He went to the midnight services. It was something that he hadn't been able to do in a long time, but now…now, he had time, and he didn't know why he was even bothering, given the fact that church wasn't something he usually had anything to do with nowadays. Lapsed altar boy, he'd said to Eames once, and smiled faintly at the memory as he sat there. Oddly enough, it was a comfort to be there, sitting in the chapel, just watching everything. Especially now, now that everything had changed and things were so uncertain.
Uncertainty was not something that Bobby handled well, and he knew it. He had been at Carmel Ridge for most of the day, leaving only when his mother had fallen asleep, when he was sure that his walking out wouldn't wake her again. He'd come back to the city, meaning to go home, and mull things over, but had somehow gone through Manhattan and into Queens, to end up here.
He wanted to know why, but at the same time, he didn't. Things had well and truly fallen apart; between the cold silence that was lingering between him and Eames to the shaky ground he knew he was on with Captain Ross, and the situation with his mother…There was no way out of it, not this time. Any way it went, something was more than likely to go wrong.
It was this that made the service a small comfort. The sense of familiarity that had been there in earlier years was back, this was something he knew, something that had always been there in the farthest reaches of that mind of his. Something that he'd chosen not to think about until now, now that he needed something familiar to fall back on to keep from losing what was still left of his sanity, and apparently, this was it.
That, and the little something he'd pulled out of his coat pocket. It was starting to fade; after all, it was four years old now, but it was still something. He'd kept it in that hidden pocket ever since he'd taken it, and had looked at it every now and then. Lately, though, he had been looking at it a lot more often. He was almost starting to believe that it was the only thing he had left of what their partnership used to be. It scared him, in more ways than he was willing to admit; here it was, nearly a month since he'd told her to back off, and she'd given him the cold shoulder, and there they were, barely talking unless it had something to do with a case, and then, at the end of the day, ignoring each other as they went their separate ways.
He wanted things to go back to the way they were, but knew that they wouldn't, that hoping for it was useless, because that sort of thing didn't just happen out of nowhere. Six years and God only knew how many cases, how many nights of staying there in the squad room running on coffee and the sounds of their own voices, and theories they came up with in attempts to solve whatever it was they were working…That was part of what had put them in this awkward position, that and the fact that he was already having trouble as it was, what with the so-called life of his that he had outside the squad room. Wasn't much of a life now, Bobby thought as he continued to sit, everything's gotten so damn complicated.
It really had, too. If he hadn't gone on that rant after the case that had started it all, he wouldn't be constantly looking over his shoulder, worrying about whether or not he was going to lose his job, the one he needed, if only to provide for his mother, who wasn't exactly in any state to provide for herself. Eames would still be talking to him, and even if things in the squad were still continuing to change, he'd have had that to fall back on. But now…now there was nothing, nothing but an empty apartment at night, the red light on the answering machine blinking, voices coming from it that he'd put a face to some of the time, but on most nights was now too tired to want to bother, so after a while, he'd shut it off and sit, either in front of the TV, or in bed with a book, the words swimming in front of his eyes because he couldn't for the life of him get himself to concentrate. Even now, he couldn't concentrate, sitting in a church, where he was supposed to be paying attention to the service, but even as a kid, he'd never really been able to, back when he had little to worry about, and now, well…Now, the thought concentrating was a joke, especially when there were so many other things for him to worry about.
The doctors spoke in weeks, then they spoke in months, and overall, they weren't really sure what would happen and when, and Bobby knew it. This sort of thing was unpredictable; he wanted answers, but those answers were ones that wouldn't come until things were definite, until his mother was really gone, and he was left to make the arrangements for her funeral, because God only knew his brother wouldn't come home just for that. He doubted he'd even see his brother at the funeral, when it finally happened, that was how little he cared. He wondered when it was that he'd really grown up, wondered if it was when he'd been seven, and his mother had first been diagnosed, o when he was eleven and his father had taken off, leaving him to assume responsibility for most of everything.
It wasn't what he wanted to be thinking about, not at all. It was Christmas Eve, well, Christmas Day, technically, Bobby thought wryly as he looked at his watch, he should have been thinking of other things. But no, he was thinking of another case, the one that was the only reason Eames would give him the time of day, the one Ross was keeping a close eye on them for, because someone higher up had deemed it more important than anything else, and therefore, if they screwed up, they'd really hear it. He was thinking of his mother, presumably fast asleep the way he'd left her, and everything that went along with her being the way she was; the doctors and the medicine, and whatever else there was. He'd never blamed her for much of anything before, but now he was almost starting to, and he hated it, because she hadn't really done anything this time except need him around, and now all of this was happening.
He wondered briefly if it was coming to an end, and decided to ignore this particular thought; it wasn't something he needed to worry about, otherwise it really would drive him up the wall, and then he'd be trying to get himself out of yet another mess when there were already so many to worry about. Now, more than ever, he wished that he and Eames were still on their usual speaking terms; that he could talk and know she was listening, instead of this ridiculous muttering he found himself doing constantly, solely because he knew damn well she wasn't listening and didn't want to bother her any more than he already thought he did. It was enough to know that he'd hurt her that day, enough to know that if it took her never really talking to him again to be happy, then he'd let it happen, and would probably consider a transfer back into Narcotics if it went that far, but damned before he'd let anyone know it.
She was with her family, he thought, and probably a lot more content with the way things are in her personal life than I am. He couldn't blame her. She had everything he'd only ever dreamed of having, and had no shortage of people that she could fall back on when things turned upside down, and there was nothing for her to do except go home for a shoulder to cry on and someone to talk to. He, on the other hand, had had no one until Major Case…no one, until her. He wondered if they would ever really start talking again, if her sarcasm wouldn't be directed so much at him, but at whatever situation they found themselves in, the way it had been before, but in truth, he couldn't blame her for the sarcasm; it was a defense mechanism, he thought, and couldn't fault her for not wanting to appear hurt, though he'd been able to tell from looking at her that day that she had been, and it bothered him, because up until that moment, he'd never deliberately done anything to hurt her or piss her off, because he knew how she was, or rather, had thought he'd known. And even then, that day, he hadn't done it deliberately, it was just that those particular issues weren't ones he felt comfortable with talking about…with anyone.
Not even her. It was probably why she was upset with him, he thought, and found himself oddly amused by the fact that it had taken him this long to actually start analyzing this to find a way to fix it. The only problem, he mused, was that it would take a lot more than a simple apology to fix the mess they were in; six years as partners, and they'd been through all sorts of crap, everything from the minor arguments they'd get into every now and then over things to being yelled at by Deakins, and nowadays by Ross, to that stupid letter that had nearly destroyed their partnership the first time around, and if it hadn't been for Eames' offhanded remark a few days after the damned thing had been revealed that if she'd known she could've gotten away with it, that attorney might not have made it through the trial for that stunt, it probably would have. But she'd made the remark, and he'd laughed at it, had told her they were fine, because they were, and then he'd asked her in a so-called moment of weakness if she'd ever leave, and she'd told him no.
But that was then, and this was now; she hadn't left yet, but he wouldn't really blame her if she wanted to do so now. It made sense, after all. He'd been a pill, she'd given him the cold shoulder, and he'd deserved it, but it felt like an eternity ago, even though it wasn't, really, and the fact that Ross was keeping a closer eye on them now than he had been before wasn't exactly helping. He supposed, too, that he couldn't exactly blame their captain for worrying...if things started going wrong now, it wasn't exactly going to say much for his so-called leadership skills, though from what the squad had seen of this new figure, he was perfectly capable of leading them through whatever fires came along with the job they did.
Then again, this was one fire that their captain couldn't lead them through, because it had nothing to do with work, but rather their personal lives, and it didn't affect the squad, just him and Eames. They were both stubborn, Bobby thought, stubborn enough to refuse to apologize, because neither one of them thought they were wrong, and he had every right not to tell her about his personal life, the same way she'd had the right to give him the cold shoulder for telling her to back off. He mulled this over for a moment, and realized that he could've been a bit more…polite about it, for lack of a better word, but he hadn't been and now he was paying for it. Now they were both paying for it.
The services had ended. He watched the people as they left their seats and started down the aisles leading out, waiting until the place was nearly empty before following their lead. It was cold, and he pulled his coat closer around him, almost instinctively, as he walked. His keys made a rattling sound in his pocket, but he didn't want to drive, for once. No, he wanted to walk, to clear his mind, and maybe catch a cold in the process, but a cold was something he could live with. Losing his partner was not. There had to be some way to fix this, he thought, had to be a way to make it all up to her, even if a simple apology wouldn't do it, and he knew it wouldn't, knew it had to be more than that, because this little game had already been going on for long enough. It was high time for it to end. The only problem, he thought, was that he would have to be the one to find a way to make that happen.
They'd been through a lot in the past few months, he thought as he continued on his path, with no real destination in mind. She'd been kidnapped, he'd nearly been shot…they'd dealt with things they'd have rather left to someone else, though truth be told, they wouldn't have wished it on anyone else, they just wished that they hadn't had to go through it themselves. But the lines of fire that cops placed themselves in were more often than not their own, and this…well, this line was one Bobby knew he didn't want to be in anymore.
His hands were starting to get cold. Served him right, he thought, for not wearing gloves in the first place, but he rarely ever did; they gave him the feeling of being able to do nothing, and therefore he didn't like them much. Now, he was almost glad he wasn't wearing them, because his phone was in his pocket, and if he remembered correctly, he was still too far away from Eames' place to walk there, and even if he did, she wouldn't be home, because she was with her family. But if he still knew her like he thought she did, she'd have her cell phone on. And even if she didn't want to hear from him, she'd listen, if she thought it had to do something with a case.
But it didn't, and that was why he wasn't going to call her. No, this definitely had nothing to do with a case, but again, if he remembered correctly, her phone had text messaging on it, and so did his. There was one way to get past this whole no-talking thing, Bobby thought, amused, and feeling almost guilty because of it. If she didn't want to talk to him because she was with her family, that was one thing, but before, she had never minded talking to him, had even dragged him along occasionally. Oddly enough, she'd tried to do the same this year, but he'd declined, not wanting to feel like he was imposing, like he was a burden, because if he still knew her, she'd probably told someone what was going on between them.
He could barely see the numbers in the faint light given off by the streetlights he was standing underneath, so he turned the phone slightly, and when the light fell directly onto the surface, he could see properly. His fingers were shaking as he wrote out the message he was going to send; it was short, but he was nervous enough to screw up a number of times before he finally got it right, and sent it off. And then he waited, for something, anything, but nothing came. He stared at the phone for what seemed like forever, but there was no message to come in reply, and whether it was because she was ignoring him or because she hadn't gotten it, he had no way of knowing.