Author's Note: In my personal BA timeline, Eames wrote the letter referenced in "In the Wee Small Hours" some time before the events of the series premiere. Bobby and Alex have been in a relationship since the year after her maternity leave.
"I'm sorry, Bobby – I should have told you."
He's shaking his head, not looking at her, fiddling with the button on his suit jacket.
"I am an acquired taste." Pause. "I'm lucky you withdrew your request."
He says it with quiet emphasis, ducking his head to meet her eyes, and she knows he means it. But that doesn't make it any less of a deflection – especially when he walks away, leaves the words hanging there, leaves her standing in the courthouse lobby.
She tells herself he just needs some air, some space. This is his usual MO when something gets to him, and she's not about to kid herself that he was unaffected by what she said on the stand. To know that she was that close to leaving, and never told him – not even afterwards, once they were doing better – she's all too aware that he'll feel it like a betrayal. I'm not proud of it, Bobby! she wants to protest. It's why she never said anything, at the time or afterwards – she was ashamed of how she'd almost taken the easy way out. But I didn't. I haven't. Five and a half years later, I'm still here.
He must realize how far they've come since she wrote that letter…how differently she thinks of him now…how much it hurt her to read her own words out in open court.
He has to know, she thinks. Couldn't he tell from how I looked, how I sounded?
But he walked away. Damn it. She hates when she can't read him, when they're out of sync. It makes her feel off-balance, wrong-footed, vulnerable. And she really, really dislikes feeling vulnerable.
Her cell phone vibrates in her pocket, the caller ID flashing "J. Deakins." Oh brother, here we go.
"Hello, sir."
"Carver called," says the captain. "How the hell did Garrett's attorney get hold of that letter?"
"I was going to ask you the same question," she says, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of her voice. "I certainly wasn't expecting to be ambushed with it on the stand."
Deakins sighs. "I know. Sorry, Alex. Hell, I'd even forgotten that you submitted a request for reassignment. Garrett didn't hear about it from me, I can promise you that."
"Then who?"
"I'll find out," says Deakins in a tone that doesn't bode well for the snitch. He pauses.
"How'd Goren take it?"
"He was – surprised, obviously." Wow, that was lame, Alex. Cover it, quick. "He's fine though – we're fine."
"Good," says her boss, and she's grateful this conversation is taking place over the phone where he can't see her. "It's water under the bridge, after all. Go home, both of you – get some rest."
"Thanks, sir. See you tomorrow." She clicks the phone shut, mentally adding lying to the captain to the list of ways this day has really sucked. Now what? She wonders. She and Bobby were supposed to spend the night at his place, because it's closer and they both have to be at the courthouse again tomorrow morning. But now he's walking it off, or whatever he's doing, and she doesn't even know whether he wants her around at all.
She calls his cell, and gets voice mail. "Bobby – it's me. Look, I – I hope you're okay. I'm gonna go home, I guess. If you want to talk – or whatever – I'll be at my place."
See this, Alexandra, says the voice in her head that sounds a bit like her mom and a bit like Kat Borowski, the former drill sergeant who was her only female instructor at the academy, this here is what we might call the major disadvantage of getting involved with your partner. All she wants is to take Bobby's parting words at face value and trust that he'll be okay – that they'll be okay – in the morning. She wants to go home and unload all her guilt and frustration on someone who will listen till she's done talking and then take her to bed. But the person who usually fills that role is Bobby – and he's nowhere to be found.
Worse, she can't take what he said at face value, because anything to do with their professional partnership is all mixed up with the rest of their relationship in ways that she doesn't even fully understand or even notice most of the time, until things go sideways like they did today.
Oh hell, it's not just today, she admits reluctantly. They've been off-kilter for a while now, she and Bobby, and she can't really pin down when it started or why. They've been working too hard for a long time – the Garrett family murders being only the latest in a series of sordid, draining cases. When she thinks about it, it's been weeks – months? – of the two of them barely talking except about work, falling into bed at night too exhausted to do anything but sleep…and that's when they're even sharing a bed, because Bobby's ability to rest seems inversely proportional to his stress level, and he has taken to getting up in the night to re-read files or do research on the internet.
We're both tired and strung out, she rationalizes. It's – a sort of marshalling of emotional resources, diverting them to cope with just getting through the day. He gets distant, she becomes more abrupt and more sarcastic, less willing to be the caretaker. It's not a good combination, she thinks tiredly.
She's curled on the couch with a Scotch on the rocks when he finally comes in, using the key that she gave him years ago, before they were – whatever they are. There's exhaustion and defeat in every line of his body as he sheds his coat, shoes and gun – and she wants nothing more than to pull him down to sit with her so she can wrap her arms around him and make this godawful week go away for both of them. But he stays in the hall, gestures towards the bedroom without meeting her eyes.
"I'm – going to go to bed, I think…"
"Bobby. Don't you think we should…talk?"
He scrubs a hand over his face. "There's nothing to say, Eames. It's fine." And he walks away. Again.
She puts her glass down on the coffee table with just a little too much force, and follows him down the hallway. Outside the bedroom, she breathes deep, trying to contain her irritation. He didn't have to come back, she reminds herself. He could have just gone to his place, but he came here. That must mean – something. When she pushes the door open, he's sitting on the bed with his back to her, shrugging out of his shirt. His pants are already draped over the chair by the bed. He doesn't turn when she walks into the room and perches on the other side of the bed.
"Bobby, if you're mad – about the letter, or something else – I wish you'd tell me. This silent treatment thing you're doing is getting old really fast."
His voice is muffled, neutral. "Why would I be mad?"
"I don't know," she says evenly. "Maybe you're mad that I submitted that request…or that I didn't tell you about it later…that I left you open to that attack in court."
"Garrett's attorney still would have used it – whether I knew about it in advance or not wouldn't have made a difference to what happened in court."
He picks up a magazine from the bedside table and starts flipping through it aimlessly. Part of her knows that this is just another Bobby-twitch, a nervous thing, a defense mechanism…but the rest of her wants to grab the magazine away and shake him into looking her in the eye.
"Maybe not," she says instead. "But it would have made a difference to you personally…wouldn't it?"
"I told you – it doesn't matter." He's totally blank, no emotion at all, and she can't read him, and boy, she hates that he's making her do all the work.
"Damn it, Bobby! It's clear that something's wrong. What the hell do you expect me to do about it if you won't tell me what's going on?"
He gets under the covers in stubborn silence. He doesn't quite have the gall to turn his back on her, but he stares up at the ceiling as though she's not even in the room. Enough with the martyr act, already, she thinks impatiently. But a small scared part of her wonders if he's so angry and hurt that he's afraid of what he'll say to her if he lets himself go. Wonders if the damage is even worse than she feared. But how can I know if he won't tell me?
"Fine," she says."If you're not going to talk, can I at least try to explain about the damn letter?"
"You don't need to," he starts, but she cuts him off.
"Yes, I think I do."
He makes a sulky do whatever you want gesture with his hand. She takes a deep breath.
"Do you remember the Flannigan case?" she asks, without further preamble. He stiffens noticeably.
"Of course I do," he replies, subdued. As well he should – it was the first really bad case of their partnership – and, looking back on it now, she'd still put it in the top ten worst of her career. It began as extortion, progressed to multiple murders with a connection to City Hall and ended up a nightmarish wrangle of dysfunctional families and backroom politics, with the press howling for blood and the brass stonewalling them at every turn.
"You were a mess," she states categorically. He looks stung. "You were."
She knows now, of course, that it was desperation – his driving need to solve the case before more bodies showed up – but Bobby had been at his obstinate, devil-may-care, socially inept worst. He ignored her as much as he could, was barely civil to Deakins and seemed to take a sort of vengeful satisfaction in stepping on as many prominent toes as possible.
"The victims' families were mad at you, Carver stopped taking your calls, the mayor's office thought you were insane – Bobby, you were this close to losing your badge."
"And you were afraid I'd take you down with me." Accusatory.
"Yes, I was," she says roundly. "I barely knew you. I was trying so hard to figure out how to work with you, and you were being impossible. That case – people just kept dying, and we weren't catching the perp, and I didn't feel like I was making any contribution at all. All I wanted was to do the job, Bobby, and the prospects for that weren't looking so good, if I stayed with you. So I put in a request for reassignment. I figured…if you managed to get yourself fired…"
"At least you'd be on record as having wanted out."
She sighs. "Yeah. I'm not proud of it – but there it is."
"What changed your mind?" He seems to ask in spite of himself.
"I hated the thought that I was…quitting, or failing. Deakins was understanding…but I could tell he was disappointed. And I felt like a coward for not at least waiting until the case was over, until I could talk to you about it. So I asked the captain just to sit on it for a while."
"And?"
"And then…we broke the case. Remember?" She sees the ghost of a smile cross his face.
She's still not sure how it happened. Maybe she was made brave, or reckless by the knowledge of her letter sitting in Deakins' desk…you've got nothing to lose with this guy now, Alex my girl. Maybe Bobby had somehow realized how close to the ragged edge he was teetering, in more ways than one. Maybe it was the discovery of the fourth victim, abandoned in a parking garage on the Upper East Side, that pushed them both over the line.
That afternoon, they had a huge and highly unprofessional argument – okay, fight – in the conference room, the whole squad no doubt listening in. He called her narrow-minded and stodgy, a watch dog appointed by the brass to ride herd on him. She shouted back that he was a self-absorbed jerk who didn't really want to solve the case unless he could crack it all on his own, be Mr. Brilliant Genius and the body count be damned.
"I'd let you help if you could keep up with me," he sneered.
"Try me," she shot back, shaking with rage. "Just fucking try me!"
The strange thing was that he had. Striding around the room, waving his hands, shoving files and photos and evidence bags across the table at her, he'd tried to deluge her with words and ideas and theories – and at first, she admits it, she took snide pleasure in shooting holes in everything he threw at her.
But somewhere in the middle of all the shouting she'd said something – she doesn't even remember what it was, only that it made him stop dead in his tracks. In the silence that fell she could hear her breathing and his – they both sounded like they had been running. He met her eyes with that look that she was only just beginning to recognize, the one that meant he was leaping from point A to B and all the way to eureka in his head.
"The agent. The real estate agent. Eames – the – we need –"
He was stuttering again, and at first she didn't get it, didn't understand, but he kept his eyes on hers, burning with nascent hope, waiting – and click. All of a sudden it was clear to her, the path his thought had taken…she saw what he had seen, and it made sense, it checked out, it was – maybe, just maybe – the break they had been waiting for.
"A warrant," she said. "I'll call Carver."
Years later, it still warms her right through to remember the exhilarated grin that flashed across his face, the spark that leapt between them.
"We cracked it," she says again. "Together. And I thought – maybe we could make the partnership work, after all. So the next day, after we nailed Flannigan, I went to see the captain and told him I wanted to withdraw my request."
"He almost fell out of his chair," she recalls, her voice suddenly dry. "I'm pretty sure he thought I'd come to file a complaint against you, or worse."
Bobby snorts. "It was a hell of a fight," he says. "But you gave as good as you got."
"Yeah." Silence falls between them.
"Bobby, I need you to understand," she says carefully. "That was the first and only time I've ever considered a transfer. The things I said in that letter - I don't think that way about you any more. I haven't for years."
She leans towards him across the bed, tilting her head until he has to meet her eyes (a trick I learned from you, my friend, she thinks with some irony).
"Do you believe me?" she asks pointedly. He looks at her for a long moment. Then,
"Yes," he says briefly. She lets out her breath.
"Good." But she's not sure it is, really. The silence that falls again seems heavy, and although they're only a few feet apart on the bed, she feels as though she's looking at him through a wall of glass, and she still has no idea what he's thinking. Damn it, meet me half way, Bobby!
"Maybe you should, though," he says abruptly, staring at his fingers making creases in the blanket across his lap.
"Should what?"
"Consider a transfer."
"What? Goren, you've got to be kidding me."
"No. Seriously – I don't think anyone would blame you if you were tired of putting up with me. I – I wouldn't."
"Uh huh." She pinches the bridge of her nose. I don't freaking believe this.
"So is that all you think I've been doing for five years – putting up with you?
"No," he protests, sitting up. "I just," but she cuts him off, riding a mounting crest of anger.
"All the hundreds of cases we've worked on – that was my contribution, was it? Keeping the great Detective Goren on the straight and narrow. Thanks very much, partner."
She meant that to sting, and feels unkind satisfaction at watching the bolt hit home. "God, Bobby – if you honestly believe that I'd be satisfied playing Watson to anyone's Sherlock – even yours – you must not think much of me. Professionally, I mean."
"That's not true, and you know it!" He's mad now too. Well, good, she thinks.
"You're the best, Eames – everyone knows that." He flings the words at her like an insult. "Associating with me isn't doing your career any favours, haven't you ever thought about that?"
She throws a hand up in exasperation. "There you go again. Don't you trust me to make my own decisions? Does it never occur to you that I might be happy with my career where it is? Have you ever actually asked me what I want out of the job – what my plans are, in the long term?"
She doesn't give him a chance to answer. "Of course you haven't. Half the time you're too scared that I might say I'm going to leave – and the other half, like now for instance, you're too busy polishing that martyr's crown you've got on, and trying to push me away for what you think is my own good."
She stops, breathing hard. "Either way –it's not a good basis for a partnership, Bobby. It's not."
And while we're at it, I'm done pretending that this fight is all about our professional relationship, she thinks.
"And it's certainly not a good basis for – this, either." She gestures vaguely between the two of them, at a loss as usual for a word to describe what they are to each other. "Maybe you've got some stupid chivalrous notion that you don't deserve me, that you're not good enough for me – but I wish you'd just tell your insecurities to shut up for once, because all it is, up here on this pedestal you've built for me, is lonely."
Her voice wavers on that last word, and she realizes just how close she is to tears. She swallows hard. Bobby looks away, but she can't tell whether it's anger or shame or something else entirely. Has this gotten us anywhere? she wonders, defeated.
"Ah!" she lets out an exasperated groan. "I can't do this anymore tonight. I'm going to bed."
She goes through her getting-ready-for-bed routine on autopilot. He's still sitting where she left him when she comes out of the bathroom, and she feels his eyes on her as she crawls into bed and turns off the light. She does her best to ignore him, turning her back and curling into herself in the darkness.
My heart hurts, she thinks. How stupid is it that I ache with missing a man who's two feet away?
She shuts her eyes and tries to sleep. She's all too aware of him, though, and comes abruptly out of a fitful doze when he pushes back the covers and moves slowly to the bathroom. When he comes back into the bedroom, he pauses, standing by the side of the bed as though he's not sure whether to lie down or go sleep on the couch. Please, she thinks, not even sure what she's asking for. When he finally does slide in next to her, he hesitates again and then moves close, slipping an arm around her waist and fitting his body to hers from behind.
The relief that washes over her is so strong that it brings tears to her eyes. She wants so badly just to turn around and touch his face, draw him in for a kiss and let one thing lead to another…but she settles for covering his hand with hers, holding him there so he won't move away, and they lie in silence for a while before he speaks.
"I'm sorry I left you at the courthouse, earlier."
It's his saving grace, she has often thought – his uncanny ability to cut through to what's really bothering her. Well, one of the things on tonight's list, anyway.
"It's okay," she says carefully. "You were blind-sided, you needed time to think – I understand that."
"Still," he says – but then doesn't seem to know how to continue. She concentrates on the feeling of his breath light and warm in her hair, his hand on her stomach, thumb moving in a slow, steady caress. She shifts, runs her foot along his calf, a silent encouragement.
"I don't think that all you do in our partnership is put up with me," he finally says. "How we work together – it's different – better – more…effective than anything else I've ever encountered. It wouldn't be that way if we were just tolerating each other."
"I know. It's why I stay," she says pointedly. "Well, one reason anyway." She feels him take a deep breath and let it out, slowly.
"I know that, intellectually – I do. But emotionally…I tend to dwell on the bad stuff, you know that. It's – hard for me to believe that I might be…good…for someone. Professionally or – or personally. That I'm – that you – that we're good together."
She nudges him. "That you're good for me. Say it."
She can't help but be faintly amused by the way he squirms, but they're too much of a tangle of arms and legs at this point for him to go far.
"That I'm good for you." He manages to get the words out with only a slight stutter.
"Now was that so hard?"
"Yes," he says, but she can hear laughter in his voice. Thank God, she thinks.
"Look, it's hard to explain…When I've been working too hard…or we catch a really bad case…or stuff happens like today in court – and with my mom, before – I kind of come off the tracks, I stop being able to talk myself out of the bad stuff. And then I get scared, and I shut down. Shut you out. I just – sort of – hide until I feel solid again."
"I know," she says. She tangles her fingers with his where they are spread across her middle.
"I guess I'm so used to us being right on the same page – at work, and most of the time elsewhere too – that I don't…handle it well when I feel like I don't know what's going on with you," she offers. "And when I'm stressed and frustrated and…missing you…I get angry and confrontational," she mutters. "And that sends you farther into your corner…talk about vicious circles."
He lets out a shaky breath that's almost a laugh. "Yeah." Then,
"I'm sorry," he starts again and she cuts him off.
"Please, stop apologizing, okay? God, I don't want to be the demanding girlfriend, and I don't want to force you to talk to me if that's not what you need…"
"It's not that, it's that I'm not in the habit… I - don't want to burden you."
"See, that's the problem. It's not a burden, Bobby. The burden is – feeling alone." She turns under his arm, buries her face in his chest.
"I'm not saying I need you to tell me every little thing. I just want you to – let us be in this together."
"Like at work," he says softly. She shuts her eyes in relief, tightens her arm around him.
"Yeah."
Silence again, but now it's warm and close. He lifts a hand to stroke her hair, slow and gentle. She feels herself relaxing, finally, all the tension of the day – week – month seeping out under his touch. She thinks about what he said – it's hard for me to believe that I might be good for someone.
Suddenly she has an overwhelming need to see his face, so she twists around and reaches up to switch on the small lamp above the bed. He blinks at the sudden brightness, and then his eyes go wide as he sees her tears.
"Oh, Alex."
"No, Bobby," she brushes at her cheeks impatiently. "It's just – you make me so happy, in so many ways…do I tell you that – show you that enough?"
She turns away before he can answer, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling in self-condemnation. "I probably don't. I'm not…very good at being demonstrative."
"Hey." He clears his throat, and shifts on to his elbow to look at her, and she sees that his eyes are damp, and her heart turns right over in her chest. His hand is warm on her stomach. "Maybe we both need to go a little easier on ourselves."
"I will if you will," she says.
"I'll try. No more lonely pedestals," he promises.
And then, "Alex, don't…" because she's crying again, she who never cries – and she can't get words out to tell him it's all right, more than all right, so she pulls him down and kisses him. It's sloppy with tears and need, and she's shaking – or maybe that's him – but she never wants it to end.
Alex wakes in the early hours of the morning, her mouth dry and eyes sticky. She squints at the clock; it reads 6:05. She groans – gotta be up in 45 minutes. Why the hell am I awake before the alarm? She reaches for Bobby and meets with only his pillow. What the – where…?So help me God, if he's decided to freak out and leave again…. She pads down the hallway, bare feet cold on the hardwood floor, and finds him sitting at the computer in the dark, reading intently by the white/blue light of the monitor. She breathes out softly in relief.
"Bobby, what…?"
"Oh…sorry," he says vaguely. "I was coming back to bed – I just woke up and had a thought…"
"Of course you did," she says resignedly. She comes close, puts her hand on the back of his neck, needing to touch him, feeling a little shy and…emotionally exposed. Too much melodrama last night, she thinks, trying for sarcasm. She squints over his shoulder.
"What'd you find?"
"Here, look." He puts his hand on her hip, urging her down to sit on his knee, so she can look at the screen from the circle of his arm. We're okay, she realizes, in a sudden rush of gratitude so keen it's painful. He never touches her that way, so casually affectionate, when the barriers are up. She looks at him sideways, but he's staring at the screen and appears not to notice what he has done, so she swallows hard and focuses on what he's showing her.
"Huh," she says, reading. She's about to ask him how on earth he thought to look for this particular document, when he moves a large hand to the small of her back, rubbing gently.
"Hey, Alex?" She looks at him over her shoulder and sees that he's gazing at her now, not the screen.
"Yeah?"
"Last night – meant a lot," he says quietly, dark eyes holding hers. She smiles shakily.
"To me too," she says. She gives in to impulse and leans forward to kiss him – first on the lips, then his cheek, rough with stubble, and his temple just next to his ear. She lets her head drop into the crook of his neck and he leans back in the chair, pulling her all the way onto his lap and closing his arms around her. They sit there together, quiet, as grey early morning light slowly fills the living room.
END