title: The World is Flat
author: Kristin
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: If they were mine, I would've kidnapped Eames and stolen Goren's brain by now
summary: Goren and Eames are sure of things, until it's all disturbed
notes: I play around with backstory; we're not given much on the show, anyway, so I thought I'd have a bit of fun
Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don't there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little. That is to say, you must think of them for a while, a good while, every day several times a day, until they sink forever in the mud. That's an order.
--Samuel Beckett
"Of course, it's not,
but I had to--to argue it once for this Forensics class."
He doesn't see her smile, and she doesn't feel it, but it's inside of her and she knows some people might be put off by the way he reassures her that the world isn't flat, in a way implying she might not know that. But Bobby likes to explain and this is one of those instances where he gets so animated he moves his right hand in the air, inches from the glass of the window. He knows her mind, her alternate genius overlooked by those who don't care to dwell on their intracacies. He just knows her, and that's why he has to remind her that the world is round. Otherwise, he worries, she might start believing that the sun could melt, too. And maybe elephants dance on water. Otherwise...otherwise...she might follow him to the fringe.
"I didn't like that class very much, actually."
She takes a sip of her coffee, reveling in the steam of caffeine euphoria.
"You argue well pretty well, Bobby. I bet you could give a great speech, though--say something that would throw the world off-balance."
He smiles into mirrored rain drops collecting on the passenger window.
"I can tilt things," he murmurs.
"So what was your argument, then--for the world being flat?"
He stretches his legs out in front of him, pushing his back slightly into the seat as he arches.
"Well, the world had to be flat because that's how the dinosaurs died--they fell off earth," and he smiles again.
She takes another sip of coffee and squints her eyes ahead of her, still watching the building in front of them for signs of Danny Krascer and his great escape with a priceless loot of art.
"That's not very dignified, Bobby."
And the last sip of coffee from her cup leaves an aftertaste that will remain all night while they wait for the thief of art who will never come. And she thinks of how badly a piece of French bread would go with that taste right now, because she can't help associating coffee with cigarettes and art, and those two images with the glamorous streets of Paris and the smells of rising loafs of bread. But no, she reminds herself, they wouldn't go together very well at all.
"My mom used to drill these Latin words and phrases into my head, for school and church."
Bobby nods in agreement, but he doesn't speak of it, because his mother didn't drill Latin into him as long as Eames' mother did. Eventually, the Latin fled his mother's brain, replaced with visions of men dressed in dragon costumes waiting to take them away. And suddenly the things that were once important became fable. He learned to write his own life.
"She was...very devout," Eames says around her mug. No coffee this time, but peach tea.
The smell of peach reminds her of the tips of orange candle flames in darker rooms, and kneeling until her knees hurt and she was forgiven of everything. But her mother wasn't certain she ever could be forgiven, so she had to pray in English and Latin. When she was old enough to be left alone for the lighting of a candle, she touched a fingertip to a birthing flame and let the burn linger until she was certain she had rid herself of everything that visited her alone in the dark. But all it left was a scar. And she forgot most of the prayers.
"You know, I only remember the Hail Mary in Latin," she murmurs, dropping the spoon beside her near-empty cup of tea.
"Pray for us sinners," Bobby looks away, one hand gripping the corner of the table as his other hand rubs at a smear on the restaurant window.
"Hmm?"
"I remember...some of the words," as he cups the mug between his hands.
"I mentioned you the other day to my mom, and she--she reminded me that my first friend was Alex. Alexandra Fleming. She wore...really long plaid skirts and I insisted on calling her Lexie."
Eames folds her chin into the palm of her hand, stirring her spoon against the inner walls of her mug so it makes errant tapping sounds that echo around her eyes.
"The memories that you forget. And then remember," he shrugs, looking at her now.
She takes the spoon out of her tea mug and sits upright, looking down as she speaks and folds a napkin out of her lap.
"Well, we wouldn't have been friends then, Bobby, because I would've never let you call me Lexie."
He thinks he'll try the peach tea when they come again.
"Latitude and longitude could be myths, too," he says, and she thinks it's one of the best non-sequiturs she's ever heard. But it doesn't charm her into the line of conversation he's clearly taking it to. It's obviously a reference to his non-linear musings on the world being flat, but it's too deep right now.
"Bobby, I'm too tired for abstracts."
She holds the mouth of the amber bottle at her lips for a few seconds longer than is necessary, but she's enjoying, for some reason, the feel of cold glass against her chapped lips. Chapstick. That's what she'd forgotten to buy this morning. Winter coming again, chapping lips, freezing water, suspending breath...banishing memories of the sweat behind her back in crowded pews at Sunday Mass.
One beer, though; she's never been too fond of alcohol, since her childhood and her drunken aunt. If she closes her eyes, she can still hear the slap, and feel the curls of her brother's hair beneath her hands as she comforts him in the corner furthest from the screaming. She can still feel his trembling shoulders and the lies she told him and the new fire truck she was going to buy, but never did. He's balding now, with a beard, and sometimes his laughs hitch when he's standing upright. So she takes another sip, hating the taste, and the prayer she said that night for an aunt she didn't love.
"Eames, what do you believe in?"
"Certainties," she sighs.
"Like the sunrises and city traffic..."
"And other cliches. And...our Santa mug, my dog, your factoids, our...rapport," she fumbles on the word.
"Chemistry?" he offers.
"Semantics," she bites her lip with a smile.
"That's a bit abstract, though. Our rapport being a certainty?"
She shrugs and sets the beer bottle in the middle of her coffee table, leaning into the couch with her bare feet tucked beneath her.
"Some of those certainties...aren't really certainties. Our Santa mug...it--it could break."
Eames smiles again and folds her arms over her stomach.
"I guess you're right."
Bobby finishes his cup of red tea, with no sugar. Bitter, and lasting.
It's actually warm when it soaks her hand, and now another certainty is being tested. Bobby, wherever he is, should have an answer for this. She's bled before, and it's always been warm then, too, but this time, she assumes she will feel an ice gasp she'll pull her hand quickly away from. Maybe because it's cold all around her and she has to unbutton her coat to see the wound, so the cold assaults her, too, and it's too many attacks in one day, really.
The sight of her breaths in the air before her is reassuring, and she counts them as she presses her hand into the blood even harder. As it runs down her wrist, she suddenly wishes she hadn't counted immortality as a certainty as well. Because then maybe it might never have been called into question.
"Eames!"
She doesn't know what's making his voice so muffled, but she wishes it would cease. Many people count smell as the greatest tie to memory, but for her, it's always been sound. The way her mother chided her parted hair, but then rubbed her back comfortingly in the pew when she felt like God was watching her, only her, and he would always be disappointed in her. Her brother imploring her to play, ironically, cops and robbers. And she was the bad guy. The sound of her father's quiet crying and his sweater rubbing against her raincoat as he hugged her tightly and prayed to St. Michael. She remembers the silence of not believing in those things anymore, and the sound of believing in Bobby: murmured confessions he tells her in dim lighting. He tells her, only her, and she likes the sound.
So she worries, when it starts to drift from her. He might have something important to say now.
He's awkward when he gathers her to him. He's not really cradling her completely, but she feels the buttons of his shirt against her cheek and wonders how it will look when he pulls away.
"Bobby--"
It's hard to hear herself now.
"You're fine, you're fine," he says, strangely calm, though his hands are in manic motion, one cradling her waist, the other trying to staunch the blood flow.
She wants him to talk about anything...maybe dragons. But it would sound ridiculous, she thinks.
"It's not so bad," she whispers, diverting her gaze from the wound.
She feels her head loll to the side, suddenly face to face with the white of his shirt, which fades and fades until she can't even feel the hand now stroking her hair.
There is a whisper of in extremis and she remembers the meaning vividly, so she turns away from it. At the point of death. A bead brushes against her hand and someone's lips touch her hand briefly. And then--
"You shouldn't have done that," a bit mournful.
She feels groggy and her lips are leaden with cotton, but she manages, "What?"
Her eyes don't open yet, but she can feel him move closer towards her, his hand right next to her arm. She's certain he's still wearing the white shirt, despite the red blood and the meaning of it.
"Saved me."
Her head moves slightly in the direction of his voice.
"I know, I know, you've 'saved my ass' many times, and why should this be different?"
"Okay," she complies.
"All those other times--your life wasn't about to become an uncertainty."
He moves his hand so it's resting on her arm.
"I like absolutes," he confesses, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He's glad she can't see the brief tremble at the corner of his mouth.
She wants to tell him that he should be careful about his faith in the permanence of human life, but decides against it. A bit of strength gathers in her throat and she rasps, "Maybe the world is flat."
"Maybe," he agrees, tucking her hand into his and smiling, though she can't see it, as sleep overtake her once more.
Andt he flat earth stretches its seas out to the vastness of space, making memories of the burnt edges of thrown fire, giving the sun absolute power, and reign over ice. And eventually everyone would melt, but they wouldn't ever fall off the sharp edges around the banks of the Adriatic Sea. They would never be quite alone, either, because latitude needed longitude, to make existence of myth.
Latitude needed longitude.
She likes the sound of their breaths in sync.
fin.