Fic: The Life You Save/6
Title: The Life You Save
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: Post Purgatory
Rating: M
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: May be your own.
//
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
~WH Auden, Leap Before You Look
//
The air outside feels wonderfully cool and clean and cleansing after the stifling, close atmosphere of the hospital. Alex sucks in a few trembling breaths, releases them, rubs her face, hard, blows her nose, then, finally, calls her father, fighting to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
“Everything go okay?” he asks as she slides in the car. He glances at her swollen eyes and smeared makeup.
She nods and shrugs. “About what I expected,” is all she says.
If he knows she’s just finished crying, he doesn’t say; he just smiles and pats her hand gently, which kind of makes her want to start all over again.
//
“Why doesn’t Goren have a lawyer?”
Ross sighs and leans back in his chair. He looks tired, almost as tired as Bobby, she thinks, but she will not feel sorry for him. It’s a luxury she cannot, will not, afford herself.
“I didn’t think he needed one. He wasn’t being charged with anything.”
Alex snorts and shakes her head. Distrust, she thinks. It’s contagious. Ross seems to read her mind.
“It was my call, Eames, and mine alone. His mom, his brother were both…dead. You were…unavailable. I had to make a decision and my decision was based on his actions and his behaviour. I thought…I felt it best that he simply…”
“Be put away.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
It’s a staredown. Ross breaks first.
“He wasn’t…coherent.”
“He was distraught.”
“I saw it differently.”
Alex is having trouble controlling her breathing.
“You…people. You’re out to get him.”
“Eames. That sounds very paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia if it’s true.”
Ross folds his hands on his desk. He doesn’t speak for a long minute. Alex clenches, unclenches her fingers, tries to be patient.
“Eames…this isn’t a witch hunt, despite what you seem determined to believe.”
Alex can’t look at him.
“This is…it never was about punishing Goren. I wanted to help him. You have to see that, or you’re going to be dragged down as quickly as he is. No one is questioning his actions-”
Bullshit, she thinks.
“-they’re questioning his state of mind at the time of his actions. He went…above and beyond the call of duty, so to speak. He didn’t just pull Nagy off you…he destroyed him. With his hands.” He pauses. “Are those the actions of a sane person? That’s what is being reviewed here.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.” She meets Ross’s gaze. “And neither do I.”
“Understandable. But we…they are examining behaviour which, on top of everything else he’s done in his career, doesn’t look…above board. If you had killed Nagy, no one would have given it a second thought. But…you have to know that Goren’s record speaks volumes about his state of mind over the years. He’s not viewed as…a stable person by many.”
Alex nods. She knows. She knows this, even if she has never openly admitted it. She and Bobby have filed it conveniently under “Things We Do Not Talk About.” But, she also knows the truth.
“He’s not crazy,” she says, too quietly. Ross looks at her, but chooses not to comment.
“Look. We can appoint him a lawyer, through the department. There’s someone I’ve been considering, she’s very good, and I think you can meet with her today. All right?”
Alex wants to say something important, something pithy and full of wisdom and something that will force Ross to admit, Yes, you’re right! Goren is completely sane, and we’re the crazy ones! But there are no words, and Ross mistakes her silence for uncertainty, or indecision.
“All right?” he asks again.
She nods.
“All right.”
//
Linda Joseph is tall and skinny and nervous and talks very quickly. She wears jeans and a sweatshirt, and her dirty blonde hair is caught up in a messy bun. She taps her pen on the desk repeatedly as she looks over Bobby’s case files. Alex sits across from her, fiddling with a coffee cup, snapping the lid open and closed, and thinking she should just go dump it out. After two sips, her stomach started to churn queasily.
“Well, we have our work cut out for us,” Linda says, leafing through a pile of papers. “Your partner has…quite a track record.”
Alex nods.
“Numerous infractions, violations, trips to psych services, suspensions, some with and some without pay.” She shakes her head slightly, mumbles to herself.
Alex sighs. She’s suddenly exhausted.
“In 2006 he was seen throwing a…Declan Gage up against the interview room wall?”
“That was…” Alex clears her throat, tries to sound both empathetic and detached. “I was…missing.”
Linda looks at her.
“He seems to be…extremely protective of you. Some might say overly so.”
“Some might, I guess.” Alex puts the coffee cup down, picks it back up.
Linda sighs.
“Look, Alex. I’m just saying what is bound to be said during a hearing.”
“A hearing.”
“Well, that’s what we’re aiming for. Get Goren in front of a committee, after a comprehensive psych test that shows a good state of mind, of course, and get him released on the grounds of…temporary insanity.”
“I really don’t think the term insanity should be used in any capacity when it comes to Bobby.”
Linda smiles. “It’s the temporary part we need to focus on.”
“I…don’t know if he’d agree to that, to be honest.”
“Fair enough. But, we need to meet with him, regardless, right? To get him to assign you power of attorney. We can ask him about this at the same time.”
Alex nods reluctantly, takes one last sip of her cold coffee, and wonders when, if ever, her stomach will stop hurting so damn much.
//
They meet in a small, windowless room at Bellevue. Bobby shakes Linda’s hand, but only looks fleetingly at her, and not at Alex at all.
“I think we may be able to swing this in your favour if we play some sympathy cards,” says Linda. “I see your mother died not long ago. She was…schizophrenic.”
Bobby nods.
“Your brother was murdered. Killed by Nicole Wallace. Declan, your…mentor? Yes? Killed Nicole Wallace, believing it would…help you? He’s now in jail. Your partner was kidnapped. Your nephew is…missing. I mean, it’s enough to send anyone over the edge,” she jokes. Neither Bobby nor Alex smiles. “But, we also have some serious disciplinary problems to deal with. You went undercover into a state mental institution without adequate supervision that led to a six-month suspension.”
Alex nods.
“You’ve had…four psych consultations in…five years.”
Bobby folds his arms, unfolds them.
“And?”
“And…it says prone to paranoia, in this one. Plus, anger issues.” She shuffles the papers, reads from them. “Easily angered. Unable to control anger, anger problems.” She pauses, makes a note on her pad. “Mandated counseling…which you somehow managed to evade. Mandated counseling again, 12 sessions, of which you only attended four, not quite sure how you swung that. ‘Extremely reticent to participate.’ Aggressive. In denial. Combative. Argumentative. Uses deflection, including sarcasm and humour, as a means of communication. Unwilling to accept responsibility for his actions.”
Bobby can feel his face burning, can feel Alex’s eyes on him.
He leans forward. “I thought…you were was supposed to be on my side.”
Linda frowns. “I’m trying, Bobby. But, you’re not making my job very easy.”
“Digging my own grave, is the term you’re looking for here, I think,” he says.
Linda smiles. “You do seem to be your own worst enemy.”
“I dunno. I think I’ve made some real-life enemies as well.”
“You single-handedly generate a huge amount of paperwork for your department. You can see why they’re pissed.” She presses her hands flat on the table. “Look. I’m going to be honest with you, because these are all facts on the record, things that will be brought up in a hearing. Even if I get you out of Bellevue…even if you get your job back, you won’t be working with Alex again, of that I’m pretty sure.”
No one speaks for a moment. Alex clenches her hand, chews the inside of her cheek.
“Then there’s no point,” Bobby says quietly.
“Bobby-”
“There is a point,” Linda says, talking over Alex. “The point is to clear your name. To make sure everyone knows your actions were based on practiced police training, with a clear and comprehensive understanding of the inherent danger of the situation, not the impulsive actions of someone teetering on the edge of insanity.” She pauses. “Right?”
“Right,” says Alex quickly. “Definitely.”
Bobby says nothing.
“Listen, temporary insanity can be claimed as a defense whether or not you’re mentally stable at the time of hearing, which you are,” she adds. “It’s similar to the defenses of ‘diminished capacity’ to understand one’s own actions, or ‘heat of passion,’ and other claims of mental disturbance.” Bobby shifts uncomfortably. “However, mental derangement at the time of an abrupt crime, such as a sudden attack or crime of passion, can be a valid defense, or at least show lack of premeditation to reduce the degree of the crime.”
There’s a long pause.
“Well, I do prefer ‘crime of passion,’” Bobby says at last, and looks directly at Alex for the first time.
“Fine,” Linda says. “You two do seem to have a certain…connection that might draw empathy. She pauses. “Are you…together?”
“What?” Alex says.
“I’m not judging, but if you are, I need to know, because it’s something else that will be questioned-”
“No, no. We’re…n-not,” Bobby says, and Alex nods in agreement and both of them look everywhere but in each other’s direction.
Linda raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She pauses, as if pondering something. Then:
“You need to work with them, Bobby, ok? With the doctors. With your therapist. Really work. Stop fooling around.”
“I don’t-”
She waves the sheaf of papers in the air (Argumentative. Unable to take responsibility for his actions), and he stops talking. “No more games.”
He nods, tersely.
“Ok,” Linda smiles. “Good. Now…I need to work on getting you out of here, yes?”
//
His therapist’s name is Brian. He’s balding and paunchy, with a penchant for sweater vests and clip-on ties. They meet every afternoon, every single afternoon, and Bobby quickly learns he can only evade the tough questions for so long, because, really, what choice does he have anymore?
“How are you sleeping?”
“On my right side, usually.”
“Bobby.”
“Sorry, sorry. Uh. Not…great. Lots of…dreams.”
Brian scribbles something down.
“About anything in particular?”
(Alex getting slapped across the face, thrown across the room, his own hands slamming uselessly against glass three-feet thick-)
“Nope.”
“It wouldn’t be unusual to be dreaming, reliving even, the event that brought about your ending up here.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Bobby rubs the back of his neck. “And would it make me crazy if I…didn’t relive it?”
Brian smiles. “You realize your capability as a police officer - your capability as a person, in fact - will be hampered on every level if you constantly question yourself, doubt your intentions, question your sanity.”
“Do you question it?”
“No, I don’t, Bobby.”
This brings him up short. “You d-don’t?”
“No.” Brian leans forward. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Question your sanity.”
(Deflect, deflect!)
“I dunno.” He laughs. “What’s that old saying? If you’re asking yourself if you’re crazy, then you probably have nothing to worry about.”
Brian sighs and writes in his notepad again. Bobby scratches his cheek, stares out the window and wonders what Eames is doing.
//
Alex spends an inordinate amount of time at Bellevue, something that both pleases and puzzles Bobby to no end. When she’s not sitting with him, she’s talking to various nurses, doctors, his therapist, for crying out loud. He never asks what they’re discussing, and she never offers any information, because it’s a conversation neither one of them seems to want to have.
She’s usually content just to sit with him, discussing whatever he feels like sharing, which isn’t much (Fish for lunch today; Got to use a safety razor by myself! But, the nurse stayed to watch), but today she’s antsy. She glances out the windows behind them.
“Do you want to…go for a walk, or something?”
“What…up and down the hallways?”
She tilts her head. “You do have grounds privileges. I checked.”
“No one tells me anything.”
He grabs a jacket and they push out into the courtyard, where patients huddle on benches, stroll with family members, stand in a circle sucking on cigarettes. Bobby and Alex wander around the perimeter, not talking, but it’s fine, because it just feels so good to be out that it’s all Bobby can really focus on.
Then, the sun emerges from behind a cloud, showering them in unexpected golden light. Alex sighs and smiles and tilts her head back to let it bathe her face. It takes his breath away, the sight of her standing like that, still and quiet, a little smile on her lips and he thinks about kissing her just then, thinks about what a good story that would make to tell someone, someday, thinks about how her mouth might feel under his (not for the first time, of course, but the first time in a mental institution and there’s a first time for everything, right?). He also thinks about maybe holding her hand, just reaching out and grabbing it, because he’s pretty sure she’d be okay with that, and it wouldn’t be too weird, just to walk, holding her hand. But, just as he’s getting up the nerve to do it, her cell rings and she startles and opens her eyes and fumbles for it, and the moment is gone, just like that, and Bobby can’t really believe he was considering doing it at all.
//
“Do you regret what you did?”
“Which part?” It’s raining, and the sound of rain slapping against the window makes Bobby uneasy. “I don’t regret saving Eames.”
“No. But the next part, after you’d pulled him off her. Do you think you went too far?”
“Obviously.”
“Why obviously?”
“Because he’s dead and I’m in here.”
“So if you could do it over, you’d do it differently.”
Bobby stops, listens to the rain on the window, the steady slapslap, sees Eames in his mind, sees Nagy trying, with all his might, to kill her right in front of him and realizes then-
“No. No, I wouldn’t.” He fidgets. “But, I didn’t mean to kill him. I…d-didn’t.”
Brian nods, writes something down.
“I…I honestly don’t remember too much, after I pulled him off.”
“What do you remember?”
(A pounding a screaming blood and slamming slamming slamming-)
He shakes his head. “Maybe I am crazy, after all.”
“Do you wonder if you are?”
Bobby stops fidgeting then, stops looking out the window, stops pretending none of this matters, or that he doesn’t care, or that he doesn’t want to get out. He looks at Brian.
“Every single day.”
Brian nods, as if pleased.
“L-look…I’m not used to…talking about myself. Ever.”
“Not to friends? Buddies?”
Bobby starts to speak, then stops, shakes his head.
“Do you keep a journal?”
“No.”
“Maybe it would be good for you, to talk about yourself a bit, write it down, sort some of the issues out.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Sounds self-absorbed.”
“It sounds lonely.”
Lonely. Bobby almost laughs. He has been lonely his entire life.
“What about Alex? Do you talk to her?”
Bobby shakes his head.
“Don’t you trust her?”
Bobby laughs. “More than anyone. Anything.”
Brian puts down his notepad. “Then, it’s no wonder you did what you did. How could you stand by and watch the one person left in your life who has been there for you always, almost get killed?”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
“Bobby.” Brian leans forward. “It not only sounds lonely, but scary as well.”
“Scary?” Bobby echoes.
“The possibility of being completely alone.”
Oh. There is a long pause, the longest one yet. Bobby weighs his options, thinks of Linda (You need to work with them, ok? Stop playing games) and fuckit, decides to go for it.
“I’m scared all the time.”
Brian nods, waits. “Of what, do you think?”
Bobby shrugs.
“One thing, Bobby. Start with one thing that scares you, and we’ll go from there.”
“There is only one thing,” Bobby says at last. “Losing Eames.”
//
She finds him in the dreaded dayroom, leafing through a magazine (People), and counting the minutes until her arrival. She’s wearing a light coat over a red sweater and she’s taken off her sling and her hair is tousled and she’s slightly out of breath.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“A beer? A haircut? Some adequate footwear?”
“Better,” she grins, brandishing a sheet of paper. “A pass.”
His eyes widen skeptically.
“A pass.”
“I’ve been working on it for awhile. They say you’re doing so…well in counseling, and taking your meds and everything, that…it would be all right.”
“I…d-don’t get it. Where…are we going?”
“Home. My home,” she says, almost gleefully, her cheeks reddening. “You’re mine…well, for 24 hours, anyway.”
And in that moment he’s both wildly elated and utterly terrified, a most interesting combination of feelings that he’s sure Brian will have something fascinating and earth-shattering to say about next session.
//
He’s been in her apartment before, but not for a long time, and never under circumstances like these, and, well, everything feels completely different anyway. He wanders around, looking at photos and knickknacks, picking things up and putting them down. He smells a candle (vanilla), and a vase of half-dead flowers (Get well soon! Love Aunt Mary). He stops in front of her bookshelf, curious at first, and then intrigued, and then practically joyful.
“Your books-”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” She sighs, from behind him. “Liz did it,” she adds quickly. “Believe me, wasn’t my idea-”
“No, no. It’s good, actually. Because look, here, Beckett is next to Bukowski, which is handy, because-”
“Bobby.” He looks at her and she’s grinning. It’s been so long since he’s seen that, it catches him off guard. “That’s your kind of thing, not mine.”
“And your sister’s, apparently.” Bobby’s finger trails over the spines. Carver, Larsson, MacDonald. “If she and her husband ever split, maybe you can set us up.”
Even though it’s a joke, and she knows it’s a joke, and she should be thrilled that he’s attempting to make a joke, her chest actually hurts a bit when she hears it, and she turns away quickly before he can see the expression on her face, which looks a little like heartache.
“You…hungry?” she says.
He shakes his head. “Just thirsty. The…meds.”
“Okay.”
He follows her into the kitchen. She opens a cupboard door- “I can’t offer you beer, but I have plenty of cold tap water-”, reaches up to grab a glass, then gasps and pulls her arm back down quickly, pulling it close to her side. She glances around to see if he noticed: He did. Of course, he did.
He moves to her, peers down into her face, which is tense with pain.
“Eames,” he says.
She takes a deep breath, tries to smile. “I just…forget sometimes. Have to take it easy.”
“Your…ribs.”
She looks at him. “How did you-”
“I’m a fairly observant person.” Especially when it comes to you.
“Right.”
“M-may…I see?”
She raises an eyebrow, wonders if she’s understood his request. “See…my ribs?”
He nods, suddenly serious. “Yeah.”
They stare at one another. She can hear her kitchen clock ticking. She’s overly aware of her breathing, and of Bobby, watching her think. She blinks.
“Not a chance,” she says at last, smirking. “And just for that, you can get your own glass, okay?”
He settles on her couch with his water and one of her books (Europe On A Budget!). She putters around her apartment and every time she catches sight of him, reading or watching TV or watching her, her heart does a little flip-flop. She’s just so happy to have him here. She makes tea and sits beside him, steals glances at his profile.
“Your hair is really long.”
“Yeah.”
She sips her tea, wonders if she dares.
“You said you wanted it cut.”
He looks at her.
“I can…do it for you. If you want.”
“What?”
“One of my many hidden talents,” she says, smiling.
“I bet,” he says, and because he suddenly wants her to touch him, touch any part of him, really, he agrees. “Just don’t make it look like I’m in an institution.”
He sits on a chair in the kitchen, more nervous than he needs to be, he thinks. It’s just hair, after all, but he knows that’s not what he’s nervous about at all.
“Used to do this for Joe sometimes,” she says, draping a towel around his chest and tucking it into the collar of his shirt, “when we had no money for such luxuries as haircuts.”
“You let him cut yours, too?”
She snorts. “Seriously? Are you nuts?”
Oh. Shit.
“The jury’s out on that,” he says, and smiles up at her. He then tries, very hard, to not make any inappropriate noises when her fingers touch his hair, or his neck, or his ears, and he concentrates instead on the steady, gentle snip of the scissors, the quiet in between, her intent expression as she stand in front of him, judging length on both sides.
“Done,” she says too soon and at last, and leads him into the bathroom. They stand side by side in front of the small mirror, her expression both hopeful and anxious. He turns his head back and forth and smiles
“Looks good,” he says, and it does. She smiles, too, relieved, and removes the towel, shakes it over the tub.
“Bobby,” she says then, in dismay, peering into the toilet. “What have you done?” His medication, the brightly coloured pills doled out before they left, are swimming in the bowl. All of them. Oh, he remembers. Yeah. That. “You…you can’t just stop like that-”
“Yeah. I can. I am.”
“Bobby. I’m serious. You heard the doctor. You could get really sick-”
“I don’t care. It’s just one night. One night. They turn my mind to mush. I can’t think…I can’t…eat. I sleep too much, and have…horrible dreams. I can’t…I can’t see you.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. So hard to explain. “I look at you and you’re…fuzzy. I can’t see you clearly. Don’t you get it?” He grips his head. “They fuck me all up and I just need a break from them. For tonight. Okay?”
“Okay. Okay.” She reaches up to brush tiny pieces of hair off his shoulders, smiles a little to show him she’s not so mad, but by the look on his face, she’s not sure he believes her.
//
The shakes start while they’re watching TV, just as the late news is starting.
“Bobby?”
He grinds his teeth, digs his fingers into his thighs. Sweat beads along his hairline, trickles down the sides of his face. Alex turns the television off, kneels in front of him, peers into his face. His jaw is clenched tight.
“Are you all right? What can I do?”
A hug would be nice, he thinks, but then he’s clutching his stomach, and then he’s in the bathroom, vomiting into her toilet, so he never gets a chance to tell her.
Then Eames is there behind him, her hand on his back, a cool washcloth across his neck.
When he is pretty sure he’s emptied his entire stomach, he brushes his teeth, rinses his mouth with mouthwash, and follows her into the bedroom. It feels strange to be in here, but familiar, too, and he doesn’t even protest as she guides him onto the bed, between the sheets, and lies down behind him. He is still trembling, his stomach still roiling. She turns off the last light. He can feel the mattress dip, hears her shift and move closer. She’s behind him, waiting for something. Then, her hand is on his back, between his shoulder blades, moving in a slow, steady motion: up, down, back and forth. And again. He’s never felt anything quite so sensual, or so soothing.
“This isn’t exactly how I pictured sleeping with you the first time,” he says, because he knows how to ruin a moment. Her hand stops moving. She is completely silent.
Oh boy.
“So,” she says finally, “you’ve thought about that, then?” She sounds like she’s joking, but only just.
He licks his lips. He could really, really use a glass of water. “Haven’t you? I mean…it’s okay, if you h-haven’t, I’d understand, I mean-”
“Of course I have,” she says so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it.
God, his heart hurts, along with almost every other part of his body.
“Eames-”
“Get some sleep, Bobby. You’re…exhausted, and we don’t have to…think about that right now, okay?” Then, in a teasing voice, “Besides, if I bring you back in bad shape tomorrow, they’ll never let me take you home again.” Her hand starts moving again between his shoulder blades, up, down, back and forth, up, down, back and forth. Hypnotic.
“Make me sound like a library book,” he whispers, and he can hear her smile. Almost against his will, his eyes close. He listens to her breathing, and his own, feels the motion of her hand (up, down, back and forth, up, down-), thinks about what has been said, and what hasn’t, wonders if they’ll ever speak of it again, and he falls asleep.
//
And in his dream he’s screaming and kicking and punching and when he looks down, it’s not Nagy but Eames looking back at him-
//
-and he jerks up a start, disoriented, confused, heart pounding, but he’s no longer nauseous, and he feels wide awake for once. It’s still dark, all shadows and strange noises, everything amplified. He sits and peers into darkness, then down beside him. He sees her small shape there, lying on her side facing him.
Eames.
He lies down again, slowly, slowly, desperate to not disturb her. As his eyes adjust, he can see her, see her face, her bare arms (she changed from her day clothes into a long, loose T-shirt while he was sleeping and for some reason this makes his chest tighten), and he can see the bruises, still not faded. The marks from where Nagy kicked and punched her, her face, the pale skin of her arms. He dares to put his hand on her hip, dares to slide her T-shirt up, up, exposing her thigh: there is a large, dark bruise there, yellowing around the edges. Bobby’s eyes prickle. He moves her shirt up even further, so slowly, past her waist, up over her ribs. He sees the tape at last, and the extensive bruising beneath it. He listens to her deep, steady breaths for three counts, then leans down and places his mouth there, on her side, on the darkest part of the bruise. He breathes in the scent of her skin, soap and lotion and analgesic cream, lets his mouth linger there, lets a calm wash over him.
Then he feels her fingers in his hair.
He startles, pulls away. “Sorry. I just…your ribs…I know you said no…Sorry-”
Her fingers guide him up, up towards her face and he’s still babbling, apologizing, waiting for her to admonish him, or smack him, ask him who the hell he thinks he is-
-but instead she kisses him, on the mouth, full and soft and serious, her hand on the side of face and her soft breaths brushing along his cheek. After a stunned moment he kisses her back, of course, because it’s her, and she’s kissing him voluntarily, and even if it is a dream, he’s taking full fucking advantage.
The kisses grow more intense very quickly, with tongues sliding and noses bumping - she catches his lower lip between her teeth - and Bobby comprehends that she’s kissing him like she means it.
But, means what, exactly?
She kisses his face, his neck, and he fumbles with his hands, groping for purchase, ends up brushing against her breasts, and he can’t help but groaning, which makes her kiss him even harder.
Ohgodohgod-
Because he’s still not convinced it’s not a dream (meds in the toilet made me actually lose my mind maybe), he slides a hand down her stomach, over her underwear, between her legs, and can feel the dampness there, and it’s all so fucking surreal-
She reaches for him, too, but he stops her, almost immediately. “I…it’s all right. I…the pills. One of the many great side effects.” He laughs a little, is glad it’s still dark enough that she can’t see his face. “Even if I wanted to…which I do, believe me… and of anyone, you’re the one who could…but. J-just let me…okay? Is that okay? This time?”
This time.
Those words, with their thick, heavy implication, hang between them, but before he can clarify, or even take them back, she kisses him again, harder than before, spreading her legs and guiding his fingers beneath her underwear, against her slick skin, his fingers sliding in and ohgod, she’s wet, she’s actually wet and she’s not pulling away. If anything, she’s moving closer, giving him more access, kissing him harder and his fingers move and slide, back and forth, in and out and he can feel himself growing hard for the first time in a long while and he ducks his head, pulls her shirt up and finds her breasts, his tongue moving, and she gasps, her breaths hitching, her hands all over him, making him even harder than he thought possible and then-
She goes stiff, shudders beneath him, against him, around him. Her mouth goes lax against his, her head falling back slightly, her fingers curling into his shirt, grasping his skin almost painfully, her hips still moving against his fingers with a sensuality that almost, almost, sends him over the edge, too.
She makes a sound that is a little like a sob and kisses him again, hard and sloppy at the same time, and he curls his hand around the back of her neck, pulls her close, her head under his chin.
They don’t speak. He doesn’t want to, and he hopes she doesn’t either, because this, right now, is as close to pure happiness as he’s ever felt in his fucking life. She must hear his thoughts, because she falls asleep almost immediately, curled into him, skin-sweaty. He kisses her damp hairline, and listens to her breathing even out, watches her, and thinks, very hard, about a lot of things.
He does not sleep.
//
She’s alone when she wakes in the morning and she knows, knows before she even sees him, what has happened.
Q: What’s the quickest way to ruin a friendship?
A: Fuck around with your best friend.
He’s in the living room, perched on the couch, his coat on and his bag at his feet.
“I think I need to go back now.”
She stops and looks at him, glances at the clock. “But…we still have four hours.” She’s sleepy and disoriented and suddenly feels like crying, or maybe stamping her foot. It’s not fair.
He swallows, rubs a hand over his face. “I-I know. I’m sorry. I just…I don’t feel that good and…I need to go back. Okay?”
“Okay. Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll get dressed.” She closes the bedroom door behind her and allows herself only one very small sob into her balled-up sweater, because she kind of knew this is how it might end up being between them, if they ever let it get to this.
//
He’s silent and still on the drive, staring out the window, his bag on his lap.
At least his hair looks good.
She pulls up in front of the hospital, fully expecting him to get out and walk away without a word, but he surprises her yet again.
“That was a… mistake, what happened,” he says to the window. “I apologize, okay?”
“For which part?” she says, her voice just barely trembling.
“You shouldn’t…you’re already in too deep with me, you know? We shouldn’t be….any more involved than we already are.”
He clutches the door handle (those fingers were inside me last night so yeah it’s already too late you jerk, she thinks), and moves to leave.
“I don’t agree.”
“It was a mistake,” he says again. She kind of wants to tell him to shut up already.
“I don’t think it was a mistake,” she says instead, very quietly.
“I can’t…be with you, Eames. I can’t be with anyone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eames.” He looks at her in disbelief, as if she’s stupid, maybe, or drunk. He speaks slowly and deliberately. “I killed someone. I can’t take that back. That…what I did, changes everything. I don’t know what’s…going to happen, after the hearing. W-we don’t know anything.”
I know how I feel about you, she wants to say, but she doesn’t, because she can tell by looking at him that it’s about the last thing he wants to hear.
“It doesn’t change us,” she says.
He pulls the handle.
“There is no us.”
He doesn’t slam the car door, he doesn’t even close it hard. It just falls shut on its own with a solid thunk, but it’s the loudest sound in the world, a complete sound, a dull finality, and he walks away without looking back, not even once.
//
tbc
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: Post Purgatory
Rating: M
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: May be your own.
//
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
~WH Auden, Leap Before You Look
//
The air outside feels wonderfully cool and clean and cleansing after the stifling, close atmosphere of the hospital. Alex sucks in a few trembling breaths, releases them, rubs her face, hard, blows her nose, then, finally, calls her father, fighting to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
“Everything go okay?” he asks as she slides in the car. He glances at her swollen eyes and smeared makeup.
She nods and shrugs. “About what I expected,” is all she says.
If he knows she’s just finished crying, he doesn’t say; he just smiles and pats her hand gently, which kind of makes her want to start all over again.
//
“Why doesn’t Goren have a lawyer?”
Ross sighs and leans back in his chair. He looks tired, almost as tired as Bobby, she thinks, but she will not feel sorry for him. It’s a luxury she cannot, will not, afford herself.
“I didn’t think he needed one. He wasn’t being charged with anything.”
Alex snorts and shakes her head. Distrust, she thinks. It’s contagious. Ross seems to read her mind.
“It was my call, Eames, and mine alone. His mom, his brother were both…dead. You were…unavailable. I had to make a decision and my decision was based on his actions and his behaviour. I thought…I felt it best that he simply…”
“Be put away.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
It’s a staredown. Ross breaks first.
“He wasn’t…coherent.”
“He was distraught.”
“I saw it differently.”
Alex is having trouble controlling her breathing.
“You…people. You’re out to get him.”
“Eames. That sounds very paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia if it’s true.”
Ross folds his hands on his desk. He doesn’t speak for a long minute. Alex clenches, unclenches her fingers, tries to be patient.
“Eames…this isn’t a witch hunt, despite what you seem determined to believe.”
Alex can’t look at him.
“This is…it never was about punishing Goren. I wanted to help him. You have to see that, or you’re going to be dragged down as quickly as he is. No one is questioning his actions-”
Bullshit, she thinks.
“-they’re questioning his state of mind at the time of his actions. He went…above and beyond the call of duty, so to speak. He didn’t just pull Nagy off you…he destroyed him. With his hands.” He pauses. “Are those the actions of a sane person? That’s what is being reviewed here.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.” She meets Ross’s gaze. “And neither do I.”
“Understandable. But we…they are examining behaviour which, on top of everything else he’s done in his career, doesn’t look…above board. If you had killed Nagy, no one would have given it a second thought. But…you have to know that Goren’s record speaks volumes about his state of mind over the years. He’s not viewed as…a stable person by many.”
Alex nods. She knows. She knows this, even if she has never openly admitted it. She and Bobby have filed it conveniently under “Things We Do Not Talk About.” But, she also knows the truth.
“He’s not crazy,” she says, too quietly. Ross looks at her, but chooses not to comment.
“Look. We can appoint him a lawyer, through the department. There’s someone I’ve been considering, she’s very good, and I think you can meet with her today. All right?”
Alex wants to say something important, something pithy and full of wisdom and something that will force Ross to admit, Yes, you’re right! Goren is completely sane, and we’re the crazy ones! But there are no words, and Ross mistakes her silence for uncertainty, or indecision.
“All right?” he asks again.
She nods.
“All right.”
//
Linda Joseph is tall and skinny and nervous and talks very quickly. She wears jeans and a sweatshirt, and her dirty blonde hair is caught up in a messy bun. She taps her pen on the desk repeatedly as she looks over Bobby’s case files. Alex sits across from her, fiddling with a coffee cup, snapping the lid open and closed, and thinking she should just go dump it out. After two sips, her stomach started to churn queasily.
“Well, we have our work cut out for us,” Linda says, leafing through a pile of papers. “Your partner has…quite a track record.”
Alex nods.
“Numerous infractions, violations, trips to psych services, suspensions, some with and some without pay.” She shakes her head slightly, mumbles to herself.
Alex sighs. She’s suddenly exhausted.
“In 2006 he was seen throwing a…Declan Gage up against the interview room wall?”
“That was…” Alex clears her throat, tries to sound both empathetic and detached. “I was…missing.”
Linda looks at her.
“He seems to be…extremely protective of you. Some might say overly so.”
“Some might, I guess.” Alex puts the coffee cup down, picks it back up.
Linda sighs.
“Look, Alex. I’m just saying what is bound to be said during a hearing.”
“A hearing.”
“Well, that’s what we’re aiming for. Get Goren in front of a committee, after a comprehensive psych test that shows a good state of mind, of course, and get him released on the grounds of…temporary insanity.”
“I really don’t think the term insanity should be used in any capacity when it comes to Bobby.”
Linda smiles. “It’s the temporary part we need to focus on.”
“I…don’t know if he’d agree to that, to be honest.”
“Fair enough. But, we need to meet with him, regardless, right? To get him to assign you power of attorney. We can ask him about this at the same time.”
Alex nods reluctantly, takes one last sip of her cold coffee, and wonders when, if ever, her stomach will stop hurting so damn much.
//
They meet in a small, windowless room at Bellevue. Bobby shakes Linda’s hand, but only looks fleetingly at her, and not at Alex at all.
“I think we may be able to swing this in your favour if we play some sympathy cards,” says Linda. “I see your mother died not long ago. She was…schizophrenic.”
Bobby nods.
“Your brother was murdered. Killed by Nicole Wallace. Declan, your…mentor? Yes? Killed Nicole Wallace, believing it would…help you? He’s now in jail. Your partner was kidnapped. Your nephew is…missing. I mean, it’s enough to send anyone over the edge,” she jokes. Neither Bobby nor Alex smiles. “But, we also have some serious disciplinary problems to deal with. You went undercover into a state mental institution without adequate supervision that led to a six-month suspension.”
Alex nods.
“You’ve had…four psych consultations in…five years.”
Bobby folds his arms, unfolds them.
“And?”
“And…it says prone to paranoia, in this one. Plus, anger issues.” She shuffles the papers, reads from them. “Easily angered. Unable to control anger, anger problems.” She pauses, makes a note on her pad. “Mandated counseling…which you somehow managed to evade. Mandated counseling again, 12 sessions, of which you only attended four, not quite sure how you swung that. ‘Extremely reticent to participate.’ Aggressive. In denial. Combative. Argumentative. Uses deflection, including sarcasm and humour, as a means of communication. Unwilling to accept responsibility for his actions.”
Bobby can feel his face burning, can feel Alex’s eyes on him.
He leans forward. “I thought…you were was supposed to be on my side.”
Linda frowns. “I’m trying, Bobby. But, you’re not making my job very easy.”
“Digging my own grave, is the term you’re looking for here, I think,” he says.
Linda smiles. “You do seem to be your own worst enemy.”
“I dunno. I think I’ve made some real-life enemies as well.”
“You single-handedly generate a huge amount of paperwork for your department. You can see why they’re pissed.” She presses her hands flat on the table. “Look. I’m going to be honest with you, because these are all facts on the record, things that will be brought up in a hearing. Even if I get you out of Bellevue…even if you get your job back, you won’t be working with Alex again, of that I’m pretty sure.”
No one speaks for a moment. Alex clenches her hand, chews the inside of her cheek.
“Then there’s no point,” Bobby says quietly.
“Bobby-”
“There is a point,” Linda says, talking over Alex. “The point is to clear your name. To make sure everyone knows your actions were based on practiced police training, with a clear and comprehensive understanding of the inherent danger of the situation, not the impulsive actions of someone teetering on the edge of insanity.” She pauses. “Right?”
“Right,” says Alex quickly. “Definitely.”
Bobby says nothing.
“Listen, temporary insanity can be claimed as a defense whether or not you’re mentally stable at the time of hearing, which you are,” she adds. “It’s similar to the defenses of ‘diminished capacity’ to understand one’s own actions, or ‘heat of passion,’ and other claims of mental disturbance.” Bobby shifts uncomfortably. “However, mental derangement at the time of an abrupt crime, such as a sudden attack or crime of passion, can be a valid defense, or at least show lack of premeditation to reduce the degree of the crime.”
There’s a long pause.
“Well, I do prefer ‘crime of passion,’” Bobby says at last, and looks directly at Alex for the first time.
“Fine,” Linda says. “You two do seem to have a certain…connection that might draw empathy. She pauses. “Are you…together?”
“What?” Alex says.
“I’m not judging, but if you are, I need to know, because it’s something else that will be questioned-”
“No, no. We’re…n-not,” Bobby says, and Alex nods in agreement and both of them look everywhere but in each other’s direction.
Linda raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She pauses, as if pondering something. Then:
“You need to work with them, Bobby, ok? With the doctors. With your therapist. Really work. Stop fooling around.”
“I don’t-”
She waves the sheaf of papers in the air (Argumentative. Unable to take responsibility for his actions), and he stops talking. “No more games.”
He nods, tersely.
“Ok,” Linda smiles. “Good. Now…I need to work on getting you out of here, yes?”
//
His therapist’s name is Brian. He’s balding and paunchy, with a penchant for sweater vests and clip-on ties. They meet every afternoon, every single afternoon, and Bobby quickly learns he can only evade the tough questions for so long, because, really, what choice does he have anymore?
“How are you sleeping?”
“On my right side, usually.”
“Bobby.”
“Sorry, sorry. Uh. Not…great. Lots of…dreams.”
Brian scribbles something down.
“About anything in particular?”
(Alex getting slapped across the face, thrown across the room, his own hands slamming uselessly against glass three-feet thick-)
“Nope.”
“It wouldn’t be unusual to be dreaming, reliving even, the event that brought about your ending up here.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Bobby rubs the back of his neck. “And would it make me crazy if I…didn’t relive it?”
Brian smiles. “You realize your capability as a police officer - your capability as a person, in fact - will be hampered on every level if you constantly question yourself, doubt your intentions, question your sanity.”
“Do you question it?”
“No, I don’t, Bobby.”
This brings him up short. “You d-don’t?”
“No.” Brian leans forward. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Question your sanity.”
(Deflect, deflect!)
“I dunno.” He laughs. “What’s that old saying? If you’re asking yourself if you’re crazy, then you probably have nothing to worry about.”
Brian sighs and writes in his notepad again. Bobby scratches his cheek, stares out the window and wonders what Eames is doing.
//
Alex spends an inordinate amount of time at Bellevue, something that both pleases and puzzles Bobby to no end. When she’s not sitting with him, she’s talking to various nurses, doctors, his therapist, for crying out loud. He never asks what they’re discussing, and she never offers any information, because it’s a conversation neither one of them seems to want to have.
She’s usually content just to sit with him, discussing whatever he feels like sharing, which isn’t much (Fish for lunch today; Got to use a safety razor by myself! But, the nurse stayed to watch), but today she’s antsy. She glances out the windows behind them.
“Do you want to…go for a walk, or something?”
“What…up and down the hallways?”
She tilts her head. “You do have grounds privileges. I checked.”
“No one tells me anything.”
He grabs a jacket and they push out into the courtyard, where patients huddle on benches, stroll with family members, stand in a circle sucking on cigarettes. Bobby and Alex wander around the perimeter, not talking, but it’s fine, because it just feels so good to be out that it’s all Bobby can really focus on.
Then, the sun emerges from behind a cloud, showering them in unexpected golden light. Alex sighs and smiles and tilts her head back to let it bathe her face. It takes his breath away, the sight of her standing like that, still and quiet, a little smile on her lips and he thinks about kissing her just then, thinks about what a good story that would make to tell someone, someday, thinks about how her mouth might feel under his (not for the first time, of course, but the first time in a mental institution and there’s a first time for everything, right?). He also thinks about maybe holding her hand, just reaching out and grabbing it, because he’s pretty sure she’d be okay with that, and it wouldn’t be too weird, just to walk, holding her hand. But, just as he’s getting up the nerve to do it, her cell rings and she startles and opens her eyes and fumbles for it, and the moment is gone, just like that, and Bobby can’t really believe he was considering doing it at all.
//
“Do you regret what you did?”
“Which part?” It’s raining, and the sound of rain slapping against the window makes Bobby uneasy. “I don’t regret saving Eames.”
“No. But the next part, after you’d pulled him off her. Do you think you went too far?”
“Obviously.”
“Why obviously?”
“Because he’s dead and I’m in here.”
“So if you could do it over, you’d do it differently.”
Bobby stops, listens to the rain on the window, the steady slapslap, sees Eames in his mind, sees Nagy trying, with all his might, to kill her right in front of him and realizes then-
“No. No, I wouldn’t.” He fidgets. “But, I didn’t mean to kill him. I…d-didn’t.”
Brian nods, writes something down.
“I…I honestly don’t remember too much, after I pulled him off.”
“What do you remember?”
(A pounding a screaming blood and slamming slamming slamming-)
He shakes his head. “Maybe I am crazy, after all.”
“Do you wonder if you are?”
Bobby stops fidgeting then, stops looking out the window, stops pretending none of this matters, or that he doesn’t care, or that he doesn’t want to get out. He looks at Brian.
“Every single day.”
Brian nods, as if pleased.
“L-look…I’m not used to…talking about myself. Ever.”
“Not to friends? Buddies?”
Bobby starts to speak, then stops, shakes his head.
“Do you keep a journal?”
“No.”
“Maybe it would be good for you, to talk about yourself a bit, write it down, sort some of the issues out.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Sounds self-absorbed.”
“It sounds lonely.”
Lonely. Bobby almost laughs. He has been lonely his entire life.
“What about Alex? Do you talk to her?”
Bobby shakes his head.
“Don’t you trust her?”
Bobby laughs. “More than anyone. Anything.”
Brian puts down his notepad. “Then, it’s no wonder you did what you did. How could you stand by and watch the one person left in your life who has been there for you always, almost get killed?”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
“Bobby.” Brian leans forward. “It not only sounds lonely, but scary as well.”
“Scary?” Bobby echoes.
“The possibility of being completely alone.”
Oh. There is a long pause, the longest one yet. Bobby weighs his options, thinks of Linda (You need to work with them, ok? Stop playing games) and fuckit, decides to go for it.
“I’m scared all the time.”
Brian nods, waits. “Of what, do you think?”
Bobby shrugs.
“One thing, Bobby. Start with one thing that scares you, and we’ll go from there.”
“There is only one thing,” Bobby says at last. “Losing Eames.”
//
She finds him in the dreaded dayroom, leafing through a magazine (People), and counting the minutes until her arrival. She’s wearing a light coat over a red sweater and she’s taken off her sling and her hair is tousled and she’s slightly out of breath.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“A beer? A haircut? Some adequate footwear?”
“Better,” she grins, brandishing a sheet of paper. “A pass.”
His eyes widen skeptically.
“A pass.”
“I’ve been working on it for awhile. They say you’re doing so…well in counseling, and taking your meds and everything, that…it would be all right.”
“I…d-don’t get it. Where…are we going?”
“Home. My home,” she says, almost gleefully, her cheeks reddening. “You’re mine…well, for 24 hours, anyway.”
And in that moment he’s both wildly elated and utterly terrified, a most interesting combination of feelings that he’s sure Brian will have something fascinating and earth-shattering to say about next session.
//
He’s been in her apartment before, but not for a long time, and never under circumstances like these, and, well, everything feels completely different anyway. He wanders around, looking at photos and knickknacks, picking things up and putting them down. He smells a candle (vanilla), and a vase of half-dead flowers (Get well soon! Love Aunt Mary). He stops in front of her bookshelf, curious at first, and then intrigued, and then practically joyful.
“Your books-”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” She sighs, from behind him. “Liz did it,” she adds quickly. “Believe me, wasn’t my idea-”
“No, no. It’s good, actually. Because look, here, Beckett is next to Bukowski, which is handy, because-”
“Bobby.” He looks at her and she’s grinning. It’s been so long since he’s seen that, it catches him off guard. “That’s your kind of thing, not mine.”
“And your sister’s, apparently.” Bobby’s finger trails over the spines. Carver, Larsson, MacDonald. “If she and her husband ever split, maybe you can set us up.”
Even though it’s a joke, and she knows it’s a joke, and she should be thrilled that he’s attempting to make a joke, her chest actually hurts a bit when she hears it, and she turns away quickly before he can see the expression on her face, which looks a little like heartache.
“You…hungry?” she says.
He shakes his head. “Just thirsty. The…meds.”
“Okay.”
He follows her into the kitchen. She opens a cupboard door- “I can’t offer you beer, but I have plenty of cold tap water-”, reaches up to grab a glass, then gasps and pulls her arm back down quickly, pulling it close to her side. She glances around to see if he noticed: He did. Of course, he did.
He moves to her, peers down into her face, which is tense with pain.
“Eames,” he says.
She takes a deep breath, tries to smile. “I just…forget sometimes. Have to take it easy.”
“Your…ribs.”
She looks at him. “How did you-”
“I’m a fairly observant person.” Especially when it comes to you.
“Right.”
“M-may…I see?”
She raises an eyebrow, wonders if she’s understood his request. “See…my ribs?”
He nods, suddenly serious. “Yeah.”
They stare at one another. She can hear her kitchen clock ticking. She’s overly aware of her breathing, and of Bobby, watching her think. She blinks.
“Not a chance,” she says at last, smirking. “And just for that, you can get your own glass, okay?”
He settles on her couch with his water and one of her books (Europe On A Budget!). She putters around her apartment and every time she catches sight of him, reading or watching TV or watching her, her heart does a little flip-flop. She’s just so happy to have him here. She makes tea and sits beside him, steals glances at his profile.
“Your hair is really long.”
“Yeah.”
She sips her tea, wonders if she dares.
“You said you wanted it cut.”
He looks at her.
“I can…do it for you. If you want.”
“What?”
“One of my many hidden talents,” she says, smiling.
“I bet,” he says, and because he suddenly wants her to touch him, touch any part of him, really, he agrees. “Just don’t make it look like I’m in an institution.”
He sits on a chair in the kitchen, more nervous than he needs to be, he thinks. It’s just hair, after all, but he knows that’s not what he’s nervous about at all.
“Used to do this for Joe sometimes,” she says, draping a towel around his chest and tucking it into the collar of his shirt, “when we had no money for such luxuries as haircuts.”
“You let him cut yours, too?”
She snorts. “Seriously? Are you nuts?”
Oh. Shit.
“The jury’s out on that,” he says, and smiles up at her. He then tries, very hard, to not make any inappropriate noises when her fingers touch his hair, or his neck, or his ears, and he concentrates instead on the steady, gentle snip of the scissors, the quiet in between, her intent expression as she stand in front of him, judging length on both sides.
“Done,” she says too soon and at last, and leads him into the bathroom. They stand side by side in front of the small mirror, her expression both hopeful and anxious. He turns his head back and forth and smiles
“Looks good,” he says, and it does. She smiles, too, relieved, and removes the towel, shakes it over the tub.
“Bobby,” she says then, in dismay, peering into the toilet. “What have you done?” His medication, the brightly coloured pills doled out before they left, are swimming in the bowl. All of them. Oh, he remembers. Yeah. That. “You…you can’t just stop like that-”
“Yeah. I can. I am.”
“Bobby. I’m serious. You heard the doctor. You could get really sick-”
“I don’t care. It’s just one night. One night. They turn my mind to mush. I can’t think…I can’t…eat. I sleep too much, and have…horrible dreams. I can’t…I can’t see you.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. So hard to explain. “I look at you and you’re…fuzzy. I can’t see you clearly. Don’t you get it?” He grips his head. “They fuck me all up and I just need a break from them. For tonight. Okay?”
“Okay. Okay.” She reaches up to brush tiny pieces of hair off his shoulders, smiles a little to show him she’s not so mad, but by the look on his face, she’s not sure he believes her.
//
The shakes start while they’re watching TV, just as the late news is starting.
“Bobby?”
He grinds his teeth, digs his fingers into his thighs. Sweat beads along his hairline, trickles down the sides of his face. Alex turns the television off, kneels in front of him, peers into his face. His jaw is clenched tight.
“Are you all right? What can I do?”
A hug would be nice, he thinks, but then he’s clutching his stomach, and then he’s in the bathroom, vomiting into her toilet, so he never gets a chance to tell her.
Then Eames is there behind him, her hand on his back, a cool washcloth across his neck.
When he is pretty sure he’s emptied his entire stomach, he brushes his teeth, rinses his mouth with mouthwash, and follows her into the bedroom. It feels strange to be in here, but familiar, too, and he doesn’t even protest as she guides him onto the bed, between the sheets, and lies down behind him. He is still trembling, his stomach still roiling. She turns off the last light. He can feel the mattress dip, hears her shift and move closer. She’s behind him, waiting for something. Then, her hand is on his back, between his shoulder blades, moving in a slow, steady motion: up, down, back and forth. And again. He’s never felt anything quite so sensual, or so soothing.
“This isn’t exactly how I pictured sleeping with you the first time,” he says, because he knows how to ruin a moment. Her hand stops moving. She is completely silent.
Oh boy.
“So,” she says finally, “you’ve thought about that, then?” She sounds like she’s joking, but only just.
He licks his lips. He could really, really use a glass of water. “Haven’t you? I mean…it’s okay, if you h-haven’t, I’d understand, I mean-”
“Of course I have,” she says so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it.
God, his heart hurts, along with almost every other part of his body.
“Eames-”
“Get some sleep, Bobby. You’re…exhausted, and we don’t have to…think about that right now, okay?” Then, in a teasing voice, “Besides, if I bring you back in bad shape tomorrow, they’ll never let me take you home again.” Her hand starts moving again between his shoulder blades, up, down, back and forth, up, down, back and forth. Hypnotic.
“Make me sound like a library book,” he whispers, and he can hear her smile. Almost against his will, his eyes close. He listens to her breathing, and his own, feels the motion of her hand (up, down, back and forth, up, down-), thinks about what has been said, and what hasn’t, wonders if they’ll ever speak of it again, and he falls asleep.
//
And in his dream he’s screaming and kicking and punching and when he looks down, it’s not Nagy but Eames looking back at him-
//
-and he jerks up a start, disoriented, confused, heart pounding, but he’s no longer nauseous, and he feels wide awake for once. It’s still dark, all shadows and strange noises, everything amplified. He sits and peers into darkness, then down beside him. He sees her small shape there, lying on her side facing him.
Eames.
He lies down again, slowly, slowly, desperate to not disturb her. As his eyes adjust, he can see her, see her face, her bare arms (she changed from her day clothes into a long, loose T-shirt while he was sleeping and for some reason this makes his chest tighten), and he can see the bruises, still not faded. The marks from where Nagy kicked and punched her, her face, the pale skin of her arms. He dares to put his hand on her hip, dares to slide her T-shirt up, up, exposing her thigh: there is a large, dark bruise there, yellowing around the edges. Bobby’s eyes prickle. He moves her shirt up even further, so slowly, past her waist, up over her ribs. He sees the tape at last, and the extensive bruising beneath it. He listens to her deep, steady breaths for three counts, then leans down and places his mouth there, on her side, on the darkest part of the bruise. He breathes in the scent of her skin, soap and lotion and analgesic cream, lets his mouth linger there, lets a calm wash over him.
Then he feels her fingers in his hair.
He startles, pulls away. “Sorry. I just…your ribs…I know you said no…Sorry-”
Her fingers guide him up, up towards her face and he’s still babbling, apologizing, waiting for her to admonish him, or smack him, ask him who the hell he thinks he is-
-but instead she kisses him, on the mouth, full and soft and serious, her hand on the side of face and her soft breaths brushing along his cheek. After a stunned moment he kisses her back, of course, because it’s her, and she’s kissing him voluntarily, and even if it is a dream, he’s taking full fucking advantage.
The kisses grow more intense very quickly, with tongues sliding and noses bumping - she catches his lower lip between her teeth - and Bobby comprehends that she’s kissing him like she means it.
But, means what, exactly?
She kisses his face, his neck, and he fumbles with his hands, groping for purchase, ends up brushing against her breasts, and he can’t help but groaning, which makes her kiss him even harder.
Ohgodohgod-
Because he’s still not convinced it’s not a dream (meds in the toilet made me actually lose my mind maybe), he slides a hand down her stomach, over her underwear, between her legs, and can feel the dampness there, and it’s all so fucking surreal-
She reaches for him, too, but he stops her, almost immediately. “I…it’s all right. I…the pills. One of the many great side effects.” He laughs a little, is glad it’s still dark enough that she can’t see his face. “Even if I wanted to…which I do, believe me… and of anyone, you’re the one who could…but. J-just let me…okay? Is that okay? This time?”
This time.
Those words, with their thick, heavy implication, hang between them, but before he can clarify, or even take them back, she kisses him again, harder than before, spreading her legs and guiding his fingers beneath her underwear, against her slick skin, his fingers sliding in and ohgod, she’s wet, she’s actually wet and she’s not pulling away. If anything, she’s moving closer, giving him more access, kissing him harder and his fingers move and slide, back and forth, in and out and he can feel himself growing hard for the first time in a long while and he ducks his head, pulls her shirt up and finds her breasts, his tongue moving, and she gasps, her breaths hitching, her hands all over him, making him even harder than he thought possible and then-
She goes stiff, shudders beneath him, against him, around him. Her mouth goes lax against his, her head falling back slightly, her fingers curling into his shirt, grasping his skin almost painfully, her hips still moving against his fingers with a sensuality that almost, almost, sends him over the edge, too.
She makes a sound that is a little like a sob and kisses him again, hard and sloppy at the same time, and he curls his hand around the back of her neck, pulls her close, her head under his chin.
They don’t speak. He doesn’t want to, and he hopes she doesn’t either, because this, right now, is as close to pure happiness as he’s ever felt in his fucking life. She must hear his thoughts, because she falls asleep almost immediately, curled into him, skin-sweaty. He kisses her damp hairline, and listens to her breathing even out, watches her, and thinks, very hard, about a lot of things.
He does not sleep.
//
She’s alone when she wakes in the morning and she knows, knows before she even sees him, what has happened.
Q: What’s the quickest way to ruin a friendship?
A: Fuck around with your best friend.
He’s in the living room, perched on the couch, his coat on and his bag at his feet.
“I think I need to go back now.”
She stops and looks at him, glances at the clock. “But…we still have four hours.” She’s sleepy and disoriented and suddenly feels like crying, or maybe stamping her foot. It’s not fair.
He swallows, rubs a hand over his face. “I-I know. I’m sorry. I just…I don’t feel that good and…I need to go back. Okay?”
“Okay. Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll get dressed.” She closes the bedroom door behind her and allows herself only one very small sob into her balled-up sweater, because she kind of knew this is how it might end up being between them, if they ever let it get to this.
//
He’s silent and still on the drive, staring out the window, his bag on his lap.
At least his hair looks good.
She pulls up in front of the hospital, fully expecting him to get out and walk away without a word, but he surprises her yet again.
“That was a… mistake, what happened,” he says to the window. “I apologize, okay?”
“For which part?” she says, her voice just barely trembling.
“You shouldn’t…you’re already in too deep with me, you know? We shouldn’t be….any more involved than we already are.”
He clutches the door handle (those fingers were inside me last night so yeah it’s already too late you jerk, she thinks), and moves to leave.
“I don’t agree.”
“It was a mistake,” he says again. She kind of wants to tell him to shut up already.
“I don’t think it was a mistake,” she says instead, very quietly.
“I can’t…be with you, Eames. I can’t be with anyone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eames.” He looks at her in disbelief, as if she’s stupid, maybe, or drunk. He speaks slowly and deliberately. “I killed someone. I can’t take that back. That…what I did, changes everything. I don’t know what’s…going to happen, after the hearing. W-we don’t know anything.”
I know how I feel about you, she wants to say, but she doesn’t, because she can tell by looking at him that it’s about the last thing he wants to hear.
“It doesn’t change us,” she says.
He pulls the handle.
“There is no us.”
He doesn’t slam the car door, he doesn’t even close it hard. It just falls shut on its own with a solid thunk, but it’s the loudest sound in the world, a complete sound, a dull finality, and he walks away without looking back, not even once.
//
tbc