A/N: Here is the sequel to 'Because of You' that I had promised. I am not sure where it's going, but the path will lead Bobby back to New York. We'll just have to see where it goes and what happens along the way. Enjoy the ride!
Robert Goren slid his key into the lock on his apartment door. Stepping inside, he looked around at a large room that had not changed at all in the eight months he had lived there. Tossing the keys on a counter, he added his badge, wallet, knife and sidearm to it. Then he pulled out a handful of change and set it in a mug with other change. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Shaking one free of the pack, he lit it and set the pack and lighter beside his wallet.
Crossing the room, he pushed open a window, letting the crisp autumn air into the apartment. He went into the kitchen and pulled out a beer and a container of cream cheese from the refrigerator. From the counter, he took a bagel from its plastic bag and cut it open. After spreading one half of the bagel with cream cheese, he returned the container to the refrigerator and took the bagel and the beer into the living room.
With a deep sigh, he collapsed onto the couch and flipped on the television, turning to the news. His stomach lurched when he saw scenes from New York, and he sat up a little straighter when the cameras turned onto a gathering of police officers. He didn't recognize any of them, but he was flooded with sudden memories from the time he had been one of them. And inevitably, his thoughts turned to the one he had left behind. Alex...
He finished the beer and returned to the kitchen for another, his bagel remaining untouched. A deep melancholy settled on him and he walked to the window, looking out across a well-lit, mostly full parking lot. Beyond the lot, he knew, was an expanse of grass fields. Unlike the concrete jungle he had left behind, there were vast expanses of fields and woods surrounding apartment complexes and suburban neighborhoods. Also unlike the city he'd grown up in, the crime here offered him less than a challenge. New York was a magnet for interesting personalities, and that carried over to the crimes that were committed there. His life here gave him less satisfaction than he'd ever had before. If he had to face facts, he would have to admit it. He was bored. He was bored and lonely.
Loneliness was something he was intimately familiar with, but this was a different kind of loneliness. If he wanted company, all he had to do was pick up the phone. The woman who would answer was always willing to give him company. She was more than satisfying in bed. And she never asked about his past, never wanted to know what he was feeling or thinking, never tried to connect with him on anything but a physical level. At one time, he thought that as what he needed. Even after he'd moved to Sacramento, he thought that was what he wanted. And for the first few months, it was. But recently, he found his thoughts turning more and more toward the past, toward something he had once had but had given up.
He looked toward the phone. He had called her, twice, since he left. But she had not been home, and he hadn't left a message. Last month, he'd finally broken down and called Mike Logan. After some small talk, Logan had asked him point blank if he wanted to know how she was doing. Before he could stop himself, he'd said yes. She was all right, Logan had said. Still with Major Case and partnered with him now. But that was all he would say, and it had left him feeling less than satisfied. "Don't tell her I called, Mike," he'd said.
"Why are you doing this to yourself, and to her? Just come home."
"I can't do that..."
He had not called again. It hurt too damn bad. And he was glad he had not told Logan where he was. Looking at the empty beer bottle in his hand, he threw it across the room in response to the mounting frustration and anger inside him. The sound of shattering glass was mildly satisfying. He went back into the kitchen for something stronger.
Sweat drenched, breathing hard and not yet sober, he sat up. There were some things about him that had not changed, and the demons that haunted his sleep were among them. Rising, he went into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Stripping off his boxers, he stepped into the stream of hot water. Gradually, he turned down the hot water until the stream was cold, and then he stepped from the shower, toweled off and pulled on clean boxers and a pair of sweat pants.
It was three o'clock in the morning. Sitting heavily on the couch, he stared at the phone. It was six in New York. He didn't even have to think about that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he always knew what time it was back home. Home...
Just come home...
He wished it was that easy. Maybe it was. In eight months, he had tried to build a life for himself in Sacramento, and he had failed miserably. He picked up the phone and began to dial. For the hundredth time, he stopped halfway through the number and slammed the receiver back in the cradle.
Looking around the room, he took stock of his life. The best thing he could say about it was that it was empty. He was on his third partner, and he knew the guy was going to leave soon. Without Eames to ground him, he floundered. He was skirting the edge of a chasm that frightened him. He ate poorly, drank too much and often lost the tentative grip he held on his temper. He already had three letters of reprimand in his file. He was definitely on thin ice...and he could hear it cracking.
Wandering into the kitchen, he poured himself a drink. Downing half the glass, he leaned over the sink and stared into the amber fluid that remained in the glass. He closed his eyes and the glass slipped through his fingers, shattering in the sink. At this pace, he was going to destroy himself in short order. His depression increased when he realized that there was no one who would care. He was going to die, alone, unless he took steps to change the path he had chosen to stumble down.
Returning to the living room, he picked up the phone and dialed the number he had started to dial before. She answered on the third ring. Hello?
At the sound of her voice, he closed his eyes and trembled, assaulted by overpowering memories. Hello?
He was short of breath, but he finally managed to speak before she hung up. "A-Alex..."
There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. Excuse...me? Her voice was tentative. He knew she recognized his voice. "Hi," he said softly.
She gasped. Bobby... she whispered, her voice strained by intense emotion.
This was more difficult than he had ever imagined it would be. "How...how are you?"
Eight months... she said, and he heard the beginning of her anger. Eight months, Goren, and not a fucking word. Why now?
It was a mistake, calling her. He knew it would be. "I-I'm sorry," he managed. "I...I won't bother you again..."
He moved the receiver toward the cradle, but he heard her yell, and he hesitated. Slowly, he brought the receiver back to his ear. "Did...did you say something, Eames?"
Yes. I said don't you dare hang up on me. She was quiet for a long moment. How are you, Bobby?
Did he tell her the truth? "I'm...getting by," he answered, settling on a half-truth. "You?"
I'm all right. You...left New York.
"Yes."
Where are you?
Was he prepared to tell her? He must have hesitated long enough to make her reconsider the question. Never mind. Just...tell me you're all right, Bobby.
"I..." He couldn't outright lie to her. He had never been able to. "I can't."
You moved on, didn't you?
He couldn't quite keep the bitter anger from his tone. "N-no. I tried, but it never worked for me. I'm sure it was easier for you."
She didn't answer for what seemed like an eternity. Why did you call me?
Why had he called? He found that he didn't have an answer for that. Again he wondered if it had been a mistake. Instead of making him feel better, it made him feel as though something had torn out his gut. A hollow feeling settled deep inside him and he hurt. "I...I guess I'd better let you go. Good-bye, Eames."
This time he meant it. He wasn't going to bother her again. He was done with the past, and he didn't give a damn about the future. Bobby!
He hesitated one more time. "What?"
Another extended silence. Finally, she spoke, her voice so low he had to listen closely to hear her. Please, she whispered. Come home.
Hot tears spilled from his eyes. "There's nothing there for me," he answered bitterly.
What about me?
"What about you, Eames?"
I...miss you. Sometimes, it physically hurts, I miss you so much. I wonder if I just didn't try hard enough to understand you...
She was crying now, and that broke his heart, and his resolve. "No," he said softly, because if he put any volume in his voice it would break. "It wasn't you..."
So where did we go wrong?
"You went wrong...when you fell in love with me."
He knew she was still crying, and then she said, I never stopped loving you, damn you.
"I-I'm sorry. I really am."
This time he did hang up. He went back into the kitchen and got another glass. He didn't go in to work that day.