Fic: The Life You Save/7
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.
//
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
//
What Eames remembers most about the hearing, at least when she attempts to remember it afterwards, are two things, really:
One: That her stomach really hurts through most of it, even though she’s not drinking coffee, or much of anything else, really.
And two: Bobby doesn’t look at her directly. Not once.
The hearing is held in a small room at the precinct. The front of the room is dominated by a podium, with a chair situated beside it, and several tables shoved together behind; the rest of the room is filled haphazardly with chairs, the really uncomfortable metal ones, though, in the end, only half of them end up being used, because, she supposes, not that many people are really invested in Bobby Goren’s immediate future.
A bunch of people talk, and Alex has a hard time focusing on all of them, or comprehending what they’re saying. Dr. J. Harrow talks, pompously, (When Detective Goren was brought in, he was…most uncooperative, sedated almost immediately…blahblahblah), and Ross bullshits beautifully, bless him, (One of the best, most intuitive detectives I’ve ever had the privilege of working with). Fucking Moran talks, but he’s not as horrible as Eames anticipates, (Goren is nothing if not determined. I mean, he gets the job done, I’ll give him that.) Brian talks, not about anything personal, of course, but about how hard Bobby has been working, how intent he seems about getting better, how he hasn’t missed a single appointment. Alex talks, too, and she has to tell the whole fucking story again, but at least manages to not cry this time. Well, not much, anyway: (And he slapped me hard across the face as I was reaching for my gun, but I managed to kick him once or twice, which only infuriated him more, and he picked me up and threw me, and it all happened so fast). And on and on and on.
She stares at a spot on the back wall the entire time she talks. Well, not the entire time. She glances at Linda, who is nodding encouragingly, and at Ross, who looks stricken and pale, and she glances at Bobby, but Bobby seems intent on staring at some spot on the table in front of him, which doesn’t make him look, in her opinion anyway, completely sane, but whatever. He’s calm and still, at least.
She heaves a huge sigh of relief when she’s done, kind of staggers back to her seat, and collapses, wishes her legs would stop trembling and her ribs would stop aching, but neither of those things seem to be in the cards today.
Then, Amanda Keeler speaks. Nagy’s last girl. Well, the last before Eames. The Girl Who Got Away. She speaks to the room via videotape, on a machine wheeled to the front of the room, because she’s still in the hospital.
Alex grips the seat of her chair, manages to ignore the dull throb of her chest and head as she watches and listens and thinks:
That could have been me.
Amanda, with her blonde hair pulled back and her face scrubbed of makeup, looks impossibly young (because she is) and irrevocably broken (because she is). She speaks slowly, with great difficulty (because she’s fucking brain damaged), and she talks about how Nagy wooed her, how he made her feel special and different, how he asked her to come back to his loft to paint her, how she agreed, because she was so enamoured of him, and how he flew into an indescribable rage, how he screamed, how he hit her, kicked her, over and over and over-
There’s a recess after that. Alex stumbles to the Ladies’ Room. She splashes cold water on her face, forces her breathing to calm down, wonders if she should eat something, can’t think of a single thing that won’t make her queasier than she is, walks back to the room, sees Bobby huddled in the corner with Linda. She’s speaking to him intently, and by the way his shoulders are hunched and his forehead is creased, she knows he’s thinking, very hard, about what is coming up. He sees her, she knows he sees her, but he still won’t make fucking eye contact the fucking ass, so she sits back down and waits for it to be over and done with.
Then the tape is shown, her tape, and for the first time, Bobby seems to be paying attention. He sits up, leans forward, clenches his hands in front of him. He watches the tape and she watches him, realizing it’s the first time he’s seen it, probably. Or, maybe Linda has shown him, and he just hasn’t mentioned it to her, anything is possible at this point, but she can’t take her eyes off him, watching every muscle twitch, every grimace, every bead of sweat that forms and glistens along his hairline (but boy, his hair looks good, doesn’t it, folks?).
Then.
Then Bobby speaks, the condemned man himself, and Alex is so stiff and tense her muscles actually hurt for days afterward, and within minutes sweat soaks through the armpits of her respectable suit jacket. He describes, calmly and lucidly, with careful coaching from Linda, how he was feeling when he saw Nagy attack his partner, how he reacted, how he believed Alex was in imminent danger (she was), how he believed she was dead (almost), and, most importantly, how he felt he acted as any police officer in his position would have, responsibly and ethically, nothing more, nothing less.
Several people on the panel ask him pointed questions, whether he meant to kill Nagy, what he remembers before he ran into the room, whether Nagy told him to stop, whether the officers told him to stop, why he didn’t stop, etc., and Bobby, to his credit, keeps it together. He doesn’t lose his temper, he doesn’t even raise his voice, and for once, Alex doesn’t think it’s the medication talking. But, it isn’t hurting, either.
Near the end Alex realizes Nagy has two family members present: His mother and his sister, and neither one of them speaks. They did, however, cry, quietly but intensely when Alex spoke and when Amanda spoke, and Alex suspects they know. They know.
And they’re not crying for him.
The rest of it, psychological consultation results and physical fitness tests and numbers and textbook quotes are all very quiet and rather dull and completely undramatic, and then, suddenly, it’s over. Papers are being shuffled and returned to folders, people are standing and stretching, a few are even cracking jokes and laughing, and Alex blinks, confused and bewildered. Now what? She turns to ask Linda, but she’s talking to someone beside her, another lawyer, so Alex turns the other way, to catch Bobby’s eye maybe, smile, but he’s standing too, with guards on each side of him, and they’re leading him away, back to Bellevue, out the door and they’re gone.
//
“A couple of days, at the most, I think,” Linda assures her in the hallway. To her credit she seems to understand that Alex is almost quivering with anxiety, and she squeezes her hand briefly. “They’ll review everything they saw and heard, and make a formal recommendation. I know it’s hard. Just…try to be patient.”
Hard.
Shit.
Alex looks around and realizes she can’t be here. She manages to get away without speaking to anyone, and to her credit, she makes it all the way home, into her own bathroom, before vomiting into her own toilet.
//
She calls him, at Bellevue, several times, she doesn’t know why, because he clearly wants nothing to do with her. And, of course, he can’t (won’t) come to the phone until the third night, the night she speaks to Linda, who tells her she has the recommendations and will meet with both of them in the morning.
She waits for 10 minutes before he finally picks up. She can hear him breathing before he speaks.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat. She takes a gulp from the wine glass she’s cradling in her lap.
“Eames.” He sounds quiet. Dull. Resigned, even.
“Just…wanted to.” Shit. She doesn’t even know. “How are-”
“We’re meeting with Linda tomorrow, right?
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She pauses. “You’ll be there, right?”
“Oh, I’ll be there with bells on.”
//
He’s there before she is, hunched in his seat. She sits beside him, glances at him, then at Linda, who is smiling, but Alex can’t tell what kind of smile it is, exactly.
“So?” Alex asks.
Linda spends 10 minutes reading to them from the review, her voice calm and measured. When she’s done, they all sit in silence.
“What does it mean?” Bobby asks.
“It means,” says Linda, smiling, “that you can leave. You can go home. Well, home with Alex, at least. Supervised out-patient status for six months.” She pauses, looks at Alex. “I mean, if that works for you, of course. If not, we’ll have to make other arrangements-”
“No, no. It’s…fine. Of course.”
“Like she has a choice,” Bobby mutters. He waits. “And?”
Linda looks back down.
“And…suspension. Also six months, but, with pay, this time.”
Another pause.
“And?”
“And…” Here Linda sighs. “A lifetime weapons ban. So…”
“No gun.”
“No gun.” She looks at him. “You can’t…be an active detective again, Bobby. But, I’m appealing, all right? I’m appealing right now, actually, and I’ve seen decisions like this overturned before, okay?
“Fucking desk job.”
Bobby laughs, but it sounds more like a smoker’s cough, an almost-vomit.
“Bobby.”
He scrubs a hand across his face.
“Overturned.”
“I have. I’ve seen it.”
“How many times?”
“Each case is different.” He’s about to speak again, so she interrupts, wisely. “In the meantime, you’re free to go. We just need to sign some paperwork, and Alex can take you home.” She leans forward, puts her hand on his, which is in a tight ball on her desk. “It’s good news, Bobby, really. Better than I hoped for.”
Bobby rubs his head, blows out a breath, looks at Linda.
“That’s because it’s not your life.”
//
The drive home is about as comfortable as the last one they took together, but this time Alex has no desire to make conversation. She doesn’t want to talk about anything. She doesn’t even want to look at him.
She parks in front of her apartment, turns off the ignition, expects Bobby to leap from the car and go running, but he doesn’t. He sits, stares out the window, waits for something.
“You’re out, Bobby. Right? You’re out of Bellevue. Can we…at least be a bit happy about that? The rest of it, I know-”
“You don’t know. You don’t. Because it doesn’t affect you.”
“It…what?” She can’t quite believe what she’s hearing, so she plays it back in her head, just to make sure. “The possibility of your not coming back doesn’t affect me?”
He doesn’t reply to that.
“I can’t do this without your help, Bobby. I try. I keep trying. But, I can’t. And, you need to know that. You have to try, too. A little bit.”
“You…want me to try.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Try to do…what, exactly? Pretend I’m happy? Pretend I like the idea of being a prisoner in your apartment? Pretend that trading Bellevue’s security for you as a warden is a…step up somehow?” He shakes his head. “Hang on…just let me take a few more pills and I’ll get back to you about that.”
Fuck you, you thinks, but of course she doesn’t say it, because she doesn’t say things like that, and really, she just doesn’t care enough to say anything more to him.
//
This time being in her apartment doesn’t feel liberating; it feels claustrophobic, like a noose. The shakes and the sweating start the second the door closes behind them and his bag hits the floor at his feet.
He looks around rather desperately, wondering what he can do to make himself feel like death is not imminent.
“We…we need to discuss sleeping arrangements.”
He turns and looks at her.
“What do you mean?”
Alex crosses her arms, leans against the door frame. Her mouth thins out. “Well, you made it pretty clear last time you were here, that sharing a bed was, how did you put it? ‘A mistake.’ I think that was the word you used. Several times, in fact.”
He looks down. Shit. Shit shit. “W-well…I’ll take the couch, of course.”
She nods. “Of course. It is a pull-out, in case you’re interested, but I know you’ll just flop down on the cushions, as is…right? Probably with your shoes on?”
He allows himself a smile, a small one. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Good. Thanks for being honest, at least.” And she goes to the linen closet, throws him a blanket and a pillow, and he kind of catches them, then stands there, at a loss.
“You have therapy every day at 10 a.m. We’ll have to leave here by 9:30, so meet me here, at the door, ready to go, okay? You know where the food is…I guess we’ll also have to discuss stuff like a menu and cooking, maybe…cleaning. I don’t know.”
“Eames-”
“I’m kind of tired, so I’m going to take a shower and take a nap.” She pauses, looks like she might say something comforting, something Alex-like, like I’m here if you need me, or Everything will be all right, but all she says is, “If you’re gonna watch TV, make sure it’s not too loud,” and closes the bathroom door behind her, and locks it.
//
And the first night on the couch is very long, very dark, and very quiet. He finally falls asleep, around 3 a.m., his hands clutching both the blanket and the pillow to his face, because they smell like her-
and
and
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-
“Bobby.” Something is poking his shoulder, hard. It’s Alex’s finger. Attached to her hand, and the rest of her body, that is fully clothed and waiting to drive him to therapy. She looks supremely unimpressed. “Come on. You have 15 minutes to get ready. I’m not going to be held responsible for your being late the first day.”
He groans a bit and goes to get up and she moves away quickly, into the kitchen, and when he glances down at himself, he’s intensely grateful.
//
(Monday)
Brian seems much happier about the current state of Bobby’s life than Bobby does, but his happiness isn’t infectious.
“So…how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?”
Brian grins and lifts his hands in explanation.
“Well, to not be here anymore. To be free.”
Free. What a fucking joke. Bobby laughs, like he’s agreeing.
“But the funny thing is, I’m not free, Brian. I’m more trapped than before.”
//
(Tuesday)
“You’re staying with your…partner?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that going?”
“Great, Brian. It’s going great. We have wild, passionate sex every night, all night long. She can’t keep her hands off me.”
Brian writes something down, probably something along the lines of Extremely reticent to participate; Sarcastic; Combative, then snaps his pen shut.
“Let’s keep moving forward, all right, Bobby? Let’s not…revert to old tactics, ones we know don’t work.”
Bobby chews the inside of his cheek. What the hell.
“We barely talk. She’s…really mad most of the time.”
“What do you think she’s mad about?”
“Everything.”
“But, you don’t know.”
Bobby shakes his head.
“Have you tried asking her, or…talking to her, about how you’re feeling?”
“…what?”
//
(Wednesday)
He’s an impeccable roommate, of course: Neat and clean and quiet and spends an inordinate amount of time either sleeping or reading. He seems to be intent on working his way through her entire collection of books - he’s into the M’s now - and except for his coat on the rack and his shoes at the door and an extra toothbrush in her bathroom, she barely knows he’s there. Barely.
Nights are hard, of course, but they’re always hard. After they eat (Chinese or Thai take-out for now, together at the small table, but not speaking, really, other than Please pass the Soy sauce, or More water?), she says a terse good night (she no longer has to warn him about the TV, since he doesn’t watch at all), and makes a beeline for her room. He knows she reads for awhile, or works on her laptop, or talks to her sister or father on the phone, then turns off the light at around 11 p.m.
And he knows she has bad dreams because he hears her, more than once, throughout the night, making sounds that make the hair stand up on his arms.
(Of course she has bad dreams. Fuck. He saw the tape, he saw it happen firsthand, saw (kissed) the bruises. Of course. Post-traumatic stress and all that. Of course.)
She yells out, sometimes nonsensical words, sometimes stop, but tonight she yellsBobby, and he leaps to his feet without even thinking, runs to her door, pushes it open with his hand-
-and he stands in her doorway, the longing to go to her, to comfort her, so overwhelming he digs his fingers into the doorframe to keep himself from moving.
She settles at last and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He turns to leave.
“Bobby?” This time she is awake, he knows, but the desire to go to her is just as powerful.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing?”
“I…I heard you. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You…heard me.”
“Yeah. You were yelling.”
“What…did I yell?”
“N-nothing. Just…it’s okay.”
He hears the sheets rustling. “Bad dream I guess.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “Is there…anything I can do?”
A long pause before she says:
“No.”
“Okay.” How can he fix this? How can he possibly fix this? “Good night, then.”
He turns and walks back to the couch, lies down, pulls the blanket over his head, counts the hours until therapy.
//
(Thursday)
Tonight it’s Chicken Chow Mein and egg rolls and more strained silence. Bobby slides his food around his plate and notices she’s doing the same. Maybe it’s time for one of them to start cooking something. He takes a breath.
“How…was your morning?” he asks.
“What?”
“I mean…while you were waiting for me. What do you do?”
She shrugs. “Dunno. Walk. Read. Listen to music.” She swallows some food with difficulty. “Why?”
“I’m supposed to practice…talking…more.”
“You talk just fine.”
He sighs. “I’m supposed to practice communicating…more.”
“Ah.” She wipes her mouth and stands. “Well. Good luck with that.”
“This is only temporary,” he reminds her, sounding angrier than he feels. “I’ll be out of here as soon as my probation is over.”
“Right. Of course you will.” She walks to the kitchen, dumps her plate and utensils in the sink. He can hear her mumble something under her breath, but doesn’t catch it, is pretty sure he doesn’t really want to know, because when someone mumbles something within hearing range, it’s usually not good. Then she’s at the front door, shoving her feet into her shoes and grabbing a coat from the rack.
Uh oh.
“Where are you going?” He stands, moves to her.
“Out,” she says. Then, “Here.” She’s handing him something, something silver, dangling from a string. Oh. A key. “For the apartment.”
He stares at it, then at her, not understanding. She rolls her eyes.
“What? You can come and go as you please. I’m not interested in playing warden, Bobby. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to…sneak in a case of beer, or dismantle my Lady Schick and slit your wrists, or hitch a ride to Canada, okay? My only duty here is to make sure you get to your appointments on time.” She jams her arms into her jacket with more force than is necessary. “Oh, and maybe, you know, keep you from flushing your meds down my toilet again, because we all remember how disastrously that turned out, right?” She jerks the zipper up so violently she almost catches the bottom of her chin. “So, just…pick up after yourself and wash your own dishes and I don’t think we’ll have any more problems.”
Even after the apartment door slams shut behind her, Bobby is sure he can hear her feet stomping all the way down the hall.
//
The apartment is eerily silent after she leaves. For such a small person, she takes up a lot of space and now it feels empty and lonely.
An hour passes, and another, and he fights a rising tide of panic. Okay. She was pissed, okay, but maybe she went to a friend’s (she has no friends, does she? At least none she ever speaks of), or went for a (very) long walk, or-
Fuck.
It’s dark and getting darker and he wonders if he should go looking for her, except she gave him absolutely no clue where she went. Out. Out where? He calls her cell. No answer. He leaves a brief message (Hey it’s me just wanted to say hey…it’s me). Then paces some more. He picks up his book (Ann-Marie MacDonald) and tries to read, but knows it’s hopeless. He calls her cell again. And again.
Is she coming back? Is she that mad at him that she’d just…take off for the night? No. No, she’s supposed to…look after him. She’s been put in charge, and no, she’s not his warden, as she so succinctly pointed out, but still. Eames would never…shirk her responsibility.
So. Where is she?
His cell rings at nearly 9 p.m. and he pounces. Her name flashes on the screen and he instructs himself, severely, before he answers:
Don’t let her know you’re mad, don’t let her know, just sound calm and rational and sane and concerned-
“Where the hell are you?”
“Wow. That’s very nice. Look. Against my better judgment, I’m calling you.” Oh. But, it’s not Eames, after all.
“What?”
“Believe me, if I had any other option-”
Bobby knows the voice, he knows it-
“Liz?”
She sighs. “Yes. Look…Alex is in the hospital…again.” Bobby doesn’t miss the emphasis. The phone slides in his suddenly sweaty palm.
“Wh-what’s happened? Is she all right?”
“She didn’t want me to call you, and believe me, I didn’t want to call you, but I also don’t want you to…I don’t know…have a nervous breakdown or call the FBI or something because you don’t know where she is.”
Bobby closes his eyes, a thousand images skittering through his brain, none of them good.
“Just…tell me where she is.”
There’s a pause.
“Promise you won’t show up here, guns blazing?”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Bobby.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
Another pause.
“Liz. Please.”
A sigh. Some static. She tells him.
//
Alex’s sister looks like a taller, puffier version of Eames, with Soccer Mom hair and sensible shoes. She wears the harried, weary look of a mom with young, overactive kids and an overworked husband who may or may not be cheating on her. She’s seated by the bed, tapping on her phone, a crease between her eyebrows. When she looks up and sees Bobby, the crease deepens.
Alex is propped up in the bed, looking impossibly small and pale, hooked up to several monitors. She’s awake, however, and looking decidedly pissed (mortified?) about the situation, which is a positive sign, he decides.
He moves to her side, but doesn’t touch her.
“What happened?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Alex opens her mouth, but Liz beats her to it.
“She fainted in the grocery store, is what happened.”
“I did not,” Alex says, closing her eyes and throwing her head back in frustration. “I’ve never fainted in my life, not even when I was pushing out your large-headed son.” She shifts on the bed, grimaces and holds her side. “I fell down.
“You collapsed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Wait a minute…you…fell down?” Bobby moves even closer, presses his legs up against the side of her bed, which is a good thing, because they suddenly feel very weak.
(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and run and-)
Alex’s cheeks redden and she avoids his penetrating gaze.
“Some genius thought calling an ambulance was a good idea. I’m holding the produce guy responsible.”
“It was a good idea. You should be in the hospital.” Liz looks at Bobby and adds, unnecessarily: “You’re worn out.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Oh fuck, thinks Bobby. What have I walked into? Alex looks up at him, her expression a mixture of defiance and contrition. And something else indefinable.
An impossibly young doctor hurries in, clipboard in hand, a cursory nod to everyone. He listens to Alex’s breathing, her heart. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” he asks, and Liz starts laughing. Alex glares at her.
“I’d like to have a closer look at your ribs,” he says then, and Liz jumps up.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” she says, squeezing her sister’s hand. “Besides…I need to talk to Bobby.”
“Oh god,” Alex mutters, and looks at Bobby, alarmed. Bobby tries to give her a reassuring smile, but his mouth feels rather frozen and his heart’s in his throat, and honestly? He’s kind of scared of Liz.
Now I’m in trouble.
He follows her out into the hallway, down to the waiting room where they both buy cups of hot, greasy coffee from the vending machine. They sit, side by side on slippery orange, plastic chairs, and listen to other family members grieve around them.
Eventually, Liz puts him out of his misery. “So. You’re living with Alex.” It’s not a question.
“Y-yes.” For some reason he feels the need to clarify. “Well, I’m staying with her. But, I have to. I mean, it’s part of my p-probation-”
She holds up a hand. He stops talking. She stares at him. He thinks there are probably a million things she wants to say to him, general things about his numerous unsavoury character traits, or his lack of work ethic, but, all she comes up with is: “Just…don’t mess with…the books. It took me forever to do that.”
Feeling he’s dodged a gigantic bullet, he almost smiles in relief, but realizes that would not be a good idea. “No, n-ever. Seriously. It’s…brilliant.”
She smiles, despite herself.
“Yeah. She mentioned you were…appreciative.”
“I am. Very much.”
The sit in not uncomfortable silence for a bit, pretending to sip horrible coffee.
“Listen…be nice to her, all right? Even if you don’t want to be with her, be nice to her. She…she deserves it.”
Oh, god. What to say to that that wouldn’t make him sound like more of an asshole than she already thinks he is?
“Liz, I don’t know what Alex has told you…about me…about us-”
“She tells me nothing, really, about anything, but that’s Alex, always has been. She’s…guarded, private. And I’m no detective, but I know her well enough to know how she feels about you. And…I don’t approve, okay? I don’t. And…I just don’t want her to get hurt anymore. She’s been through enough, you know?”
Bobby is trying to decipher what has just been said when Liz gulps the rest of her coffee and squishes the cup between her fingers.
“Look…I have to get home. I gather you’re going to stay for awhile?”
He nods.
“Okay.” She stands, starts ripping the Styrofoam to bits. “She…needs you more than she’d ever tell you. Just so you know. And if I ever find out you told her I told you?”
He blinks.
“I know where you live.”
//
He manages to corner the young doctor as he’s leaving Alex’s room.
“What’s…wrong with her?”
“You mean, aside from the recent concussion and-as-yet unhealed ribs? Low blood pressure, borderline anemia, dehydration, exhaustion. We’ve been in touch with her family doctor, and Ms. Eames has not been back for one follow-up visit since her accident. Not one. Any idea why?”
Yes.
“She’s…better at looking after other people.”
“Well, that mentality has landed her back in here.”
Bobby closes his eyes.
“Maybe you can convince her to start looking after herself, too?” The doctor scribbles something down, fixes Bobby with a stern look. “Or, maybe you can look after her?”
What did Alex tell him, exactly?
“Y-yes…I can do that.”
“Good.” He pauses. “You can start by letting her sleep.”
//
But Bobby, of course, has other ideas, because the thought of leaving her alone in the hospital again fills him with a kind of sick dread, as does the thought of spending a night alone in her apartment. So, when he sees the nurse assigned to Alex’s room pause outside her door, he pounces.
“Listen…I’d really like…is it possible for me to stay here…with her, at least for awhile? I…I owe her.”
The nurse looks at him. Bobby twists his hands in front of him, shuffles his feet a bit. He needs to sit down. He needs to sleep. He needs a drink.
She smiles, gently. She has a nice smile, he’s relieved to see.
“I don’t think that’s going to be possible-”
“Look…I’m a cop,” he lies, then amends, “and she’s a cop…and I just…I’d really appreciate it if.” He takes a breath. “I owe her.”
And maybe she finds him hopelessly cute, or just hopeless, but she relents, even touches his arm briefly when she smiles.
“Just…make sure you stay in her room and for god’s sakes, be quiet. No running up and down the halls at 3 a.m. demanding more painkillers for her.”
“No. No. I swear.”
But, he’s lying again, because he knows he’d do just that, and more, if she needed him to.
//
He pulls a chair up close to her bed. The lights have been turned off and she’s drowsing. It never gets completely dark in a hospital room, though, so he’s able to watch her by the light from the hallway and the weird neon glow of the monitors. She stirs after a bit and opens her eyes, seems surprised to see him sitting there.
“Where’s Liz?”
“She went home.”
“Good.”
He smiles. He agrees.
“Are you really here?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
She stares at him, hard.
“All that time before…the first time…I kept waking up and you weren’t there, and you weren’t there…I know you thought I was dead, but I thought you were dead, too.
“Yeah. I know. I would…I would have been here if I could have.”
“Well, you were…kind of.”
“What do you mean?”
She shakes her head. So hard to explain.
“Aren’t visiting hours over?”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. I got special permission…just for tonight, so you know, you better be released tomorrow.”
“Special permission.”
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a moment.
“I really am tired, you know. And I might have actually fainted today. It’s possible. I just didn’t want Liz to know she was right, as usual. She can be such a pain in the ass.”
“I’m…sorry. I haven’t been paying enough attention-”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve actually been kind of a dick.” He wonders what kind of painkillers they’ve given her, because she seems to be saying whatever the hell pops into her head. “I’ve been running my ass off for you for weeks, and do you know you haven’t thanked me once, you haven’t even asked me how I’m doing, how I’m feeling?”
He blinks. Fuck. She’s right.
“I’m sorry-”
She waves a hand at him. “Shit. Forget I said that, okay? I’m drugged up and that sounded so pathetic.”
“It didn’t. It sounded honest.”
She groans and covers her eyes. “God. You and your therapy. We’ve created a monster.”
“Eames, listen-”
She presses her fingers against her eyes so hard, he’s afraid she’s going to hurt herself.
“No, you listen. Let me just ask you one thing, and please be honest: What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you doing here? Right now?”
He looks around. Isn’t it obvious?
“Keeping you company.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? It’s not a trick question, Bobby. I mean, you’ve made it pretty clear you want nothing to do with me-”
“That’s not true-”
“-you’ve barely spoken to me, or looked at me, in weeks-”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied-”
“You avoid me, go out of your way to not touch me, you pretty much act like you hate me-”
“Hate you? I don’t hate you, are you joking-?”
“I mean, we’re not partners anymore, we’re barely friends, and god forbid we get involved on any personal level, so my question is why? Why are you torturing me, and yourself, by hanging around my hospital room-” she glances at the clock, “-at midnight in the middle of the week?”
And because she’s almost yelling, he almost yells a bit, too:
“Because I love you, that’s why, all right?”
Her expression is almost comical, but Bobby doesn’t feel like laughing in the least. She swallows, blinks rapidly. Oh god, now he’s gone and done it.
“Eames-”
“Wow. Brian’s been doing some damn fine work with you, is all I can say,” she says swiping at her eyes. “Better communication my ass.”
Bobby leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“Shouldn’t I have said it?”
She looks right at him, daring, defiant.
“Did you mean it?”
He looks up, looks right at her, vulnerable, intent.
“Yes.”
She nods. “Okay, then, you should have said it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Now that they have that settled, Bobby sits back, crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and decides to stare at the wall for awhile, hoping the painkillers will really kick in and she’ll just drift off without uttering another word about anything at all, especially the love part.
After he counts to 100 a few times, once in Spanish, once in French, he dares to glance at her. She’s lying on her back, with her head angled towards him, her hair in a dark golden tangle across the pillow. Her eyes are closed, her chest gently rising and falling. It takes his breath away, and he wants to imprint the image on the backs of his eyelids, how she looks, right at this moment.
Oh, Alex.
He sits still, watching her, wondering if he should get up and leave, and just when he’s sure she’s deeply asleep, she speaks. Her eyes are still closed.
“Wish you could lie down with me.”
Oh god, he does too, so much it hurts.
“Bed’s too small,” he says.
“I’m small, too,” she reminds him. He smiles.
“Yeah. You are. But, I’m not.”
She sighs. “S’okay. Just wish you could.”
Shit. He looks over his shoulder, expecting the nurse to come striding in at any minute wielding a hypodermic or a straightjacket with his name on it. It’s just. He just wants to hold her, desperately, before she slips away again, before he says or does something so fucking stupid or thoughtless he loses her for good, because really, it’s possible. He looks over his shoulder one last time and fuck it. He stands up, pulls the sheets back and she opens her eyes a bit and grins up at him. He manages, through some careful maneuvering of body parts and shifting of wires, to slide in beside her, and with him on his side, with one arm angled above his head and the other over her waist, and one leg half off the edge of the bed, he does it. She shifts, too, moves onto her side, wraps an arm over his chest, and presses her face into his shirt front.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Now I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” he says, his fingers rubbing the small of her back, and she laughs a little.
She’s starting to drift off, he can tell, her body relaxing and leaning into his, her fingers loosening their grip on the back of his shirt, and he’s not thinking about much at all except how good it feels, to just lie like this with her, even if it’s in a hospital room, and it’s really uncomfortable and he knows he won’t sleep at all, when she startles, the way you do just as you’re dropping over the edge of consciousness into sleep, and it startles him too, and he’s just about to soothe her, when she moves her head back a bit so she can look at him.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, too.”
And it actually makes his chest hurt, to hear that (when was the last time someone said it, besides his mom? And when was the last time his mom actually said it?), and he can’t speak, so he just nods, and hopes she understands everything the nod implies, including thank you, and you’re welcome, and I love you, too, more than anything.
So they lie there, and he listens to Eames finally drift off, her breath fanning against the sensitive skin of his throat, and he realizes it has started to rain; he can just hear it over the steady beep of the monitors. He listens to the rain slapslapslap against her hospital window, and for the first time in ages, the sound doesn’t make him uneasy; instead, it has just the opposite effect. He sighs and relaxes, bit by bit, lets his cheek rest against the top of her head, wraps his arm around her even tighter, and allows himself to think maybe, just maybe, the rest of his life isn’t going to be completely fucking miserable.
//
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.
//
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
//
What Eames remembers most about the hearing, at least when she attempts to remember it afterwards, are two things, really:
One: That her stomach really hurts through most of it, even though she’s not drinking coffee, or much of anything else, really.
And two: Bobby doesn’t look at her directly. Not once.
The hearing is held in a small room at the precinct. The front of the room is dominated by a podium, with a chair situated beside it, and several tables shoved together behind; the rest of the room is filled haphazardly with chairs, the really uncomfortable metal ones, though, in the end, only half of them end up being used, because, she supposes, not that many people are really invested in Bobby Goren’s immediate future.
A bunch of people talk, and Alex has a hard time focusing on all of them, or comprehending what they’re saying. Dr. J. Harrow talks, pompously, (When Detective Goren was brought in, he was…most uncooperative, sedated almost immediately…blahblahblah), and Ross bullshits beautifully, bless him, (One of the best, most intuitive detectives I’ve ever had the privilege of working with). Fucking Moran talks, but he’s not as horrible as Eames anticipates, (Goren is nothing if not determined. I mean, he gets the job done, I’ll give him that.) Brian talks, not about anything personal, of course, but about how hard Bobby has been working, how intent he seems about getting better, how he hasn’t missed a single appointment. Alex talks, too, and she has to tell the whole fucking story again, but at least manages to not cry this time. Well, not much, anyway: (And he slapped me hard across the face as I was reaching for my gun, but I managed to kick him once or twice, which only infuriated him more, and he picked me up and threw me, and it all happened so fast). And on and on and on.
She stares at a spot on the back wall the entire time she talks. Well, not the entire time. She glances at Linda, who is nodding encouragingly, and at Ross, who looks stricken and pale, and she glances at Bobby, but Bobby seems intent on staring at some spot on the table in front of him, which doesn’t make him look, in her opinion anyway, completely sane, but whatever. He’s calm and still, at least.
She heaves a huge sigh of relief when she’s done, kind of staggers back to her seat, and collapses, wishes her legs would stop trembling and her ribs would stop aching, but neither of those things seem to be in the cards today.
Then, Amanda Keeler speaks. Nagy’s last girl. Well, the last before Eames. The Girl Who Got Away. She speaks to the room via videotape, on a machine wheeled to the front of the room, because she’s still in the hospital.
Alex grips the seat of her chair, manages to ignore the dull throb of her chest and head as she watches and listens and thinks:
That could have been me.
Amanda, with her blonde hair pulled back and her face scrubbed of makeup, looks impossibly young (because she is) and irrevocably broken (because she is). She speaks slowly, with great difficulty (because she’s fucking brain damaged), and she talks about how Nagy wooed her, how he made her feel special and different, how he asked her to come back to his loft to paint her, how she agreed, because she was so enamoured of him, and how he flew into an indescribable rage, how he screamed, how he hit her, kicked her, over and over and over-
There’s a recess after that. Alex stumbles to the Ladies’ Room. She splashes cold water on her face, forces her breathing to calm down, wonders if she should eat something, can’t think of a single thing that won’t make her queasier than she is, walks back to the room, sees Bobby huddled in the corner with Linda. She’s speaking to him intently, and by the way his shoulders are hunched and his forehead is creased, she knows he’s thinking, very hard, about what is coming up. He sees her, she knows he sees her, but he still won’t make fucking eye contact the fucking ass, so she sits back down and waits for it to be over and done with.
Then the tape is shown, her tape, and for the first time, Bobby seems to be paying attention. He sits up, leans forward, clenches his hands in front of him. He watches the tape and she watches him, realizing it’s the first time he’s seen it, probably. Or, maybe Linda has shown him, and he just hasn’t mentioned it to her, anything is possible at this point, but she can’t take her eyes off him, watching every muscle twitch, every grimace, every bead of sweat that forms and glistens along his hairline (but boy, his hair looks good, doesn’t it, folks?).
Then.
Then Bobby speaks, the condemned man himself, and Alex is so stiff and tense her muscles actually hurt for days afterward, and within minutes sweat soaks through the armpits of her respectable suit jacket. He describes, calmly and lucidly, with careful coaching from Linda, how he was feeling when he saw Nagy attack his partner, how he reacted, how he believed Alex was in imminent danger (she was), how he believed she was dead (almost), and, most importantly, how he felt he acted as any police officer in his position would have, responsibly and ethically, nothing more, nothing less.
Several people on the panel ask him pointed questions, whether he meant to kill Nagy, what he remembers before he ran into the room, whether Nagy told him to stop, whether the officers told him to stop, why he didn’t stop, etc., and Bobby, to his credit, keeps it together. He doesn’t lose his temper, he doesn’t even raise his voice, and for once, Alex doesn’t think it’s the medication talking. But, it isn’t hurting, either.
Near the end Alex realizes Nagy has two family members present: His mother and his sister, and neither one of them speaks. They did, however, cry, quietly but intensely when Alex spoke and when Amanda spoke, and Alex suspects they know. They know.
And they’re not crying for him.
The rest of it, psychological consultation results and physical fitness tests and numbers and textbook quotes are all very quiet and rather dull and completely undramatic, and then, suddenly, it’s over. Papers are being shuffled and returned to folders, people are standing and stretching, a few are even cracking jokes and laughing, and Alex blinks, confused and bewildered. Now what? She turns to ask Linda, but she’s talking to someone beside her, another lawyer, so Alex turns the other way, to catch Bobby’s eye maybe, smile, but he’s standing too, with guards on each side of him, and they’re leading him away, back to Bellevue, out the door and they’re gone.
//
“A couple of days, at the most, I think,” Linda assures her in the hallway. To her credit she seems to understand that Alex is almost quivering with anxiety, and she squeezes her hand briefly. “They’ll review everything they saw and heard, and make a formal recommendation. I know it’s hard. Just…try to be patient.”
Hard.
Shit.
Alex looks around and realizes she can’t be here. She manages to get away without speaking to anyone, and to her credit, she makes it all the way home, into her own bathroom, before vomiting into her own toilet.
//
She calls him, at Bellevue, several times, she doesn’t know why, because he clearly wants nothing to do with her. And, of course, he can’t (won’t) come to the phone until the third night, the night she speaks to Linda, who tells her she has the recommendations and will meet with both of them in the morning.
She waits for 10 minutes before he finally picks up. She can hear him breathing before he speaks.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat. She takes a gulp from the wine glass she’s cradling in her lap.
“Eames.” He sounds quiet. Dull. Resigned, even.
“Just…wanted to.” Shit. She doesn’t even know. “How are-”
“We’re meeting with Linda tomorrow, right?
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She pauses. “You’ll be there, right?”
“Oh, I’ll be there with bells on.”
//
He’s there before she is, hunched in his seat. She sits beside him, glances at him, then at Linda, who is smiling, but Alex can’t tell what kind of smile it is, exactly.
“So?” Alex asks.
Linda spends 10 minutes reading to them from the review, her voice calm and measured. When she’s done, they all sit in silence.
“What does it mean?” Bobby asks.
“It means,” says Linda, smiling, “that you can leave. You can go home. Well, home with Alex, at least. Supervised out-patient status for six months.” She pauses, looks at Alex. “I mean, if that works for you, of course. If not, we’ll have to make other arrangements-”
“No, no. It’s…fine. Of course.”
“Like she has a choice,” Bobby mutters. He waits. “And?”
Linda looks back down.
“And…suspension. Also six months, but, with pay, this time.”
Another pause.
“And?”
“And…” Here Linda sighs. “A lifetime weapons ban. So…”
“No gun.”
“No gun.” She looks at him. “You can’t…be an active detective again, Bobby. But, I’m appealing, all right? I’m appealing right now, actually, and I’ve seen decisions like this overturned before, okay?
“Fucking desk job.”
Bobby laughs, but it sounds more like a smoker’s cough, an almost-vomit.
“Bobby.”
He scrubs a hand across his face.
“Overturned.”
“I have. I’ve seen it.”
“How many times?”
“Each case is different.” He’s about to speak again, so she interrupts, wisely. “In the meantime, you’re free to go. We just need to sign some paperwork, and Alex can take you home.” She leans forward, puts her hand on his, which is in a tight ball on her desk. “It’s good news, Bobby, really. Better than I hoped for.”
Bobby rubs his head, blows out a breath, looks at Linda.
“That’s because it’s not your life.”
//
The drive home is about as comfortable as the last one they took together, but this time Alex has no desire to make conversation. She doesn’t want to talk about anything. She doesn’t even want to look at him.
She parks in front of her apartment, turns off the ignition, expects Bobby to leap from the car and go running, but he doesn’t. He sits, stares out the window, waits for something.
“You’re out, Bobby. Right? You’re out of Bellevue. Can we…at least be a bit happy about that? The rest of it, I know-”
“You don’t know. You don’t. Because it doesn’t affect you.”
“It…what?” She can’t quite believe what she’s hearing, so she plays it back in her head, just to make sure. “The possibility of your not coming back doesn’t affect me?”
He doesn’t reply to that.
“I can’t do this without your help, Bobby. I try. I keep trying. But, I can’t. And, you need to know that. You have to try, too. A little bit.”
“You…want me to try.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Try to do…what, exactly? Pretend I’m happy? Pretend I like the idea of being a prisoner in your apartment? Pretend that trading Bellevue’s security for you as a warden is a…step up somehow?” He shakes his head. “Hang on…just let me take a few more pills and I’ll get back to you about that.”
Fuck you, you thinks, but of course she doesn’t say it, because she doesn’t say things like that, and really, she just doesn’t care enough to say anything more to him.
//
This time being in her apartment doesn’t feel liberating; it feels claustrophobic, like a noose. The shakes and the sweating start the second the door closes behind them and his bag hits the floor at his feet.
He looks around rather desperately, wondering what he can do to make himself feel like death is not imminent.
“We…we need to discuss sleeping arrangements.”
He turns and looks at her.
“What do you mean?”
Alex crosses her arms, leans against the door frame. Her mouth thins out. “Well, you made it pretty clear last time you were here, that sharing a bed was, how did you put it? ‘A mistake.’ I think that was the word you used. Several times, in fact.”
He looks down. Shit. Shit shit. “W-well…I’ll take the couch, of course.”
She nods. “Of course. It is a pull-out, in case you’re interested, but I know you’ll just flop down on the cushions, as is…right? Probably with your shoes on?”
He allows himself a smile, a small one. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Good. Thanks for being honest, at least.” And she goes to the linen closet, throws him a blanket and a pillow, and he kind of catches them, then stands there, at a loss.
“You have therapy every day at 10 a.m. We’ll have to leave here by 9:30, so meet me here, at the door, ready to go, okay? You know where the food is…I guess we’ll also have to discuss stuff like a menu and cooking, maybe…cleaning. I don’t know.”
“Eames-”
“I’m kind of tired, so I’m going to take a shower and take a nap.” She pauses, looks like she might say something comforting, something Alex-like, like I’m here if you need me, or Everything will be all right, but all she says is, “If you’re gonna watch TV, make sure it’s not too loud,” and closes the bathroom door behind her, and locks it.
//
And the first night on the couch is very long, very dark, and very quiet. He finally falls asleep, around 3 a.m., his hands clutching both the blanket and the pillow to his face, because they smell like her-
and
and
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-
“Bobby.” Something is poking his shoulder, hard. It’s Alex’s finger. Attached to her hand, and the rest of her body, that is fully clothed and waiting to drive him to therapy. She looks supremely unimpressed. “Come on. You have 15 minutes to get ready. I’m not going to be held responsible for your being late the first day.”
He groans a bit and goes to get up and she moves away quickly, into the kitchen, and when he glances down at himself, he’s intensely grateful.
//
(Monday)
Brian seems much happier about the current state of Bobby’s life than Bobby does, but his happiness isn’t infectious.
“So…how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?”
Brian grins and lifts his hands in explanation.
“Well, to not be here anymore. To be free.”
Free. What a fucking joke. Bobby laughs, like he’s agreeing.
“But the funny thing is, I’m not free, Brian. I’m more trapped than before.”
//
(Tuesday)
“You’re staying with your…partner?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that going?”
“Great, Brian. It’s going great. We have wild, passionate sex every night, all night long. She can’t keep her hands off me.”
Brian writes something down, probably something along the lines of Extremely reticent to participate; Sarcastic; Combative, then snaps his pen shut.
“Let’s keep moving forward, all right, Bobby? Let’s not…revert to old tactics, ones we know don’t work.”
Bobby chews the inside of his cheek. What the hell.
“We barely talk. She’s…really mad most of the time.”
“What do you think she’s mad about?”
“Everything.”
“But, you don’t know.”
Bobby shakes his head.
“Have you tried asking her, or…talking to her, about how you’re feeling?”
“…what?”
//
(Wednesday)
He’s an impeccable roommate, of course: Neat and clean and quiet and spends an inordinate amount of time either sleeping or reading. He seems to be intent on working his way through her entire collection of books - he’s into the M’s now - and except for his coat on the rack and his shoes at the door and an extra toothbrush in her bathroom, she barely knows he’s there. Barely.
Nights are hard, of course, but they’re always hard. After they eat (Chinese or Thai take-out for now, together at the small table, but not speaking, really, other than Please pass the Soy sauce, or More water?), she says a terse good night (she no longer has to warn him about the TV, since he doesn’t watch at all), and makes a beeline for her room. He knows she reads for awhile, or works on her laptop, or talks to her sister or father on the phone, then turns off the light at around 11 p.m.
And he knows she has bad dreams because he hears her, more than once, throughout the night, making sounds that make the hair stand up on his arms.
(Of course she has bad dreams. Fuck. He saw the tape, he saw it happen firsthand, saw (kissed) the bruises. Of course. Post-traumatic stress and all that. Of course.)
She yells out, sometimes nonsensical words, sometimes stop, but tonight she yellsBobby, and he leaps to his feet without even thinking, runs to her door, pushes it open with his hand-
-and he stands in her doorway, the longing to go to her, to comfort her, so overwhelming he digs his fingers into the doorframe to keep himself from moving.
She settles at last and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He turns to leave.
“Bobby?” This time she is awake, he knows, but the desire to go to her is just as powerful.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing?”
“I…I heard you. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You…heard me.”
“Yeah. You were yelling.”
“What…did I yell?”
“N-nothing. Just…it’s okay.”
He hears the sheets rustling. “Bad dream I guess.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “Is there…anything I can do?”
A long pause before she says:
“No.”
“Okay.” How can he fix this? How can he possibly fix this? “Good night, then.”
He turns and walks back to the couch, lies down, pulls the blanket over his head, counts the hours until therapy.
//
(Thursday)
Tonight it’s Chicken Chow Mein and egg rolls and more strained silence. Bobby slides his food around his plate and notices she’s doing the same. Maybe it’s time for one of them to start cooking something. He takes a breath.
“How…was your morning?” he asks.
“What?”
“I mean…while you were waiting for me. What do you do?”
She shrugs. “Dunno. Walk. Read. Listen to music.” She swallows some food with difficulty. “Why?”
“I’m supposed to practice…talking…more.”
“You talk just fine.”
He sighs. “I’m supposed to practice communicating…more.”
“Ah.” She wipes her mouth and stands. “Well. Good luck with that.”
“This is only temporary,” he reminds her, sounding angrier than he feels. “I’ll be out of here as soon as my probation is over.”
“Right. Of course you will.” She walks to the kitchen, dumps her plate and utensils in the sink. He can hear her mumble something under her breath, but doesn’t catch it, is pretty sure he doesn’t really want to know, because when someone mumbles something within hearing range, it’s usually not good. Then she’s at the front door, shoving her feet into her shoes and grabbing a coat from the rack.
Uh oh.
“Where are you going?” He stands, moves to her.
“Out,” she says. Then, “Here.” She’s handing him something, something silver, dangling from a string. Oh. A key. “For the apartment.”
He stares at it, then at her, not understanding. She rolls her eyes.
“What? You can come and go as you please. I’m not interested in playing warden, Bobby. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to…sneak in a case of beer, or dismantle my Lady Schick and slit your wrists, or hitch a ride to Canada, okay? My only duty here is to make sure you get to your appointments on time.” She jams her arms into her jacket with more force than is necessary. “Oh, and maybe, you know, keep you from flushing your meds down my toilet again, because we all remember how disastrously that turned out, right?” She jerks the zipper up so violently she almost catches the bottom of her chin. “So, just…pick up after yourself and wash your own dishes and I don’t think we’ll have any more problems.”
Even after the apartment door slams shut behind her, Bobby is sure he can hear her feet stomping all the way down the hall.
//
The apartment is eerily silent after she leaves. For such a small person, she takes up a lot of space and now it feels empty and lonely.
An hour passes, and another, and he fights a rising tide of panic. Okay. She was pissed, okay, but maybe she went to a friend’s (she has no friends, does she? At least none she ever speaks of), or went for a (very) long walk, or-
Fuck.
It’s dark and getting darker and he wonders if he should go looking for her, except she gave him absolutely no clue where she went. Out. Out where? He calls her cell. No answer. He leaves a brief message (Hey it’s me just wanted to say hey…it’s me). Then paces some more. He picks up his book (Ann-Marie MacDonald) and tries to read, but knows it’s hopeless. He calls her cell again. And again.
Is she coming back? Is she that mad at him that she’d just…take off for the night? No. No, she’s supposed to…look after him. She’s been put in charge, and no, she’s not his warden, as she so succinctly pointed out, but still. Eames would never…shirk her responsibility.
So. Where is she?
His cell rings at nearly 9 p.m. and he pounces. Her name flashes on the screen and he instructs himself, severely, before he answers:
Don’t let her know you’re mad, don’t let her know, just sound calm and rational and sane and concerned-
“Where the hell are you?”
“Wow. That’s very nice. Look. Against my better judgment, I’m calling you.” Oh. But, it’s not Eames, after all.
“What?”
“Believe me, if I had any other option-”
Bobby knows the voice, he knows it-
“Liz?”
She sighs. “Yes. Look…Alex is in the hospital…again.” Bobby doesn’t miss the emphasis. The phone slides in his suddenly sweaty palm.
“Wh-what’s happened? Is she all right?”
“She didn’t want me to call you, and believe me, I didn’t want to call you, but I also don’t want you to…I don’t know…have a nervous breakdown or call the FBI or something because you don’t know where she is.”
Bobby closes his eyes, a thousand images skittering through his brain, none of them good.
“Just…tell me where she is.”
There’s a pause.
“Promise you won’t show up here, guns blazing?”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Bobby.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
Another pause.
“Liz. Please.”
A sigh. Some static. She tells him.
//
Alex’s sister looks like a taller, puffier version of Eames, with Soccer Mom hair and sensible shoes. She wears the harried, weary look of a mom with young, overactive kids and an overworked husband who may or may not be cheating on her. She’s seated by the bed, tapping on her phone, a crease between her eyebrows. When she looks up and sees Bobby, the crease deepens.
Alex is propped up in the bed, looking impossibly small and pale, hooked up to several monitors. She’s awake, however, and looking decidedly pissed (mortified?) about the situation, which is a positive sign, he decides.
He moves to her side, but doesn’t touch her.
“What happened?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Alex opens her mouth, but Liz beats her to it.
“She fainted in the grocery store, is what happened.”
“I did not,” Alex says, closing her eyes and throwing her head back in frustration. “I’ve never fainted in my life, not even when I was pushing out your large-headed son.” She shifts on the bed, grimaces and holds her side. “I fell down.
“You collapsed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Wait a minute…you…fell down?” Bobby moves even closer, presses his legs up against the side of her bed, which is a good thing, because they suddenly feel very weak.
(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and run and-)
Alex’s cheeks redden and she avoids his penetrating gaze.
“Some genius thought calling an ambulance was a good idea. I’m holding the produce guy responsible.”
“It was a good idea. You should be in the hospital.” Liz looks at Bobby and adds, unnecessarily: “You’re worn out.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Oh fuck, thinks Bobby. What have I walked into? Alex looks up at him, her expression a mixture of defiance and contrition. And something else indefinable.
An impossibly young doctor hurries in, clipboard in hand, a cursory nod to everyone. He listens to Alex’s breathing, her heart. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” he asks, and Liz starts laughing. Alex glares at her.
“I’d like to have a closer look at your ribs,” he says then, and Liz jumps up.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” she says, squeezing her sister’s hand. “Besides…I need to talk to Bobby.”
“Oh god,” Alex mutters, and looks at Bobby, alarmed. Bobby tries to give her a reassuring smile, but his mouth feels rather frozen and his heart’s in his throat, and honestly? He’s kind of scared of Liz.
Now I’m in trouble.
He follows her out into the hallway, down to the waiting room where they both buy cups of hot, greasy coffee from the vending machine. They sit, side by side on slippery orange, plastic chairs, and listen to other family members grieve around them.
Eventually, Liz puts him out of his misery. “So. You’re living with Alex.” It’s not a question.
“Y-yes.” For some reason he feels the need to clarify. “Well, I’m staying with her. But, I have to. I mean, it’s part of my p-probation-”
She holds up a hand. He stops talking. She stares at him. He thinks there are probably a million things she wants to say to him, general things about his numerous unsavoury character traits, or his lack of work ethic, but, all she comes up with is: “Just…don’t mess with…the books. It took me forever to do that.”
Feeling he’s dodged a gigantic bullet, he almost smiles in relief, but realizes that would not be a good idea. “No, n-ever. Seriously. It’s…brilliant.”
She smiles, despite herself.
“Yeah. She mentioned you were…appreciative.”
“I am. Very much.”
The sit in not uncomfortable silence for a bit, pretending to sip horrible coffee.
“Listen…be nice to her, all right? Even if you don’t want to be with her, be nice to her. She…she deserves it.”
Oh, god. What to say to that that wouldn’t make him sound like more of an asshole than she already thinks he is?
“Liz, I don’t know what Alex has told you…about me…about us-”
“She tells me nothing, really, about anything, but that’s Alex, always has been. She’s…guarded, private. And I’m no detective, but I know her well enough to know how she feels about you. And…I don’t approve, okay? I don’t. And…I just don’t want her to get hurt anymore. She’s been through enough, you know?”
Bobby is trying to decipher what has just been said when Liz gulps the rest of her coffee and squishes the cup between her fingers.
“Look…I have to get home. I gather you’re going to stay for awhile?”
He nods.
“Okay.” She stands, starts ripping the Styrofoam to bits. “She…needs you more than she’d ever tell you. Just so you know. And if I ever find out you told her I told you?”
He blinks.
“I know where you live.”
//
He manages to corner the young doctor as he’s leaving Alex’s room.
“What’s…wrong with her?”
“You mean, aside from the recent concussion and-as-yet unhealed ribs? Low blood pressure, borderline anemia, dehydration, exhaustion. We’ve been in touch with her family doctor, and Ms. Eames has not been back for one follow-up visit since her accident. Not one. Any idea why?”
Yes.
“She’s…better at looking after other people.”
“Well, that mentality has landed her back in here.”
Bobby closes his eyes.
“Maybe you can convince her to start looking after herself, too?” The doctor scribbles something down, fixes Bobby with a stern look. “Or, maybe you can look after her?”
What did Alex tell him, exactly?
“Y-yes…I can do that.”
“Good.” He pauses. “You can start by letting her sleep.”
//
But Bobby, of course, has other ideas, because the thought of leaving her alone in the hospital again fills him with a kind of sick dread, as does the thought of spending a night alone in her apartment. So, when he sees the nurse assigned to Alex’s room pause outside her door, he pounces.
“Listen…I’d really like…is it possible for me to stay here…with her, at least for awhile? I…I owe her.”
The nurse looks at him. Bobby twists his hands in front of him, shuffles his feet a bit. He needs to sit down. He needs to sleep. He needs a drink.
She smiles, gently. She has a nice smile, he’s relieved to see.
“I don’t think that’s going to be possible-”
“Look…I’m a cop,” he lies, then amends, “and she’s a cop…and I just…I’d really appreciate it if.” He takes a breath. “I owe her.”
And maybe she finds him hopelessly cute, or just hopeless, but she relents, even touches his arm briefly when she smiles.
“Just…make sure you stay in her room and for god’s sakes, be quiet. No running up and down the halls at 3 a.m. demanding more painkillers for her.”
“No. No. I swear.”
But, he’s lying again, because he knows he’d do just that, and more, if she needed him to.
//
He pulls a chair up close to her bed. The lights have been turned off and she’s drowsing. It never gets completely dark in a hospital room, though, so he’s able to watch her by the light from the hallway and the weird neon glow of the monitors. She stirs after a bit and opens her eyes, seems surprised to see him sitting there.
“Where’s Liz?”
“She went home.”
“Good.”
He smiles. He agrees.
“Are you really here?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
She stares at him, hard.
“All that time before…the first time…I kept waking up and you weren’t there, and you weren’t there…I know you thought I was dead, but I thought you were dead, too.
“Yeah. I know. I would…I would have been here if I could have.”
“Well, you were…kind of.”
“What do you mean?”
She shakes her head. So hard to explain.
“Aren’t visiting hours over?”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. I got special permission…just for tonight, so you know, you better be released tomorrow.”
“Special permission.”
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a moment.
“I really am tired, you know. And I might have actually fainted today. It’s possible. I just didn’t want Liz to know she was right, as usual. She can be such a pain in the ass.”
“I’m…sorry. I haven’t been paying enough attention-”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve actually been kind of a dick.” He wonders what kind of painkillers they’ve given her, because she seems to be saying whatever the hell pops into her head. “I’ve been running my ass off for you for weeks, and do you know you haven’t thanked me once, you haven’t even asked me how I’m doing, how I’m feeling?”
He blinks. Fuck. She’s right.
“I’m sorry-”
She waves a hand at him. “Shit. Forget I said that, okay? I’m drugged up and that sounded so pathetic.”
“It didn’t. It sounded honest.”
She groans and covers her eyes. “God. You and your therapy. We’ve created a monster.”
“Eames, listen-”
She presses her fingers against her eyes so hard, he’s afraid she’s going to hurt herself.
“No, you listen. Let me just ask you one thing, and please be honest: What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you doing here? Right now?”
He looks around. Isn’t it obvious?
“Keeping you company.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? It’s not a trick question, Bobby. I mean, you’ve made it pretty clear you want nothing to do with me-”
“That’s not true-”
“-you’ve barely spoken to me, or looked at me, in weeks-”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied-”
“You avoid me, go out of your way to not touch me, you pretty much act like you hate me-”
“Hate you? I don’t hate you, are you joking-?”
“I mean, we’re not partners anymore, we’re barely friends, and god forbid we get involved on any personal level, so my question is why? Why are you torturing me, and yourself, by hanging around my hospital room-” she glances at the clock, “-at midnight in the middle of the week?”
And because she’s almost yelling, he almost yells a bit, too:
“Because I love you, that’s why, all right?”
Her expression is almost comical, but Bobby doesn’t feel like laughing in the least. She swallows, blinks rapidly. Oh god, now he’s gone and done it.
“Eames-”
“Wow. Brian’s been doing some damn fine work with you, is all I can say,” she says swiping at her eyes. “Better communication my ass.”
Bobby leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“Shouldn’t I have said it?”
She looks right at him, daring, defiant.
“Did you mean it?”
He looks up, looks right at her, vulnerable, intent.
“Yes.”
She nods. “Okay, then, you should have said it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Now that they have that settled, Bobby sits back, crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and decides to stare at the wall for awhile, hoping the painkillers will really kick in and she’ll just drift off without uttering another word about anything at all, especially the love part.
After he counts to 100 a few times, once in Spanish, once in French, he dares to glance at her. She’s lying on her back, with her head angled towards him, her hair in a dark golden tangle across the pillow. Her eyes are closed, her chest gently rising and falling. It takes his breath away, and he wants to imprint the image on the backs of his eyelids, how she looks, right at this moment.
Oh, Alex.
He sits still, watching her, wondering if he should get up and leave, and just when he’s sure she’s deeply asleep, she speaks. Her eyes are still closed.
“Wish you could lie down with me.”
Oh god, he does too, so much it hurts.
“Bed’s too small,” he says.
“I’m small, too,” she reminds him. He smiles.
“Yeah. You are. But, I’m not.”
She sighs. “S’okay. Just wish you could.”
Shit. He looks over his shoulder, expecting the nurse to come striding in at any minute wielding a hypodermic or a straightjacket with his name on it. It’s just. He just wants to hold her, desperately, before she slips away again, before he says or does something so fucking stupid or thoughtless he loses her for good, because really, it’s possible. He looks over his shoulder one last time and fuck it. He stands up, pulls the sheets back and she opens her eyes a bit and grins up at him. He manages, through some careful maneuvering of body parts and shifting of wires, to slide in beside her, and with him on his side, with one arm angled above his head and the other over her waist, and one leg half off the edge of the bed, he does it. She shifts, too, moves onto her side, wraps an arm over his chest, and presses her face into his shirt front.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Now I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” he says, his fingers rubbing the small of her back, and she laughs a little.
She’s starting to drift off, he can tell, her body relaxing and leaning into his, her fingers loosening their grip on the back of his shirt, and he’s not thinking about much at all except how good it feels, to just lie like this with her, even if it’s in a hospital room, and it’s really uncomfortable and he knows he won’t sleep at all, when she startles, the way you do just as you’re dropping over the edge of consciousness into sleep, and it startles him too, and he’s just about to soothe her, when she moves her head back a bit so she can look at him.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, too.”
And it actually makes his chest hurt, to hear that (when was the last time someone said it, besides his mom? And when was the last time his mom actually said it?), and he can’t speak, so he just nods, and hopes she understands everything the nod implies, including thank you, and you’re welcome, and I love you, too, more than anything.
So they lie there, and he listens to Eames finally drift off, her breath fanning against the sensitive skin of his throat, and he realizes it has started to rain; he can just hear it over the steady beep of the monitors. He listens to the rain slapslapslap against her hospital window, and for the first time in ages, the sound doesn’t make him uneasy; instead, it has just the opposite effect. He sighs and relaxes, bit by bit, lets his cheek rest against the top of her head, wraps his arm around her even tighter, and allows himself to think maybe, just maybe, the rest of his life isn’t going to be completely fucking miserable.
//
tbc