A/N: This is a shorter little post-ep to take my mind off of an NCIS fic that is so long and confusing in my head that I can't squeeze a sentence out on paper. So here's a slightly angsty, slightly romantic, slightly smutty litle fic that I hope you'll like.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Law and Order juggernaught. Believe me, if I did, I'd be taking serious liberties with some of the actors, and inviting a few dozen sexual harassment suits.
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I held out as long as I could. The shaking started just after I slapped the cuffs on the creep, and got progressively worse as I sat down at my desk to fill out the paperwork. I could feel it coming—a breakdown of monumental proportions, and I didn't want it happening right in the middle of the fucking squadroom.. All I needed was a display of female hysterics to get the good old boys club going about women on the force. Plus, Bobby was looking at me. I could feel the concern radiating from his side of the desks like a wall of heat. I didn't look up, but, as I felt the blood drain from my face, I excused myself as calmly as I could, and practically bolted to the ladies' room.
Just in time, too. The minute I stepped into a stall, my legs gave way completely and I sat down on the toilet seat hard enough to bruise my backside. And then I felt it. The wall of tears that I had been forcing down, rising in a stinging hot gorge in my throat. I put my hands over my eyes, and felt tears leak out, running down my forearms.
I'm such a fucking mess.
I was taking short, sharp breaths, trying not to make that mewling, shuddery sound that one makes when they are trying not to sob hysterically out loud. God, I hated that sound.
Just what the fuck is wrong with me? How can my judgement be so terribly awry? The one man I chose to confide in, when Joe left me, and he turns out to be some gender-confused psychopath? Damnit, Eames, how do you pick the absolute bottom of the barrel with such laser precision?
The shame of Kevin Mulrooney triumphantly saying that he'd seen me broken. The humiliation of Bobby asking if I'd slept with him, and having to admit that I would have. In a split goddamned second. What a bad judge of character I am. The memory of Joe. His death. The long, bent, skewed months of grief afterwards where I was sure I'd never live on after him. The memory of my small hand stroking Kevin's. The memory of Joe. A thousand memories of Joe. And Bobby. Bobby handing me the cuffs. Bobby shoving the suspect into the table because he'd hurt me. Bobby's sweet face, full of empathy.
Bobby.
What a ridiculous situation to be in. 8 years trying to find the right guy to fall in love with again. 8 years of losers and wimps and megalomaniacs. 8 years, and I end up falling in love with my partner.
Partner. When did that word become so hateful to me? Bobby and I were practically two halves of a whole. We rubbed together like oiled steel, circling suspects with dancer's grace, closing in for the kill. We are great partners. But there it was. That wall surrounding us. That thin blue circlet, disallowing them any affectionate contact that wasn't entirely platonic. Hell, even platonic contact was looked on with narrowed eyes. And anyways, when was the last time Bobby had shared even the remotest contact with me? Never. Never even a hug. The most we'd ever touched was a hand on the shoulder, a linked arm when undercover. I cherished those memories.
What am I thinking about? Bobby doesn't care about me that way. He's showed me love in a thousand different guises. Killed himself to find me when I was kidnapped, sat by my bedside in a reverent vigil when I was discovered. He needs me. But not like that. Never even a hint of lust or a covetous glance. And to be sure, I've watched. And waited. But nothing. And we're partners. Bobby is nothing if not respectful of that tenuous relationship.
And the mystery of Bobby, anyways. Bobby was the dark to Joe's light. All distorted, strange emotions. Misplaced guilt. Self-immolation.
"All your wounds are self inflicted."
Had I really said that to him? I can't imagine. I remember the still, quiet of the interrogation room. Saying "Detective," crisply, while my mind heaved with fury and fear. How I had wanted to throw myself at him, pounding on his chest with my fists, shouting "You fucking idiot, I could have killed you! I could have lost the only other man I've ever loved. Do you know what that would have done to me? With my own gun, Bobby?" And then pressing my mouth against his, weeping at the fact that he was still alive. Not corrupt. Still Bobby. Holding him tight to reassure myself that he was still there.
And then, later, his miserable, desperate happiness at getting his shield back. How I had hated him at that moment.
The job is more important to you than I am.
That's what it all boiled down to. They could never be more than partners, because he was in love with the job. Not me. Even in the later months, when his stumbling-Columbo detective routine became more than just a façade. How he had followed me around like a wounded hound-dog, his eyes hungrily hoping for some small sign of affection from me.
Because he needs me.
But that wasn't enough. Even if, by some grace of God, he loved me back, and had been hiding it like some treasured secret, burying it for the sake of their partnership, they could never be together. Captain Ross, no matter how fair, how surprisingly gentle he had turned out to be, was nothing if not perceptive. To the point of eagle-eyed observation. He'd know. And then their partnership would snap. Implode. And Bobby would hate me, even as he loved me. Because for all that, he loved the job more. And always would.
So I sat on the cold toilet seat and cried into hiccuping sobs, holding my head in my hands. For a thousand reasons, I cried.
And then I heard a soft knock on the door.
Fuck.
"Alex?"
His voice was soft, concerned, and beautiful.
And all of a sudden, I didn't know what to do or say.
//
A/N: Review review! Am I doing ok on my second fanfic attempt???