Title: The Widow's Lament
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: After Untethered
Rating: M
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Sometime between Christmas and New Year's she realizes she's broken her longest-standing resolution.
Sequel and conclusion to Near Death & After Life, and The Beauty Queen of Manhattan.
/
There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.
Raymond Carver, Gazebo
/
Everything changes, of course, after they sleep together. But, there is something to that old adage after all: The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Everything changes. For instance: She can no longer not know what his skin feels like beneath her fingers, and the muscles beneath that skin. She can no longer not know how it feels when he shudders and releases against her, into her, how he burrows his head into her neck and his teeth scrape her collarbone. How his weight settles on her. How he murmurs her name, not Eames, but Alex, which makes her shudder all on its own.
Alex.
She'll no longer be able to look at him, sitting there at his desk across from her, studying some file or case or phone record, spinning conjecture, making connections, talking and speculating, hands hovering and fluttering, and not think:
He's been inside me. And then blush furiously and look around to make sure no one has noticed what she's thinking.
But, at the same time.
Everything stays the same. For instance: He still brings her tea. He still follows her every movement with his eyes and smiles when she catches him. He is still overly solicitous when he knows she has a headache and he still worries about her every time she leaves his line of vision. And, he still takes off on her, when the mood strikes him. He gets that look in his eyes and she thinks uh oh, and she can actually see him checking out mentally, and then he turns and mutters something and then checks out physically. And she sighs and considers following him, berating him a little (I'm your partner, Bobby), but then she realizes nothing has changed after all and for that she's grateful.
They are still, essentially, who are they. For better or worse.
/
He goes home early the next morning, the day after Christmas, and they are shy with each other in her hallway. He looks down at his feet, balls his hands in his coat pocket. He stands funny, because his shoulder still hurts, she thinks. She doesn't know if she should hug him or kiss him or remind him to change the bandage when he gets home.
"Well," he says and she hears the dry click in his throat as he swallows.
"Yeah," she says. They look at each other. Bobby tries to shove his hands even deeper into his pockets. She can almost hear the seams ripping. "How's your wrist? Is it—"
"It's fine. Really." She flexes it, just to show him. He nods.
"Good. Good."
"Your shoulder?"
"Uh…it's…all right. A bit sore, but that's because—"
And they both smile then, remembering.
She reaches out and pinches the cuff of his coat between her fingers, bites her lip and tries to think of just the right morning after thing to say. But before she can he reaches out and grabs her, wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him in a tight, hard embrace that lasts for mere seconds and even through the heavy wool of his coat she can feel his heart going boom boom boom.
Then he turns and he's gone.
/
Ross calls her into his office and she knows what it's about even before he picks up the sheet of paper and waves it at her.
Seems like years ago, she thinks. A different lifetime.
"Well?" he says. She shrugs, crosses her arms. "Anything change?"
"Yeah," she says. Her voice cracks. "Yeah. A few things."
He nods. "Christmas was good, then?"
She tries to not smile but it doesn't work.
/
And it hits her, one day. One bitterly cold December afternoon, sun barely visible, wind whipping around concrete corners, raking her hair back (should have worn a hat). She's walking briskly near her apartment, minding her own business, not really thinking about anything in particular (dinner tonight — chicken — ok/early bed? — yes, why not?/wrist is barely hurting now, that's good/wonder what Bobby's doing and if he's thinking about me and what has happened between us at all) and it hits her, like the proverbial ton of bricks she's seen on cartoon shows all her life but now she understands. She gets it.
Bobby.
She stops short, so short the guy stampeding up behind her nearly runs into her, has to dance around her and shoots her a sincerely dirty look, but he's on his cell, so can't really yell too much (god lady!), and she laughs. Out loud.
Sometime between Christmas and New Year's it hits her. She realizes she's finally broken her longest-standing resolution:
To never fall in love again.
/
Sometimes, usually after he's had a drink or two, he allows himself to think about Joe. He wonders about this man, this man who was Eames' husband/lover/best friend. He can't think about him for too long, but alcohol helps and a few drinks usually loosen his mind enough that he can think and consider these things without too much pain. The pain being that Eames was married, and presumably would still be married if not for the horrible and yet irrefutable fact that her husband was gunned down, murdered, forever removed from the equation.
He wonders about their marriage. Was it good? Was it…sweet and comfortable? Did they fight? Well, of course they did, but what about? Was he sloppy? Was he anal? Was he good to her? Did she drive him insane with her willfulness, her stubbornness, that certain set of her chin?
Of course she did.
And the sex, of course. He wonders about the sex, but not too much because he just can't. Then he tries to imagine what his life would be like, really like, if he knew he had her to come home to each night. Would he keep himself out of harm's way? Would he stop baiting suspects to the point where they might snap and finally kill him? Would he be…happier? He tries to imagine sliding into bed each night, knowing she's there, waiting, drowsing, sighing with contentment as he slips his arm around her waist, presses his forehead to her shoulder and murmurs good night.
He thinks about being a part of Alex Eames' life. Not just her partner, her work partner, but a Part Of Her Life. A constant. A known. Part of the Equation. He thinks about how wonderful that would be.
After he's had a few drinks.
Then he thinks about calling her. Just, picking up the phone and dialing her number and…what, exactly? He's not sure, which is why his plan never progresses much past that point.
Then he sighs and drains the dregs from his glass, heads into the shower, jacks off with his eyes closed, water beating down on his shoulders and neck, thinking about anyone but Alex (but it's her face he sees, always), then crawls into bed and focuses on their latest case, their latest suspect, their latest puzzle.
Then.
He thinks about seeing Eames in the morning, her smirk, her dry wit, her hair falling across one eye, knowing, as he does now, how her skin smells, up close, how she arches, how she digs her small fingers into his back, how she says his name, his name.
Sometimes, usually after he's had a drink or two, he allows himself to be happy that Joe is dead.
/
She'd made it eight years ago, the first New Year's after Joe's death when everything was still open and raw and her skin actually hurt when she touched it. She sat alone at 2 a.m., glass of wine on the table in front of her, bottle half-empty, wedding photos spread around the glass. Who is that woman? she thought, studying the glossy images of herself. When did I ever look like that? No frown lines, no worries, relaxed and laughing. Always laughing. And Joe, hamming it up for the camera, not a care in the world. Except, photos lie, of course, and she knew that, but still, at 2 a.m. they seemed pretty damn close to the truth to her.
Never again, she'd whispered, then murmured louder, so she could hear herself above the ticking of the kitchen clock. She'd meant it at the time, had even said "I resolve" or something equally silly, and she'd meant it. Probably the one and only New Year's resolution she'd ever kept for more than a couple of weeks.
And then she met Bobby.
And she loved him. It had taken a few years, but she had come to love him and his funny, quirky, highly annoying and yet oddly endearing ways. Loving him, feeling protective towards him was not a problem. Because she hadn't fallen in love with him. About that she had been very firm.
Resolute.
She'd known it was a possibility, of course, which is exactly why she had worked so hard to keep her professional distance. No. Falling. In. Love. Ever.
Until that moment on the sidewalk.
And it scared her half to death.
/
Bobby has loved Alex for longer than she's loved him, and had fallen in love with her, hard, years ago. Loving Alex is easy, maybe one of the easiest things he's ever done, but falling in love hurts like a sonofabitch.
And lately he's realized it hurts even more than getting fucking shot.
/
Marriage wasn't easy but she worked hard at it, harder than anything else before in her life. But, she also maintained a bit of distance, self-preservation she called it. She kept her maiden name, her own bank account, her job, her identity. Joe was a good sport about it, even when his buddies ribbed him about their different last names. She never, as many of her childhood friends had, imagined herself as married when she grew up. She never dreamed about the dress, the flowers, the guest list, the food. It never figured into her Grand Plan of Doing Something Amazing With Her Life.
But, Joe came along and she fell in love, and marriage seemed, at the time, to be a natural extension of that love. Some nights, usually after a few drinks, she realizes she kind of fell into the whole thing. Tripped, maybe. She had been quite content with their relationship at the time; they lived together in a very small apartment, splitting the rent, the groceries, their infrequent dinners/movies out. She took the pill religiously (no time for babies) and when he, one night, got down on his knees and asked her to marry him, she blinked several times, slowly, and said, Ok.
Ok. As in, Why not?
She didn't squeal or blush or cry. She just smiled at his happiness and hugged him back and kissed him back and they made love on he faded threadbare couch and he talked about marriage plans and a honeymoon (maybe) and children (down the road). A house? Someday. Someday.
She did it all because they'd been together for three years and what else was there to do but break up or get hitched? No, no. That sounded horrible and she knew it, but in some ways it was the truth. She never would have asked him to marry her, or pressured him into getting her a ring. She had been…content with their lives as they were but he had to go and change everything, and then everything changed.
/
He's still looking for Donny, she knows, but he doesn't talk to her about it. He doesn't talk about a lot of things, including his time inside Tates, and she doesn't press him. She wouldn't know what to ask, anyway. Maybe she doesn't want to know.
She hears him on the phone, voice low but intense, angry. Frank? She listens but can't make out exact words or phrases and when he hangs up — slams the phone down like he wants to kill it — she pretends she is immersed in whatever the fuck's in front of her and waits for him to speak first.
"You have the Walden file?" he says and she hands it to him. He keeps his eyes averted and when she opens her mouth to say, Who was that? he cuts her off with another terse question or observation, or, even better, he stands and stalks to the coffee machine or the bathroom or the elevator. She knows he sneaks smokes but, again. They don't talk about it.
The day before New Year's he's in a particularly heated discussion on his cell, head so low it's almost touching his desk and she frowns, shakes her head and looks around for Ross. He's bound to pick up on this at some point and, as usual, she is ready to protect him, come up with some plausible story—
He hangs up.
"Fuck," he slams his hand, palm flat, on the desk. "Fuck."
She sips her coffee, makes a notation on a file.
"Everything all right?" she says mildly, bracing herself.
He looks up then, his eyes boring into hers.
"What do you think?" he says and his voice is cold and bordering on nasty and she thinks, suddenly, You can be such as asshole sometimes.
"Right," she says, then looks away, takes a deep breath and makes a move to get up, to be somewhere, anywhere, that he is not.
"Frank," he says then and his voice is low and hollow. "Frank saw Donny…he saw him yesterday! Can you believe that? Donny borrowed money. Money! For God knows what. He didn't tell me. He didn't tell Donny that I wanted to see him…talk to him…Now…"
His voice trails off. He shrugs. Eames watches him. She'd like to hug him, or hit him maybe. Sometimes she could go either way.
"Bobby," she begins. "This…search, for Donny. I understand why you want to find him, connect with him. I do. But, if he doesn't want to be found, if he doesn't want to connect with you, maybe—"
He cuts her off then, his hand on her hand, his fingers tight around her wrist. He leans close, closer than he should in a work environment, and she wonders if anyone is looking, but she doesn't pull away. She can't.
She sucks in her breath then and holds it.
"Listen." His voice is low and hard, but there is a trembling there, just beneath. "Listen. There are only two people left on this planet that I care enough about to die for, all right? One is Donny. The other one is you. So don't think for a minute that I'll ever give up on him, because I'd never give up on you."
Then he's up and gone and Alex is still holding her breath.
/
Late afternoon December 31 is clear and cold. She can see all the stars when she looks out the window of the station office. Spirits are high for a change and everyone seems on the verge of spontaneous celebration.
"Hey Eames," Logan calls over at one point. "You must have plans tonight."
She cocks an eyebrow. "I might." She sees Bobby perk up at this admission, but he keeps right on talking to Falacci, never even glances over and that, she smirks, is because nothing has changed.
/
"New Year's Eve," she says, looking straight ahead as she drives him home. She has, over the years, become abnormally adept at viewing things peripherally. She sees him nod slightly.
"It is." He fiddles with the portfolio on his lap.
They drive for a moment in complete silence.
"You have plans?" he says then.
"I do, actually," she says and can see his face fall, can see him look out the window at all the lights. "I have a date."
"I have no doubt, Eames," he says and he's so silly, really. He has no clue.
And she's so in love it's ridiculous.
/
Later, the ball is falling.
She turns on the television because it's a tradition and they sit side by side, almost touching but not quite, watching the screaming, undulating throng of celebrators. Neither one wishes they was there.
The countdown has begun.
10-9-8-
He was counting like that in Tates. Counting, to keep his sanity. Counting, and waiting. Waiting for water. Waiting for rescue. Waiting for something.
Waiting for Eames.
Still, the ball falls. He watches it. She watches him watching it. He knows it's coming. 10-9-8-
He can hear that refrain in his head, repeating, even now at night when he can't sleep.
10-9-8-7-6-
Is anyone coming? he had thought. Am I going to fucking die here? Am I going to dehydrate on this stupid fucking table? Without ever seeing Donny again? Without ever seeing Eames again?
Alex.
But this countdown is better, right? It's…promising. Full of…hope. Potentially. He closes his eyes.
10-9-8-
Could be good. Could be water. Could be…lifesaving.
Or.
Could be a kiss.
Which, as it turns out, it is.
/
"Bobby—"
"Hmm—"
She sighs into his neck. She can't say the words she wants to say, and it's stupid, all of it. It's all so stupid because she feels it and she wants to say it, and yet—
"Eames—"
He stops. She's not Eames, for Christ's, sake. She's…Alex. He touches her breasts, her skin, there, bleached pale pale pale and untouched for so long. He knows this, in his heart, and yet, he doesn't know why, exactly. She's had men inquire after her and she has been receptive, maybe.
Maybe not.
What has she been waiting for, anyway?
"Alex—"
"Bobby—"
He can feel her lips curve. She's smiling against him and it makes him smile, too. He shakes his head a bit because it's absurd, all of it. He should be able to say it, to yell it, to announce it from the rooftops, for Christ's sake. He's known it for so long now and he says it, to himself, very quietly, before he goes to sleep each night. Something like a prayer, if he was the praying type But, to utter it? To say it aloud?
No.
That might wreck everything.
Jinx.
Yes, stupid and childish, but still.
Jinx.
"Do…do you love me?" he whispers instead, even though he has promised himself he will never ever ask her this question. Why does it even matter? Because. Because, he answers himself. Because…he loves her. More than anything. He doesn't look at her. He cannot. He pushes his face into her neck, her beautiful, beautiful neck. Does he even expect an answer?
He listens.
She breathes. In. Out. In.
Yes.
He does. He… needs …an answer.
And that scares him to death.
/
He settles against her then, moves to one side, hand sliding up her ribcage to her bare breast, cupping, feeling the small nipple push against the soft palm of his hand, enough to make him hard again.
Not now, he thinks. Not now. He shifts, tries to get comfortable, tries to think about sleep.
He's drifting off when he hears her, hears her voice, light and ethereal, like angel wings against his cheek.
Angel wings. God Bobby. You really are getting sentimental in your old age.
Then:
Sometimes sentimental is fine. Just fine.
"I love you, Bobby. More than you know." She whispers this, somberly, like it's a secret, but it's not and he realizes this. And then she kisses his chin, which is digging painfully into her cheek. It's rough with unshaved hair, but she doesn't care, really. She just needs to answer him and her lips find his skin and she can't stop kissing him.
"I love you, too," he whispers, when it is all over and done with, and he thinks she's asleep. He listens to her breathing. He could listen to that sound for the rest of his life. "I love you….I love you…Alex."
She must be sleeping, he thinks. Otherwise, he couldn't tell her. He presses his lips to her jaw, her neck.
She's sleeping, he assures himself.
She's not.
/
There is this ridiculous need to idealize the dead, she knows. She did it, does it still, and everyone who knew Joe did it, too. He wasn't perfect, of course, he was far from it, but he was a good guy. He was. He was mostly kind and could be very sweet. He was generous, when he was able, had a good sense of humour, and he loved her. She is sure of that. But, he also had a quick temper and a quicker tongue, and their fights often escalated to shouts and threats, slammed doors and hours, or days, of cold, bitter silence. But still. They weathered the first tough years of marriage and money issues and sex issues and whatever issues came along.
When he died she felt she'd been run over by a truck and gutted through with a knife. All those clichés, well, they were true, she found out. Those first few weeks passed in a blur and haze of well-wishers, of tears and remorse, of pomp and ceremony and lawyers and insurance talk and more than a few drunken nights for her. One of his friends even hit on her, tried to kiss her and she laughed for a long time without finding it the least bit funny.
And then people began to drift away, the way people do.
And then the stages of grief.
And then, finally, the resolution.
/
"What are you thinking about?" he says and before she can think she says:
"Joe."
It's very quiet then and she feels her heart do a triple-beat against her ribs and feels his arms loosen around her.
Shit.
Shitshit shit.
"Bobby."
He moves to sit up and she's hit with a sudden flash of anger. Give me a break, she thinks. It's no big deal, she thinks. But, it is. To him. And she knows this much.
"Where you going?" she says. She's so tired.
"Just out for a minute." He pulls on his shirt, his pants. He doesn't look at her. Then he does. "I'll be back. Ok?"
She stares at him.
"Ok?"
She nods.
And waits.
/
She catches him smoking in the first half hour of the new year. What does she say? She says nothing. She only sighs, leans against the cold brick wall where he is standing, breathes in his scent, his smoke. He reaches over at some point and takes her hand in his and they stand like that for a bit.
"Let's walk, all right?" he says, so they do.
/
She doesn't realize she's crying at first. They walk and he finishes his smoke, tosses it away and they keep walking. He doesn't light another.
They walk for an hour or so, listening to revelers shout and scream around and above them. They walk through drunken party-goers, complete with hats and noisemakers.
Howling at the moon, she thinks.
She's not sure why she's crying but she lets the tears fall and he doesn't seem to notice, so.
Finally, she's tired and she pulls her hand free from his and sits on a bench. He stands in front of her.
It's so cold out and her toes and fingertips ache with it. She watches him pace in front of the bench, hands clenched at his sides. She swipes at her eyes with the back of her coat sleeve, but the tears are already dried and cold on her cheeks. He sees her do this and stops suddenly. He stares at her and it looks like he might say something but he doesn't.
Then:
"This…what we're doing here," he says.
She nods.
"I'm…I'm not very good at it. Never really done it." He laughs a little. "I've never done it."
"Done what, exactly?"
"Been in love. With someone. Like this."
She looks away. If he's ending this she wishes he'd just do it already so she can quickly reinstate her oldest resolution that she's smashed to pieces.
"I don't want to mess it up," he says quietly.
She sniffles and it sounds kind of pathetic in the new, cold air. She can feel herself starting to cry again and she blinks hard.
"Me, either."
He takes her hand then, pulls her up. His grip is painfully tight but she's grateful for it.
"Eames," he begins, but she shakes her head. He nods and starts walking, pulling her along.
"Where are we going?" she asks. He points, waves his arm vaguely in the direction of her apartment. She looks at him. He looks back. He smiles.
"Home."
/
Fin