Eames-” He turns to her, his desperation palpable, he feels. “Just d-don’t…don’t push too hard, okay? L-let him think you’re on his side, okay?”
He resists the very strong urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake his warning into her bones.
And for a moment he thinks he’s successful: She’s staring at him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed, her lips pulled tight.
“If you feel him starting to…to get angry, just back off, all right? Seriously. Just-”
He can hear himself and thinks, What the hell is wrong with me? It isn’t the first time he’s asked himself. Then: Something. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I can-
“Goren.” Just one word. Just one, and it brings him up short. When was the last time she called him by his last name? He looks down at her. Arms crossed, that line between her eyes. She’s tense, he can see that, and she’s mad. “Drop it.”
“I just think…I think this guy is…unstable…”
“Unstable I can deal with,” she says, and something like a smirk touches the corner of her mouth. “Been dealing with that for about 10 years.”
Even Ross has to stifle a snicker at that. Eames ignores him.
“Let me do my job, all right? Contrary to what you seem to think, I do know what I’m doing.”
He nodded, frantically. “Y-yeah. It’s not that, I swear. We just need a confession, so promise me-”
But it’s too late.
“Eames,” he says as the door swings shut behind her. Eames, he whispers to himself. Eames. He closes his eyes.
(I’m sorry.)
(Is that all you have to say for yourself?)
No.
No.
Be careful, too.
Please.
//
Fuck him, she thinks, not for the first time. Despite her retort, despite her show of irritation and bravado, his words, his anxiety, have touched a nerve in her. It’s so unlike him to show…what had it even been? Concern? Fear? Her stomach clenches and she feels sweat bead along her hairline and between her breasts.
Done this a hundred times, she tells herself as she pushes open the heavy door and walks in. A thousand times. This is no different, no different.
Still, her mouth is dry and her lips feel numb. She seems to be moving very slowly as she pulls out the chair (scrape of metal on concrete) and her legs give out just before she’s fully seated.
Deep breath. And another. She’s acutely aware of Ross and Goren behind her, behind the glass, their eyes on her, Bobby knuckle-white, slick-skinned, dry-mouthed (What the fuck is going on with him?). One more breath and eyes up, meeting Nagy’s full on. He’s smiling, his body almost trembling in anticipation, his smooth, suave face both amused and aroused.
“Detective.”
(Don’t push too hard)
“Karl.”
(Let him think you’re on his side)
“We’re finally alone.”
She leans forward. “I have to apologize for my partner’s behaviour earlier. He can be a bit…overzealous.”
(Nagy’s hands on the slender, unsuspecting neck of Diana/Jane/Sarah/Amanda)
“No offense taken,” he croons. “But, surely you don’t share your partner’s insane theories about me.” He slides a hand across the table, wraps his fingers around her hand. His skin is very soft and warm. Alex feels her stomach roil. Throwing up would not make him think she was on his side. She swallows.
“Then convince me.”
“I don’t need to rape anyone detective, let alone murder them. Look at me!” At last he removes his hand from hers, makes a broad gesture in his own direction.
Alex tries very, very hard not to laugh, because she’s sure it would quickly veer into hysteria. She looks at him.
“You may fool naïve, young women with this act, but I’m neither young nor naïve, Karl.”
“Come now, Detective. You’re selling yourself short. You have a lot of life in you…a lot of passion. I can tell. It just takes the right man to…release it.”
“Release it…as in being painted naked?”
Nagy laughs.
“Perhaps.” He leans forward again. “Passion is difficult to control sometimes. Learning to direct it…that’s what separates the artists from the…hacks, as your partner so crudely put it. And I would still love to paint you.”
Alex makes her mouth form a smile. “Would you.”
“You’re strong. I can see that. You work out. Your muscles are long and lean. You would look…magnificent nude.”
(Keep dreaming Karl.)
“Really.”
“Yes.”
“But these…other women. The dead women…”
Karl shrugs, makes a remorseful face.
“Yes. Sad. So very sad, really. All young, beautiful.” He shakes his head. “Such a waste.”
Alex closes her eyes, then opens them.
“You’re telling me it’s coincidence that three women you painted, three women who danced for you at the same club, are now dead?”
“Yes.”
Alex takes a breath, then another. She can feel her temper rising, can feel it like something hot and sharp in her chest and all the warnings in the world won’t be able to push it back down now.
“What happened, Karl? Did they see the finished painting and realize that you really are just a talentless hack?”
“I’m not-”
“No, see,” she hears her voice rise with her temper. “I think you just might be-”
(You have a connection. Use it to your advantage)
“-and now we know you’re lying because one victim who made it out of your ‘studio’ alive. Amanda didn’t die.”
Nagy frowns, just slightly.
“Who?”
“Amanda Keeler. Yet another dancer from Vice, yet another woman whose image we will find in your apartment.”
(Don’t push too hard)
(too late, Bobby)
“Amanda.”
“Still very much alive and very much able to ID you, because you’re not only a hack, Karl, you’re a murderer.”
(Don’t push too hard)
(too late too late too late-)
Karl looks at her. He’s no longer smiling, and he’s no longer admiring.
And that’s when everything goes to hell.
//
Robert Goren was five years old when he saw his first magic act. His mother had taken him and Frank to the local library to see Gonzo the Great. Bobby remembers the smell of the books combined with the anticipation/excitement of the show. He remembers sitting up high on his knees, despite repeated admonishments from Frances and kids behind him to SIT DOWN NOW. He remembers being physically unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him, his breath scrambling up in his throat with no idea which direction to travel. He remembers thinking: If I look away, even for one second, I will miss something. Something extremely important will happen and I will miss it.
He also remembers thinking, as Gonzo pulled a rabbit out of a hat and made a wallet disappear: This isn’t real. It’s an illusion. It’s not really happening. It can’t be, because what I’m looking at is impossible and if I actually believe it my entire reality is fucked up-
With both hands flat against the viewing room glass, with a pounding in his chest and his ears and the whole world, he feels exactly the same way now as he watches Alex Eames get the shit beat out of her.
//
She knows she’s in trouble when she sees the light go out of his eyes. They flicker and go dark and everything in the room slows down and speeds up at the same time. She remembers feeling this exact way the moment she realized Bobby was trapped in Tates, trapped and alone and possibly dead and she was completely fucking helpless and so far away and the need for action, the need to do something right fucking now was so overwhelming, so huge and-
Now: the entire sequence of unfortunate events play out over a matter of seconds, less than one minute, but it feels like a lifetime. She sees Nagy stand, she sees him reach for the back of his silver metal chair, and she sees his hands (paint-stained blue and green and yellow and) grip and shove, hard, under the handle of the door. She hears, as if from far, far away, the grating sound of metal on the concrete floor. She’s standing, too, but she doesn’t remember doing so. Her hand is reaching for her gun, but she’s slow, and he’s fast, faster, and he’s so fucking angry and his hands are on her-
She’s yelling, she thinks, for him to stop, for someone to help, but she knows he’s blocked the door for any number of seconds, and seconds are not her friend, not her ally, because he could fucking kill her in a number of seconds, he’s that good, he is, he’s proven himself, he has, she’s seen the evidence of his anger first-hand-
Eames gets in one, two good, solid kicks, her boots making contact with Karl’s knee and thigh, but it isn’t enough and it’s too late. He skitters like a spider, corners her, slaps her, hard, then basically picks her up and flings her halfway across the room.
There’s a lot of noise (metal scraping/glass smashing/bone on bone on concrete) and Eames is having difficulty keeping track of it all. She’s in a defensive position, she knows, having abandoned any pretense of attack mode. There’s blood, she knows, she can taste it, but she’s not sure if it’s actually coming from her mouth, or just trickling in, and she can smell it, and she knows it’s in her eyes, and her hair is wet with it (just don’t please don’t give me brain damage please I need my brain).
And underneath that plea is one other: Where the fuck are you Bobby?
She’s thinking about these things, and feeling her own blood pool beneath her head, when the fucking door finally bursts open and a lot of people are there and there’s a lot of yelling, but it’s Bobby’s presence that fills the entire world.
Then there’s a roaring sound, and he’s there, fuckingfinally; she catches a glimpse of his face (Bobby’s face yes it’s his she knows his face) contorted in a rage like she’s never ever seen before and he has Nagy in his grip and Nagy is gone finally fucking gone, but so is Bobby and someone is screaming and Eames wonders if it’s her or Nagy, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby.
Then she lets go of consciousness at last, goes limp and welcomes the blackness that swallows her up.
//
tbc
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: After Purgatory
Rating: M
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: May be your own.
//
I know the darkness pulls on you
But it’s just a point of view
When you’re outside looking in
You belong to someone
~ Brandi Carlile, Looking Out
//
There are three men in the room. They sit back to back, in a close circle, on metal chairs. They are not comfortable, but they aren’t meant to be.
Then the girls appear.
//
And so it begins: Through the blinding, flashing lights and throbbing music, Eames comes into clear, sharp focus almost immediately. He’s never seen anything like it (her) in his life, and he’s mesmerized. He knows, logically, he’s supposed to be watching all three dancers (it’s a job, it’s his job), but he can’t, he simply cannot focus on the other two, those blurry, indiscriminately feminine shapes that pass by. It’s Eames, only Eames and-
-he couldn’t take his eyes off her, even if he wanted to.
The beat and thrum of the infernal music has somehow coincided/corresponded with the beat and thrum of his infernal pulse, the thrum of his blood and the sexual beat in his wrists and between his legs, which he’ll never really be able to admit, or explain, nor will he have to, so he doesn’t think about it too much, because if he had to, what would he say, exactly?
I’m fucking hot for my partner.
No. No no.
No. That would never do. Never. (thrumthrumthrobthrob).
(beatbeatbeatthrumthrumthrum)
Be professional, Bobby. Be. (thrumthrumthrobthrob). Professional. Ahhh-
He grips the sides of his chair so hard his fingers actually hurt and he tries, sofuckinghard to not think about her-
-but she’s lithe and graceful, she’s frenetic and sexual, she’s a dream and a fantasy and the woman he loves and he can’t quite reconcile the vision in front of him with the person he’s known and worked with for 10 years. That Eames is smart and sensible, practical and asexual. This Eames has breasts and legs and hair and she’s moving like a serpent and he wonders how the hell she got so good so fast. Then, he decides he really doesn’t want to know the answer to that.
She looks like she’s been doing this all her life.
But, because she hasn’t, she stumbles and falls, right in front of him and the beat stops and the throbbing stops justlikethat and-
-and of course, purely by instinct and because it’s her he reaches out for her, to catch her. One hand grabs her elbow and the other finds her waist and she leans against him briefly, but long enough for him to smell her perfume and feel the slightly sweaty weight of her and hear her low mutter “Fucking shoes-” and then she’s up and moving again, face averted, moving away from him and it all happened so quickly he wondered if it happened at all.
It did.
One of the club’s thugs is there then (where did he even come from? One of the dark, shadowy corners, pay attention Bobby, pay attention), bearing down on him like a large, dark spectre and Bobby feels the hard, sharp slap of the back of a gloved hand against the side of his face, quick, brutal. His head whips to the left, just once. He closes his eyes, adjusts to the flash of pain, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes.
All movement in the room has stopped. Everyone is watching, waiting.
“You touched her.” The voice is close and low and strangely conversational, right next to his ear. Bobby shifts. His head throbs viciously.
“She…fell.”
“Don’t. Touch. The girls.”
“Right. Sorry. I…won’t do it again.”
“No. You won’t.”
The spectre is gone and the room releases a collective breath and is in motion again thumpthumpthump and through a blur of pain he sees Alex pass in front of him again, her face white and drawn, eyes wide and too-shiny and distraught and fixed on him. Bobby attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite work. He tries to settle himself, to focus, to not draw any further attention to himself-
But it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Nagy makes his move at last. He nods at Alex, then moves his hand, reaches out for her and Alex nods back, smiling. Bobby’s heart lurches and he clutches the edges of his chair so tight his knuckles pop.
(Why oh why why did she agree to this? And why oh why why did I let her?)
Then they’re gone.
//
He somehow manages to hear their conversation over the frantic pounding of his heart.
(You’re exactly what I’m looking for.)
(Oh yeah? What’s that?)
(I’m an artist. I’m always on the lookout for new…subjects.)
(Is that so?)
(You’re…perfect. Come to my place, ok? Let me paint you.)
And there’s another pounding, and a lot of yelling, and Bobby finally, finally, releases the breath he feels he’s been holding for days.
//
Back to the station and hours of paperwork and debriefing. Endless cups of greasy coffee and stale bagels, too bright lights and too sharp noises. Endless questions, queries, and then what? And then? What happened next?
When he finally sees her again, face-to-face, she’s dressed in her blue hoodie and jeans, sensible shoes. She looks like Eames again, small and smart and beautiful. She also looks exhausted, but strangely triumphant and wired, too.
“You did…you did good,” he says.
“Thanks.” She grins a little. “You, too.”
He laughs.
“How’s your face?” She’s suddenly serious, not joking in the least, and moves to touch him, touch his cheek maybe, then she stops, because she remembers where they are, and who might be watching.
He shakes his head, shakes it off.
“Fine. All in a day’s…or night’s work, I guess.”
“Right,” she says, and they stand still, looking and not looking at each other, for who knows how long until (thank god):
“Detectives,” Ross motions from across the room. “We’re ready.”
//
Nagy is almost surreally handsome up close, lounging in his chair, relaxed and lawyerless. His shirt is open at the collar, his hair artfully tousled. Paint-stained fingers. Bobby can almost see how the women might flock to him.
Almost.
Nagy grins outright when they walk in, his bright blue eyes honing in on Eames’s face.
“Hello again,” he drawls. “Detective. Funny how you seem so much more…appealing now that I know you’re a cop.”
“Funny strange or funny haha?” Eames says. She sits, looks neither at him nor at Bobby.
Bobby slams his binder down. Nagy flinches, but only a bit. Bobby opens book, starts flipping pages.
“These women…all girlfriends of yours…are dead.”
Nagy shrugs, grinning. “Not girlfriends sadly, but unfortunate, nonetheless. And, not my doing. I simply painted them. Dancers do have the most sublime bodies.” He pauses, his eyes finding Eames’s again. “Maybe they all died of a broken heart after I refused their advances.”
“Unfortunately, these women didn’t die of a broken heart,” says Bobby, scattering three glossy photos across the table. “They died of a broken neck. Strangled. All of them. Strangulation…very personal…very passionate. You…you’re a passionate guy, right?”
Again the smile, this time aimed in Alex’s direction. Bobby’s jaw clenches.
“I like to think so.”
“Passionate about…life…or art?”
“Art is passion, Detective. I infuse every aspect of my life with it. It is what makes life worth living…don’t you agree?”
Bobby smirks, trembles.
“And where does that passion go…what’s the outlet…after the relationship ends…when it all sours…when it all goes to hell?”
Nagy stops smiling. “Are you suggesting that I killed these women? These beautiful, sensuous creatures?” He locks eyes with Alex. “I could never, ever hurt a woman. I love them too much.”
The sound of Bobby’s fist slamming down on the table makes everyone in the room jump, including Alex, who should be used to such things.
“You just have to see my work to understand just how much I love them.”
“Yeah…I’ve seen your work,” Bobby spits, “and I think you’re a talentless hack.”
Nagy’s eyes flash dark for just a second, but he catches himself, smiles again and sighs. “No great artist is truly appreciated in his lifetime.”
Bobby grips the tabletop. He leans forward. “You killed those women.”
Nagy smiles, leans forward too, looks like he might kiss Eames, or at least, he wants to.
“Prove it.”
//
“We’ve caught a break,” Ross says in the viewing room. “Amanda Keeler. Found an hour ago. Same MO, dancer at Vice.”
“Alive?” Bobby leans close to the glass. He hasn’t felt this murderous since…forever, he thinks. Never. He could happily walk into that room and put his own hands around Nagy’s neck and-
“Barely. St. Vincent’s. We’re hoping she’ll be able to talk in the next couple hours.”
“But Nagy thinks he killed her,” Alex says.
“Yes. And we’ll let him continue to think that.” Ross pauses. “You can use it when you go back in.”
“Who can use it?” Bobby says.
Ross doesn’t speak for a moment, but Bobby knows, he knows what he’s thinking.
“Eames.” As Bobby opened his mouth to protest, Ross continues, quietly: “Alone.”
“No. No fucking way.”
“Eames has already established a connection with him. And you have not.” Ross crosses his arms. Bobby looks like he might punch the wall, or him. “He’s much more likely to give up some information if he feels she’s there for him.”
“There for him? There for him?” Bobby hates the barely controlled tremour in his voice. “Are you nuts? You saw the way he was looking at her.”
“Yes, I did,” says Ross, “which is exactly why Eames need to be the face person here.”
Bobby swallows, with difficulty. What he’s feeling is irrational, he knows: Eames has interrogated male suspects alone plenty of times during the course of their partnership. Why should this be any different?
Because it is, that’s why. It just is and there is no explaining it, no rationalizing it away. He shakes his head, sharply. “I…disagree.”
“Too bad you’re not the Captain, then.” Ross, irritated and puzzled as he is, is clearly enjoying pulling rank, but Bobby isn’t even mad, he’s just panicking.
(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and and run and-)
“Eames-” He turns to her, his desperation palpable, he feels. “Just d-don’t…don’t push too hard, okay? L-let him think you’re on his side, okay?”
He resists the very strong urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake his warning into her bones.
And for a moment he thinks he’s successful: She’s staring at him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed, her lips pulled tight.
“If you feel him starting to…to get angry, just back off, all right? Seriously. Just-”
He can hear himself and thinks, What the hell is wrong with me? It isn’t the first time he’s asked himself. Then: Something. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I can-
“Goren.” Just one word. Just one, and it brings him up short. When was the last time she called him by his last name? He looks down at her. Arms crossed, that line between her eyes. She’s tense, he can see that, and she’s mad. “Drop it.”
“I just think…I think this guy is…unstable…”
“Unstable I can deal with,” she says, and something like a smirk touches the corner of her mouth. “Been dealing with that for about 10 years.”
Even Ross has to stifle a snicker at that. Eames ignores him.
“Let me do my job, all right? Contrary to what you seem to think, I do know what I’m doing.”
He nodded, frantically. “Y-yeah. It’s not that, I swear. We just need a confession, so promise me-”
But it’s too late.
“Eames,” he says as the door swings shut behind her. Eames, he whispers to himself. Eames. He closes his eyes.
(I’m sorry.)
(Is that all you have to say for yourself?)
No.
No.
Be careful, too.
Please.
//
Fuck him, she thinks, not for the first time. Despite her retort, despite her show of irritation and bravado, his words, his anxiety, have touched a nerve in her. It’s so unlike him to show…what had it even been? Concern? Fear? Her stomach clenches and she feels sweat bead along her hairline and between her breasts.
Done this a hundred times, she tells herself as she pushes open the heavy door and walks in. A thousand times. This is no different, no different.
Still, her mouth is dry and her lips feel numb. She seems to be moving very slowly as she pulls out the chair (scrape of metal on concrete) and her legs give out just before she’s fully seated.
Deep breath. And another. She’s acutely aware of Ross and Goren behind her, behind the glass, their eyes on her, Bobby knuckle-white, slick-skinned, dry-mouthed (What the fuck is going on with him?). One more breath and eyes up, meeting Nagy’s full on. He’s smiling, his body almost trembling in anticipation, his smooth, suave face both amused and aroused.
“Detective.”
(Don’t push too hard)
“Karl.”
(Let him think you’re on his side)
“We’re finally alone.”
She leans forward. “I have to apologize for my partner’s behaviour earlier. He can be a bit…overzealous.”
(Nagy’s hands on the slender, unsuspecting neck of Diana/Jane/Sarah/Amanda)
“No offense taken,” he croons. “But, surely you don’t share your partner’s insane theories about me.” He slides a hand across the table, wraps his fingers around her hand. His skin is very soft and warm. Alex feels her stomach roil. Throwing up would not make him think she was on his side. She swallows.
“Then convince me.”
“I don’t need to rape anyone detective, let alone murder them. Look at me!” At last he removes his hand from hers, makes a broad gesture in his own direction.
Alex tries very, very hard not to laugh, because she’s sure it would quickly veer into hysteria. She looks at him.
“You may fool naïve, young women with this act, but I’m neither young nor naïve, Karl.”
“Come now, Detective. You’re selling yourself short. You have a lot of life in you…a lot of passion. I can tell. It just takes the right man to…release it.”
“Release it…as in being painted naked?”
Nagy laughs.
“Perhaps.” He leans forward again. “Passion is difficult to control sometimes. Learning to direct it…that’s what separates the artists from the…hacks, as your partner so crudely put it. And I would still love to paint you.”
Alex makes her mouth form a smile. “Would you.”
“You’re strong. I can see that. You work out. Your muscles are long and lean. You would look…magnificent nude.”
(Keep dreaming Karl.)
“Really.”
“Yes.”
“But these…other women. The dead women…”
Karl shrugs, makes a remorseful face.
“Yes. Sad. So very sad, really. All young, beautiful.” He shakes his head. “Such a waste.”
Alex closes her eyes, then opens them.
“You’re telling me it’s coincidence that three women you painted, three women who danced for you at the same club, are now dead?”
“Yes.”
Alex takes a breath, then another. She can feel her temper rising, can feel it like something hot and sharp in her chest and all the warnings in the world won’t be able to push it back down now.
“What happened, Karl? Did they see the finished painting and realize that you really are just a talentless hack?”
“I’m not-”
“No, see,” she hears her voice rise with her temper. “I think you just might be-”
(You have a connection. Use it to your advantage)
“-and now we know you’re lying because one victim who made it out of your ‘studio’ alive. Amanda didn’t die.”
Nagy frowns, just slightly.
“Who?”
“Amanda Keeler. Yet another dancer from Vice, yet another woman whose image we will find in your apartment.”
(Don’t push too hard)
(too late, Bobby)
“Amanda.”
“Still very much alive and very much able to ID you, because you’re not only a hack, Karl, you’re a murderer.”
(Don’t push too hard)
(too late too late too late-)
Karl looks at her. He’s no longer smiling, and he’s no longer admiring.
And that’s when everything goes to hell.
//
Robert Goren was five years old when he saw his first magic act. His mother had taken him and Frank to the local library to see Gonzo the Great. Bobby remembers the smell of the books combined with the anticipation/excitement of the show. He remembers sitting up high on his knees, despite repeated admonishments from Frances and kids behind him to SIT DOWN NOW. He remembers being physically unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him, his breath scrambling up in his throat with no idea which direction to travel. He remembers thinking: If I look away, even for one second, I will miss something. Something extremely important will happen and I will miss it.
He also remembers thinking, as Gonzo pulled a rabbit out of a hat and made a wallet disappear: This isn’t real. It’s an illusion. It’s not really happening. It can’t be, because what I’m looking at is impossible and if I actually believe it my entire reality is fucked up-
With both hands flat against the viewing room glass, with a pounding in his chest and his ears and the whole world, he feels exactly the same way now as he watches Alex Eames get the shit beat out of her.
//
She knows she’s in trouble when she sees the light go out of his eyes. They flicker and go dark and everything in the room slows down and speeds up at the same time. She remembers feeling this exact way the moment she realized Bobby was trapped in Tates, trapped and alone and possibly dead and she was completely fucking helpless and so far away and the need for action, the need to do something right fucking now was so overwhelming, so huge and-
Now: the entire sequence of unfortunate events play out over a matter of seconds, less than one minute, but it feels like a lifetime. She sees Nagy stand, she sees him reach for the back of his silver metal chair, and she sees his hands (paint-stained blue and green and yellow and) grip and shove, hard, under the handle of the door. She hears, as if from far, far away, the grating sound of metal on the concrete floor. She’s standing, too, but she doesn’t remember doing so. Her hand is reaching for her gun, but she’s slow, and he’s fast, faster, and he’s so fucking angry and his hands are on her-
She’s yelling, she thinks, for him to stop, for someone to help, but she knows he’s blocked the door for any number of seconds, and seconds are not her friend, not her ally, because he could fucking kill her in a number of seconds, he’s that good, he is, he’s proven himself, he has, she’s seen the evidence of his anger first-hand-
Eames gets in one, two good, solid kicks, her boots making contact with Karl’s knee and thigh, but it isn’t enough and it’s too late. He skitters like a spider, corners her, slaps her, hard, then basically picks her up and flings her halfway across the room.
There’s a lot of noise (metal scraping/glass smashing/bone on bone on concrete) and Eames is having difficulty keeping track of it all. She’s in a defensive position, she knows, having abandoned any pretense of attack mode. There’s blood, she knows, she can taste it, but she’s not sure if it’s actually coming from her mouth, or just trickling in, and she can smell it, and she knows it’s in her eyes, and her hair is wet with it (just don’t please don’t give me brain damage please I need my brain).
And underneath that plea is one other: Where the fuck are you Bobby?
She’s thinking about these things, and feeling her own blood pool beneath her head, when the fucking door finally bursts open and a lot of people are there and there’s a lot of yelling, but it’s Bobby’s presence that fills the entire world.
Then there’s a roaring sound, and he’s there, fuckingfinally; she catches a glimpse of his face (Bobby’s face yes it’s his she knows his face) contorted in a rage like she’s never ever seen before and he has Nagy in his grip and Nagy is gone finally fucking gone, but so is Bobby and someone is screaming and Eames wonders if it’s her or Nagy, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby.
Then she lets go of consciousness at last, goes limp and welcomes the blackness that swallows her up.
//
tbc