Title: The Courage of My Memory
Author: The Crane Wife
Summary: Bobby hasn't slept. Eames hasn't heard from him. So, she takes matters into her own hands.
Authors Note: Yeesh, Jury Duty and work makes a girl not have time to write. This takes place sometime between Amends and the last episode he was in during the 6th season with Rob Schnider. I wrote this, and then realized it could use a prelude, because it all seems a little random, but I like it anyway.

best of all
I've memorized tonight and now and the way the
light falls across my fingers,
specks and smears on the wall,
shades down behind orange curtains;
I light a rolled cigarette and then laugh a little,
yes, I've memorized it all.

the courage of my memory.
-Charles Bukowski, excerpt from the poem "Memory"

I.
Bobby hasn't slept, at least not well, in 4 weeks. This is not unusual: his line of work often makes sleeping a far more difficult task than it is for most. He remembers, with startling detail, each face he sees: that of a victim, a murderer, a convict. The same disbelief that traces slowly through the entire body of a wife (starting with the eyes and ending usually with clenched hands) who realizes her husband is a good for nothing son of a bitch – cheating on her, taking her money, something. Men – husbands, boyfriends – admittedly have that vague expression as well when he realizes his whore of a wife is a good for nothing gold digger, but it never effects Bobby the same way. The women victims tug on his heartstrings in a way few things can (a fact that psychologists would easily, and correctly, attribute to his upbringing). He can see the sick smiles that light up the eyes of a sociopath who have committed inexplicably awful crimes, people who have actually taken the life of another person. Arguably, the hardest visual memories come from children. He's not part of the Special Victims Unit, but he has dealt with kids, and sometimes in the same capacity as his SVU counterparts might. Bobby can see their weary eyes, their lethargic demeanor, their mind that has become too old for their young body each time his eyes close. When he thinks of this, he laughs a little at the irony: if someone had been paying attention, or perhaps if he or his brother had spoken up, he too would have been a special victim.

The memories he's learned to live with.

Initially, when he would allow himself to lie awake in bed, he wonders about the sleeping patterns of others, those who do not work for the major case squad – like dentists. This profession has the highest rate of suicide – dentists can't ever sleep. A dentist must remember each face contorted with pain, and the complete casual nature of the appointment; the dentist scrapes the enamel of their teeth, pokes at a cavity, and simultaneously talks about the gorgeous weather. Dentists must never sleep. Would he be happier if he were a dentist? And immediately he laughs inwardly at the thought: like hell. He thinks this is the closest he will come to counting sheep. Eames would laugh at this; she would quip that he is the only person on Earth who counts sheep without actually counting anything at all. He is lying on his back, looking at the ceiling, thinking about… dentists. In the 28 days it's been since he last drifted into his subconscious, he's positive he's gone slightly delusional.

II.
The night that his mother's life ended (28 days ago in 3 hours and 17 minutes), he sat in the hospital, contemplating her things - most of which were not, in fact, hers:

—The teddy bear he had brought her one of his first visits. ("Oh, Bobby," she said, shaking her head, staring the bear down, "your brother would have brought me jewelry." At the time, he kept a poker face about this notion his mother had, but his mind was screaming at the injustice. Frank, the prodigal son. Frank, the scientist. Frank. He wouldn't bring you anything, Ma.)
—The mattress that swallowed her small body whole. (The sheets had been taken away. Everything had been taken away. It was as though his mother hadn't existed within those 4 walls for as long as she had. The idea made Bobby fume.)
—The white walls. (The most uncomfortable part of the experience. The sterile environment, the reminder that this was a temporary solution for a long lasting problem.)

And then he allows his mind to wander, because it's begging the question: How in the world is this it? And he doesn't just mean the minimal amount of things he's contemplating in her room, which was not in fact hers.

Because of this (his mother), his sleeping pattern has gone as follows:

Days 1-7: Bobby lies down on his pillow, his eyes fluttering shut. And somewhere between consciousness and his REM cycle, he can smell flowers (roses, daisies, pansies, lilies) and freshly dug dirt. The moment that it hits his nostrils, he wakes, breathing in sharply, bolting upright in his bed. His inhale and exhale following this are long and deliberate: he is assuring himself that he cannot in fact, smell his mothers grave, his mother's final resting place. He lies back down. He drifts back to sleep. The cycle repeats.

Days 8-19: Bobby can now ignore the scent, making it a non-issue. Now, he lies down, his eyes close, and he drifts into a light sleep, which is always accompanied by the same dream. His mother is lying in her casket, in the funeral parlor; her rosary is wrapped around her folded hands. The royal blue silk makes her skin paler than he ever remembered it to be. Her eyes are sunken in. Her lips are tight. She looks as sick as she did when air still filled her lungs, yet she looks the most peaceful. This dream wakes him calmly. He breathes lightly, shaking his head. He wonders if everyone thinks those kinds of things, looking at their parents lying in their coffins. He assumes they do.

Days 20-26: Bobby doesn't think about the odors, or the idea of his mother being forever encased by that terrible royal blue silk. He has a different dream now. He is 5. He's left his bed to get a glass of water from the kitchen. He sees his father's shadow dancing across the wall. His father's arms are waving over his head. His father is yelling – his father is yelling at his mother. In slow motion, he sees his father raise his hand and hit his mother. He dashes quietly up the stairs. He never talks about it. He wonders if it ever happened again. He knows his mother would never have said so. Wake, breathe, drink the cup of water by the bed, go back to sleep. He is used to this pattern now.

Day 26: Bobby is not allowing his mind to go to flowers (roses, daisies, pansies, lilies), to his mother lying in her casket, to the night he saw his father hit his mother. He lies down and closes his eyes, exhausted, determined to sleep. And he now has the worst nightmare he's ever had: he is at a beach. He can see his mother, walking on rocks that are sticking out of the water. His feet are in sand. He's smiling. She's smiling. And suddenly, she slips and falls. She is yelling for help. She cannot swim. He immediately starts to run to her, sand kicking up around him, until he realizes he's stuck. He cannot move. He's yelling for her to hold on. He's telling her he will be right there. He wills his feet to be free. He tugs at his ankles, frantically looking at his mother, whose arms are barely visible above the water. And then she is gone. Why can't he ever help her? Why is he not good enough to help her? He screams. He jolts himself into consciousness. He is screaming aloud. He is covered in sweat. He does not try to lie down again.

Day 27: Bobby has been sitting on the floor of his kitchen, ignoring Eames's phone calls, thinking that it's almost been 28 days (that is one whole month) since his mother passed away. She calls on his house phone, leaving short messages:

4:30 PM "Bobby, please call, I haven't heard from you in a week, I'm just – I'm wondering how you are. Call, okay?"
Click.
6:05 PM "Bobby, come on, pick up the phone. Don't be an asshole, just pick up… Fine."
Click.
7:22 PM "Bobby, if you don't pick up, I'm going to come over there."
Slam.
8:59 PM "Bobby, I'm leaving work, you better answer your door."
Slam.
9:36 PM "I'll be there in 5 minutes, answer your damn door."
Click.

III.
As soon as he hears the knock, he looks at his watch. 9:44. 3 minutes late. The front door is unlocked – it has been for a few days now. He hears her knock again, call his name, and then push the door open slightly. She makes her way into the kitchen, finding him sitting on the floor. His back is to the wall. He hasn't shaved in the week she hasn't spoken to him. His skin matches the pale white color of the wall. She can see he hasn't slept in God knows how long. "Bobby," she whispers, putting her purse on the table. She sits down adjacent to him. There is a half smoked pack of cigarettes and an ashtray to his left. "Bobby, talk to me," she says, her voice even, but frantic.

He brings his eyes up to look into hers. He stares at her for a lingering second, before leaning his head back against the wall. He closes his eyes, and opens them immediately. "Sorry I haven't answered your calls," he says blandly, speaking to the ceiling. The reality of this is he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to spill his fucking guts to her. He never feels that way about anyone or anything. He's got a running list of things in his head that are eating away at his thoughts: My father is potentially not the man I thought he was, what if I become schizophrenic one day, my brother is a prick, why wasn't Frank at my mother's funeral, why weren't my accomplishments enough for her, I can't believe my mother is… And then he pauses. He hasn't said it aloud yet. He hasn't thought it yet. He refuses it.

"It's fine," she replies, waving her hand as though she is physically dismissing this statement, "Don't worry about it, it's okay. How are you? When was the last time you slept? Have you eaten? You look like you need to eat." She stands up and starts moving around the kitchen. "Toast?" she asks, having found a loaf of bread in one of the cabinets. He doesn't object. She takes this for a yes.

He watches her move through his kitchen. She puts the bread in the toaster. She gets the kettle off the stove. She fills it with water. She starts to heat it. It's like she's more at home here then he is. "Eames," he says, his gaze still following her as she darts through the kitchen. His soft brown eyes are weary and depressed and filled with tears. He wants to talk to her. He wants to tell her everything that he's thought in the last month. He wants to tell her how much he missed her. How glad he is she's here. How much he fucking loathes his brother. Most importantly, how he absolutely detests the idea that his mother is gone. "Eames," he repeats, forcing himself to say the next words coming to his head, "Alex, my mother is," he swallows. "My mother is dead."

She pauses, and looks at him. She feels the most helpless she has ever felt in this moment. He's looking at her with all the features of a child: he, genuinely, does not understand this predicament he has found himself in. He understands the logistics of death, obviously, because he is not in fact a child. On some level, however, she thinks that maybe this emotion is too big for him. Grief, sadness, loss, anger, confusion; all gift-wrapped into this one, unnamable emotion that currently resides in every inch of him. "I'm so sorry, Bobby," is all she can say.

Her tone is quiet and sincere. He hears this. He appreciates it.

IV.
Bobby lights another cigarette. In between drags, Eames makes him take a bite of the toast she's made. She's sitting across from him again. She's sipping tea she's made for herself, eyeing the untouched cup to Bobby's right. They are quiet.

"This is a terrible combination," he says finally.

"You don't have to smoke," she tells him.

He knows this is an invitation for him protest the food she is forcing him to eat, but he knows better. This is not a battle he will win. "Easy for you to say."

Laughter.

Then, silence.

Eames is thinking. She wants to ask him a million questions, although her desire to wrap her arms around his neck and sit quietly with him is slightly more overwhelming. She wants him to know he will be okay. She will come over every night and make him toast and tea and sit in silence with him while he smokes, if it will make him feel better. He puts out his cigarette. He finishes the toast. He doesn't touch the tea. "Bobby, you need to sleep," she tells him. In the lines of his face, she can see each of the last 28 days it's been since he last got a good nights rest. She knows that Bobby doesn't get the recommended 8 hours. She doesn't either.

He shakes his head. "I – I can't sleep."

She quirks her eyebrow, "Why?"

He looks right at her face, before looking away. His hand is toying with the pack of cigarettes. It rolls over and over and over in his hand, but he doesn't take out another. "I – I've just been having – nightmares, that's all." He sees the look that crosses her face – concern, but worse than that, pity. "Stop, it's fine. It's fine. Just – grieving stuff, you know? It's fine." He's still moving the back of cigarettes in his hand.

She knows by his tone, his demeanor, and the way his eyebrows raise upwards with certain words he says, that this is bothering him. "What are you dreaming about?" She says this as candidly as she can. She wants him to be comfortable. She knows he won't talk otherwise.

He laughs slightly, although she knows he finds none of this funny. He looks at her. His eyes are dark and hopeless and depressed, so goddamn depressed. "My mother."

She puts her cup of tea down on the rug. She crawls over it, beside him, and puts her arms around his neck (this desire finally won out). At first, he is unmoving. He is uncomfortable and stiff, but she doesn't care. And then, he looks up at her, and she sees the tears in his eyes. He leans his head into her chest, he breathes in a ragged breath, and he exhales with his tears. He cries. He does not sob, he barely makes a sound, but she feels the warm tears hitting her arm, and she feels the sadness that he feels, and she almost starts crying with him. "It's okay, it's okay," she says, rubbing her hand up and down his back.

She kisses the top of his head. "It's okay."

V.
Eames feels his breathing even out. She looks down at him, and sees that he has stopped crying. He's clinging to her arm that is wrapped securely around his chest. She moves slightly, causing him to sit up quickly. She stands, offering her hand to him. "Come on," she tells him quietly. He slips his hand into hers, and allows her to guide him to his bedroom (not before picking up the 2 mugs, half smoked pack of cigarettes, lighter, and ashtray – "a safety hazard," she warns him).

In his room, she focuses on everything, except for him. He is changing into a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in. This space is everything she expected it to be: one wall is lined, top to bottom, with books (all alphabetized), the wooden bureau has framed pictures on top (circa various times in Bobby's life: when he was a toddler, a teenager, a war vet, a detective, all with his mother, some with his brother). His closet is more organized than any Eames has ever seen in her life, and his bed is neatly made. When she finally looks at him, he is staring helplessly back at her.

"It won't matter," he tells her, defiantly. He does not want to relive the dream about his mom, when she is drowning and he is helpless. "I just – I can't sleep, okay, it's not a big deal. I just have to work out some things, okay?" He glances at the clock and realizes that 2 hours have passed since Eames arrived. 11:23. His mother has been dead for 28 days. He doesn't want to think about the hours and minutes. He can't. Time is just slipping away, and she is still dead. Dead. Dead.

She shakes her head at him, and takes his hand again. She's feeling bold. She's feeling, more so, like he needs to sleep. She lies him down, and lies beside him. Automatically, her body curls to his, and his arm snakes around her waist. He is stiff and awkward, but she just doesn't care. "Alex," he mumbles between yawns. "I – well – do you think my mother loved me?"

She rolls over, her face inches from his, looking serious. "Bobby, of course she loved you. How couldn't she? You were a good son to her, you visited her, you took care of her, you looked out for her other son as best you could. How could she not love you?"

He shakes his head, "I just – I don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

"Why it was always… Frank."

She leans forward and kisses his cheek. "She wanted the best for both of you." She kisses him again. "If you want my opinion, she always looked in the wrong place."

He swallows, before kissing her mouth. He fucking loves her in this moment. For all the pushing away he does, she still comes over, makes him toast, tea he doesn't drink – she still guides him where he needs to be (in this instance his bed) – she keeps him sane, she never lets him push her away completely. On top of it all, she still has a good opinion of him. She knows he needs to hear these things sometimes, and he believes that she means them. He sees all of this, and he absolutely loves her for it. "Thank you," he says, kissing her again, "Thank you."

She shakes her head, rolling back over. His grip around her is more sure and less awkward. "Always," she whispers into the dark. She waits. She feels his chest rising and falling against her back.

He is sleeping.