Fic: The Life You Save/3
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
//
She floats for some time in a bed-shaped boat on a vast body of water the colour of dark concrete. She realizes, much later, that her particular sea is the exact shade of the interrogation room floor. Funny coincidence, that.
The gentle rocking isn’t unpleasant, but it is at times disconcerting, because she can’t see land in any direction. No hills or mountains, no buildings, towers, clouds, birds. She can’t see anything actually, except a wide empty sky and the endless water and the white sheet that covers her, the bumps of her knees and feet under it. Her own Eames-shaped landscape. She lifts her arms a bit, but it’s difficult: she feels tethered, though she can’t see any restraints, so she stops trying, for now. All she can hear is a faint hiss, and beneath that, an even fainter beepbeep. She comprehends, on some level, that she’s in a hospital, but she can’t remember why, and this not remembering (not wanting to remember) ignites a panic in her that she can fight only by closing her eyes tightly, pushing back into her pillow, gripping the bed sheets and willing herself away, away, deeper and deeper until the rocking overtakes her completely and she’s aware of absolutely nothing at all.
//
She sees the man 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 doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit, but it’s like one of those dreams, those horrible dreams where you’re aware that you’re dreaming, but have no way of waking yourself up. She tries digging her nails into the palm of her hand until she draws blood, but-
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-
Not good, not good not good at all. Wake up, Alex, now-
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-
Wake the fuck up nownowNOW-
//
The next time she opens her eyes she sees Joe perched on the side of her bedboat, just sitting and watching her, and she’s very happy to see him, until she remembers he’s very dead.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. And where’s Bobby? She’s desperate to know, but somehow she doesn’t think her murdered husband would appreciate this question, so she doesn’t ask.
“Just visiting,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to that, and she feels, absurdly, like she might cry, so she says instead: “Am I dead?”
“Not yet.” He laughs a little. “You’re just as tough as I remember, you know.”
“Am I…dying?”
“Not sure.” He shakes his head, looks sad. “It…definitely wasn’t good, for awhile.”
This information doesn’t upset her, really. It feels as though they’re talking about someone else, maybe someone in the next room, or a distant, elderly relative.
“Am…am I going to be all right?”
“I hope so.”
They sit for awhile, rocking ever so slightly. She takes a breath. “So…what do I do now?”
“Now, you wait.”
“For what?”
He shakes his head and smiles. She feels that old, familiar tug of emotion, of loss and love and ache, looking at him, but it surprises her, just then, how much it has faded over the years, how it (he) has been replaced, bit by bit, by something (one) else.
And because he knows it, too, he says: “Not what, Alex. Who.”
//
She gets in one, two good, solid kicks, her boots making contact with a knee and a thigh, but it isn’t enough and it’s too late. The man skitters like a spider, corners her, slaps her, hard, then basically picks her up and-
NononononononewdreamwakeupnewdreamwakeupNOW-
//
It must work, because now she’s no longer in the bed, or in that horrible room, but at work, at her desk, sitting across from Ross, who is occupying Bobby’s desk.
“Captain?” she says. He looks at her. He sighs.
“Eames. Really. Where did your judgment go?” he says.
She’s puzzled. “Pardon?”
“I know you’re worried about your partner’s safety and mental health, but I’m worried about yours.”
Eames closes her eyes. She hears Ross throw down his pen. “It’s all very confusing, I realize, but don’t worry.” He leans forward, puts a hand on hers. “We all have to go sometime.”
But she has no clue where she’s going, and she’s no longer sure what, exactly is a dream, and what is not, or if everything is, which wouldn’t be too bad, either.
//
And the next time she looks up, she sees Frank Goren perched on the edge of her boat.
“What are you doing here?” She fights the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Frank looks good, handsome and relaxed, the best she’s ever seen, until she remembers he, too, is very dead.
“Keeping you company.”
“You’re still dead, right?
He laughs. He sounds a little like Bobby when he laughs, which makes Alex laugh. “Yeah. Still dead.”
She pauses, tries to process. “And Joe is dead.”
Frank nods, no longer laughing.
“But Ross…I’m pretty sure he’s not dead.” Or, was he? She was so confused.
“No, no. Ross is fine.” He smiles at her. “That part was a dream.”
“Ah.” She twists the white, white sheet between her fingers, trying hard to not think about the other parts. “And…I’m not dead, so I’ve been told.”
Frank shakes his head. “No.”
“Not yet, at least.”
And suddenly, as desperately as she longs to see Bobby, she just as desperately does not want to see him here, because if she sees him here with these dead people-
“Bobby really loves you, you know?”
“What, are you reading my mind, now?”
Frank laughs. “Don’t think so. But I guess anything is possible.” He reaches down and smoothes a wrinkle in her sheet. “It’s just…you’re kind of going the wrong way.”
“What?”
“He’s going to need you, so you have to go back.”
“What do you mean? Go back…go back where?”
Franks smiles. “And you’re going to have to help him.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“You’ve gone too far, in the wrong direction.”
“But…I can’t tell where I’m going.” She looks around. Nothing. Still nothing at all. Nothing but water.
“I mean,” he says, looking up at the endless sky, “it’s time to change your course.”
//
There’s a lot of noise (metal scraping/glass smashing/bone on bone on concrete) and she’s having difficulty keeping track of it all. She’s in a defensive position, she knows, having abandoned any pretense of attack mode-
Why didn’t I fight harder? What the hell kind of cop am I? I was warned, he tried to warn me and I was too fucking stubborn because I was mad, I was mad at him and it was so petty and childish-
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 that’s it, she thinks, rather hysterically. That’s what’s wrong with me after all. I’m fucking brain damaged. I’m a goddamn vegetable wasting away in a fucking hospital bed and no one will pull the fucking plug and it’s been 20 fucking years or something ludicrous like that, oh why oh why didn’t I sign that living will when I had the chance, please someone just pull the plug already-
And underneath that plea is one other, rising above all the panic and fear, one that’s filled desperate longing: Where are you Bobby?
//
And then, it happens: She opens her eyes and Bobby is there, in her boat, looking off into the distance at something she can’t discern. His concentration is such that she’s able to just lie still and watch his dear and familiar shape for some time, and his simply being there fills her with peace. If this is death, it might just be all right after all.
“Bobby,” she says. He turns. A warmth blooms in her chest. She is inordinately glad to see him. His eyes widen in surprise and he smiles widely, with a joy she hasn’t seen in…years.
“Hi there,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” A shadow passes across his face, but because there isn’t a cloud in the sky, she thinks she just imagined it. Of course, she might just be imagining all of this. “Do you remember what happened yet?”
She shakes her head, because she’s not ready to talk about any of that yet, not even with him. She pushes her head back into her pillow and clutches her sheets and-
“That’s okay, Eames. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Please.” He looks at her, intently. “Don’t worry about anything but getting better.”
She nods and tries to relax, touched by his concern.
“How are you?” she asks, though he looks wonderful and seems quite serene. She would very much like to touch him, but she’s frightened to, at the same time. What if…? Well. What if.
“You’re getting closer,” he says, pointing.
She follows the line of his finger. “To what?”
But, he doesn’t answer, and she finds her curiosity is not piqued in the least: she’s just so thrilled to see him she doesn’t care about anything else.
“But, you’re not out of the woods yet, so to speak,” he says at last, and he laughs, just a little, though his eyes are dark, unfathomable.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, and is surprised to find herself crying. “I can’t imagine doing this alone.”
He nods and reaches out for her, and when his hand touches hers it’s very warm and soft and makes her cry a bit harder.
“Just…rest, okay?” he says and she nods and though there are a thousand questions building, and a thousand memories poking, for now she’s just happy to lie in her bedboat with him beside her, holding her hand as they float and rock.
//
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-
The poking and prodding is starting to poke clean through the barrier she has constructed and she pushes the memories back with all the strength she has because fuck if she wants to remember any of this shit-
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 the man in his grip and the man is gone finally fucking gone, but so is Bobby and someone is screaming and Eames wonders if it’s her or the man, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby-
Please please please let this stop. I want this to stop now. I don’t like this any of this why is Bobby screaming like that why on earth is he so upset-
Then she-
then she
then she lets go and-
The gentle rocking has built to alarming swells and though her fingers clutch tight to the sheets she’s in danger of slipping right off the side of her bedboat into the (she’s sure) deadly waves below.
Please please please let this stop. I want this to stop now. I don’t like this any of this why is Bobby screaming like that why on earth is he so upset-
And underneath that plea is one other: Where are you Bobby?
“Here.” She can hear his voice and feel his hands on her and when she forces her eyes open, she can see his face, framed dark against the blindingly white sky beyond. “Breathe, Eames. Breathe. Please. I’m here.”
She hears her breaths harsh and fast and struggles to calm herself, to listen to the soothing cadence of his voice.
“You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He touches her face, her hair, places a hand on her chest, over her thudding heart, and it calms her.
“Don’t…don’t do that again.”
Her looks at her.
“Don’t scream like that...please. It scared me.”
“I won’t. I promise. I won’t do that ever again.”
She pulls on him, pulls him to her, pulls him down beside her, and he puts his arms around her. She pushes her face into his shirt, which is soft and blue and smells just like him and for the first time lets herself be rocked to sleep by something other than waves.
//
From then on, each time she opens her eyes, Bobby is there. Sometimes they talk, but more than often they just sit, companionably, and watch the sky, the nonexistent horizon, each other.
//
One day she opens her eyes and she can see something, in the distance, for the first time. A long strip of land, maybe, but it’s hard to tell.
“What is that?” she asks.
“It’s a good sign,” he says.
“I’m a little scared.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.”
He turns and gives her that blinding smile again, and for a moment she thinks everything is going to be just fine, but then he says: “Welcome to my world.”
//
“Almost there,” he says, and she can see it, clearer and closer than ever before, but it doesn’t make her feel good in the least; instead, she can feel that old panic squirming beneath her ribs, the panic she hasn’t felt since the first day, the day without Bobby.
“I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.”
He shakes his head. “Not we,” he says softly. “You.”
“What do you mean?” He takes her hand, presses it to his mouth. His face is wet, and for a moment she thinks it’s the water, but then she sees it’s tears.
“I mean, this is your journey. Me? I’m just along for the ride.”
//
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 the man in his grip and
the man is gone finally fucking gone
but so is Bobby and someone is screaming and
she wonders if it’s her or the man, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby-
Where the fuck are you Bobby?
And oh oh it’s the short sharp crack of remembrance like a gunshot and a short sharp intake of breath, and a million images tumbling Nagy, Karl Nagy, and the girls Diana/Jane/Sarah/Amanda and Bobby’s furious snarling face and the screaming and something reallybad happened to me and oh something has happened to him too and now I really do need to wake the fuck up-
(He’s going to need you, so you have to go back)
NOW
//
So Alex opens her eyes and, as she knew it would be, the hiss and beepbeep are very loud, and the room is grey and shadowed, and her entire body hurts like she’s been run over by a truck, or slapped and thrown across a room and kicked and stomped on maybe, and the person holding her hand is not Bobby or Joe at all, but her father. And, he’s crying, but it’s a happy kind of crying, she realizes.
“Dad?”
“Hi, honey.”
“I’m back. I…I went the right way after all.”
“Alex?”
“How…bad is it?”
He swipes at his eyes. “Not as bad as it looks, actually. Couple broken ribs. Sprained arm. Nothing internal, thank god.” He smiles, and cries at the same time. “It was the concussion we were so worried about. Just so happy to see you’re awake.”
Her small room is littered with flowers. She wonders which ones Bobby sent, but then thinks he’s not really the flowers type.
“Dad. I need…what happened to Bobby? Is he all right?”
Her father immediately tenses up, his head whipping over his shoulder, looking for help.
“Uh…honey. I think…you need to rest before-”
“Please-” She really doesn’t want to start bawling, or yelling, and she doesn’t want to throw up, but that definitely feels imminent. “He’s not-”
“Ross asked me…explicitly, honey…he wants to talk to you himself, okay? Please?”
This time the screaming is coming from her, she knows without being told, and the shot they give her makes her float away almost instantly, and she imagines she’s holding onto him, his blue shirt, and his smell, with no horizon in sight.
//
When she next wakes up, it’s Ross she sees, grey and somber in rumpled suit coat, tousled hair, eyes heavier than ever.
“Captain,” she says. Her head is throbbing viciously, and her ribs. And her arm. She wishes it would stop.
“Eames,” he smiles a little. “Alex. I’m…glad you’re all right.”
“I dreamed about you,” she mumbles.
“You did?” He sounds oddly pleased. She decides to not elaborate.
“Alex.”
That one word silences the pain in her head and everything comes into crystal clear focus, cradling a pain of a completely different sort.
“Just tell me.”
“Goren-”
“Is he all right?” Her voice is shrill and barely controlled with the need to know. Ross nods, but it’s a reluctant nod. “He’s alive?”
“Yes.”
But.
“Then where is he?”
“Nagy’s dead.”
Nagy? Nagy who? Oh. Fuck. Him. Right.
“Okay. Good.”
Ross sighs. There is something more, she knows.
“He…died, yesterday morning.”
“Fine. He was a piece of shit, and I normally wouldn’t say that, but I don’t see what this has to do with-” And then she does. She sees it all so clearly she wonders why she didn’t piece it together immediately.
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
“Oh no. No.” She starts crying. “No.”
“He died after spending the week on a respirator. He died after he was beaten into a coma by your partner.”
“No. No.”
“Bobby killed him, Alex. After you were…he…Bobby just went crazy. He…I don’t know. He…beat Nagy into a coma and he…died.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Alex-”
“No! There’s nothing to be sorry about! He was defending me. Everyone…everyone saw what was happening. There are witnesses and surveillance tape, right? No one could blame Bobby-”
“You…didn’t see…” Ross sighs, shakes his head. He leans forward, to put weight behind his words. “It took four officers to pull him off-” He takes a breath and tries again. “Listen. Bobby thought you were dead. He…thought Nagy had killed you. We…all did.”
She sucks in a breath. Shit, that hurts. “But…he knows, right? He knows now, that I’m all right?”
Ross won’t look at her.
“He knows, right? Right?” She hears her voice rising, feels the panic fluttering behind her breastbone. Why won’t Ross fucking look at her? What’s going on? Where is Bobby?
“He’s been pretty heavily sedated…since it happened. I…honestly don’t know the answer to that.”
She hears her voice coming from a long ways away, a voice that belongs to another person.
“Where is he?”
“He’s under observation.”
“Observation…for what? They aren’t going to charge him, are they? They can’t! Nagy would have killed me if Bobby hadn’t-”
“He’s under observation at Bellevue. They’re not going to charge him, Alex.”
Relief floods through her and she feels herself sink into the bed. But Ross’s eyes are very dark, almost black, in the half-light and she knows, she knows before he speaks, (Bellevue that’s a psychiatric hospital that’s where the hopeless cases go that’s not where he should be but) and she knows before he shakes his head so slightly it’s almost a nervous tic, she knows, she fucking knows-
“They’re going to commit him.”
//
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
//
She floats for some time in a bed-shaped boat on a vast body of water the colour of dark concrete. She realizes, much later, that her particular sea is the exact shade of the interrogation room floor. Funny coincidence, that.
The gentle rocking isn’t unpleasant, but it is at times disconcerting, because she can’t see land in any direction. No hills or mountains, no buildings, towers, clouds, birds. She can’t see anything actually, except a wide empty sky and the endless water and the white sheet that covers her, the bumps of her knees and feet under it. Her own Eames-shaped landscape. She lifts her arms a bit, but it’s difficult: she feels tethered, though she can’t see any restraints, so she stops trying, for now. All she can hear is a faint hiss, and beneath that, an even fainter beepbeep. She comprehends, on some level, that she’s in a hospital, but she can’t remember why, and this not remembering (not wanting to remember) ignites a panic in her that she can fight only by closing her eyes tightly, pushing back into her pillow, gripping the bed sheets and willing herself away, away, deeper and deeper until the rocking overtakes her completely and she’s aware of absolutely nothing at all.
//
She sees the man 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 doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit, but it’s like one of those dreams, those horrible dreams where you’re aware that you’re dreaming, but have no way of waking yourself up. She tries digging her nails into the palm of her hand until she draws blood, but-
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-
Not good, not good not good at all. Wake up, Alex, now-
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-
Wake the fuck up nownowNOW-
//
The next time she opens her eyes she sees Joe perched on the side of her bedboat, just sitting and watching her, and she’s very happy to see him, until she remembers he’s very dead.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. And where’s Bobby? She’s desperate to know, but somehow she doesn’t think her murdered husband would appreciate this question, so she doesn’t ask.
“Just visiting,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to that, and she feels, absurdly, like she might cry, so she says instead: “Am I dead?”
“Not yet.” He laughs a little. “You’re just as tough as I remember, you know.”
“Am I…dying?”
“Not sure.” He shakes his head, looks sad. “It…definitely wasn’t good, for awhile.”
This information doesn’t upset her, really. It feels as though they’re talking about someone else, maybe someone in the next room, or a distant, elderly relative.
“Am…am I going to be all right?”
“I hope so.”
They sit for awhile, rocking ever so slightly. She takes a breath. “So…what do I do now?”
“Now, you wait.”
“For what?”
He shakes his head and smiles. She feels that old, familiar tug of emotion, of loss and love and ache, looking at him, but it surprises her, just then, how much it has faded over the years, how it (he) has been replaced, bit by bit, by something (one) else.
And because he knows it, too, he says: “Not what, Alex. Who.”
//
She gets in one, two good, solid kicks, her boots making contact with a knee and a thigh, but it isn’t enough and it’s too late. The man skitters like a spider, corners her, slaps her, hard, then basically picks her up and-
NononononononewdreamwakeupnewdreamwakeupNOW-
//
It must work, because now she’s no longer in the bed, or in that horrible room, but at work, at her desk, sitting across from Ross, who is occupying Bobby’s desk.
“Captain?” she says. He looks at her. He sighs.
“Eames. Really. Where did your judgment go?” he says.
She’s puzzled. “Pardon?”
“I know you’re worried about your partner’s safety and mental health, but I’m worried about yours.”
Eames closes her eyes. She hears Ross throw down his pen. “It’s all very confusing, I realize, but don’t worry.” He leans forward, puts a hand on hers. “We all have to go sometime.”
But she has no clue where she’s going, and she’s no longer sure what, exactly is a dream, and what is not, or if everything is, which wouldn’t be too bad, either.
//
And the next time she looks up, she sees Frank Goren perched on the edge of her boat.
“What are you doing here?” She fights the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Frank looks good, handsome and relaxed, the best she’s ever seen, until she remembers he, too, is very dead.
“Keeping you company.”
“You’re still dead, right?
He laughs. He sounds a little like Bobby when he laughs, which makes Alex laugh. “Yeah. Still dead.”
She pauses, tries to process. “And Joe is dead.”
Frank nods, no longer laughing.
“But Ross…I’m pretty sure he’s not dead.” Or, was he? She was so confused.
“No, no. Ross is fine.” He smiles at her. “That part was a dream.”
“Ah.” She twists the white, white sheet between her fingers, trying hard to not think about the other parts. “And…I’m not dead, so I’ve been told.”
Frank shakes his head. “No.”
“Not yet, at least.”
And suddenly, as desperately as she longs to see Bobby, she just as desperately does not want to see him here, because if she sees him here with these dead people-
“Bobby really loves you, you know?”
“What, are you reading my mind, now?”
Frank laughs. “Don’t think so. But I guess anything is possible.” He reaches down and smoothes a wrinkle in her sheet. “It’s just…you’re kind of going the wrong way.”
“What?”
“He’s going to need you, so you have to go back.”
“What do you mean? Go back…go back where?”
Franks smiles. “And you’re going to have to help him.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“You’ve gone too far, in the wrong direction.”
“But…I can’t tell where I’m going.” She looks around. Nothing. Still nothing at all. Nothing but water.
“I mean,” he says, looking up at the endless sky, “it’s time to change your course.”
//
There’s a lot of noise (metal scraping/glass smashing/bone on bone on concrete) and she’s having difficulty keeping track of it all. She’s in a defensive position, she knows, having abandoned any pretense of attack mode-
Why didn’t I fight harder? What the hell kind of cop am I? I was warned, he tried to warn me and I was too fucking stubborn because I was mad, I was mad at him and it was so petty and childish-
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 that’s it, she thinks, rather hysterically. That’s what’s wrong with me after all. I’m fucking brain damaged. I’m a goddamn vegetable wasting away in a fucking hospital bed and no one will pull the fucking plug and it’s been 20 fucking years or something ludicrous like that, oh why oh why didn’t I sign that living will when I had the chance, please someone just pull the plug already-
And underneath that plea is one other, rising above all the panic and fear, one that’s filled desperate longing: Where are you Bobby?
//
And then, it happens: She opens her eyes and Bobby is there, in her boat, looking off into the distance at something she can’t discern. His concentration is such that she’s able to just lie still and watch his dear and familiar shape for some time, and his simply being there fills her with peace. If this is death, it might just be all right after all.
“Bobby,” she says. He turns. A warmth blooms in her chest. She is inordinately glad to see him. His eyes widen in surprise and he smiles widely, with a joy she hasn’t seen in…years.
“Hi there,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” A shadow passes across his face, but because there isn’t a cloud in the sky, she thinks she just imagined it. Of course, she might just be imagining all of this. “Do you remember what happened yet?”
She shakes her head, because she’s not ready to talk about any of that yet, not even with him. She pushes her head back into her pillow and clutches her sheets and-
“That’s okay, Eames. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Please.” He looks at her, intently. “Don’t worry about anything but getting better.”
She nods and tries to relax, touched by his concern.
“How are you?” she asks, though he looks wonderful and seems quite serene. She would very much like to touch him, but she’s frightened to, at the same time. What if…? Well. What if.
“You’re getting closer,” he says, pointing.
She follows the line of his finger. “To what?”
But, he doesn’t answer, and she finds her curiosity is not piqued in the least: she’s just so thrilled to see him she doesn’t care about anything else.
“But, you’re not out of the woods yet, so to speak,” he says at last, and he laughs, just a little, though his eyes are dark, unfathomable.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, and is surprised to find herself crying. “I can’t imagine doing this alone.”
He nods and reaches out for her, and when his hand touches hers it’s very warm and soft and makes her cry a bit harder.
“Just…rest, okay?” he says and she nods and though there are a thousand questions building, and a thousand memories poking, for now she’s just happy to lie in her bedboat with him beside her, holding her hand as they float and rock.
//
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-
The poking and prodding is starting to poke clean through the barrier she has constructed and she pushes the memories back with all the strength she has because fuck if she wants to remember any of this shit-
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 the man in his grip and the man is gone finally fucking gone, but so is Bobby and someone is screaming and Eames wonders if it’s her or the man, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby-
Please please please let this stop. I want this to stop now. I don’t like this any of this why is Bobby screaming like that why on earth is he so upset-
Then she-
then she
then she lets go and-
The gentle rocking has built to alarming swells and though her fingers clutch tight to the sheets she’s in danger of slipping right off the side of her bedboat into the (she’s sure) deadly waves below.
Please please please let this stop. I want this to stop now. I don’t like this any of this why is Bobby screaming like that why on earth is he so upset-
And underneath that plea is one other: Where are you Bobby?
“Here.” She can hear his voice and feel his hands on her and when she forces her eyes open, she can see his face, framed dark against the blindingly white sky beyond. “Breathe, Eames. Breathe. Please. I’m here.”
She hears her breaths harsh and fast and struggles to calm herself, to listen to the soothing cadence of his voice.
“You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He touches her face, her hair, places a hand on her chest, over her thudding heart, and it calms her.
“Don’t…don’t do that again.”
Her looks at her.
“Don’t scream like that...please. It scared me.”
“I won’t. I promise. I won’t do that ever again.”
She pulls on him, pulls him to her, pulls him down beside her, and he puts his arms around her. She pushes her face into his shirt, which is soft and blue and smells just like him and for the first time lets herself be rocked to sleep by something other than waves.
//
From then on, each time she opens her eyes, Bobby is there. Sometimes they talk, but more than often they just sit, companionably, and watch the sky, the nonexistent horizon, each other.
//
One day she opens her eyes and she can see something, in the distance, for the first time. A long strip of land, maybe, but it’s hard to tell.
“What is that?” she asks.
“It’s a good sign,” he says.
“I’m a little scared.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.”
He turns and gives her that blinding smile again, and for a moment she thinks everything is going to be just fine, but then he says: “Welcome to my world.”
//
“Almost there,” he says, and she can see it, clearer and closer than ever before, but it doesn’t make her feel good in the least; instead, she can feel that old panic squirming beneath her ribs, the panic she hasn’t felt since the first day, the day without Bobby.
“I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.”
He shakes his head. “Not we,” he says softly. “You.”
“What do you mean?” He takes her hand, presses it to his mouth. His face is wet, and for a moment she thinks it’s the water, but then she sees it’s tears.
“I mean, this is your journey. Me? I’m just along for the ride.”
//
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 the man in his grip and
the man is gone finally fucking gone
but so is Bobby and someone is screaming and
she wonders if it’s her or the man, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby-
Where the fuck are you Bobby?
And oh oh it’s the short sharp crack of remembrance like a gunshot and a short sharp intake of breath, and a million images tumbling Nagy, Karl Nagy, and the girls Diana/Jane/Sarah/Amanda and Bobby’s furious snarling face and the screaming and something reallybad happened to me and oh something has happened to him too and now I really do need to wake the fuck up-
(He’s going to need you, so you have to go back)
NOW
//
So Alex opens her eyes and, as she knew it would be, the hiss and beepbeep are very loud, and the room is grey and shadowed, and her entire body hurts like she’s been run over by a truck, or slapped and thrown across a room and kicked and stomped on maybe, and the person holding her hand is not Bobby or Joe at all, but her father. And, he’s crying, but it’s a happy kind of crying, she realizes.
“Dad?”
“Hi, honey.”
“I’m back. I…I went the right way after all.”
“Alex?”
“How…bad is it?”
He swipes at his eyes. “Not as bad as it looks, actually. Couple broken ribs. Sprained arm. Nothing internal, thank god.” He smiles, and cries at the same time. “It was the concussion we were so worried about. Just so happy to see you’re awake.”
Her small room is littered with flowers. She wonders which ones Bobby sent, but then thinks he’s not really the flowers type.
“Dad. I need…what happened to Bobby? Is he all right?”
Her father immediately tenses up, his head whipping over his shoulder, looking for help.
“Uh…honey. I think…you need to rest before-”
“Please-” She really doesn’t want to start bawling, or yelling, and she doesn’t want to throw up, but that definitely feels imminent. “He’s not-”
“Ross asked me…explicitly, honey…he wants to talk to you himself, okay? Please?”
This time the screaming is coming from her, she knows without being told, and the shot they give her makes her float away almost instantly, and she imagines she’s holding onto him, his blue shirt, and his smell, with no horizon in sight.
//
When she next wakes up, it’s Ross she sees, grey and somber in rumpled suit coat, tousled hair, eyes heavier than ever.
“Captain,” she says. Her head is throbbing viciously, and her ribs. And her arm. She wishes it would stop.
“Eames,” he smiles a little. “Alex. I’m…glad you’re all right.”
“I dreamed about you,” she mumbles.
“You did?” He sounds oddly pleased. She decides to not elaborate.
“Alex.”
That one word silences the pain in her head and everything comes into crystal clear focus, cradling a pain of a completely different sort.
“Just tell me.”
“Goren-”
“Is he all right?” Her voice is shrill and barely controlled with the need to know. Ross nods, but it’s a reluctant nod. “He’s alive?”
“Yes.”
But.
“Then where is he?”
“Nagy’s dead.”
Nagy? Nagy who? Oh. Fuck. Him. Right.
“Okay. Good.”
Ross sighs. There is something more, she knows.
“He…died, yesterday morning.”
“Fine. He was a piece of shit, and I normally wouldn’t say that, but I don’t see what this has to do with-” And then she does. She sees it all so clearly she wonders why she didn’t piece it together immediately.
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
“Oh no. No.” She starts crying. “No.”
“He died after spending the week on a respirator. He died after he was beaten into a coma by your partner.”
“No. No.”
“Bobby killed him, Alex. After you were…he…Bobby just went crazy. He…I don’t know. He…beat Nagy into a coma and he…died.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Alex-”
“No! There’s nothing to be sorry about! He was defending me. Everyone…everyone saw what was happening. There are witnesses and surveillance tape, right? No one could blame Bobby-”
“You…didn’t see…” Ross sighs, shakes his head. He leans forward, to put weight behind his words. “It took four officers to pull him off-” He takes a breath and tries again. “Listen. Bobby thought you were dead. He…thought Nagy had killed you. We…all did.”
She sucks in a breath. Shit, that hurts. “But…he knows, right? He knows now, that I’m all right?”
Ross won’t look at her.
“He knows, right? Right?” She hears her voice rising, feels the panic fluttering behind her breastbone. Why won’t Ross fucking look at her? What’s going on? Where is Bobby?
“He’s been pretty heavily sedated…since it happened. I…honestly don’t know the answer to that.”
She hears her voice coming from a long ways away, a voice that belongs to another person.
“Where is he?”
“He’s under observation.”
“Observation…for what? They aren’t going to charge him, are they? They can’t! Nagy would have killed me if Bobby hadn’t-”
“He’s under observation at Bellevue. They’re not going to charge him, Alex.”
Relief floods through her and she feels herself sink into the bed. But Ross’s eyes are very dark, almost black, in the half-light and she knows, she knows before he speaks, (Bellevue that’s a psychiatric hospital that’s where the hopeless cases go that’s not where he should be but) and she knows before he shakes his head so slightly it’s almost a nervous tic, she knows, she fucking knows-
“They’re going to commit him.”
//
tbc