Fic: The Life You Save/5
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
//
He is hurting her, badly, but she doesn’t care, because damn if she’s even going to think about pulling away from him now, when they’ve never done this before, never even come close, never done anything more than brushed arms in passing, and this, it feels so good, except for her ribs, her arm, her bruises. Fuck. It doesn’t matter, though, because he has his arms around her and he’s real and he knows who she is. She had thought, for one horrifying moment, that he might just smile at her politely but vacantly (Hello, there. I’m Bobby. And, you are?), before looking away, to smile politely and vacantly at someone else.
So. He remembers her, and he seems happy to see her, because he’s holding her so very tightly in his lap, against his chest, with his head pressed to her shoulder and she practically has her lips on his neck. He has enveloped her with his being, his smell, his essence, and she really, really doesn’t want to move, despite the persistent aching in almost every part of her body. He’s very warm and rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, and she thinks she could fall asleep like this. Time spins out. She almost forgets where they are, because she really doesn’t want to remember.
For a moment she even considers whispering Run into his ear, grabbing his hand and the two of them just taking off, making a break for it, knocking down anyone and anything in their way, nurses and patients, locked doors. But then what? She doesn’t even have a damn car (Hi, Dad? Come get me…oh, and Bobby, too?), and what a pair they’d make, she with her taped ribs and sprained arm, and Bobby with his glazed expression and institution-issue slippers, wandering aimlessly around New York, waiting for someone to take pity on them.
The nurse pokes her head around the corner and makes a clucking sound of stern disapproval and Bobby’s entire body goes tense, like they’re teenagers caught necking on the front porch after curfew, so Alex slides off his lap reluctantly and sits beside him, close, but not touching. They don’t speak and don’t look at one another for awhile. She very much wants to take his hand, but the moment has passed and it suddenly feels awkward between them. He clears his throat, presses his hands down flat on his thighs.
“Your face,” he whispers, glancing sideways at her, then away, then back again. His jaw tenses.
“It’s okay. I’m…fine. Looks worse than it feels.”
“Bullshit.” He is speaking so quietly she has to lean closer to hear him. “I remember, you know. I remember…what happened. The drugs…keep me from thinking too clearly. But, I remember. It’s just when I saw you…I forgot for a moment, because I thought…”
“That I was dead.”
He nods.
She wants to say sorry, wants to scream it, and the word is actually in her mouth before she realizes it’s just too small and useless for what she’s feeling. Sorry, Bobby. Sorry for not listening to you, for not taking your warnings seriously, sorry that you cared enough about me to kill Nagy in a blind fury, sorry for you ending up in here, for no one telling you I hadn’t actually died.
Sorry, for everything, including the fact that I have nothing else to offer other than this completely fucking, inadequate, stupid word.
“Bobby-”
“Eames. What…what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you. I wanted to…see you.”
He smiles. It’s not a nice smile.
“I think…I think you’re here because you know what I did.”
“What?”
He still will not look directly at her. She stares at the side of his too-pale face.
“You…you watched the surveillance video. Right? You saw it. When? Yesterday, right? After you left the hospital…you sat in a dark room at the precinct with Ross and…what’s that geeky guy’s name…John? The three of you sat there and watched me kill a man and you put on your brave face, barely moving a muscle. No one watching you would think it bothered you in the least. Then you went home and, and had a shower…no, a bath, because of your arm, and then you finally cried and then you went to bed and had nightmares about it…about m-me.”
She’s stunned, and more than a little pissed off.
“Did Ross-”
“No, Eames. No.” He smiles that horrible smile again. “Of course you watched it. Of course. You had to know. You had to see for yourself what I did, what I’m capable of-”
“That is not true. Ross made me, Bobby. He wanted me-”
“-and now you know, right? You know. You saw with your own eyes what I did, what I can do.” He chokes on the last words.
She does not like where this is going. At all.
“Bobby, listen to me. Watching what happened helped me realize how…how bad it was, how dangerous it was. It helped me remember, and no one could blame you-” She tries to take his hand now but he pulls away. He pulls away and clenches his hands into fists on his legs.
“Oh, but they do blame me, or maybe you haven’t heard.” He looks at her then. His eyes are haggard. “Would you like me to give you a tour, Eames? I’m in a mental institution.”
“I’m going to get you out, I promise.”
“How?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. She can’t answer that yet and he knows it.
“I’m not crazy, Eames-”
“I know-”
“You know. But what…you came here to…see for yourself? Sign the papers that will put me away forever?” He’s staring at the carpet. Green with pale green flowers. Ugly, ugly carpet.
“No. No! Of course not, Bobby. Come on.”
“But, hey, I trust you.” He shrugs. “We’re partners, right? You got my back. If you think that’s what’s best for me-”
“Would you just stop it, please? God!” She’s yelling. She needs to not yell at him, and she needs to especially not yell at him in here. But what is he doing?. Her fingers twist in her lap, pulling at the bottom of her sweater. She chews on her lower lip. When she looks up, he’s watching her. He speaks very slowly, deliberately, as to a dense child.
“I didn’t have a psychotic break, Eames. I’m not schizophrenic…yet. I don’t hear voices, or see things that aren’t there. The only thing I saw was you…you…” He’s trying not to cry now. “I saw you through that window…and I thought-”
“I know, Bobby-” She just wants to crawl back into his lap and wrap her good arm around him and not let go. She wants to put her mouth on his and kiss him over and over until he’s so breathless he’ll stop fucking talking-
“And I don’t deserve to be here, I know that, but I don’t deserve to be…around normal people either. Good, decent people. I don’t deserve to be around you.”
He looks back down, starts picking at an invisible spot on his jeans.
She stops. “That’s…that’s ridiculous. That’s…don’t even say that.”
“Really? Why not?” He shakes his head in frustration. “You really think…no matter what happens, whether I get out of here or not, or you know, serve time in jail or not, that things will ever be the same again?” He looks at her directly and this time he is crying, or at least there are tears, but he’s not letting them go anywhere, and he’s staring at her like he’s seeing her for the first time, and like he’s never going to see her again. “You…you think we’re gonna work together again? Really? Be partners? You think anyone’s gonna let that happen? Because if that’s what you think, you’re living in a bigger fucking dreamworld than me.”
And that’s when the damn nurse shows up and tells Alex she needs to talk to her right now, and to please follow her right now.
“Bobby…I don’t know what this is about, but I’ll be back, okay? Just…I’ll be back and we’ll talk some more.” She stands and stares down at him. “Okay?”
He laughs and lifts his hands. “Hey. You know where to find me.”
//
Alex has to move quickly to keep up with the nurse. They stride down several hallways that all look exactly the same, all painted the same pale beige. They stop in front of a pale beige door with J. HARROW stamped on the nameplate.
“Dr. Harrow is Mr. Goren’s attending physician. He just wants a few words with you before he makes his rounds.”
Alex nods and steps inside. Dr. J. Harrow is tall and thin with a thin, pointed face. He looks mean. He smiles briefly, shakes Alex’s hand, motions for her to sit.
“I was just visiting with Bobby and I had a few questions-”
“Actually Ms.- ”
“Detective-”
“-Eames, it’s good you’re here.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, you’re listed as Mr.- ”
“Detective-”
“-Goren’s contact, but a Frank Goren is listed as next of kin. We have been, as yet, unable to reach this Frank Goren.”
“That’s because he died. Recently.”
“Ah.” Harrow makes some notes. “And you have been, until recently, unavailable as well, I understand.” He reads something. “You were…in the hospital?”
“Yes. I was just released yesterday.”
The doctor looks up and peers at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “I see. And…Mr. Goren…he did this to you?” He waves at her face, her arm.
Alex closes her eyes, bites the inside of her cheek. “Are you serious?” She forces herself to stay calm. “Have you not received any of the police reports? Do you people even know what happened, why he’s here?”
Harrow stiffens at this, shuffles his papers. “We have some of the information, of course, but it’s been most difficult getting in touch with people who can help us. We’ve spoken at length with a Captain Ross, but aside from that, there seem to be few people directly related to…the incident who are able, or willing, to assist us. When Mr. Goren was brought in, he himself was…most uncooperative, as you can probably imagine. He was sedated almost immediately and has been kept on rather high doses of diazepam and alprazolam since. He’s given the therapist very little to work with.”
It’s hard to talk coherently when you’re drugged to the gills, she thinks.
“And…that’s it? That’s all you plan to do for him?”
“Well, there are certain police procedures we are subject to. It’s my understanding he could still face jail time. But, that’s not my concern.”
“Of course not.”
He looks at her.
“I can go over some of our proposed treatment plans with you,” he says, “but until Mr. Goren gives you power of medical attorney, you can’t make any medical or legal decisions on his behalf.”
“So…you people just decide? On your own?”
“That’s how it works.”
“Then I’ll go talk to him right now.” She moves to stand, when Harrow holds up a hand.
“Well, that’s a problem, you see. Mr. Goren has obviously already been admitted to a psychiatric facility because his state of mind is in question. He’s no longer able to appoint power of attorney on his own.”
“This is fucking unbelievable.”
Harrow raises his eyebrows.
“It’s my, uh, understanding that Mr. Goren killed a man, less than two weeks ago…with his bare hands.”
Alex stares at him. “Yes?”
Harrow clears his throat, folds his hands on his desk.
“Well, I think retaining a lawyer for him would only be in his best interest…don’t you?”
//
As soon as he’s sure she’s gone, he counts to 10 (still able to do that at least good boy we’ll try for 11 next time), gets to his feet and staggers from the room. He feels drunk and dizzy and for once he can’t blame the medication. He hates the dayroom and he’s always getting dumped in there when the nurses can’t figure out where else to put him, but now he will forever associate it with Eames, with seeing her again, with holding her on his lap, with her breath on his throat, with-
Eames. Alive. Eames is alive. He might vomit. He might pass out. He might whoop and holler for joy. Instead he forces himself to walk as steadily as possible (mustn’t make a scene they don’t like scenes here no they don’t), one hand sliding along the hallway wall for guidance and strength and his legs holding him miraculously upright as he tries to figure out where to go to think, to think about what the fuck just happened.
Eames is alive. Eames is alive.
How, how is that possible? He had watched, he had seen with his own eyes. She was dead. She was dead and he had helped kill her by allowing her to enter that room alone, alone with a madman.
(If you feel him starting to…to get angry, just back off, all right? Seriously. Just-)
Great fucking advice, very helpful. And now he’s the madman, locked up, away from society. Funny fucking world it was.
He needs to think. He needs to-
There. The Chapel. A little spiritual guidance never hurt, right? And if anyone needs some fucking guidance at the moment, it’s Bobby Whack-Job Goren. He pushes his way inside. It’s dim and cool and empty. He collapses into a pew at the very back, lays his head down on the back of the seat in front of him, and hyperventilates for awhile.
He closes his eyes and calls up her image. Her face. Her poor, beautiful, broken fucking face, all purple and yellow and swollen and how when she got close enough he wanted to just kiss it all over, and her lips and her breath against his throat, almost enough to make him hard (but not quite fucking medication), but it’s more than that, more than anything as base as his sex drive. Holding her like that, for the first time ever, he’d been overpowered by another emotion, one he’d always felt but had always kept at arm’s length, until recently, of course, when he had failed rather spectacularly: the urge to kill anyone who hurt her.
(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and and run and-)
And it’s the same question his therapist asks on an almost daily basis, but one which Bobby chooses not to answer. Well, he doesn’t answer any questions, really, he doesn’t say much at all, but it’s a question he refuses to answer even to himself: Why had he killed Nagy for Eames? She’s his partner. His work partner. Why had his first reaction been so immediate, so violent, so all-consuming?
Because. Because-
Too close, too hard. He shakes his head and thinks about something else instead. He thinks about Eames again and how there’s more, he knows. Something else hurts her. He suspects her ribs, but she’s said nothing, and he hasn’t asked, yet, but the way she tensed when he pulled her into his lap and clutched her to him like a drowning man makes him think it has to be her ribs, one, maybe two, and fuck he’s glad that fucker is dead and gone.
(I just think…I think this guy is…unstable…)
And the tape. That fucking tape. As soon as he’d laid eyes on her, as soon as he saw how she was looking at him, he knew. He knew. And now she knew and now what? She would always stick by him, of course, it was both her best and her worst fault, and it would be the end of her one day, might be the end of her now, but the thought of her watching, sitting there with fucking Ross and John? And watching it all play out again in stark black and white as he charged into the room (STOPSTOPRIGHTNOW) and grabbed Nagy and threw him down over and over and over and-
Oh, god. Or, whoever. Patron Saint of Perpetual Fuck-Ups, please hear me now-
He sits alone in the dark and quiet nondenominational psychiatric hospital chapel, and tries to pray, in his way, but instead ends up dropping his head heavily into his hands and his whole body shakes as he sobs like his heart is being cracked wide open.
//
When she gets back to the dayroom he’s gone, of course. She stands staring at the couch where they’d been sitting not half an hour ago and wonders if any of it had happened at all. Another nurse, not the fast-walking, disapproving one, tells her his room number, and warns her visiting hours are almost over. Alex would like to warn everyone in the place that she’s about to go fucking ballistic, but instead thanks her as politely as possible and walks down another pale beige hallway, to another pale beige doorway.
She peers into his room, wary of what she might find.
But he’s only lying on his bed, fully clothed, curtains pulled, leaving the small room in a kind of gloomy darkness. There is a second bed, neatly made and empty. The room is plain and sterile, not a single bit of Bobby Goren’s personality to be found. No books, no scraps of paper, no pens. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table. She assumes he’s sleeping, so when he speaks, it startles her.
“I just…took my meds, so I don’t know, you know…how long I’ll be…lucid. You could probably tell me anything right now and I won’t remember tomorrow…you could even tell me you love me or something…” He trails off with a small laugh, and her breath hitches in her chest. She can’t tell if he’s looking at her or not. She stands in the doorway, waiting for something. Her breathing sounds too loud. “You…you can come in, you know. I won’t hurt you.” He thinks this is funny, but Alex doesn’t even crack a smile. She feels like crying again, but in all honesty, she’s too tired and sore to do pretty much anything except keep herself vertical. The bed actually looks very inviting. She crosses the room to stand beside it, looks down at him. He looks vulnerable and nervous and oddly young in the dim light. She reaches down and smoothes his hair back off his forehead. He needs it cut. She supposes they do that kind of thing here. Or, maybe not, scissors, and all.
“Bobby…about what you were saying before.”
“Doesn’t matter. Don’t even remember, really.”
“Bullshit,” she says softly, and he laughs, a real laugh, which makes her smile a real smile. “I would never…I will never…betray you in any way. You must know that. Just tell me you know that, okay? Please?”
He takes her hand, at last, and pulls her down so she’s sitting beside him. He reaches up towards her face, as if to touch, but stops just short of contact. His hand is trembling and she’s about to comment on this when he takes her hand in his instead, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, over and over. She stares at their entwined hands, mesmerized by the small, sensual movements. Their breathing evens out at the same time, quiet and steady.
“Some mess, huh?” he says at last.
“Stupid, fucking mess,” she agrees.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I’m s-sorry.”
Ohgod. Sorry. She shakes her head and is about to speak when-
“And, I’m really…glad you’re not dead,” he says, and his words are starting to slur a bit, his eyes close a bit. She wonders what the hell they’re giving him.
“Me, too.”
The movement of his thumb slows, then stops, then starts up again, then stops, but he doesn’t let go of her hand.
“You know,” he says, suddenly. “This isn’t…such a bad place…for me. Maybe it’s just…what I need. I really could use…a rest. And maybe some fucking…therapy.”
She starts crying in earnest then, all the tears she’s been blinking back, pushing back, and her ribs hurt so much. She pulls her hand free from his and places it on the side of his face, pressing as hard as she can against the soft, warm skin.
“Don’t leave me, okay? Don’t you dare…leave me.” Her tears are mixed in with her snot and under any other circumstances she would be humiliated, but right now she’s so tired. “Don’t…fucking leave me-”
She keeps pressing, squeezing, keeping everything that is essentially Bobby inside him. When she thinks he’s maybe heard her, even a little, she lays her head down on his chest and cries. After a moment she feels his fingers touching her head, tentative, then more firmly, stroking her hair from the top of her head to the ends of the strands, then again, over and over. She’s made the front of his shirt wet and rather slimy. They’re quiet for a bit. She tries to concentrate on nothing else but his fingers in her hair and the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her cheek.
She can hear noises, hospital noises, above the quiet, nurses talking and laughing in the hallway, the clang of a metal cart; in the distance someone is yelling.
“I don’t know how you’re gonna fix this one, Eames. How are you gonna save me this time?”
She laughs, wetly. His hand feels so nice in her hair. Another first, she realizes.
“I’m going to…I’m going to get you a lawyer, and you’re going to give me power of attorney, and then I’m going to get you out of here, all right?”
She sits up, takes his hand and squeezes it, hard.
“Just…promise me…promise me you’ll stay.”
“Sure, Eames. Sure.” He smiles, lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it, very briefly. It’s dark. She can’t see his face. She can’t see anything. His voice, when he speaks, could be coming from anywhere. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s really nowhere for me to go.”
//
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
//
He is hurting her, badly, but she doesn’t care, because damn if she’s even going to think about pulling away from him now, when they’ve never done this before, never even come close, never done anything more than brushed arms in passing, and this, it feels so good, except for her ribs, her arm, her bruises. Fuck. It doesn’t matter, though, because he has his arms around her and he’s real and he knows who she is. She had thought, for one horrifying moment, that he might just smile at her politely but vacantly (Hello, there. I’m Bobby. And, you are?), before looking away, to smile politely and vacantly at someone else.
So. He remembers her, and he seems happy to see her, because he’s holding her so very tightly in his lap, against his chest, with his head pressed to her shoulder and she practically has her lips on his neck. He has enveloped her with his being, his smell, his essence, and she really, really doesn’t want to move, despite the persistent aching in almost every part of her body. He’s very warm and rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, and she thinks she could fall asleep like this. Time spins out. She almost forgets where they are, because she really doesn’t want to remember.
For a moment she even considers whispering Run into his ear, grabbing his hand and the two of them just taking off, making a break for it, knocking down anyone and anything in their way, nurses and patients, locked doors. But then what? She doesn’t even have a damn car (Hi, Dad? Come get me…oh, and Bobby, too?), and what a pair they’d make, she with her taped ribs and sprained arm, and Bobby with his glazed expression and institution-issue slippers, wandering aimlessly around New York, waiting for someone to take pity on them.
The nurse pokes her head around the corner and makes a clucking sound of stern disapproval and Bobby’s entire body goes tense, like they’re teenagers caught necking on the front porch after curfew, so Alex slides off his lap reluctantly and sits beside him, close, but not touching. They don’t speak and don’t look at one another for awhile. She very much wants to take his hand, but the moment has passed and it suddenly feels awkward between them. He clears his throat, presses his hands down flat on his thighs.
“Your face,” he whispers, glancing sideways at her, then away, then back again. His jaw tenses.
“It’s okay. I’m…fine. Looks worse than it feels.”
“Bullshit.” He is speaking so quietly she has to lean closer to hear him. “I remember, you know. I remember…what happened. The drugs…keep me from thinking too clearly. But, I remember. It’s just when I saw you…I forgot for a moment, because I thought…”
“That I was dead.”
He nods.
She wants to say sorry, wants to scream it, and the word is actually in her mouth before she realizes it’s just too small and useless for what she’s feeling. Sorry, Bobby. Sorry for not listening to you, for not taking your warnings seriously, sorry that you cared enough about me to kill Nagy in a blind fury, sorry for you ending up in here, for no one telling you I hadn’t actually died.
Sorry, for everything, including the fact that I have nothing else to offer other than this completely fucking, inadequate, stupid word.
“Bobby-”
“Eames. What…what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you. I wanted to…see you.”
He smiles. It’s not a nice smile.
“I think…I think you’re here because you know what I did.”
“What?”
He still will not look directly at her. She stares at the side of his too-pale face.
“You…you watched the surveillance video. Right? You saw it. When? Yesterday, right? After you left the hospital…you sat in a dark room at the precinct with Ross and…what’s that geeky guy’s name…John? The three of you sat there and watched me kill a man and you put on your brave face, barely moving a muscle. No one watching you would think it bothered you in the least. Then you went home and, and had a shower…no, a bath, because of your arm, and then you finally cried and then you went to bed and had nightmares about it…about m-me.”
She’s stunned, and more than a little pissed off.
“Did Ross-”
“No, Eames. No.” He smiles that horrible smile again. “Of course you watched it. Of course. You had to know. You had to see for yourself what I did, what I’m capable of-”
“That is not true. Ross made me, Bobby. He wanted me-”
“-and now you know, right? You know. You saw with your own eyes what I did, what I can do.” He chokes on the last words.
She does not like where this is going. At all.
“Bobby, listen to me. Watching what happened helped me realize how…how bad it was, how dangerous it was. It helped me remember, and no one could blame you-” She tries to take his hand now but he pulls away. He pulls away and clenches his hands into fists on his legs.
“Oh, but they do blame me, or maybe you haven’t heard.” He looks at her then. His eyes are haggard. “Would you like me to give you a tour, Eames? I’m in a mental institution.”
“I’m going to get you out, I promise.”
“How?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. She can’t answer that yet and he knows it.
“I’m not crazy, Eames-”
“I know-”
“You know. But what…you came here to…see for yourself? Sign the papers that will put me away forever?” He’s staring at the carpet. Green with pale green flowers. Ugly, ugly carpet.
“No. No! Of course not, Bobby. Come on.”
“But, hey, I trust you.” He shrugs. “We’re partners, right? You got my back. If you think that’s what’s best for me-”
“Would you just stop it, please? God!” She’s yelling. She needs to not yell at him, and she needs to especially not yell at him in here. But what is he doing?. Her fingers twist in her lap, pulling at the bottom of her sweater. She chews on her lower lip. When she looks up, he’s watching her. He speaks very slowly, deliberately, as to a dense child.
“I didn’t have a psychotic break, Eames. I’m not schizophrenic…yet. I don’t hear voices, or see things that aren’t there. The only thing I saw was you…you…” He’s trying not to cry now. “I saw you through that window…and I thought-”
“I know, Bobby-” She just wants to crawl back into his lap and wrap her good arm around him and not let go. She wants to put her mouth on his and kiss him over and over until he’s so breathless he’ll stop fucking talking-
“And I don’t deserve to be here, I know that, but I don’t deserve to be…around normal people either. Good, decent people. I don’t deserve to be around you.”
He looks back down, starts picking at an invisible spot on his jeans.
She stops. “That’s…that’s ridiculous. That’s…don’t even say that.”
“Really? Why not?” He shakes his head in frustration. “You really think…no matter what happens, whether I get out of here or not, or you know, serve time in jail or not, that things will ever be the same again?” He looks at her directly and this time he is crying, or at least there are tears, but he’s not letting them go anywhere, and he’s staring at her like he’s seeing her for the first time, and like he’s never going to see her again. “You…you think we’re gonna work together again? Really? Be partners? You think anyone’s gonna let that happen? Because if that’s what you think, you’re living in a bigger fucking dreamworld than me.”
And that’s when the damn nurse shows up and tells Alex she needs to talk to her right now, and to please follow her right now.
“Bobby…I don’t know what this is about, but I’ll be back, okay? Just…I’ll be back and we’ll talk some more.” She stands and stares down at him. “Okay?”
He laughs and lifts his hands. “Hey. You know where to find me.”
//
Alex has to move quickly to keep up with the nurse. They stride down several hallways that all look exactly the same, all painted the same pale beige. They stop in front of a pale beige door with J. HARROW stamped on the nameplate.
“Dr. Harrow is Mr. Goren’s attending physician. He just wants a few words with you before he makes his rounds.”
Alex nods and steps inside. Dr. J. Harrow is tall and thin with a thin, pointed face. He looks mean. He smiles briefly, shakes Alex’s hand, motions for her to sit.
“I was just visiting with Bobby and I had a few questions-”
“Actually Ms.- ”
“Detective-”
“-Eames, it’s good you’re here.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, you’re listed as Mr.- ”
“Detective-”
“-Goren’s contact, but a Frank Goren is listed as next of kin. We have been, as yet, unable to reach this Frank Goren.”
“That’s because he died. Recently.”
“Ah.” Harrow makes some notes. “And you have been, until recently, unavailable as well, I understand.” He reads something. “You were…in the hospital?”
“Yes. I was just released yesterday.”
The doctor looks up and peers at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “I see. And…Mr. Goren…he did this to you?” He waves at her face, her arm.
Alex closes her eyes, bites the inside of her cheek. “Are you serious?” She forces herself to stay calm. “Have you not received any of the police reports? Do you people even know what happened, why he’s here?”
Harrow stiffens at this, shuffles his papers. “We have some of the information, of course, but it’s been most difficult getting in touch with people who can help us. We’ve spoken at length with a Captain Ross, but aside from that, there seem to be few people directly related to…the incident who are able, or willing, to assist us. When Mr. Goren was brought in, he himself was…most uncooperative, as you can probably imagine. He was sedated almost immediately and has been kept on rather high doses of diazepam and alprazolam since. He’s given the therapist very little to work with.”
It’s hard to talk coherently when you’re drugged to the gills, she thinks.
“And…that’s it? That’s all you plan to do for him?”
“Well, there are certain police procedures we are subject to. It’s my understanding he could still face jail time. But, that’s not my concern.”
“Of course not.”
He looks at her.
“I can go over some of our proposed treatment plans with you,” he says, “but until Mr. Goren gives you power of medical attorney, you can’t make any medical or legal decisions on his behalf.”
“So…you people just decide? On your own?”
“That’s how it works.”
“Then I’ll go talk to him right now.” She moves to stand, when Harrow holds up a hand.
“Well, that’s a problem, you see. Mr. Goren has obviously already been admitted to a psychiatric facility because his state of mind is in question. He’s no longer able to appoint power of attorney on his own.”
“This is fucking unbelievable.”
Harrow raises his eyebrows.
“It’s my, uh, understanding that Mr. Goren killed a man, less than two weeks ago…with his bare hands.”
Alex stares at him. “Yes?”
Harrow clears his throat, folds his hands on his desk.
“Well, I think retaining a lawyer for him would only be in his best interest…don’t you?”
//
As soon as he’s sure she’s gone, he counts to 10 (still able to do that at least good boy we’ll try for 11 next time), gets to his feet and staggers from the room. He feels drunk and dizzy and for once he can’t blame the medication. He hates the dayroom and he’s always getting dumped in there when the nurses can’t figure out where else to put him, but now he will forever associate it with Eames, with seeing her again, with holding her on his lap, with her breath on his throat, with-
Eames. Alive. Eames is alive. He might vomit. He might pass out. He might whoop and holler for joy. Instead he forces himself to walk as steadily as possible (mustn’t make a scene they don’t like scenes here no they don’t), one hand sliding along the hallway wall for guidance and strength and his legs holding him miraculously upright as he tries to figure out where to go to think, to think about what the fuck just happened.
Eames is alive. Eames is alive.
How, how is that possible? He had watched, he had seen with his own eyes. She was dead. She was dead and he had helped kill her by allowing her to enter that room alone, alone with a madman.
(If you feel him starting to…to get angry, just back off, all right? Seriously. Just-)
Great fucking advice, very helpful. And now he’s the madman, locked up, away from society. Funny fucking world it was.
He needs to think. He needs to-
There. The Chapel. A little spiritual guidance never hurt, right? And if anyone needs some fucking guidance at the moment, it’s Bobby Whack-Job Goren. He pushes his way inside. It’s dim and cool and empty. He collapses into a pew at the very back, lays his head down on the back of the seat in front of him, and hyperventilates for awhile.
He closes his eyes and calls up her image. Her face. Her poor, beautiful, broken fucking face, all purple and yellow and swollen and how when she got close enough he wanted to just kiss it all over, and her lips and her breath against his throat, almost enough to make him hard (but not quite fucking medication), but it’s more than that, more than anything as base as his sex drive. Holding her like that, for the first time ever, he’d been overpowered by another emotion, one he’d always felt but had always kept at arm’s length, until recently, of course, when he had failed rather spectacularly: the urge to kill anyone who hurt her.
(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and and run and-)
And it’s the same question his therapist asks on an almost daily basis, but one which Bobby chooses not to answer. Well, he doesn’t answer any questions, really, he doesn’t say much at all, but it’s a question he refuses to answer even to himself: Why had he killed Nagy for Eames? She’s his partner. His work partner. Why had his first reaction been so immediate, so violent, so all-consuming?
Because. Because-
Too close, too hard. He shakes his head and thinks about something else instead. He thinks about Eames again and how there’s more, he knows. Something else hurts her. He suspects her ribs, but she’s said nothing, and he hasn’t asked, yet, but the way she tensed when he pulled her into his lap and clutched her to him like a drowning man makes him think it has to be her ribs, one, maybe two, and fuck he’s glad that fucker is dead and gone.
(I just think…I think this guy is…unstable…)
And the tape. That fucking tape. As soon as he’d laid eyes on her, as soon as he saw how she was looking at him, he knew. He knew. And now she knew and now what? She would always stick by him, of course, it was both her best and her worst fault, and it would be the end of her one day, might be the end of her now, but the thought of her watching, sitting there with fucking Ross and John? And watching it all play out again in stark black and white as he charged into the room (STOPSTOPRIGHTNOW) and grabbed Nagy and threw him down over and over and over and-
Oh, god. Or, whoever. Patron Saint of Perpetual Fuck-Ups, please hear me now-
He sits alone in the dark and quiet nondenominational psychiatric hospital chapel, and tries to pray, in his way, but instead ends up dropping his head heavily into his hands and his whole body shakes as he sobs like his heart is being cracked wide open.
//
When she gets back to the dayroom he’s gone, of course. She stands staring at the couch where they’d been sitting not half an hour ago and wonders if any of it had happened at all. Another nurse, not the fast-walking, disapproving one, tells her his room number, and warns her visiting hours are almost over. Alex would like to warn everyone in the place that she’s about to go fucking ballistic, but instead thanks her as politely as possible and walks down another pale beige hallway, to another pale beige doorway.
She peers into his room, wary of what she might find.
But he’s only lying on his bed, fully clothed, curtains pulled, leaving the small room in a kind of gloomy darkness. There is a second bed, neatly made and empty. The room is plain and sterile, not a single bit of Bobby Goren’s personality to be found. No books, no scraps of paper, no pens. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table. She assumes he’s sleeping, so when he speaks, it startles her.
“I just…took my meds, so I don’t know, you know…how long I’ll be…lucid. You could probably tell me anything right now and I won’t remember tomorrow…you could even tell me you love me or something…” He trails off with a small laugh, and her breath hitches in her chest. She can’t tell if he’s looking at her or not. She stands in the doorway, waiting for something. Her breathing sounds too loud. “You…you can come in, you know. I won’t hurt you.” He thinks this is funny, but Alex doesn’t even crack a smile. She feels like crying again, but in all honesty, she’s too tired and sore to do pretty much anything except keep herself vertical. The bed actually looks very inviting. She crosses the room to stand beside it, looks down at him. He looks vulnerable and nervous and oddly young in the dim light. She reaches down and smoothes his hair back off his forehead. He needs it cut. She supposes they do that kind of thing here. Or, maybe not, scissors, and all.
“Bobby…about what you were saying before.”
“Doesn’t matter. Don’t even remember, really.”
“Bullshit,” she says softly, and he laughs, a real laugh, which makes her smile a real smile. “I would never…I will never…betray you in any way. You must know that. Just tell me you know that, okay? Please?”
He takes her hand, at last, and pulls her down so she’s sitting beside him. He reaches up towards her face, as if to touch, but stops just short of contact. His hand is trembling and she’s about to comment on this when he takes her hand in his instead, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, over and over. She stares at their entwined hands, mesmerized by the small, sensual movements. Their breathing evens out at the same time, quiet and steady.
“Some mess, huh?” he says at last.
“Stupid, fucking mess,” she agrees.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I’m s-sorry.”
Ohgod. Sorry. She shakes her head and is about to speak when-
“And, I’m really…glad you’re not dead,” he says, and his words are starting to slur a bit, his eyes close a bit. She wonders what the hell they’re giving him.
“Me, too.”
The movement of his thumb slows, then stops, then starts up again, then stops, but he doesn’t let go of her hand.
“You know,” he says, suddenly. “This isn’t…such a bad place…for me. Maybe it’s just…what I need. I really could use…a rest. And maybe some fucking…therapy.”
She starts crying in earnest then, all the tears she’s been blinking back, pushing back, and her ribs hurt so much. She pulls her hand free from his and places it on the side of his face, pressing as hard as she can against the soft, warm skin.
“Don’t leave me, okay? Don’t you dare…leave me.” Her tears are mixed in with her snot and under any other circumstances she would be humiliated, but right now she’s so tired. “Don’t…fucking leave me-”
She keeps pressing, squeezing, keeping everything that is essentially Bobby inside him. When she thinks he’s maybe heard her, even a little, she lays her head down on his chest and cries. After a moment she feels his fingers touching her head, tentative, then more firmly, stroking her hair from the top of her head to the ends of the strands, then again, over and over. She’s made the front of his shirt wet and rather slimy. They’re quiet for a bit. She tries to concentrate on nothing else but his fingers in her hair and the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her cheek.
She can hear noises, hospital noises, above the quiet, nurses talking and laughing in the hallway, the clang of a metal cart; in the distance someone is yelling.
“I don’t know how you’re gonna fix this one, Eames. How are you gonna save me this time?”
She laughs, wetly. His hand feels so nice in her hair. Another first, she realizes.
“I’m going to…I’m going to get you a lawyer, and you’re going to give me power of attorney, and then I’m going to get you out of here, all right?”
She sits up, takes his hand and squeezes it, hard.
“Just…promise me…promise me you’ll stay.”
“Sure, Eames. Sure.” He smiles, lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it, very briefly. It’s dark. She can’t see his face. She can’t see anything. His voice, when he speaks, could be coming from anywhere. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s really nowhere for me to go.”
//
tbc