BACKWARDS FROM TEN (1/1)
By Jeannie MacTavish
Warning: language, and grown-ups doing grown-up things. Also, vague spoilers for Untethered (season 7).
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places are the property of Universal Studios, NBC and Dick Wolf et al. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not for money. No infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended.
Goren wakes with a start, jerked out of a restless sleep by the sound of shattering glass. It takes him several panicked, heart-pounding seconds to figure out where he is. Alex's place. New Year's. Neighbours having a party. Whoops of laughter, ineffectually muffled, reassure him that someone must just have dropped a beer bottle or something, in the backyard next door. He eases back down, squints at the clock on the bedside table. 11:45 pm. They must be getting ready for the countdown.
Ten, nine, eight…no, start over, focus. Ten…nine…eight…seven…I can't, the lights. Too bright. Ten…nine…Water. God, please, water.
Beside him, Alex turns onto her back. "Bobby…?"
Happy fucking New Year. He breathes out carefully, unclenches his fists. "It's okay. I'm fine."
"Mmm." He can tell from Alex's voice that she's not really awake, which is a good thing, because he's not really fine.
Happy New Year, so many well-meaning people have said to him lately. Here's hoping for better times in 2008. He nods and pretends to agree, but he's not actually hoping for better. He just wants things not to get any worse. Please, just – no more. I don't know if I can take any more.
Another burst of noise from next door, where they're probably all gathering to watch the ball drop on TV. He suppresses an angry twitch at how arbitrary it all is. Count backwards from ten, the clock ticks over and suddenly the slate is clean, the world full of exciting new potential again…it's ridiculous, some sort of cruel joke. It's not as if anything is actually going to be different when he gets up tomorrow morning. He'll still be on suspension, thinly disguised as medical leave pending both physical and psychological assessments in January. The smoking, twisted ruin of his family will still stare him in the face every time he looks in the mirror. He doesn't look like you, he'd said to Frank about Donny. No, he looks like you, Bobby. And God help him, somewhere deep down he'd liked the thought of having a nephew who took after him. He'd let himself be seduced by the possibility that maybe he could do something for his brother's son. What a travesty.
Alex mutters in her sleep, and he looks over at her guiltily. He knows what she'd say if she was awake: Stop wallowing, Goren…the scolding words contradicted by a steady, sympathetic gaze and that little catch she gets in her voice when she's worried or upset. He knows it well, by now. Damn it. He's tired – so fucking tired – of a lot of things, but chief among them is the fact that, for months now, all he's been to Alex is a walking, talking cause of stress, both personal and professional.
Apparently, his partner's radar for excessive self-recrimination works even when she's asleep, though, because she picks that moment to roll the rest of the way over. She ends up half on top of him, with an arm flung across his waist and a leg between his, her face turned into the hollow of his shoulder and her breathing, deep and regular, warming his skin through his T-shirt. He's caught, pierced through with painful, helpless tenderness by the unconscious ease of it, the way her body reaches for his out of long habit.
It's not fair, he thinks even as his hands settle in their usual places, at the small of her back and the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Not fair to push her away all day, and then accept comfort from her when she doesn't even know you're doing it. But he can't help himself, so he holds her gently and thinks of reprieves, of gifts, of grace. Feels a stab of pure, protective irritation when someone across the way decides it would be a good idea to leave the back door open, letting the chatter and roar of the party out into the night.
"Pots! We need pots to bang on!" one of the guests shouts drunkenly. Alex stirs, and then goes still as she wakes up enough to notice their position. But before he can do or say anything, there's a huge clatter from next door, followed by more whoops of laughter. Alex lifts her head just a little, only to let it thud gently down to his chest again in frustration.
"What are they doing over there?"
"Someone should call the cops," he says drily. He feels disproportionately triumphant when she snorts softly with laughter, and relaxes into his arms again.
"What time is it?"
He checks the clock again. "Ten minutes to midnight."
Ten, nine, eight…
Alex groans a little. "Right. No point in trying to sleep till it's over, I guess."
They lie quietly in the dark, listening to the sounds of celebration from next door. He finds himself touching her without having made any conscious decision to do so - running a hand up and down her back, slipping his fingers underneath her shirt where it's rucked up a little at her waist and tracing slow circles there. Touching works better than counting – it always has. It's part of why he pokes things at crime scenes: it helps him focus. And if Alex knew you were putting that kind of touching in the same category as this…
His amusement is fleeting, though; thinking about coping mechanisms reminds him inescapably of their failure. Every single strategy he'd ever developed for himself or seen others employ... he'd brought them all to bear, deployed the whole arsenal, and what good had it done him, in the end?
Ten, nine, eight, seven…ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five…
"It's kind of random, isn't it?"
"What?" He drags his attention back to the present, away from white lights and heavy chains and the dreaded feeling of fumbling through thick, suffocating fog just to finish a thought, finish a sentence, get from ten to one.
"New Year's Eve," says Alex drowsily. "I mean, everyone gets so excited. Like change can happen overnight. But it's just…one day to the next, really. Not even the beginning of a new season." She waits, and when he doesn't respond, pokes him gently in the side. "What – no lecture on the origins of the calendar?"
And sure, there are things he could say about the Romans and Pope what's-his-name with his medieval reforms…or, stories he could tell about the way they go really crazy for the holiday in Germany, even crazier than in New York…but he's distracted by the sound of her voice. Soft and raspy with sleep and so matter-of-fact, it seems to just leach the bitterness out of his bleak thoughts from earlier.
He clears his throat. "People…like the idea of a fresh start, I guess."
"I guess." She yawns, and wiggles a little in a way that he's pretty sure meansyou can say whatever you want as long as you keep rubbing my back. He obeys automatically, his mind still caught on calendars and new beginnings and strings of numbers, shards of ideas scattered like puzzle pieces, until suddenly the picture shakes clear.
I wouldn't want a fresh start.
I wouldn't…not even if it were possible to magically erase all the unmitigated crap of the past however-many years. Because, he realizes, that would mean also erasing everything that's happened between him and Alex, all the learning and fighting and grief and anger and patience and trust and friendship that's brought them to this quiet place in the dark together.
Good and bad, it's all irretrievably tangled, like tree roots, deep and strong beneath the surface. And somehow – somehow, in spite of everything, happiness hasn't strangled and died. Somehow, it's still putting forth green tendrils and growing slow and sure towards the light.
Alex makes a small, contented sound and burrows a little closer, and he imagines the little green leaves suddenly multiplying and sprouting flowers everywhere. He pushes her shirt up a little further, tracing the lines of bone and muscle in her back and shoulders, mapping her body by touch. I love you, he tells her silently. So much.He draws a careful trail up and down her spine, scraping lightly with his nails, and she shivers. He smiles suddenly at the ceiling and does it again, and then again, very slowly. Definitely better than counting.
"Mmm," says Alex, differently than before. She pushes herself up on one elbow, and even in the dark he can feel her looking at him in that assessing way that she has. He wants very badly to know what she's thinking, but he can't see her eyes and doesn't trust his voice to ask.
After a moment she leans down and kisses him softly, briefly. There's a question in it, and he answers as best he can by reaching up, stilling her when she starts to draw away. Stay. Don't stop. He pushes her hair behind her ears and cradles her head, stroking along the line of her jaw and across her cheekbones, feeling her lashes brush the tips of his thumbs as her eyes flutter shut.
"Sorry I wasn't up for a party tonight," he says suddenly. Sorry I've been in such a foul mood for so long.
She turns her head so that her lips move against his palm. "I kind of like this party we're having right here." But he can feel her hesitating, still, so he urges her head down to his and kisses her again, open-mouthed this time.
"Bobby, wait. Are you – are we –
"Yes. Yes."
She lets out her breath in a rush and settles fully on top of him, warm and heavy from hips to shoulders. "Thank God," she mutters, and he trembles with laughter and relief of his own. She pushes her hands into his hair and covers his mouth with hers, and that's what they're doing when, outside, the countdown finally starts.
Ten…
Nine…
It sounds like the neighbours have spilled out into the yard and the street. He's having trouble focusing on what number comes next but it's okay this time, it's okay because they'll count for him and all he has to do is keep kissing Alex. He's not trying to save anyone or fix anything, and this – her tongue in his mouth, his hands on her skin – it's not a fresh start and it's not a cure, not even an attempt at coping that might succeed or fail. It's…welcome, and rediscovery, and picking up the threads of a long-familiar conversation without words.
Seven…
Six…
He reaches underneath her shirt and touches her breasts, and she gasps into his mouth –god, do that again – so he does, circling rhythmically with his thumbs, and it's totally not on purpose that the movement ends up in time with the shouts from outside...but then he thinks well, fuck it and starts to count along under his breath, backwards from ten.
Four…
Three…
"Oh for Christ's sake, Bobby," Alex groans when she realizes what he's doing, but she's giggling breathlessly and arching into his hands, and there's no way he's stopping now. Exorcism or invocation, he doesn't know and doesn't care – at least, he reflects a little wildly, at least neither of them will ever think of the damn countdown in the same way again.
Two…
One…
Midnight strikes and, outside, the city explodes with noise. He barely registers it, though; his senses are full of the soft, rough sounds of Alex's breathing, the feel of her lips curving against his, the rustle and slide of her body against his as they move together, warm and close in the dark. His mind is still, focused on love and need and profound, unexpected peace.
Of course, beneath it all, awareness still remains, inescapable: everything that's wrong is still wrong. But even so, he can't shake the sense of a turning point, a sea change: the night sky turning imperceptibly from black to dark blue just before dawn.
A new beginning, maybe, after all.
THE END