At five months pregnant...
Goren and Eames sat across from each other in a small deli across from 1PP and quietly ate their sandwiches.
She could see is mind racing with theories about his latest case despite his stillness. The investigation had been on going for a couple of weeks now and she hadn’t seen much of him since it started.
“Are you and Logan staying out of trouble?” she asked.
He looked up at her and faintly smiled.
“I think so…Deakins may disagree.”
“Yeah, I heard he got a little rough with one of the kids you two picked up.”
Goren nodded, fighting annoyance and amusement.
“We picked them up at a pool hall…and one started to resist…so Logan pinned him to the wall with a cue stick,” Goren said. “But in some of the interviews…he acted like their best friend…I haven’t quiet figured him out yet. I still feel like I have to over explain myself…how are you and Barek getting along?”
“Good…I’m a little tired of the Cagney and Lacey comments, but it’s good,” she said. “She kind of reminds me of you…you know, but more subdued.”
He gave her the first toothy smile she had seen in a while.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Good…real good,” she said and absently stroked her growing belly. “Um…I have a doctor’s appointment Friday morning at eight. I was wondering if you want to come?”
“Uh…” his mouth gaped open like a dear in headlights. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she nodded confused by his surprise.
“It’s just you’ve never asked me to go with you before.”
“Well, I kind of figured you knew there was an open invitation…it is your kid too.”
“I know.”
“I know this case has you busy, so if you can’t it’s—“
“I would like to go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…I can pick you up at your apartment.”
Goren nodded. “Okay.”
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Beginnings -- Chapter 5
About two months later...
Eames entered Goren’s apartment and looked around at the dim lighting suspiciously, while the smell of marinara traveled to her nose.
The past month and a half they remained close, spending most of their days and nights together, but continued to dance around the elephant growing in Eames’ belly. They did manage to address it to her family, which for Goren ranked high with his other most uncomfortable moments. Her father was visibly worried and disappointed, but surprisingly Lucas, her older and favorite brother, came to their aid.
Eames leaned against the doorway into the kitchen and watched him as he finished a place setting, then lit a lantern, which she smirked at.
“Hot date?” she asked.
He turned and gave her that boyish smile that made her stomach rumble.
“There’s a slight possibility…but don’t tell my partner. I think she has a crush on me.”
Playful Goren she hadn’t seen since Nicole Wallace reappeared a couple months ago. Eames tried to convince herself it was Nicole’s fault for his short temper lately and not the fact that she had just told him he was going to be a father.
“Too bad for her,” she said as she walked toward him. “A lantern?”
“I…I don’t have candles,” he said and then gestured toward the pot cooling on the stove. “I made eggplant parmesan.”
It was one of her favorites and she was growing more suspicious.
“What’s all this for?”
He shrugged. “I know this case was…rough…I thought we both needed to unwind a little.”
“Have you been drinking?” she laughed.
He smiles. “Uh…no.”
“You just seem so calm.”
“Uh…cooking for some reason does that…”
“Well it smells good.”
He kissed her forehead and then moved to grab the pot.
“I called a lawyer friend of mine today,” he said as he placed the pot on the table. “He’s agreed to meet with Whitlock’s mother-in-law to help her sue for custody of Adam.”
She watched him as he dished out food onto their plates and found her lips curling upward with pride and affection.
She sat down next to him and they began to eat.
“What did he think her chances were?”
“He said it would be tough, but I told him both of us would be willing to testify for her…I didn’t think you would mind.”
“No, of course not. It’s good that you did that.”
“I hope so.” Goren said. “What did you do this afternoon?”
“Went and talked to an old friend,” she said casually.
He nodded and smiled, knowing she meant she went to Joe’s grave.
“Did he give you any insights?” he asked softly to hide the faint hint of jealousy he couldn’t control.
She nodded absently.
“Bobby, I need you to tell me what you’re thinking…just you, not what you think I want you to want.”
He sighed as he sat back in his chair and rubbed his fingers against his lips.
“I don’t know Eames…everything’s been so good since…since that first night. And not just personally…professionally we’ve been better than we ever were…and,” he voice trailed off as he played with the fraying fabric on his knee. “And I don’t want to lose that.”
“Neither do I,” Eames said, with a little more hostility than she intended.
“I know that—“
“But even if we do get split up that doesn’t mean things personally have to change. In fact it could be better…we could actually go out without worrying about who we might run into or who they might tell…maybe it’s a good thing that are hand is being forced.”
“I can’t believe how calm you’ve been about all this.”
“Well, one of us has to be…and I apparently drew the short straw.”
He sat up in his chair with irritation in his eyes that met hers.
“How’d you expect me to react? You drop this bomb in my lap that changes both of our lives…forever…and you—“
“You think you were the only one freaked out about this? Do you have any idea what went through my head when I found out? Of course not…cause you never asked…too wrapped up in being a selfish—“
“Hey! Don’t…you know you could have told me—“
“One of us had to keep it together and…I was scared too. Scared of how it would affect my career, ‘cause not only was I knocked up, but knocked up by partner, the reaction of my family, which wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and you…that you would…”
Her voice trailed and she let out a long sigh, while watching his eyes study the food on is plate.
“That I would run away…” he said softly and rubbed a hand against his chin.
She nodded and took a deep breath to soften her voice. “But see eventually I wasn’t just holding it together…I really was calm and excited and…and I just knew…I knew it would be okay.”
“I want to feel that way,” he said as he caught her yes with his. “I do…I do love you and I want to believe you, but I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this.”
“Goren, you’re forty years old, if you’re not ready now, you’re never going to be,” Eames said, trying to keep her tone light. “Look, if you really don’t want this then tell me and I’ll go…clean break no questions asked, but if you’re just scared of what will happen if you allow yourself to want this, then stop pushing me away.”
He studied her with glassy eyes, and then leaned forward to twine his fingers with hers. The feel of her skin steadied him.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said finally. “The idea of you having…my child…is astounding and horrifying. There’s so much that could go wrong, but I’ll try…I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m not asking you to…I know we’re going about this ass backwards, but maybe it can work…and maybe it won’t, but this…us…it deserves a shot,” Eames said. “And…I love you too. Now let’s actually eat.”
Goren smiled and lightly brushed his lips to hers before returning to his plate.
Eames entered Goren’s apartment and looked around at the dim lighting suspiciously, while the smell of marinara traveled to her nose.
The past month and a half they remained close, spending most of their days and nights together, but continued to dance around the elephant growing in Eames’ belly. They did manage to address it to her family, which for Goren ranked high with his other most uncomfortable moments. Her father was visibly worried and disappointed, but surprisingly Lucas, her older and favorite brother, came to their aid.
Eames leaned against the doorway into the kitchen and watched him as he finished a place setting, then lit a lantern, which she smirked at.
“Hot date?” she asked.
He turned and gave her that boyish smile that made her stomach rumble.
“There’s a slight possibility…but don’t tell my partner. I think she has a crush on me.”
Playful Goren she hadn’t seen since Nicole Wallace reappeared a couple months ago. Eames tried to convince herself it was Nicole’s fault for his short temper lately and not the fact that she had just told him he was going to be a father.
“Too bad for her,” she said as she walked toward him. “A lantern?”
“I…I don’t have candles,” he said and then gestured toward the pot cooling on the stove. “I made eggplant parmesan.”
It was one of her favorites and she was growing more suspicious.
“What’s all this for?”
He shrugged. “I know this case was…rough…I thought we both needed to unwind a little.”
“Have you been drinking?” she laughed.
He smiles. “Uh…no.”
“You just seem so calm.”
“Uh…cooking for some reason does that…”
“Well it smells good.”
He kissed her forehead and then moved to grab the pot.
“I called a lawyer friend of mine today,” he said as he placed the pot on the table. “He’s agreed to meet with Whitlock’s mother-in-law to help her sue for custody of Adam.”
She watched him as he dished out food onto their plates and found her lips curling upward with pride and affection.
She sat down next to him and they began to eat.
“What did he think her chances were?”
“He said it would be tough, but I told him both of us would be willing to testify for her…I didn’t think you would mind.”
“No, of course not. It’s good that you did that.”
“I hope so.” Goren said. “What did you do this afternoon?”
“Went and talked to an old friend,” she said casually.
He nodded and smiled, knowing she meant she went to Joe’s grave.
“Did he give you any insights?” he asked softly to hide the faint hint of jealousy he couldn’t control.
She nodded absently.
“Bobby, I need you to tell me what you’re thinking…just you, not what you think I want you to want.”
He sighed as he sat back in his chair and rubbed his fingers against his lips.
“I don’t know Eames…everything’s been so good since…since that first night. And not just personally…professionally we’ve been better than we ever were…and,” he voice trailed off as he played with the fraying fabric on his knee. “And I don’t want to lose that.”
“Neither do I,” Eames said, with a little more hostility than she intended.
“I know that—“
“But even if we do get split up that doesn’t mean things personally have to change. In fact it could be better…we could actually go out without worrying about who we might run into or who they might tell…maybe it’s a good thing that are hand is being forced.”
“I can’t believe how calm you’ve been about all this.”
“Well, one of us has to be…and I apparently drew the short straw.”
He sat up in his chair with irritation in his eyes that met hers.
“How’d you expect me to react? You drop this bomb in my lap that changes both of our lives…forever…and you—“
“You think you were the only one freaked out about this? Do you have any idea what went through my head when I found out? Of course not…cause you never asked…too wrapped up in being a selfish—“
“Hey! Don’t…you know you could have told me—“
“One of us had to keep it together and…I was scared too. Scared of how it would affect my career, ‘cause not only was I knocked up, but knocked up by partner, the reaction of my family, which wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and you…that you would…”
Her voice trailed and she let out a long sigh, while watching his eyes study the food on is plate.
“That I would run away…” he said softly and rubbed a hand against his chin.
She nodded and took a deep breath to soften her voice. “But see eventually I wasn’t just holding it together…I really was calm and excited and…and I just knew…I knew it would be okay.”
“I want to feel that way,” he said as he caught her yes with his. “I do…I do love you and I want to believe you, but I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this.”
“Goren, you’re forty years old, if you’re not ready now, you’re never going to be,” Eames said, trying to keep her tone light. “Look, if you really don’t want this then tell me and I’ll go…clean break no questions asked, but if you’re just scared of what will happen if you allow yourself to want this, then stop pushing me away.”
He studied her with glassy eyes, and then leaned forward to twine his fingers with hers. The feel of her skin steadied him.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said finally. “The idea of you having…my child…is astounding and horrifying. There’s so much that could go wrong, but I’ll try…I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m not asking you to…I know we’re going about this ass backwards, but maybe it can work…and maybe it won’t, but this…us…it deserves a shot,” Eames said. “And…I love you too. Now let’s actually eat.”
Goren smiled and lightly brushed his lips to hers before returning to his plate.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Beginnings -- Chapter 4
3 months later
Eames paced the length of her living room rug as she waited for Goren to get there. Initially she told him she wanted to be alone, but three hours of gnawing at her thumb nails prompted her to call him.
She heard a knock, his knock, and opened the door to a casual Goren dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey…what’s wrong?” he asked as he followed her into the living room.
She could feel his steady gaze searing into her back.
He was always the anxious one; the one fighting to explain himself, while she was the steady one. She was rarely indecisive or easily spooked. So, why did she so hastily tell him that she wanted to be alone, and then call him to come over barely three hours later?
He listened as she took a deep breath and led him to the sofa. She turned her body toward his once seated and held his hand. He took this a sign of good faith.
“Okay…” Eames sighed. “So you know I went to the doctor this morning because I was gonna go back on the pill…”
“Yeah…” he said with a furrowed brow.
“Well…it looks like…it’s a little late for that.”
She looked up at his eyes, wondering if he was going to make her say the actual words. She’d never seen this fearful, silent face before.
“You’re?”
“Yeah…”
Goren stood and started the same path Eames walked earlier up and down the rug.
“How…how far along?”
“About six weeks.”
She propped her arm over the sofa and rubbed her forehead. Her stomach seemed to be swirling in step with his pacing.
“How long have you suspected?”
“I didn’t.”
“We’ve been careful.”
“Obviously not careful enough.”
“Wh-what do you want to do?”
She grabbed his wrist and tugged him back to the sofa.
“Please sit,” she pushed him onto the sofa and she sat on the coffee table. “Bobby, I’m thirty-six years old, I may not get another chance at this…and ever since…”
Goren tapped his fingers against his knee and kept his eyes on her joined hands.
“I knew…I could tell you wanted kids after you had your nephew, but we’ve never discussed this…I don’t know if I…we haven’t even told anyone that we’re together and…”
“Look, I’m prepared to do this on my own—“
“No—“
“I don’t want you here out of obligation.”
“It’s not that I don’t want this…there’s just a lot to consider. Work, your family…my mom,” he said then met her eyes. “You know it’ll have a greater chance…”
“I know,” she said reaching behind her for a group of papers. “I’ve been reading about it since I got home.”
He tentatively took the print outs from her and thumbed through them.
“You read all of this?”
She nodded. “I may not spend hours at the library, but I can do research. Listen, I’m not being naïve about this, but the fact that you or your brother has never shown signs means there’s a good chance that your children wouldn’t either.”
Eames could feel him thinking and with her gaze attempted to sooth him into believing it would be okay; that one way or another things would work out.
“You really want this…with me.”
“Yes, I do.”
He exhaled and placed his hands on her knees.
“How long do you want to wait to tell everyone?”
His voice was flat, trying to hide his concerns, but it was still something.
“I figure we have a couple months before we have to.”
He slid his hands up to her hips as he leaned his forehead to her shoulder and she draped her arms around his. She lightly kissed his cheek and then buried her nose in the crook of his neck.
He focused on the light strings of air tickling his neck and wanted desperately to believe her.
“Eames, I don’t want you to be upset with me but…I’m gonna need some time to get my head around all of this.”
“I know…it’s okay.”
“I—“ Goren began to open his mouth again when his cell started to ring.
They let go of each other and he fished his phone out of his pocket.
“Goren,” he answered and paused to listen. “Okay…no, I’ll call her.”
She rubbed her face against her hands before looking back at him, as if putting on a new face.
“So?” she asked as he put his phone back in this pocket.
“Uh…there’s a body in the subway…looks like he just collapse after stealing some diamonds from a jewelry store near the station…looks like an accomplice got away with the goods.”
“How considerate.”
He rose and headed toward her bedroom.
“I still have a suit here, right?”
“Near the back of the closet,” she called as she followed after him.
Eames paced the length of her living room rug as she waited for Goren to get there. Initially she told him she wanted to be alone, but three hours of gnawing at her thumb nails prompted her to call him.
She heard a knock, his knock, and opened the door to a casual Goren dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey…what’s wrong?” he asked as he followed her into the living room.
She could feel his steady gaze searing into her back.
He was always the anxious one; the one fighting to explain himself, while she was the steady one. She was rarely indecisive or easily spooked. So, why did she so hastily tell him that she wanted to be alone, and then call him to come over barely three hours later?
He listened as she took a deep breath and led him to the sofa. She turned her body toward his once seated and held his hand. He took this a sign of good faith.
“Okay…” Eames sighed. “So you know I went to the doctor this morning because I was gonna go back on the pill…”
“Yeah…” he said with a furrowed brow.
“Well…it looks like…it’s a little late for that.”
She looked up at his eyes, wondering if he was going to make her say the actual words. She’d never seen this fearful, silent face before.
“You’re?”
“Yeah…”
Goren stood and started the same path Eames walked earlier up and down the rug.
“How…how far along?”
“About six weeks.”
She propped her arm over the sofa and rubbed her forehead. Her stomach seemed to be swirling in step with his pacing.
“How long have you suspected?”
“I didn’t.”
“We’ve been careful.”
“Obviously not careful enough.”
“Wh-what do you want to do?”
She grabbed his wrist and tugged him back to the sofa.
“Please sit,” she pushed him onto the sofa and she sat on the coffee table. “Bobby, I’m thirty-six years old, I may not get another chance at this…and ever since…”
Goren tapped his fingers against his knee and kept his eyes on her joined hands.
“I knew…I could tell you wanted kids after you had your nephew, but we’ve never discussed this…I don’t know if I…we haven’t even told anyone that we’re together and…”
“Look, I’m prepared to do this on my own—“
“No—“
“I don’t want you here out of obligation.”
“It’s not that I don’t want this…there’s just a lot to consider. Work, your family…my mom,” he said then met her eyes. “You know it’ll have a greater chance…”
“I know,” she said reaching behind her for a group of papers. “I’ve been reading about it since I got home.”
He tentatively took the print outs from her and thumbed through them.
“You read all of this?”
She nodded. “I may not spend hours at the library, but I can do research. Listen, I’m not being naïve about this, but the fact that you or your brother has never shown signs means there’s a good chance that your children wouldn’t either.”
Eames could feel him thinking and with her gaze attempted to sooth him into believing it would be okay; that one way or another things would work out.
“You really want this…with me.”
“Yes, I do.”
He exhaled and placed his hands on her knees.
“How long do you want to wait to tell everyone?”
His voice was flat, trying to hide his concerns, but it was still something.
“I figure we have a couple months before we have to.”
He slid his hands up to her hips as he leaned his forehead to her shoulder and she draped her arms around his. She lightly kissed his cheek and then buried her nose in the crook of his neck.
He focused on the light strings of air tickling his neck and wanted desperately to believe her.
“Eames, I don’t want you to be upset with me but…I’m gonna need some time to get my head around all of this.”
“I know…it’s okay.”
“I—“ Goren began to open his mouth again when his cell started to ring.
They let go of each other and he fished his phone out of his pocket.
“Goren,” he answered and paused to listen. “Okay…no, I’ll call her.”
She rubbed her face against her hands before looking back at him, as if putting on a new face.
“So?” she asked as he put his phone back in this pocket.
“Uh…there’s a body in the subway…looks like he just collapse after stealing some diamonds from a jewelry store near the station…looks like an accomplice got away with the goods.”
“How considerate.”
He rose and headed toward her bedroom.
“I still have a suit here, right?”
“Near the back of the closet,” she called as she followed after him.
Beginnings -- Chapter 3
A month later
Goren walked up to Eames’ modest bungalow in Rockaway. He heard the faint sound of music seep through the cracks in the door frame; he was pretty sure it was The Smiths.
He rang the bell and listened to the locks discharge.
A messy Eames appeared in the doorway wearing gray yoga pants stained with blue paint and a frayed blue cami. He loved the fact that he was welcome into these hidden sides of her, which he either never saw before or tried to ignore.
“Hey,” she said. “I thought you were visiting your mom.”
“I…I was. I just got back. Sorry, I should have called.”
“No. It’s fine…come in,” she gestured him inside. “I was just cleaning.”
He followed her toward the living room and she turned down the stereo.
“I didn’t know you liked The Smiths,” Goren said.
He hovered in the doorway with his hands shoved into denim pockets and concentrated on the movement of her shoulder blades before she turned to face him.
She smirked. “I didn’t know you knew who they were.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Morrissey…has an interesting view of the world and some of his references are fairly obscure.”
She smirked, thinking naturally that’s why he would like them, and curled up in a chair to watched Goren in the doorway.
“Are you okay?” Eames asked.
He nodded and scratched the back of his neck as he wandered further into the room.
“Yeah…we just haven’t talked since we left Carver’s office yesterday,” he said.
“Didn’t seem like there was much to say.”
“I take it your still mad at me.”
“I was never mad at you.”
“You were upset.”
“I just…I don’t understand why you went to bat for him. You said it yourself that he would do it again.”
“But he didn’t do it out of malice,” he said pacing in front of her. “He did it out of desperation.”
“Bobby, he drilled a hole in a girl’s head and poured water on her brain. All of us have moments of need and desperation but—“
“It’s more than just the yearning…it’s the hopelessness,” he sat down on the edge of the coffee table to meet her eyes. “To be alone for so long, to not have anyone to talk to or to help you…to feel you have to hide what you are so as not to be rejected. It…it’s maddening.”
For the briefest of moments she saw that desperation in the dark eyes seated in front of her and felt the understanding come over her, accompanied by a slight sadness as she leaned forward in her chair.
“And…that’s how you felt as a kid,” she said cautiously.
Goren started to pace again and rubbed his hand along his chin and jaw. Eames followed him and caught his wrist. She put herself in front of him and placed her hands on his chest. He didn’t look up at her, but covered her hands with his own and made circles with his thumbs.
He lifted his eyes from their hands to her eyes.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I was never as…isolated as Tagman, but…I know that sadness…of just needing…someone.”
“Hey,” Eames said and snaked her hands up to his neck. “You can talk to me, you know, about your mom…or whatever. You don’t have to, but you can.”
He ran a hand through her hair and tucked a piece behind her ear.
He nodded. “Today…today was a bad day. I just…I really wanted to see you.”
She pulled his lips down to hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“You want to stay and make me dinner?” she smiled against his lips.
He laughed and stood straight, grateful that she knew he wasn’t ready to say more.
“Do you have anything to make dinner with?”
“You’re resourceful. You’ll figure something out.”
“I could take you out.”
“What like an actual date?”
“We’ve gone out before.”
“No…we’ve gone to grab a bite after wrapping up a case.”
“Okay…well we could remedy that.”
Eames softly shook her head. “Let’s just stay here.”
Goren smiled. “You don’t feel like getting dressed do you?”
“Not at all.”
Goren nodded and made his way to rummage through the kitchen. He discovered some pasta
and canned sauce, which he added some spices and mushrooms to.
They sat hip to hip on the sofa as they ate and watched a movie. Their plates gradually made their way to the coffee table and Eames began to doze off on his shoulder.
She was warm and lazy, seemingly unaware of his presence.
“Eames,” he whispered into her hair.
“I’m awake.”
He quietly laughed. “Do you want me to go?”
She looked up and rested her chin on his shoulder.
“I figured you were going to stay…unless you’re uncomfortable.”
“No, I’d like to stay.”
She nodded. “It’s just we always end up at you’re place.”
“Well, it’s closer to work…” he said then studied her eyes. “Are you comfortable with me staying here?”
“I want you to stay…but I also…”
“Feel guilty?” he offered. “Because…because of Joe.”
She nodded. “It’s silly…I mean it’s been six years…”
“It’s not silly…it’s loyalty. You shared his house with him…if you want me to stay I will and I understand if you’re not ready for me to.”
“You’re going to make me make all the tough decisions, aren’t you,” she said through a smile.
He watched her conflicted eyes speak silently to his and understood that she needed him to lead on this one.
“I want to stay.”
“Okay.”
She slid her chin off this shoulder, guiding her temple back to take its place and returned to a light, warm sleep.
Goren walked up to Eames’ modest bungalow in Rockaway. He heard the faint sound of music seep through the cracks in the door frame; he was pretty sure it was The Smiths.
He rang the bell and listened to the locks discharge.
A messy Eames appeared in the doorway wearing gray yoga pants stained with blue paint and a frayed blue cami. He loved the fact that he was welcome into these hidden sides of her, which he either never saw before or tried to ignore.
“Hey,” she said. “I thought you were visiting your mom.”
“I…I was. I just got back. Sorry, I should have called.”
“No. It’s fine…come in,” she gestured him inside. “I was just cleaning.”
He followed her toward the living room and she turned down the stereo.
“I didn’t know you liked The Smiths,” Goren said.
He hovered in the doorway with his hands shoved into denim pockets and concentrated on the movement of her shoulder blades before she turned to face him.
She smirked. “I didn’t know you knew who they were.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Morrissey…has an interesting view of the world and some of his references are fairly obscure.”
She smirked, thinking naturally that’s why he would like them, and curled up in a chair to watched Goren in the doorway.
“Are you okay?” Eames asked.
He nodded and scratched the back of his neck as he wandered further into the room.
“Yeah…we just haven’t talked since we left Carver’s office yesterday,” he said.
“Didn’t seem like there was much to say.”
“I take it your still mad at me.”
“I was never mad at you.”
“You were upset.”
“I just…I don’t understand why you went to bat for him. You said it yourself that he would do it again.”
“But he didn’t do it out of malice,” he said pacing in front of her. “He did it out of desperation.”
“Bobby, he drilled a hole in a girl’s head and poured water on her brain. All of us have moments of need and desperation but—“
“It’s more than just the yearning…it’s the hopelessness,” he sat down on the edge of the coffee table to meet her eyes. “To be alone for so long, to not have anyone to talk to or to help you…to feel you have to hide what you are so as not to be rejected. It…it’s maddening.”
For the briefest of moments she saw that desperation in the dark eyes seated in front of her and felt the understanding come over her, accompanied by a slight sadness as she leaned forward in her chair.
“And…that’s how you felt as a kid,” she said cautiously.
Goren started to pace again and rubbed his hand along his chin and jaw. Eames followed him and caught his wrist. She put herself in front of him and placed her hands on his chest. He didn’t look up at her, but covered her hands with his own and made circles with his thumbs.
He lifted his eyes from their hands to her eyes.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I was never as…isolated as Tagman, but…I know that sadness…of just needing…someone.”
“Hey,” Eames said and snaked her hands up to his neck. “You can talk to me, you know, about your mom…or whatever. You don’t have to, but you can.”
He ran a hand through her hair and tucked a piece behind her ear.
He nodded. “Today…today was a bad day. I just…I really wanted to see you.”
She pulled his lips down to hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“You want to stay and make me dinner?” she smiled against his lips.
He laughed and stood straight, grateful that she knew he wasn’t ready to say more.
“Do you have anything to make dinner with?”
“You’re resourceful. You’ll figure something out.”
“I could take you out.”
“What like an actual date?”
“We’ve gone out before.”
“No…we’ve gone to grab a bite after wrapping up a case.”
“Okay…well we could remedy that.”
Eames softly shook her head. “Let’s just stay here.”
Goren smiled. “You don’t feel like getting dressed do you?”
“Not at all.”
Goren nodded and made his way to rummage through the kitchen. He discovered some pasta
and canned sauce, which he added some spices and mushrooms to.
They sat hip to hip on the sofa as they ate and watched a movie. Their plates gradually made their way to the coffee table and Eames began to doze off on his shoulder.
She was warm and lazy, seemingly unaware of his presence.
“Eames,” he whispered into her hair.
“I’m awake.”
He quietly laughed. “Do you want me to go?”
She looked up and rested her chin on his shoulder.
“I figured you were going to stay…unless you’re uncomfortable.”
“No, I’d like to stay.”
She nodded. “It’s just we always end up at you’re place.”
“Well, it’s closer to work…” he said then studied her eyes. “Are you comfortable with me staying here?”
“I want you to stay…but I also…”
“Feel guilty?” he offered. “Because…because of Joe.”
She nodded. “It’s silly…I mean it’s been six years…”
“It’s not silly…it’s loyalty. You shared his house with him…if you want me to stay I will and I understand if you’re not ready for me to.”
“You’re going to make me make all the tough decisions, aren’t you,” she said through a smile.
He watched her conflicted eyes speak silently to his and understood that she needed him to lead on this one.
“I want to stay.”
“Okay.”
She slid her chin off this shoulder, guiding her temple back to take its place and returned to a light, warm sleep.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Beginnings -- Chapter 2
A couple months later
Neldah was a cultured, intelligent, and delicate woman, all of which were traits Goren had seemed to be attracted to in the past. She was also a murderer, a fact Eames was desperately trying to comfort herself with.
Eames was certainly no murderer, but she also had never heard the terms “cultured” or “delicate” used in a sentence with her name attached. Tough, smart, and sarcastic, she heard plenty. So, why was this well traveled, ridiculously well read, beautiful man sitting in a Thai diner with her and not out finding a non-murderous Neldah?
The pair sat in the back booth and Eames picked at her chicken pad Thai with a plastic fork. She could feel his eyes on her from the opposite side and he leaned slightly across the table.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You know Deakins was worried you were getting to close to her.”
He watched her with parted lips and a raised brow. She hated that look because she knew in that one glance he could strip her completely naked.
“And…and so did you,” he said. “Eames—“
“Bobby, I’ve watched you flirt with suspects before. This was different…given the right situation you could have—“
“She’s a murderer…and I’m with you.”
“But if she wasn’t? I’ve seen some of your old girlfriends and she fits the bill a hell of a lot better than me—“
“So what the hell have we been doing the past two months?”
“I don’t know. That’s the point. We keep saying we’re going to sit down and talk about our…relationship or whatever this is—“
“Whatever this is?” Goren’s voice rose. “What do think that…that I’ve been using you?”
She was surprised by the hurt in his voice, but didn’t soften her own.
“Were you attracted to her?”
“So what if I was. It doesn’t mean that I would automatically want to pursue a relationship with her or anything else for that matter…and I know I would never love her.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Yes! I do, because I—“ he pressed a hand to his lips, pushing the words back in.
“What? You what?”
He lowered his hand and caught her eyes with his.
“Because I love you…I’m in love with you.”
Eames sat back in her seat. “I…”
“I’ve never…I’ve never been good at saying the words, but I’ve wanted to for…for a while…and please say something.”
“I…I guess were having that talk.”
He gave her an unsure smile.
“I’m sorry if I took it too far with Neldah. I never intended to worry or hurt you…”
“Can you take me home?”
“Uh…what?”
She pulled out some cash from her pocket and placed it on the table. Then she slid from her side of the booth to his and twined her fingers with his.
“I’m not good with the words either.”
He studied her for a moment with that same naked look and then followed her lead as they walked hand-in-hand to his apartment.
Neldah was a cultured, intelligent, and delicate woman, all of which were traits Goren had seemed to be attracted to in the past. She was also a murderer, a fact Eames was desperately trying to comfort herself with.
Eames was certainly no murderer, but she also had never heard the terms “cultured” or “delicate” used in a sentence with her name attached. Tough, smart, and sarcastic, she heard plenty. So, why was this well traveled, ridiculously well read, beautiful man sitting in a Thai diner with her and not out finding a non-murderous Neldah?
The pair sat in the back booth and Eames picked at her chicken pad Thai with a plastic fork. She could feel his eyes on her from the opposite side and he leaned slightly across the table.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You know Deakins was worried you were getting to close to her.”
He watched her with parted lips and a raised brow. She hated that look because she knew in that one glance he could strip her completely naked.
“And…and so did you,” he said. “Eames—“
“Bobby, I’ve watched you flirt with suspects before. This was different…given the right situation you could have—“
“She’s a murderer…and I’m with you.”
“But if she wasn’t? I’ve seen some of your old girlfriends and she fits the bill a hell of a lot better than me—“
“So what the hell have we been doing the past two months?”
“I don’t know. That’s the point. We keep saying we’re going to sit down and talk about our…relationship or whatever this is—“
“Whatever this is?” Goren’s voice rose. “What do think that…that I’ve been using you?”
She was surprised by the hurt in his voice, but didn’t soften her own.
“Were you attracted to her?”
“So what if I was. It doesn’t mean that I would automatically want to pursue a relationship with her or anything else for that matter…and I know I would never love her.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Yes! I do, because I—“ he pressed a hand to his lips, pushing the words back in.
“What? You what?”
He lowered his hand and caught her eyes with his.
“Because I love you…I’m in love with you.”
Eames sat back in her seat. “I…”
“I’ve never…I’ve never been good at saying the words, but I’ve wanted to for…for a while…and please say something.”
“I…I guess were having that talk.”
He gave her an unsure smile.
“I’m sorry if I took it too far with Neldah. I never intended to worry or hurt you…”
“Can you take me home?”
“Uh…what?”
She pulled out some cash from her pocket and placed it on the table. Then she slid from her side of the booth to his and twined her fingers with his.
“I’m not good with the words either.”
He studied her for a moment with that same naked look and then followed her lead as they walked hand-in-hand to his apartment.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Morning After...
A/N: a one shot from Alex's POV that picks up directly after chapter 1 of Beginnings
As I turn my face further into the pillow I slowly become aware of the fact that I am not in my own bed. I smell the subtle scent of my partner’s after shave and notice fingertips skating along my exposed back, which brings back all the memories of last night.
I showed up on my partner’s door, I kissed him, tried to leave, he convinced me to stay, and took me to bed.
I really don’t want to be awake right now because I’m not sure if I’m really ready to deal with this, but I know faking sleep would be futile since he is probably well aware that I am in fact awake.
The natural easiness of last night is much more muddled now that one of us has to voice the question that we both are wondering: what now? What are we now? What do we do if…
There are so many things that could fill in that blank.
What about our jobs? Who do we tell? Is there anything to tell?
Was this just some mistake made out of loneliness and convenience?
This could end so horribly.
He’s my partner, my friend, the last person I should feel these things for and do these things with.
The few sexual encounters I’ve had since Joe’s death have been physically satisfying, but otherwise meaningless. This is different. This is Bobby; a man I understand when most don’t, one who, if necessary, would take a bullet for me, and one who I have started to care deeply for; probably more than I should and definitely more than is allowed.
He doesn’t say anything, he barely moves, but I can feel him watching and waiting for me.
I let out a breath as softly as I can and turn my neck to look at him. He’s on his side, his head propped up on his elbow as he meets my eyes. His hair is tousled and I can’t help but think how adorable he looks.
The certainty that was etched into every one of his features and movements last night is now only partially there and it occurs to me that he is much more insecure than he cares to admit.
He still doesn’t speak and I understand that he’s leaving it up to me; that he’s half expecting me to dissipate into his sheets and will have to accept this as a particularly vivid wet dream. I know this because a part of me is holding my breath as I expect the same thing, but after several seconds that seem like miles turning into years we are both still here in his bed, staring.
“Hi,” I say, finally, but soft enough that he can easily ignore it if he’s not ready to step out of the safety of the little pinhole of a world that we have created in this bed.
His fingers don’t falter in their movements as he says, “Hi,” and then they venture a little lower, as if testing the waters.
I try to swallow the soft gasp I desperately want to let out, hoping he may not notice, but when I see that the certainty in his expression is less fifty/fifty and more like seventy/thirty I know that it wasn't missed.
“Have you been up long?” I ask, thinking that starting with a simple question is best.
He shrugs.
“Uh…a couple hours I guess,” he says.
Something about the idea of him watching me all that time while I slept makes me inwardly squirm with affection, desire, and a little bit of fear.
I just might be falling in love with this man, but I fight the thought, because I know neither of us is really ready to make promises or confessions.
“Uh…did you want to get breakfast…or…” I ask, even though I know it’s lame and inadequate.
“I-I need to leave soon…”
“Oh,” I say a little flustered and about ready to scramble off the bed when I feel his palm cupping my shoulder.
“I-I’m sorry…it’s just…it’s Sunday and I always go up and visit my mom. If I’m late it throws off her schedule…sh-she can get kind of agitated.”
Now I really feel embarrassed at my own insecurities that I’m sure are starting to show.
“Right,” I sigh more than say, then it dawns on me that I do actually have plans today and start searching for a clock. “What time is it?”
“Uh…” he seems a little startled by the suddenness of my question. “Not quite eight…”
I gather the sheets around me, shifting until I am sitting and he follows, studying me with a worried gaze.
“I told my sister I’d baby-sit today…I have to go home if I’m going to make it to her house before eleven,” I say.
He nods and we both stare at each other again; both of us hesitant to get out from under the amour of his sheets.
He stutters something that I don’t really catch and then turns so his back is to me, planting his feet on the floor. He’s officially back in the real world where there’s consequences, questions, and uncertainty.
I watch the muscles of his back flex as he scrubs his palms over his face and then finally take my cue to throw the covers off and get out of his bed.
I find my clothes and slip back into the black dress I had arrived in and I can’t help but think how cliché I am: slipping out of a man’s apartment wearing the same, but now disheveled clothes I had on the night before.
While I dress I hear him rise from the bed and slip into a pair of sweat pants that he pulls from a drawer.
When I turn back to face him he is watching me and wringing his hands together. He finally turns toward the door and I follow him back to the front door.
Neither of us knows what to say as he stands leaning on the now open door and I hover half in and half out of the apartment. I’ll call doesn’t seem genuine and I’ll see you later is too flippant.
I watch his hands hesitate between us, arguing with the rest of him that is too unsure to do what he wants. I take a fraction of a step toward him and hope that it’s enough of an encouragement.
It is, because I feel his palms on my cheeks and then his lips on mine. It’s simple and thankful more so than demanding and more memories from last night begin to flirt with my head.
He pulls back, which I’m not completely prepared for, but his hands are still on me and his thumbs brush back and forth against my cheekbones.
“I should go,” I say.
He nods.
“I know.”
His hands slip back to the space between us and then he watches me leave.
I’m on autopilot as I drive home, get into my house, and then start the shower.
I spend the whole time thinking about him and as I scrub my body clean of any sigh of him, I find myself mourning the loss.
I feel like some idiotic school girl as I wonder what he’s doing.
Has he already left for Carmel Ridge? Did he feel just as naked as I do now, when he washed my scent off of his skin? Is he even thinking about me? Will he call me tonight? Should I call him? Do we both need the distance before we can really process all of this and its meaning?
I force myself out of the shower and get ready to go see my nephew, who’s probably the only other living human being who might be able to get me to stop thinking about Bobby.
Within an hour I am back out the door and make the drive to my sister’s house.
I try to play it cool as I chit chat with Carrie and her husband as they prepare to leave for their day trip and pray that she doesn’t see it.
They finally leave us and it’s just me and Nathan. He’s starting to walk a little, but is still unsteady on his feet and latches on to whatever he can find to pull himself where he wishes to go.
My nerves ease as I watch and play with him. This little boy will probably never understand what he has done to me.
In many ways, after Joe died, I shut down when it came to my personal life.
Nathan has opened a door in me, giving room for someone else to move in. Apparently Bobby sees this and more importantly I’m discovering that I want to invite him in.
We have a quiet but wonderful day and when my sister gets back home Nathan is already down for the night.
I return to my empty house and get ready for bed. Since my distraction is now gone, I can’t help but start to think about Bobby again. I curse my brain for wandering to my partner and then my body for its reaction.
I can’t be this woman. I don’t pine. I don’t get googely-eyed. Why can he do this to me? I never thought of him this much before, did I?
I look over at the phone resting on my night stand and wonder if he’s debating whether or not it’s appropriate to call, but he doesn’t call me and I don’t call him.
Monday morning almost seems like any other. I come in to find Bobby already at his desk and reading a file.
He gives me a small smile, which I return easily despite the questions that scream between us and I hope we’re the only ones that can hear them.
We go through the day as if it’s any other. We get called out to a crime scene and talk to witnesses. Then head to the morgue to get another look at the body and hear what Rodgers found.
As we listen I watch him as he carefully lifts the victim’s arm with his strong but graceful fingers and I remember how those fingers pleaded, conversed, and finally danced with my skin.
I notice Rodgers glancing over me with the perplexed scowl that Bobby usually earns from her. I shake it off and move closer to the body, though I can feel the pink creeping over my cheeks.
Bobby rattles off theories and ideas, and I nod along.
We go on with our day and make pretty good headway on the case. To anyone else I’m confident we seemed like the usual Goren and Eames, bouncing ideas and findings back and forth with ease and little discussion.
We wrap up the day and I head to the elevator with him only a couple steps behind me.
It’s a regular occurrence, but this time instead of trying to decide what I might have for dinner or whether or not I’m going to drop by to see my nephew, I focus on walking straighter than normal and fight the urge to glance over my shoulder to see if I might catch him in the act of checking out my ass.
We step on the elevator in silence and my nerves twist my stomach into knots. Was it a fluke? Did he get what he needed and is never planning to bring it up again? Did he just fuck me when I could have sworn that every tentative movement was him making love to me?
God, did I really just use that term?
But that night he said that we couldn’t go back and he respects me too much for to use me. So why—
“D-did you want to get dinner?” his voice breaks into my head.
I must look like an idiot as I gape at him and try to reassemble any shred of rationality and dignity I can pull up from the floor.
“We-we could go get something…” he says lacing his fingers and I find myself comforted by his fidgeting. “Or-or you could come back to my apartment…I-I mean I could cook.”
I’ve never had a man cook for me. Joe tried once, but in the end we ended up having to order a pizza and to make matters worse, the same night he gave me a taser for our anniversary. He occasionally had his moments, but he was never much of a romantic. Neither am I for that matter and the fact that Bobby probably is makes me both wonderfully anxious to see what he may come up with or do next and frightened that I may be reading to much in to it.
He shifts and I am probably taking too long to respond.
“Uh…your place is fine.”
He nods and gives a smile that I want to believe is reserved only for me.
He follows me quietly to my car in the parking garage and I drive us to his apartment.
Once inside I shed my jacket, draping it over a chair at the small kitchen table, and he begins to rummage through the refrigerator. He pulls a few things out and lists a few different things he could make, wanting me to say which I would prefer.
I watch his shoulder blades move beneath his dress shirt and as he stands straight I step up behind him. I place my hand on the center of his back, silencing him, and then he slowly turns around.
He looks down at me with the same look he gave me when I woke up in his bed a day ago and I understand that he doesn’t want to be presumptuous. He wants me to invite him, to give him permission, but I also need him to meet me half way because I don’t know if I’m brave enough to make the decision for both of us.
This would be easier if I was taller or if he was shorter, since then I could effortlessly get my arms around him and pull him to me. But I’m short and he’s tall and there’s more maneuvering involved than I’m used to.
I take the ingredients out of his hands and place them on the kitchen table behind me. I stand on my tip toes, reaching to link my arms around his neck, and he does meet me half way, bending as I pull his mouth to mine.
I think the invitation is clear and I can hear his acceptance when he clasps his hands onto my waist.
He spins us around and before I realize it, I am seated on the counter with my thighs cradling his hips and our clothes becoming offensive barriers.
Our first time was cautious and explorative, while this time is needy and desperate.
We don’t make it to the bedroom and I’m pretty certain that neither of us will be able to look at his counter the same way again.
How can he do this? How can he make me feel like all my bones are about to splash against the linoleum of his kitchen floor?
His lips are against my temple letting out wordless melodies of cries and groans as I grip his shoulders, holding on for dear life, until my whole body seems to turn to jelly.
When he finally stills, we both are letting out harsh, shaky breaths and his legs tremble slightly against my thighs. I think that if there wasn’t a high probability of him busting open his skull, he would collapse to the floor.
I rest my forehead on his shoulder and plant my hands on either side of his waist, hoping that he hears the message: if you let me I’ll catch you.
His hands leave the support of the counter top and move to my cheeks, pulling my head up so that he can see me. He brushes my hair off of my now slightly damp face and leans in for a soft kiss.
His forehead falls against mine and his eyes are so close to mine that it’s almost startling.
He’s not like me; for all of his hiding and keeping people at a distance I’m still better or I guess worse depending on how you look at it. His feelings show through in every worry line and in every fleck of brown that colors his pupils.
I’m just as vulnerable and I think more terrified, but I have always let my cynicism and sarcasm rule my features, but I can feel them starting to soften.
He was right: there is no going back, no pretending that it doesn’t mean something even if we aren’t ready to clarify exactly what that is.
I lightly kiss him and he gives me that smile that I now know is my smile.
He carefully leaves my body and discards the condom I can’t recall when or how he put on, though I’m grateful that one of us had a rational adult thought.
He pulls his boxers back up around his hips and then picks up his shirt.
He drapes the shirt around my shoulders and I worm my arms into the sleeves, knowing I probably look comical with it hanging off of my limbs, but not really caring.
My eyes dart from his downcast face to his nimble fingers that work to slip close the buttons.
“I-I really did have…honorable intentions when I invited you here,” he says and I can’t help but laugh.
“Well I’m still expecting a dinner,” I say and he grins.
He stands straight and lightly tickles my knee with his fingertips.
“Good,” he says.
He takes my hands in his and helps me off the counter, but my legs still feel a little rubbery. He dips and picks up my panties. I take them from him before he actually passes them to me and then step into them.
A few moments later, I watch him as he cooks and I realize that he really enjoys doing it. He’s probably the most at ease that I’ve ever seen him and rattles off why he puts one spice in and not another, what consistency you want for a tomato sauce, and the perfect firmness for spaghetti noodles.
Once we sit to eat, I cross my ankles and rest my legs against his thigh. His left hand forks his food while his right massages my calf. We easily talk in between mouthfuls of food. He mentions wanting to talk to the victim’s husband again and the case is an easy starting point for us.
He finally asks how my day was with my nephew and I can’t help but grin. I explain how big Nathan is getting and that he’s walking a little.
I reach behind me, pull my phone from jacket pocket, and then search for the snapshots of Nathan. I pass Bobby the phone and he smiles as he scrolls through.
“He-he’s beautiful,” he says.
I blush slightly as I read between the lines. In his own round about, I don’t want to freak you out by saying this too soon way, he’s saying that I’m beautiful. I’m glad that he doesn’t say it outright. I’ve never been good with compliments and it would be too much, too fast for me to digest without a slight twinge of panic because of what him thinking that could possibly mean.
“How about you?” I ask tentatively.
He stills and maybe it’s too soon for me to ask about his visits with his mother. I know I don’t know everything but I know enough. I have on occasion noticed how he seems more tired some Mondays than he did when leaving the Friday before.
“I-it was okay,” he says with a nod and his fingers start working again against the skin of my leg.
“She had a good day.” He’s quiet for a couple of minutes and I leave it alone, returning to my plate. “Th-the meds they have her on are pretty effective…b-but some of the side effects…nausea mostly…can get really bad. But this week she felt pretty good.”
I understand how much it takes for him to tell me all this and I don’t take it lightly. It may only be a crack, but I honor it and hope, that when the time comes, I can also widen the doors of my past and pain to him.
We keep eating in a comfortable silence and then he clears the table when we are finished.
We both stand in front of each other in his kitchen and we can both feel things getting muddled again. He’s not ready for me to leave and I’m not ready to go.
He must recognize this because he takes the first step this time and twines his fingers with mine, gently tugging me toward the bedroom.
I follow and after we are just feet from his bed he pulls me in front of him. The fingers on his free hand lightly trace the lines of my face and I smile.
This eggs him on and he releases my hand so that he can loosen the buttons of the shirt I wear with the same deliberateness he had when closing them. He slides it off my shoulders, letting it flitter to the floor, and he drinks me with his fingertips, which brush against the curve of my breast and then slide down the line of my torso to play with the rim of my panties.
He kneels in front of me, cupping my hips in his hands, and kisses the slight swell of my abdomen that no amount of exercise seems to get rid of since having my nephew.
His fingers slide the short distance from skin to cotton and hooks his fingers into my panties to pull them down my legs.
After we fall into the bed, he proves that his memorization of patterns and ridiculous amounts of knowledge is not lost on the patterns and knowledge he finds painted on my skin or buried in the place he discovers inside of me.
We float in the pond that is his bed as I lie on my side and lazily stare at the white wall across from me. His body is curled around mine. His arm is wrapped around me and his hand is loosely latched to my wrist while his thumb teases my pulse point.
Bobby is a cuddler.
If this were any other man I’d probably feel suffocated. I have never fancied myself as a cuddly person and Joe, though attentive, wasn’t either. Maybe I’m a closet cuddler, because a girl could get use to this: to the warmth and the safety of being wrapped up in his limbs.
“Bobby?”
“Hmm?” I feel his reply whistle against my hair.
“You realize I can’t stay through the morning…”
He stiffens and he doesn’t have to actually move for me to know he’s retreating from me.
“I mean…” I regroup and twist my neck to look up at him. “I can’t exactly go to work tomorrow wearing the clothes I wore today…”
He smiles out of relief and maybe a little out of embarrassment.
“I-I guess not,” he says and then drops a kiss on my temple. “I-it’s okay if…if you want to bring a few things here…j-just in case.”
I nod and then rest my head back against the pillow.
“Make sure I wake up early enough to make it back to Rockaway, okay?”
I feel him nod and somewhere under the questions that still haven’t been answered we are certain that tomorrow I will be back in his bed and the night after that, and after that.
Eventually we won’t fall into his bed, but into mine. Some of my things will migrate into his space and the bottom drawer of my dresser that I never use will become his.
This may not turn out so horribly after all.
As I turn my face further into the pillow I slowly become aware of the fact that I am not in my own bed. I smell the subtle scent of my partner’s after shave and notice fingertips skating along my exposed back, which brings back all the memories of last night.
I showed up on my partner’s door, I kissed him, tried to leave, he convinced me to stay, and took me to bed.
I really don’t want to be awake right now because I’m not sure if I’m really ready to deal with this, but I know faking sleep would be futile since he is probably well aware that I am in fact awake.
The natural easiness of last night is much more muddled now that one of us has to voice the question that we both are wondering: what now? What are we now? What do we do if…
There are so many things that could fill in that blank.
What about our jobs? Who do we tell? Is there anything to tell?
Was this just some mistake made out of loneliness and convenience?
This could end so horribly.
He’s my partner, my friend, the last person I should feel these things for and do these things with.
The few sexual encounters I’ve had since Joe’s death have been physically satisfying, but otherwise meaningless. This is different. This is Bobby; a man I understand when most don’t, one who, if necessary, would take a bullet for me, and one who I have started to care deeply for; probably more than I should and definitely more than is allowed.
He doesn’t say anything, he barely moves, but I can feel him watching and waiting for me.
I let out a breath as softly as I can and turn my neck to look at him. He’s on his side, his head propped up on his elbow as he meets my eyes. His hair is tousled and I can’t help but think how adorable he looks.
The certainty that was etched into every one of his features and movements last night is now only partially there and it occurs to me that he is much more insecure than he cares to admit.
He still doesn’t speak and I understand that he’s leaving it up to me; that he’s half expecting me to dissipate into his sheets and will have to accept this as a particularly vivid wet dream. I know this because a part of me is holding my breath as I expect the same thing, but after several seconds that seem like miles turning into years we are both still here in his bed, staring.
“Hi,” I say, finally, but soft enough that he can easily ignore it if he’s not ready to step out of the safety of the little pinhole of a world that we have created in this bed.
His fingers don’t falter in their movements as he says, “Hi,” and then they venture a little lower, as if testing the waters.
I try to swallow the soft gasp I desperately want to let out, hoping he may not notice, but when I see that the certainty in his expression is less fifty/fifty and more like seventy/thirty I know that it wasn't missed.
“Have you been up long?” I ask, thinking that starting with a simple question is best.
He shrugs.
“Uh…a couple hours I guess,” he says.
Something about the idea of him watching me all that time while I slept makes me inwardly squirm with affection, desire, and a little bit of fear.
I just might be falling in love with this man, but I fight the thought, because I know neither of us is really ready to make promises or confessions.
“Uh…did you want to get breakfast…or…” I ask, even though I know it’s lame and inadequate.
“I-I need to leave soon…”
“Oh,” I say a little flustered and about ready to scramble off the bed when I feel his palm cupping my shoulder.
“I-I’m sorry…it’s just…it’s Sunday and I always go up and visit my mom. If I’m late it throws off her schedule…sh-she can get kind of agitated.”
Now I really feel embarrassed at my own insecurities that I’m sure are starting to show.
“Right,” I sigh more than say, then it dawns on me that I do actually have plans today and start searching for a clock. “What time is it?”
“Uh…” he seems a little startled by the suddenness of my question. “Not quite eight…”
I gather the sheets around me, shifting until I am sitting and he follows, studying me with a worried gaze.
“I told my sister I’d baby-sit today…I have to go home if I’m going to make it to her house before eleven,” I say.
He nods and we both stare at each other again; both of us hesitant to get out from under the amour of his sheets.
He stutters something that I don’t really catch and then turns so his back is to me, planting his feet on the floor. He’s officially back in the real world where there’s consequences, questions, and uncertainty.
I watch the muscles of his back flex as he scrubs his palms over his face and then finally take my cue to throw the covers off and get out of his bed.
I find my clothes and slip back into the black dress I had arrived in and I can’t help but think how cliché I am: slipping out of a man’s apartment wearing the same, but now disheveled clothes I had on the night before.
While I dress I hear him rise from the bed and slip into a pair of sweat pants that he pulls from a drawer.
When I turn back to face him he is watching me and wringing his hands together. He finally turns toward the door and I follow him back to the front door.
Neither of us knows what to say as he stands leaning on the now open door and I hover half in and half out of the apartment. I’ll call doesn’t seem genuine and I’ll see you later is too flippant.
I watch his hands hesitate between us, arguing with the rest of him that is too unsure to do what he wants. I take a fraction of a step toward him and hope that it’s enough of an encouragement.
It is, because I feel his palms on my cheeks and then his lips on mine. It’s simple and thankful more so than demanding and more memories from last night begin to flirt with my head.
He pulls back, which I’m not completely prepared for, but his hands are still on me and his thumbs brush back and forth against my cheekbones.
“I should go,” I say.
He nods.
“I know.”
His hands slip back to the space between us and then he watches me leave.
I’m on autopilot as I drive home, get into my house, and then start the shower.
I spend the whole time thinking about him and as I scrub my body clean of any sigh of him, I find myself mourning the loss.
I feel like some idiotic school girl as I wonder what he’s doing.
Has he already left for Carmel Ridge? Did he feel just as naked as I do now, when he washed my scent off of his skin? Is he even thinking about me? Will he call me tonight? Should I call him? Do we both need the distance before we can really process all of this and its meaning?
I force myself out of the shower and get ready to go see my nephew, who’s probably the only other living human being who might be able to get me to stop thinking about Bobby.
Within an hour I am back out the door and make the drive to my sister’s house.
I try to play it cool as I chit chat with Carrie and her husband as they prepare to leave for their day trip and pray that she doesn’t see it.
They finally leave us and it’s just me and Nathan. He’s starting to walk a little, but is still unsteady on his feet and latches on to whatever he can find to pull himself where he wishes to go.
My nerves ease as I watch and play with him. This little boy will probably never understand what he has done to me.
In many ways, after Joe died, I shut down when it came to my personal life.
Nathan has opened a door in me, giving room for someone else to move in. Apparently Bobby sees this and more importantly I’m discovering that I want to invite him in.
We have a quiet but wonderful day and when my sister gets back home Nathan is already down for the night.
I return to my empty house and get ready for bed. Since my distraction is now gone, I can’t help but start to think about Bobby again. I curse my brain for wandering to my partner and then my body for its reaction.
I can’t be this woman. I don’t pine. I don’t get googely-eyed. Why can he do this to me? I never thought of him this much before, did I?
I look over at the phone resting on my night stand and wonder if he’s debating whether or not it’s appropriate to call, but he doesn’t call me and I don’t call him.
Monday morning almost seems like any other. I come in to find Bobby already at his desk and reading a file.
He gives me a small smile, which I return easily despite the questions that scream between us and I hope we’re the only ones that can hear them.
We go through the day as if it’s any other. We get called out to a crime scene and talk to witnesses. Then head to the morgue to get another look at the body and hear what Rodgers found.
As we listen I watch him as he carefully lifts the victim’s arm with his strong but graceful fingers and I remember how those fingers pleaded, conversed, and finally danced with my skin.
I notice Rodgers glancing over me with the perplexed scowl that Bobby usually earns from her. I shake it off and move closer to the body, though I can feel the pink creeping over my cheeks.
Bobby rattles off theories and ideas, and I nod along.
We go on with our day and make pretty good headway on the case. To anyone else I’m confident we seemed like the usual Goren and Eames, bouncing ideas and findings back and forth with ease and little discussion.
We wrap up the day and I head to the elevator with him only a couple steps behind me.
It’s a regular occurrence, but this time instead of trying to decide what I might have for dinner or whether or not I’m going to drop by to see my nephew, I focus on walking straighter than normal and fight the urge to glance over my shoulder to see if I might catch him in the act of checking out my ass.
We step on the elevator in silence and my nerves twist my stomach into knots. Was it a fluke? Did he get what he needed and is never planning to bring it up again? Did he just fuck me when I could have sworn that every tentative movement was him making love to me?
God, did I really just use that term?
But that night he said that we couldn’t go back and he respects me too much for to use me. So why—
“D-did you want to get dinner?” his voice breaks into my head.
I must look like an idiot as I gape at him and try to reassemble any shred of rationality and dignity I can pull up from the floor.
“We-we could go get something…” he says lacing his fingers and I find myself comforted by his fidgeting. “Or-or you could come back to my apartment…I-I mean I could cook.”
I’ve never had a man cook for me. Joe tried once, but in the end we ended up having to order a pizza and to make matters worse, the same night he gave me a taser for our anniversary. He occasionally had his moments, but he was never much of a romantic. Neither am I for that matter and the fact that Bobby probably is makes me both wonderfully anxious to see what he may come up with or do next and frightened that I may be reading to much in to it.
He shifts and I am probably taking too long to respond.
“Uh…your place is fine.”
He nods and gives a smile that I want to believe is reserved only for me.
He follows me quietly to my car in the parking garage and I drive us to his apartment.
Once inside I shed my jacket, draping it over a chair at the small kitchen table, and he begins to rummage through the refrigerator. He pulls a few things out and lists a few different things he could make, wanting me to say which I would prefer.
I watch his shoulder blades move beneath his dress shirt and as he stands straight I step up behind him. I place my hand on the center of his back, silencing him, and then he slowly turns around.
He looks down at me with the same look he gave me when I woke up in his bed a day ago and I understand that he doesn’t want to be presumptuous. He wants me to invite him, to give him permission, but I also need him to meet me half way because I don’t know if I’m brave enough to make the decision for both of us.
This would be easier if I was taller or if he was shorter, since then I could effortlessly get my arms around him and pull him to me. But I’m short and he’s tall and there’s more maneuvering involved than I’m used to.
I take the ingredients out of his hands and place them on the kitchen table behind me. I stand on my tip toes, reaching to link my arms around his neck, and he does meet me half way, bending as I pull his mouth to mine.
I think the invitation is clear and I can hear his acceptance when he clasps his hands onto my waist.
He spins us around and before I realize it, I am seated on the counter with my thighs cradling his hips and our clothes becoming offensive barriers.
Our first time was cautious and explorative, while this time is needy and desperate.
We don’t make it to the bedroom and I’m pretty certain that neither of us will be able to look at his counter the same way again.
How can he do this? How can he make me feel like all my bones are about to splash against the linoleum of his kitchen floor?
His lips are against my temple letting out wordless melodies of cries and groans as I grip his shoulders, holding on for dear life, until my whole body seems to turn to jelly.
When he finally stills, we both are letting out harsh, shaky breaths and his legs tremble slightly against my thighs. I think that if there wasn’t a high probability of him busting open his skull, he would collapse to the floor.
I rest my forehead on his shoulder and plant my hands on either side of his waist, hoping that he hears the message: if you let me I’ll catch you.
His hands leave the support of the counter top and move to my cheeks, pulling my head up so that he can see me. He brushes my hair off of my now slightly damp face and leans in for a soft kiss.
His forehead falls against mine and his eyes are so close to mine that it’s almost startling.
He’s not like me; for all of his hiding and keeping people at a distance I’m still better or I guess worse depending on how you look at it. His feelings show through in every worry line and in every fleck of brown that colors his pupils.
I’m just as vulnerable and I think more terrified, but I have always let my cynicism and sarcasm rule my features, but I can feel them starting to soften.
He was right: there is no going back, no pretending that it doesn’t mean something even if we aren’t ready to clarify exactly what that is.
I lightly kiss him and he gives me that smile that I now know is my smile.
He carefully leaves my body and discards the condom I can’t recall when or how he put on, though I’m grateful that one of us had a rational adult thought.
He pulls his boxers back up around his hips and then picks up his shirt.
He drapes the shirt around my shoulders and I worm my arms into the sleeves, knowing I probably look comical with it hanging off of my limbs, but not really caring.
My eyes dart from his downcast face to his nimble fingers that work to slip close the buttons.
“I-I really did have…honorable intentions when I invited you here,” he says and I can’t help but laugh.
“Well I’m still expecting a dinner,” I say and he grins.
He stands straight and lightly tickles my knee with his fingertips.
“Good,” he says.
He takes my hands in his and helps me off the counter, but my legs still feel a little rubbery. He dips and picks up my panties. I take them from him before he actually passes them to me and then step into them.
A few moments later, I watch him as he cooks and I realize that he really enjoys doing it. He’s probably the most at ease that I’ve ever seen him and rattles off why he puts one spice in and not another, what consistency you want for a tomato sauce, and the perfect firmness for spaghetti noodles.
Once we sit to eat, I cross my ankles and rest my legs against his thigh. His left hand forks his food while his right massages my calf. We easily talk in between mouthfuls of food. He mentions wanting to talk to the victim’s husband again and the case is an easy starting point for us.
He finally asks how my day was with my nephew and I can’t help but grin. I explain how big Nathan is getting and that he’s walking a little.
I reach behind me, pull my phone from jacket pocket, and then search for the snapshots of Nathan. I pass Bobby the phone and he smiles as he scrolls through.
“He-he’s beautiful,” he says.
I blush slightly as I read between the lines. In his own round about, I don’t want to freak you out by saying this too soon way, he’s saying that I’m beautiful. I’m glad that he doesn’t say it outright. I’ve never been good with compliments and it would be too much, too fast for me to digest without a slight twinge of panic because of what him thinking that could possibly mean.
“How about you?” I ask tentatively.
He stills and maybe it’s too soon for me to ask about his visits with his mother. I know I don’t know everything but I know enough. I have on occasion noticed how he seems more tired some Mondays than he did when leaving the Friday before.
“I-it was okay,” he says with a nod and his fingers start working again against the skin of my leg.
“She had a good day.” He’s quiet for a couple of minutes and I leave it alone, returning to my plate. “Th-the meds they have her on are pretty effective…b-but some of the side effects…nausea mostly…can get really bad. But this week she felt pretty good.”
I understand how much it takes for him to tell me all this and I don’t take it lightly. It may only be a crack, but I honor it and hope, that when the time comes, I can also widen the doors of my past and pain to him.
We keep eating in a comfortable silence and then he clears the table when we are finished.
We both stand in front of each other in his kitchen and we can both feel things getting muddled again. He’s not ready for me to leave and I’m not ready to go.
He must recognize this because he takes the first step this time and twines his fingers with mine, gently tugging me toward the bedroom.
I follow and after we are just feet from his bed he pulls me in front of him. The fingers on his free hand lightly trace the lines of my face and I smile.
This eggs him on and he releases my hand so that he can loosen the buttons of the shirt I wear with the same deliberateness he had when closing them. He slides it off my shoulders, letting it flitter to the floor, and he drinks me with his fingertips, which brush against the curve of my breast and then slide down the line of my torso to play with the rim of my panties.
He kneels in front of me, cupping my hips in his hands, and kisses the slight swell of my abdomen that no amount of exercise seems to get rid of since having my nephew.
His fingers slide the short distance from skin to cotton and hooks his fingers into my panties to pull them down my legs.
After we fall into the bed, he proves that his memorization of patterns and ridiculous amounts of knowledge is not lost on the patterns and knowledge he finds painted on my skin or buried in the place he discovers inside of me.
We float in the pond that is his bed as I lie on my side and lazily stare at the white wall across from me. His body is curled around mine. His arm is wrapped around me and his hand is loosely latched to my wrist while his thumb teases my pulse point.
Bobby is a cuddler.
If this were any other man I’d probably feel suffocated. I have never fancied myself as a cuddly person and Joe, though attentive, wasn’t either. Maybe I’m a closet cuddler, because a girl could get use to this: to the warmth and the safety of being wrapped up in his limbs.
“Bobby?”
“Hmm?” I feel his reply whistle against my hair.
“You realize I can’t stay through the morning…”
He stiffens and he doesn’t have to actually move for me to know he’s retreating from me.
“I mean…” I regroup and twist my neck to look up at him. “I can’t exactly go to work tomorrow wearing the clothes I wore today…”
He smiles out of relief and maybe a little out of embarrassment.
“I-I guess not,” he says and then drops a kiss on my temple. “I-it’s okay if…if you want to bring a few things here…j-just in case.”
I nod and then rest my head back against the pillow.
“Make sure I wake up early enough to make it back to Rockaway, okay?”
I feel him nod and somewhere under the questions that still haven’t been answered we are certain that tomorrow I will be back in his bed and the night after that, and after that.
Eventually we won’t fall into his bed, but into mine. Some of my things will migrate into his space and the bottom drawer of my dresser that I never use will become his.
This may not turn out so horribly after all.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Beginnings -- Chapter 1
A/N: Evolution of B/A relationship for my Madison series. Begins in between seasons 3 &4
She didn’t really know why she had come there.
Despite her quick escape from her so called date, she wasn’t ready to go home. She knew if she did she would just start retracing everything that had gone wrong the day before, like she knew he was already doing.
So there she stood with her fist hovering just above Goren’s door, daring herself to knock.
She sighed and silently berated herself for her nerves before tapping her fist to the wooded door.
He appeared in front of her after a few seconds, wearing remnants of the suit he had on earlier; black slacks and a blue button down un-tucked and with the top few buttons loose.
“Eames?” he asked. “W-what are you doing here?”
He barely got the last word out before noticing her knee length black dress. It was sleeveless with a V in the front and back.
“Believe it or not I was in the neighborhood.”
“You…you look—“
“Oh. Right. I had a date…and it wasn’t going well so…”
“Okay…but are you all right?”
Eames sighed.
“I keep thinking about yesterday and…”
“Yeah, me too,” Goren said. “Come in.”
She followed him into the living room and saw three empty beer bottles on an end table next to an overstuffed chair.
“Started the party without me?” Eames asked.
“Well if I had known,” he replied. “Do you want one?”
“Please.”
Goren retrieved the two bottles and passed one to Eames. She sat at one end of the sofa, while he cautiously sat at the opposite.
Both took sips of their beers and stared at nothing in particular in silence.
From the corner of his eyes he watched her ring her hands and her knuckles tighten together.
He didn’t understand why she seemed so uncomfortable. They had tough cases before and on occasion they even went out for drinks afterwards. Since her return from maternity leave those occasions had become more frequent and they had even started to share dinners off duty a couple times a week.
“There’s nothing we could have done,” Eames said, slightly turning to catch his eyes.
“I pushed him too far…he wouldn’t have—“
“He was guilty.”
“He was a messed up kid. He didn’t premeditate killing his mother.”
“But he did premeditate covering it up and he got caught.”
“And he got scared…” Goren sat forward and rubbed his face in his hands. “I should have seen—“
“Bobby, this is not your fault,” she said and slid closer to his side of the sofa. “He pulled the trigger, not you.”
“I tried to talk him down…”
She put a soft hand on his rough cheek and turned his eyes to hers.
“You can’t help everyone.”
She didn’t remove her hand, nor did he pull away as her thumb stroked his cheek bone. Their eyes were locked with apprehension and want.
She was the one who pulled his lips to hers, but he was the one who parted her lips to explore her mouth and twined his fingers in her hair.
Eames pulled back. “Oh, God.”
She scrambled to her feet and retreated toward the door.
“Eames!” Goren called after her as he got to his feet. “Wait.”
He planted his palms against the door and surrounded her.
“Let me go’ Bobby.”
“You kissed me.”
“Your powers of observation are astounding.”
“Why’d you really come here?”
Eames shook her head, and then moved to go under his arm. She was stilled by his hand spreading across her stomach and they both felt the slight shudder that went through her.
“I told you.”
“Eames,” his voice was soft yet persistent.
She sighed, and then shrugged.
“I don’t know. I was eating dinner with Pete and…and it just wasn’t right.”
“What wasn’t right?”
She rolled her eyes and looked down at his hand. “Do you mind?”
Goren placed this hand back against the door and she leaned her head on it, staring at the cracks in his ceiling.
She let out a deep breath.
“When I started…dating again, after Joe died, I would always compare whoever I was with to him. How they laughed…or told a joke…the…the way they held a fucking fork. But now I notice the look they get when they’re thinking or…how graceful they are when they talk with their hands and…and I’m not comparing them to Joe anymore.”
Eames looked up at eyes that were soft and thoughtful.
Goren slid his hands away from the door.
His left fingers hovered over her cheek and then lightly traced the bone to her jaw, until he cradled her neck in his palm. He leaned in closer.
“You know we can’t go back now,” he said.
He fitted his lips to hers before she could respond.
His lips were full, soft, and warm and she couldn’t stifle the soft gasp that ran from her tongue to his. She stood as tall as she could and locked her arms around his neck.
His lips traveled down her neck as his hands made the journey down her sides and ended at her thighs. He hoisted her up to his height and she hooked her legs around his waist.
She snaked fingers through his hair and nipped at his cheek and ear. As his hands traveled up her thighs, she groaned against his temple and arched her pelvis into his, forcing a shuddering sigh from his lips to her shoulder.
“Bobby…” she panted into his ear.
“I know.”
He tightened his grip on her and carried her to his bed.
He hovered above her and glided his finger along the neckline of her dress as he watched her. She put her fingers to work on the buttons of his shirt, but then caught sight of his eyes. They were warm but distant.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You’re sure about this?”
“You ask me that now?” she asked. “Are you?”
He nodded. “Y-yes.”
He leaned over her and pressed his lips into hers. They hurriedly disposed of each other’s clothes and began to taste and explore.
Goren traveled the path of her torso; kissing, drawing, memorizing. He made note of her responses, the freckles on her arms, the mole on her left hip, and the small scar on her right knee. He breathed kisses onto her inner thigh and she reached for him to come back to her.
She shuddered as he slid into her and they quickly found a rhythm that was tortuous but soft. They matched each other step for step and took inventory of every gasp, groan, or moan that escaped the other.
He felt her tightening around him and they collapsed into the other.
His face was buried in the crook of her neck as he took in their smell: honeysuckle, the musk of his cologne, the faint citrus in her hair, and sweat.
Her fingers combed through this hair as she kissed his temple and felt his nose against her neck.
She laughed softly.
“You’re smelling me aren’t you?”
He smiled against her skin.
“It’s a nice smell.”
She didn’t really know why she had come there.
Despite her quick escape from her so called date, she wasn’t ready to go home. She knew if she did she would just start retracing everything that had gone wrong the day before, like she knew he was already doing.
So there she stood with her fist hovering just above Goren’s door, daring herself to knock.
She sighed and silently berated herself for her nerves before tapping her fist to the wooded door.
He appeared in front of her after a few seconds, wearing remnants of the suit he had on earlier; black slacks and a blue button down un-tucked and with the top few buttons loose.
“Eames?” he asked. “W-what are you doing here?”
He barely got the last word out before noticing her knee length black dress. It was sleeveless with a V in the front and back.
“Believe it or not I was in the neighborhood.”
“You…you look—“
“Oh. Right. I had a date…and it wasn’t going well so…”
“Okay…but are you all right?”
Eames sighed.
“I keep thinking about yesterday and…”
“Yeah, me too,” Goren said. “Come in.”
She followed him into the living room and saw three empty beer bottles on an end table next to an overstuffed chair.
“Started the party without me?” Eames asked.
“Well if I had known,” he replied. “Do you want one?”
“Please.”
Goren retrieved the two bottles and passed one to Eames. She sat at one end of the sofa, while he cautiously sat at the opposite.
Both took sips of their beers and stared at nothing in particular in silence.
From the corner of his eyes he watched her ring her hands and her knuckles tighten together.
He didn’t understand why she seemed so uncomfortable. They had tough cases before and on occasion they even went out for drinks afterwards. Since her return from maternity leave those occasions had become more frequent and they had even started to share dinners off duty a couple times a week.
“There’s nothing we could have done,” Eames said, slightly turning to catch his eyes.
“I pushed him too far…he wouldn’t have—“
“He was guilty.”
“He was a messed up kid. He didn’t premeditate killing his mother.”
“But he did premeditate covering it up and he got caught.”
“And he got scared…” Goren sat forward and rubbed his face in his hands. “I should have seen—“
“Bobby, this is not your fault,” she said and slid closer to his side of the sofa. “He pulled the trigger, not you.”
“I tried to talk him down…”
She put a soft hand on his rough cheek and turned his eyes to hers.
“You can’t help everyone.”
She didn’t remove her hand, nor did he pull away as her thumb stroked his cheek bone. Their eyes were locked with apprehension and want.
She was the one who pulled his lips to hers, but he was the one who parted her lips to explore her mouth and twined his fingers in her hair.
Eames pulled back. “Oh, God.”
She scrambled to her feet and retreated toward the door.
“Eames!” Goren called after her as he got to his feet. “Wait.”
He planted his palms against the door and surrounded her.
“Let me go’ Bobby.”
“You kissed me.”
“Your powers of observation are astounding.”
“Why’d you really come here?”
Eames shook her head, and then moved to go under his arm. She was stilled by his hand spreading across her stomach and they both felt the slight shudder that went through her.
“I told you.”
“Eames,” his voice was soft yet persistent.
She sighed, and then shrugged.
“I don’t know. I was eating dinner with Pete and…and it just wasn’t right.”
“What wasn’t right?”
She rolled her eyes and looked down at his hand. “Do you mind?”
Goren placed this hand back against the door and she leaned her head on it, staring at the cracks in his ceiling.
She let out a deep breath.
“When I started…dating again, after Joe died, I would always compare whoever I was with to him. How they laughed…or told a joke…the…the way they held a fucking fork. But now I notice the look they get when they’re thinking or…how graceful they are when they talk with their hands and…and I’m not comparing them to Joe anymore.”
Eames looked up at eyes that were soft and thoughtful.
Goren slid his hands away from the door.
His left fingers hovered over her cheek and then lightly traced the bone to her jaw, until he cradled her neck in his palm. He leaned in closer.
“You know we can’t go back now,” he said.
He fitted his lips to hers before she could respond.
His lips were full, soft, and warm and she couldn’t stifle the soft gasp that ran from her tongue to his. She stood as tall as she could and locked her arms around his neck.
His lips traveled down her neck as his hands made the journey down her sides and ended at her thighs. He hoisted her up to his height and she hooked her legs around his waist.
She snaked fingers through his hair and nipped at his cheek and ear. As his hands traveled up her thighs, she groaned against his temple and arched her pelvis into his, forcing a shuddering sigh from his lips to her shoulder.
“Bobby…” she panted into his ear.
“I know.”
He tightened his grip on her and carried her to his bed.
He hovered above her and glided his finger along the neckline of her dress as he watched her. She put her fingers to work on the buttons of his shirt, but then caught sight of his eyes. They were warm but distant.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You’re sure about this?”
“You ask me that now?” she asked. “Are you?”
He nodded. “Y-yes.”
He leaned over her and pressed his lips into hers. They hurriedly disposed of each other’s clothes and began to taste and explore.
Goren traveled the path of her torso; kissing, drawing, memorizing. He made note of her responses, the freckles on her arms, the mole on her left hip, and the small scar on her right knee. He breathed kisses onto her inner thigh and she reached for him to come back to her.
She shuddered as he slid into her and they quickly found a rhythm that was tortuous but soft. They matched each other step for step and took inventory of every gasp, groan, or moan that escaped the other.
He felt her tightening around him and they collapsed into the other.
His face was buried in the crook of her neck as he took in their smell: honeysuckle, the musk of his cologne, the faint citrus in her hair, and sweat.
Her fingers combed through this hair as she kissed his temple and felt his nose against her neck.
She laughed softly.
“You’re smelling me aren’t you?”
He smiled against her skin.
“It’s a nice smell.”
Prelude I
A/N: A post-ep for "F.P.S."
Shit.
When the hell did this happen?
Shit.
If someone told me three years ago before meeting my new partner, whose handshake was far too firm for a woman of her stature, that I would end up completely and utterly…no.
I knew I liked her within ten minutes of meeting her, after the first snide comment fell from her lips and I responded with a hesitant, but amused smile. This is probably why I spent our first months as partners provoking her, seeing how far she’d let me push her and, in some instances, myself. It’s childish, I know, but I needed to test her to see if she would throw her hands in the air and run the other way.
But she never did, whether out of genuine want or pure obstinacy, I’m not sure I’ll ever know, not that it really matters anymore. She learned to trust that I wasn’t pushing her out of an investigation, while I learned that I needed her to counter my theories.
See, Nicole was right; I don’t like being contradicted or wrong. It still hurts when she calls me on something, but I know she’s doing it out of respect and because she cares, otherwise I doubt she’d bother.
So we found an amicable rhythm with each other, which grew into a genuine concern for the other’s well being and then it became a real friendship.
The confines of our partnership are shifting again into something that I’ve yet to find a label or explanation for.
Academically, I can reason that it’s not love, not really, but sheer proximity mixed with the basic need for closeness and understanding. It is the one thing that makes us all so undeniably the same and horribly predictable.
Of course, I can also counter then that Bishop should be a perfectly suitable, even if temporary, replacement, but all of us know that she will never be my partner. That’s where the longing comes into play and thus the proof that it has nothing to do with proximity.
I miss my partner.
I wasn’t anticipating this. I wasn’t anticipating needing her to be there, to shoot down my ideas when my own feelings had clouded my judgment, or to alleviate the tension with her sarcasm. I miss having someone there who knows where my mind is headed and who, with out effort, can still surprise me. I’ve seen enough where very little surprises or unnerves me; it still angers me, but not surprises. All she has to do is say one little off handed comment and for a few seconds I’m completely amused either because she was trying to make me so or by how she smirks at making me uncomfortable.
I miss her.
So here I stand in the maternity ward as I watch the last of her family leave her room and head toward the nursery to welcome a new life into the family, whom she has given them.
I can’t get my feet to move. I’m afraid that it won’t be my partner I find on the other side of that door, but the woman beneath her; the wife who lost her husband, the sister or daughter, the mother who isn’t a mother.
I force myself to move, if only by the silly need to be in her presence and to make sure she will be okay.
She seems smaller than normal in the white hospital bed. She lays, her eyes drifting, with one hand on her abdomen and the other draped over her ribs.
When she notices me I can tell she’s surprised to see me there.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, walking shyly up to the side of her bed. “How are you feeling?”
I know the question is inadequate, but what else is there to ask?
She carefully considers her answer and I can see her scrolling through the events of the last twenty-four hours and past nine months.
“Sore,” she says with a wry smile.
We both know she doesn’t just mean her body, but neither of us will venture any further down that road.
“It’s nice of you to come,” she continues. “You didn’t have to.”
I want to say yes, yes I did, but settle for, “I know. I won’t stay long…I just wanted to see how you were…and it’s not like I’d be sleeping anyway.”
She returns my teasing smile with one of her own.
“You should go see him.”
See, its little things like that that throw me through a loop with her. I have no claim or right to see this child or to wedge myself between the aunts and uncles already gazing through the glass, but yet she offers me the chance to be a part of it.
“Maybe…” is all I get out, though we both know I won’t go. “What’s his name?”
“Nathan Alexander…and Nathan was my contribution not Alexander just for the record.”
“It’s a good name…I should probably let you rest. I’ll talk to you soon.”
She nods and I turn to leave.
“Goren?” I hear a slight waver in her voice, which I know she trusts me to ignore.
“Yeah, Eames?”
“Um…” she hesitates. “Could…could you turn off some of the lights on your way? It’s too bright in here to sleep.”
I nod and leave her in the dim lit room.
Shit.
When the hell did this happen?
Shit.
If someone told me three years ago before meeting my new partner, whose handshake was far too firm for a woman of her stature, that I would end up completely and utterly…no.
I knew I liked her within ten minutes of meeting her, after the first snide comment fell from her lips and I responded with a hesitant, but amused smile. This is probably why I spent our first months as partners provoking her, seeing how far she’d let me push her and, in some instances, myself. It’s childish, I know, but I needed to test her to see if she would throw her hands in the air and run the other way.
But she never did, whether out of genuine want or pure obstinacy, I’m not sure I’ll ever know, not that it really matters anymore. She learned to trust that I wasn’t pushing her out of an investigation, while I learned that I needed her to counter my theories.
See, Nicole was right; I don’t like being contradicted or wrong. It still hurts when she calls me on something, but I know she’s doing it out of respect and because she cares, otherwise I doubt she’d bother.
So we found an amicable rhythm with each other, which grew into a genuine concern for the other’s well being and then it became a real friendship.
The confines of our partnership are shifting again into something that I’ve yet to find a label or explanation for.
Academically, I can reason that it’s not love, not really, but sheer proximity mixed with the basic need for closeness and understanding. It is the one thing that makes us all so undeniably the same and horribly predictable.
Of course, I can also counter then that Bishop should be a perfectly suitable, even if temporary, replacement, but all of us know that she will never be my partner. That’s where the longing comes into play and thus the proof that it has nothing to do with proximity.
I miss my partner.
I wasn’t anticipating this. I wasn’t anticipating needing her to be there, to shoot down my ideas when my own feelings had clouded my judgment, or to alleviate the tension with her sarcasm. I miss having someone there who knows where my mind is headed and who, with out effort, can still surprise me. I’ve seen enough where very little surprises or unnerves me; it still angers me, but not surprises. All she has to do is say one little off handed comment and for a few seconds I’m completely amused either because she was trying to make me so or by how she smirks at making me uncomfortable.
I miss her.
So here I stand in the maternity ward as I watch the last of her family leave her room and head toward the nursery to welcome a new life into the family, whom she has given them.
I can’t get my feet to move. I’m afraid that it won’t be my partner I find on the other side of that door, but the woman beneath her; the wife who lost her husband, the sister or daughter, the mother who isn’t a mother.
I force myself to move, if only by the silly need to be in her presence and to make sure she will be okay.
She seems smaller than normal in the white hospital bed. She lays, her eyes drifting, with one hand on her abdomen and the other draped over her ribs.
When she notices me I can tell she’s surprised to see me there.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, walking shyly up to the side of her bed. “How are you feeling?”
I know the question is inadequate, but what else is there to ask?
She carefully considers her answer and I can see her scrolling through the events of the last twenty-four hours and past nine months.
“Sore,” she says with a wry smile.
We both know she doesn’t just mean her body, but neither of us will venture any further down that road.
“It’s nice of you to come,” she continues. “You didn’t have to.”
I want to say yes, yes I did, but settle for, “I know. I won’t stay long…I just wanted to see how you were…and it’s not like I’d be sleeping anyway.”
She returns my teasing smile with one of her own.
“You should go see him.”
See, its little things like that that throw me through a loop with her. I have no claim or right to see this child or to wedge myself between the aunts and uncles already gazing through the glass, but yet she offers me the chance to be a part of it.
“Maybe…” is all I get out, though we both know I won’t go. “What’s his name?”
“Nathan Alexander…and Nathan was my contribution not Alexander just for the record.”
“It’s a good name…I should probably let you rest. I’ll talk to you soon.”
She nods and I turn to leave.
“Goren?” I hear a slight waver in her voice, which I know she trusts me to ignore.
“Yeah, Eames?”
“Um…” she hesitates. “Could…could you turn off some of the lights on your way? It’s too bright in here to sleep.”
I nod and leave her in the dim lit room.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Push & Pull
A/N: a post-ep for "Purgatory"
Bobby had been sitting on her front steps for over an hour. At first he thought she was home, because of the small lamp illuminating the living room, but soon realized that it was just a precaution to deter any possible burglars. He knew it was something she had started doing after her kidnapping whenever she knew she would be out late.
He wasn't sure if he should have come, but he hated being at odds with her. It put his already off-kilter world even more out of whack.
The fact that she had at one time requested a new partner hadn’t surprise him.
He won't deny that it hurt, but it didn't surprise him. He was beginning to wonder if it wouldn't have been better if she had actually gone through with it because then she would never have gotten so tied up with him and the inevitable messes he got her into.
Bobby sighed and mentally prepared himself to leave. He would leave the decision to her. If she wanted to quit the partnership he wouldn't try to stop her and if she decided to stay he would try to make things better for her.
Before he could physically make himself move, a set of head lights washed over him and a little Toyota appeared in the driveway. He could make out her figure in the driver's seat and even though he couldn't clearly see her face, he knew she was watching him and probably wishing that he would disappear into some figment of her hopeful imagination.
In the car Alex sighed and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. As the rolled them back down she found him still sitting there, still as a deer in headlights with the exception of his hands twisting and weaving together.
She wasn't near ready to deal with him yet. She had every intention of spending the weekend forgetting about Robert Goren and how much her life had become twined to his.
"God," Alex thought. "When did my ability to feel whole, balanced, become dependent on his ability to feel the same?"
The thought of just sitting in her car and seeing if he'd eventually leave crossed her mind. She was tired of being the grown-up in this relationship, the one who had to be rational and practical, and keep them both above water.
They were off balance and if they were really honest they'd both admit that it had been that way for a long time now. She kept trying to give and give, only to have it shoved back down her caring little throat with a shrug of his shoulder or some lame excuse.
She took a deep breath, knowing that as per usual she would have to take the first step, and climbed out of the car. She slung her bag over her shoulder, locked the car, and began the walk to her front door without paying him any attention.
She stopped as she reached the bottom of the steps and stared down at the keys in her hand.
When she looked up, she found his eyes nervously shifting from his hands to her face.
"It's late," she said.
He nodded.
"Y-you were out late," he countered, his voice soft and apologetic.
It's exactly how she expected him to sound, but she didn't completely buy it. She knew he needed them to be okay as much as she did, but she was done doing all the work. If he wanted her as his partner, as his friend, then he would have to start letting her in and stop expecting her to be there just whenever he chose he needed her to be.
She was beginning to feel like there was some on/off switch attached to her back that no one had made her aware of when it came to her relationship with Bobby, but he was definitely the one controlling the switch.
"I was at my sister's," she said, squeezing between the opening made by his shoulder and the railing. "Some of us do actually have lives outside of work, you know."
Alex slipped her key into the lock and heard him rise behind her.
"Eames."
She let out a sigh and stared into the white paint of her door. Bashing her head against the door was starting to become a not so unpleasant option, but instead she did what she would always do: she turned around. Despite everything she did respect him and cared for him, probably more than she should.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice weakened under the plea behind his words. "I-I don't know what else to say to you. You know I had to get my shield back...you know that, and I'm sorry you had to stay in the dark, but the job is all I have. I need--"
"Don't give me that crap!" she said as her anger got caught in her throat and threatened to leak out of her eyes. "The job's all you have because that's the way you made it."
She could see the hurt and anger building in his eyes, and right now she'd pay good money to see a classic Goren rage meltdown, because it would at least be something genuine.
"Like you're any better?" he asked in a bitter, accusatory tone that he had never directed at her before. "You think you don't hide behind the job as much as I do? When's the last time you had a date...o-or gone out with a group of girlfriends? Don't act like you're all high and mighty...good little Eames, always picking up after her crazy partner..."
Her jaw dropped, spewing angry thoughts that hadn't quite become tangible words.
"Oh! What about you?" she demanded stepping closer toward him, and found that, for once, they were eye to eye thanks to their perspective positions on the steps. "Poor me...let's see how efficiently I can keep myself miserable. Or how many harry situations I can put myself in before I finally get myself killed…or how many times I can push away the one real friend I have before she finally takes the hint and leaves. Then I can finally be completely and utterly alone and miserable. That sounds like good summer fun to me!"
"I'm not--" he yelled, but cut himself off by turning slightly on his heel and scrubbing his hand over his face.
He was too dependent on her and he knew it, but it never occurred to him that she might mourn his absence. He always felt it when she wasn't there, when they weren't solid, or when he felt something or someone threatening to give her a better option than what she had.
Things were so mixed up between them that it had gotten hard to see where and even if they were crossing the invisible line that was laid between every male/female duo. Maybe his brother saw something between them that neither of them could or would acknowledge.
"Do you get it now, Bobby?" she asked. "This isn't just about you keeping me in the dark. It's about you trusting me...it's about us being a real team again."
He absently nodded and stared across the street at a string of parked cars.
"When..." he said, softly.” When did things get so complicated between us?"
Alex let go of a breath that she felt like she had been holding for months now and then plopped down onto the top step.
She ran her hand over her face and lightly shook her head.
"I don't know..." she said.
He turned back toward her and watched her as she stared up at him.
"I-I need us to be okay, Eames," he said.
"So do I," she said. "But...you got to meet me half way, Bobby. You can't just expect me to be here whenever you want me to be and not when you'd rather not deal with what I have to say."
He nodded and glanced down at the ground, softly chewing on his bottom lip.
"You-you know...that your more th-than just my water carrier. I-I've never thought of you that way...an-and I never meant to make you feel that way..."
"Yeah...I know."
"Wh-what do we do now?" Bobby asked.
She shrugged.
"Let me be your friend," she said.
"I-I'm not very good at letting people...h-help me...letting them really know me."
"Yeah, I noticed," she said.
He let out a weak laugh, knowing that her humor meant they made it forward at least a small step.
Alex pushed herself up from the step and looked over him as she played with her keys.
"Do you want a drink?" Alex asked. "And I mean a soda, water...no liquor."
He smiled and nodded.
She turned on her heel and unlocked the door. He followed her inside and watched her closed the door.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
4 am Ramblings
A/N: Goren's POV; AU with B/A established relationship
It’s not unusual for me to wake up at odd hours of the night completely awake and unable to go back to sleep. My mind starts moving and it won’t stop. Sometimes I even wake up realizing what I missed the previous day; that little piece of evidence that makes every thing else fall together, but since this happens at four in the morning I can’t really do anything about it.
When it was just me, I would go ahead to the office or sprawl the evidence across my living room floor to collect my thoughts. Now, most mornings I still get up and search for something to occupy my mind and hands with, but I’m usually not alone for long since Madison has inherited what Eames calls my “erratic sleeping habits.”
Other mornings, like this one, when Eames in her oversized T-shirt has migrated to my side, I stay and I watch her, focusing on the warm streams of air that flitter through the fabric of my T-shirt.
She teases me about my watching, saying that I would have made an excellent stalker.
I learned at an early age to study people’s actions, mostly out of necessity, so I could anticipate when my mom was having a bad day. It was nerve racking and at many times futile.
But this, this relaxes me.
I remember the first night I woke up and found her head resting on my chest. It was two months after we started sharing a bed, and when her eyes looked up at mine I knew she was in love with me. I could practically hear her saying, “Okay, I admit it. I’m not always as tough as I appear to be. Sometimes I just want to feel warm and safe; on occasion I may even cry, but if you tell any one I will cause you bodily harm.”
I still don’t know how I managed to get here and or how to explain how grateful I am for her and what she has given me. Love seems inadequate since we both know it can be said as trivial as someone asking to pass the salt, and it doesn’t even to begin to encompass the things she has opened me to.The most obvious of course is Madison, who I can probably describe my feelings for even less than those for Eames, but she has also given me the invitation into a real family.
I’m fascinated when watching the Eames clan and even more perplexed by their willingness to except me as one of their own. I study them most a family dinners, where every one is seated at the dinning room table and kids gallop between eating in the kitchen and disturbing their parents, who were hoping for an uninterrupted meal.
There is a language of old squabbles and new banter that I have yet to master, and doubt I ever will.
John and Anna generally watch their children with knowing smiles. There is a quiet understanding between the two that comes out of the years of experiences they have shared.
Eames says they have gotten more affection since they’ve had grandchildren and even more notably after Anna’s stroke a couple years ago.
Eames, her mother, and her sister have always struck me as three versions of the same woman. They all get their quick wit and looks from their mom, who is also patient and easy going, an inherited trait Eames has had to hone since meeting me. Carrie on the other hand, like her father, tends to fret over things and is generally the organizer of family functions, a duty she both berates and relishes. Her husband, David is not quiet as high strung, but competitive, which can sometimes turn a game of Trivial Pursuit into an all out cage match.
The baby Eames, Danny, is the jokester and lone firefighter in a sea of cops. His wife, Lily is surprisingly quiet, and at times seems more out of place than me. Lucas, the oldest, has always been Eames’ favorite sibling. As a kid she claims to have been a shadowy nuisance who got him in trouble when he and his friends kicked her out of their playhouse, but as teenagers they found common ground and have a special understanding that the other’s don’t share. They are definitely the most alike of their siblings, which is maybe why Lucas and I get along so well, even becoming friends outside of just being in-laws.
Sometimes I find myself feeling guilty at these dinners because I wish what little family I had could witness these things with me. I wish my mother could see her granddaughter outside of hospital walls and share with me in the knowledge that people can be happy together despite their problems.
There is a small part of me that still has to fight back a little twinge of jealously at the comradely amongst these people. They have their long standing feuds, but when one of their own is hurt or in danger, none of those things matter.
My gratitude usually wins over my jealously, because I know no matter what may happen to Eames or myself, Madison will always have someone here to take care of her and love her.
Speaking of which, there is a small finger taping on my shoulder and I look down to find wide dark eyes and messy brown hair in front of me.
“Hey baby,” I whisper.
She takes this as an invitation and begins to climb onto the edge of the bed, while I hook my arm around to steady her. She tucks her knees under her chest and leans her head against my shoulder, mimicking Eames, as she studies her mother’s sleeping face.
She doesn’t stay still for long, another trait for which Eames blames me, but stretches toward my ear.
“Will you do a puzzle with me?” she whispers, cupping a hand around the corner of her mouth.
She draws back and watches me intently as she waits for my answer. I smile and run a hand over her hair.
“Yes, I will do a puzzle with you.”
She smiles and climbs off the bed, while I dislodge myself from Eames, who luckily, and I quote, “could sleep through a brigade of jack hammers.” How I was ever able to wake her with a phone call to late night call-outs, I’ll never know.
I watch her for a moment as she readjusts and burrows her nose into my pillow, before turning and picking up Madison.
It’s not unusual for me to wake up at odd hours of the night completely awake and unable to go back to sleep. My mind starts moving and it won’t stop. Sometimes I even wake up realizing what I missed the previous day; that little piece of evidence that makes every thing else fall together, but since this happens at four in the morning I can’t really do anything about it.
When it was just me, I would go ahead to the office or sprawl the evidence across my living room floor to collect my thoughts. Now, most mornings I still get up and search for something to occupy my mind and hands with, but I’m usually not alone for long since Madison has inherited what Eames calls my “erratic sleeping habits.”
Other mornings, like this one, when Eames in her oversized T-shirt has migrated to my side, I stay and I watch her, focusing on the warm streams of air that flitter through the fabric of my T-shirt.
She teases me about my watching, saying that I would have made an excellent stalker.
I learned at an early age to study people’s actions, mostly out of necessity, so I could anticipate when my mom was having a bad day. It was nerve racking and at many times futile.
But this, this relaxes me.
I remember the first night I woke up and found her head resting on my chest. It was two months after we started sharing a bed, and when her eyes looked up at mine I knew she was in love with me. I could practically hear her saying, “Okay, I admit it. I’m not always as tough as I appear to be. Sometimes I just want to feel warm and safe; on occasion I may even cry, but if you tell any one I will cause you bodily harm.”
I still don’t know how I managed to get here and or how to explain how grateful I am for her and what she has given me. Love seems inadequate since we both know it can be said as trivial as someone asking to pass the salt, and it doesn’t even to begin to encompass the things she has opened me to.The most obvious of course is Madison, who I can probably describe my feelings for even less than those for Eames, but she has also given me the invitation into a real family.
I’m fascinated when watching the Eames clan and even more perplexed by their willingness to except me as one of their own. I study them most a family dinners, where every one is seated at the dinning room table and kids gallop between eating in the kitchen and disturbing their parents, who were hoping for an uninterrupted meal.
There is a language of old squabbles and new banter that I have yet to master, and doubt I ever will.
John and Anna generally watch their children with knowing smiles. There is a quiet understanding between the two that comes out of the years of experiences they have shared.
Eames says they have gotten more affection since they’ve had grandchildren and even more notably after Anna’s stroke a couple years ago.
Eames, her mother, and her sister have always struck me as three versions of the same woman. They all get their quick wit and looks from their mom, who is also patient and easy going, an inherited trait Eames has had to hone since meeting me. Carrie on the other hand, like her father, tends to fret over things and is generally the organizer of family functions, a duty she both berates and relishes. Her husband, David is not quiet as high strung, but competitive, which can sometimes turn a game of Trivial Pursuit into an all out cage match.
The baby Eames, Danny, is the jokester and lone firefighter in a sea of cops. His wife, Lily is surprisingly quiet, and at times seems more out of place than me. Lucas, the oldest, has always been Eames’ favorite sibling. As a kid she claims to have been a shadowy nuisance who got him in trouble when he and his friends kicked her out of their playhouse, but as teenagers they found common ground and have a special understanding that the other’s don’t share. They are definitely the most alike of their siblings, which is maybe why Lucas and I get along so well, even becoming friends outside of just being in-laws.
Sometimes I find myself feeling guilty at these dinners because I wish what little family I had could witness these things with me. I wish my mother could see her granddaughter outside of hospital walls and share with me in the knowledge that people can be happy together despite their problems.
There is a small part of me that still has to fight back a little twinge of jealously at the comradely amongst these people. They have their long standing feuds, but when one of their own is hurt or in danger, none of those things matter.
My gratitude usually wins over my jealously, because I know no matter what may happen to Eames or myself, Madison will always have someone here to take care of her and love her.
Speaking of which, there is a small finger taping on my shoulder and I look down to find wide dark eyes and messy brown hair in front of me.
“Hey baby,” I whisper.
She takes this as an invitation and begins to climb onto the edge of the bed, while I hook my arm around to steady her. She tucks her knees under her chest and leans her head against my shoulder, mimicking Eames, as she studies her mother’s sleeping face.
She doesn’t stay still for long, another trait for which Eames blames me, but stretches toward my ear.
“Will you do a puzzle with me?” she whispers, cupping a hand around the corner of her mouth.
She draws back and watches me intently as she waits for my answer. I smile and run a hand over her hair.
“Yes, I will do a puzzle with you.”
She smiles and climbs off the bed, while I dislodge myself from Eames, who luckily, and I quote, “could sleep through a brigade of jack hammers.” How I was ever able to wake her with a phone call to late night call-outs, I’ll never know.
I watch her for a moment as she readjusts and burrows her nose into my pillow, before turning and picking up Madison.
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