Author's Note: I make no claim whatsoever over the original versions of these characters or the events referred to ... bla bla, bla de bla ... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
"With everything in Goren's life a real mess following the events of 'Untethered', I wondered if anyone has bothered to check in with Eames? My premise is simple - maybe it is Eames who needs to get it out of her system."
This is a re-work of the story originally called "Curiosity" which I put up on far too quickly and which was a bit of a mess. I have put things in their correct order now and feel it is a bit simpler to follow. Er ... I hope.
This story is designed to try and appease shippers and non-shippers alike, by presenting a situation that could be interpreted as shippy or not, however you please, and which leaves the way wide open for ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING to happen next.
Mercy Hospital, NYC. 14 hours after Goren's release from Tates Corrections
GOREN: - No, Mom. Not yet, please. It's too early.
- Mom, leave it will you? I'm still asleep!
- I don' wanna. Let Frankie do it.
- OK. I'll get up. In a minute. In a minute, I said!
It's not anything like what I usually call 'waking up'. It's more like clambering up out of some kind of pit - a coal mining tunnel? A ventilator shaft? An elevator? Something like that. Orpheus stumbling out of Hades. Must not look back! I'm climbing up but it's hard going because ... because I hurt. I can't say for sure which bit of me hurts, because it seems to be all of me. There's no distinction. It's global. Universal. All over. And there's no Persephone.
Open eyes. Eyes, open. Sesa -me. Open. Come ON.
Oh. I think I am in a hospital. I hope I am in a hospital.
Yes - there's an IV bag hanging over me. It's clear fluid. So does that mean I didn't bleed too much ... saline? Antibiotics?
Eames! I might have guessed. I - I want to talk to you. I can't. I want to smile. No. Can't do that yet, either.
She gives me some water. Could have done with you around when I ... when was it? Yesterday? Last week?
"Eames - you .. you look like crap!"
The effort to say that exhausts me but I really needed to say it. She did it to me that time I was waiting for her in the hospital. I think she was trying to get me to crack a smile - I'm never sure with Eames - but she was right, I did look pretty bad.
So does she, now. If her features are a reflection of my present condition then I'm pleased not to see myself. Her mouth has that tight look and she keeps hiding her face behind her hair.
Now she stares at me. Not at my face. She's looking at my arms. I hold one up; wish I hadn't now. The restraints left ... reminders. I don't want to remember. I'll deal with that later.
Exercise in self-control: Can I keep the horror off my face? I can't let her see me like this. Is this what it is like to be raped? To be utterly helpless at the behest of another human being?
I feel ashamed. I fold my arm with its glaring evidence of my ordeal back down under the cover and turn my head away. I'll think that through later. Everything is an effort. One thing at a time, please.
I've faced death before but always on my own terms. This time was different because I wasn't in control of any element of it. I was chemically emasculated and then physically compromised.
I keep thinking about my Mom.
EAMES: I look in on him every 15 minutes or so, long after Ross has given up and caught a ride home. Fuelled by terrible vending machine coffee, I sit on a chair by the side of his bed and watch.
You can see all ages of a man in his face when he is asleep. The muscles in the face and jaw all relax. The features become soft and malleable. It becomes a simple feat of imagination to see him as a child, as a teenager, as a young man, as a grizzled veteran on his death bed. They are all there now in his face.
Just before he wakes up, he dreams. His brows knit together and flicker apart again. His nostrils flare. After a moment of stillness, he finally wakes up.
Poor man. The first thing he sees, is me. He licks his lips. There is a saline IV snaking under the blanket into his arm, but I don't suppose he has had enough water through the normal channels. I help tilt his head up and let him sip from a beaker.
Physically I have always had a hint of curiosity about him. Yeah, I'll admit to that. It's not unnatural, when you work close with someone for a long time. Mentally of course I think I know all I need to about how he works, but physically he remains a mystery. I suspect he feels the same way about me. We've been through all sorts of things together, from my pregnancy to his depression. But always at a distance. So ... so, I am still curious I guess.
When he can talk, he says "You look like crap, Eames." Even tries to smile. Idiot. He pulls the covers down to inspect the IV drip; doesn't like it. I see he has wheals on his wrists and he notices them too. Likes that even less, I guess. His face is unreadable as he examines the damaged skin, which is reddened and angry.
He recovers quite quickly, and leaves the hospital after less than 24 hours. But jumps straight out of the frying pan and into the fire.
He pulls me in with him, of course.
Times Square, NYC, 11.37pm
EAMES:After three times of trying, he finally answers my call. "Where are you?"
A long pause. "Times Square."
"Stay there. Don't go any place. Do you understand?" But he hangs up.
I find him there: not as difficult as you might imagine. He's the only man in the whole of New York City who is standing so still right now. All around him is motion and light but he looks like someone who is in a dark, still place all of his own. He frightens me. I hold his arm and steer him towards the taxi. Instinctively I cover the back of his head as he folds himself into the back seat, just like packing a perp into a black and white. I give the driver my address and sit watching Goren, trying not to make my attention too obvious because I know it makes him squirm.
Unresisting, he lets me lead him upstairs. I park him in an armchair. He looks so dog tired I expect him to lay back in it and doze off like he sometimes does in the office - power napping, he calls it - what a crock! - but instead he sits pretty much upright, perching awkwardly on the front of the chair. I don't want to look at him. I make coffee, that faithful stopgap, instead. No more vending machine trash; this is the real McCoy. I put sugar in his.
I sit on the couch and drink my coffee. He drinks. It's almost amiable. But there is a white elephant in the room no one's talking about and we are both staying silent because we don't want to go there. The silence, the stillness - they're making me antsy.
I look at his shoes, playing a little game with myself - can I tell what he is thinking about just by watching his legs from the knee downwards? No, I can't. My eyes drift upwards.
Curiosity, that's all it is, I tell myself. But I can't stand it. I'm so tired of not listening to the all the questions I keep hearing. All the images, all the violence of my baby's birth and the terror being abducted, mixed up and mashed around. I'm desperate to do something to stop these flashbacks. But all there is is the stillness, the silence. Everyone has been concentrating so hard on Goren, on his problems, on his mother and his brother. I've been using what he is going through to distract me from what I am going through, but now I am too tired to procrastinate and evade any more. I need to do something drastic. Suddenly a whole bunch of things that used to seem so important to me seem irrelevant.
Without warning I lean over and kiss him on the mouth. I taste coffee, the sticky tang of sugar, and Goren's own personal scent. I have smelt him before of course but not in quite the same way as this. I really should stop. But I'm so curious. He stiffens, and protests.
"Eames what the hell are you doing?" His eyes are staring, more white visible than usual, just like a horse that's spooked. I don't know what I expected but I wasn't imagining he would be frightened of me. His lips curl away from his teeth. Disgust? I don't care. He tries to pull back and away from me but the chair stops him. I kiss him again. He doesn't want to touch me. Interesting. If he was really that freaked out he could simply push me away, couldn't he?
Thank God; he closes his eyes. I think ... he is giving in. Without warning his hands snap upwards and grab me by the head and then he is kissing me back with a real ferocity, it almost feels like desperation. Oh, well I can see your call and raise it by fifty, buddy. I shove him back into the chair and push against him, holding him still so I can be very thorough in my investigations - I'm a good cop, I have to find out, I need to know. No more talking Goren, no more cereal-box philosophy, no more picking apart the threads of other people's sad and tattered lives. It's just you and me now. I want to know you.
It's exciting. I know this man, but I don't know this side of him. I feel safe and terrified at the same time. There are terrible red marks across his chest and stomach where apparently he was secured to a table with chains - chains, for God's sake? I grind my teeth together when I see that. I am so incensed but there's nowhere for my anger to go, no one to lash out at except Goren. He's not especially gentle with me but then neither am I at the moment. I shove him around. I'm horrified by what they did to him and I'm also angry ... I want to yell at him and hit him - to punish him for what he has done to me and allowed to happen to himself; to get back at him for pulling me into the wasteland and the mess that is his life. I feel fury and fear all mixed up with trust and care and it is powerfully erotic. This certainly isn't love-making. He's just in my line of fire, that's all.
(I do yell, actually. Quite a lot. I hope my neighbour hears me. She's always alluding to my lack of male company. I'm sick of her pitying looks when I meet her outside. Especially after I went to the hospital in full labour and came home again 48 hours later, empty-handed.)
Afterwards? For perhaps half a minute Bobby (no. I have to still call him 'Goren') is tender and vulnerable, pushing his nose into my hair and inhaling deeply, as if trying to consume me in some way not already covered by the activity of the last half hour or so. He doesn't let go of me until my leg starts to cramp.
Then the bricks and mortar come straight back up - like watching the fall of the Berlin Wall in reverse. Well. What did I expect? He stands up and pulls his clothes back on.
"So did I finally satisfy your curiosity?" he says archly, buttoning his jeans. He looks at me for an answer but I don't trust myself to speak yet. His heavily lidded eyes regard me with a coldness that is such a contrast, it surprises me. I'm thrown by his question, and refuse to meet his gaze while I try and throw a smart answer together with the precious few ingredients I have left in my store cupboard. Looking at him would only provoke him more, I know that. In his present mood I don't think that's a good idea but .. maybe later.
But I don't see him again for three days.
Captain Danny Ross's office, NYPD. The next day.
ROSS: (reading) "Chronic but not cellular dehydration. Blood work shows evidence of venal use of sodium thiopental ('Sodium Pentathol; Truth Serum') and other barbiturates (orally?)"
Oh, my God. You read about this stuff, but you just don't ...
"External evidence of physical trauma to wrists, ankles, right inner elbow (excessive bruising - needle/shunt?), extensive bruising to solar plexus, knuckles of left hand ... presenting with symptoms of early-onset Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) ... additionally, already-present severe (not manic) depression ... upheaval in personal circumstances ... insomnia ... paranoia; some evidence of mild neurosis. Exacerbated by higher-than-average intelligence," Ha! Tell me about it!
I can't ever let him read this. I'd never hear the end of it.
No, I'm being too hard. He's an arrogant bastard but at least he's not pretentious about it.
Close my eyes and wish I had never given up smoking. I need a cigarette now. I'm up the creek without a canoe, let alone a paddle. So is Eames. Talk of the devil -
"Yes Detective. Any news of your partner .. ?"
EAMES: Why the hell does Ross always refer to him as my partner? That bugs me. The man has a name! I'll just remind him, shall I?
"Captain, I really think we should contact the Chief of D's about Detective Goren's suspension."
"What are you talking about?"
"I just feel - " I hesitate. Oh, please. As if I really know what I feel right now. "I feel it would be better for Goren if he was here, even if it was only driving a desk for a while."
"You mean, so you can keep an eye on him?" Ross raises an eyebrow at me.
What's that supposed to mean. "Well, isn't that what you asked me to do?" I ask bluntly.
"I'm not sure it's appropriate, Detective. We need to see what the outcome of his disciplinary hearing is. He may not be coming back at all, for all we know. But leave it with me, I'll have a think about it."
I leave the captain's office and in spite of myself, heft a huge sigh. I feel a sudden pang thinking about Deakins. Everything looks colourless and dank, like a winter storm is brewing. The clock is stuck fast at 3.00pm. I catch myself. Never in my professional life have I been a clock-watcher. Not since high school history lessons! It's just so hard to think properly at the moment. I'm certain Ross was reading a medical report ... Bobby's?
To hell with it. More coffee, that's what I need. Why should I care if I lose my partner? I've had three of them before him, after all. I can stand losing Robert Goren. He's not the same man I partnered any more, anyway.
Without warning I'm hijacked, invaded by the memory of him pressing his nose into my hair. Inhaling. Breathing me in. He was sniffing me - sniffing me, dammit. In spite of myself I feel a distinct tugging sensation, low down. I was a physical wreck this morning. I needed 40 minutes in the shower and a protracted session praying to the Great Goddess Max Factor before I could haul my butt in here.
The invasive memory is nothing more than a throwback to the Bobby Goren of old, the one I like to think about at the moment, if I have to think about him at all. He used to sniff everything. Grossed me out on many occasions. Did it on purpose a lot, especially when I was pregnant. I admit, I wish he'd come back.
But I don't really think I'll ever see that man again.
Detective Goren's Disciplinary Hearing. Three days later.
EAMES: I listen in barely-disguised disbelief as Bobby says -
"Detective Eames is not in any way culpable sir - I bullied and coerced her into assisting me. For purely selfish reasons, and without due consideration to the compromising position it was placing her in."
A total bare-faced lie! Does Ross know? Is he looking at me to see my reaction? What happens if they ask me for my side of the story - do I go along with what Goren says? Perhaps I could say a few choice words about Bobby putting me in "compromising positions", but I don't think that would help anyone right now. The Chief of Detectives turns his attention to me. Here we go ...
"Very well, Goren, thanks for that." He puts on an official tone of voice that makes me want to sneer, were I not so scared at this point. "Detective Alexandra Eames, for your secondary role in this sorry affair, you are fined a week's pay and an official reprimand will be entered on your staff jacket, to remain in place for a minimum of 12 months."
"Yes, sir."
That's manageable, then.
"Detective Robert Goren, in light of your admission of guilt on the charge of gross insubordination, you are fined three week's pay and demoted to Detective Third Grade, effective immediately. In addition you are required to submit yourself for a full examination by the department's Psychological Services before resuming work. In any capacity."
Looking sidelong at Goren now, I watch his face from under my bangs. I don't dare let him see me looking because I know how he loves to have an audience, and it wouldn't take much right now to set him off - oh no, I don't believe it - he's laughing! His shoulders are shaking.
"Do you have any thing you wish to say Detective?"
Goren composes himself. With difficulty. "No - no sir. Thank you sir."
If it didn't mean standing on one leg and the risk of falling straight on my butt, I would kick him, I surely would.
We watch as the Chief of Detectives fusses with his paperwork and then hurries out the room, looking hugely relieved to be shot of us and the holy mess we've made. Case closed. I's dotted, T's crossed. Goren narrows his eyes, watching as Ross scampers after the boss like a puppy, totally in the guy's thrall since he was exonerated at a separate hearing yesterday.
Wearily I move out of the door and into the corridor. The afternoon sun is trying to gain access through a filthy window. The air smells like all municipal buildings everywhere in this city - of old linoleum, bleach and sweat. Someone, somewhere in New York City must owe me a drink. Who can I call?
"Come on, I'll drive you home," I say, but Goren stands still, looking at me with an unreadable expression, before gesturing to an empty waiting room. My glance says - "What are you up to?" but he just pushes me into the room with a hand on the small of my back. I sit down with a coffee table placed strategically in between us. He remains standing.
"You're angry with me," he says, tilting his head downwards and looking up at me. I call this the Lady Di look after I saw her do it to TV cameras a few times. He uses it to disarm you by making him appear more fragile than he really is; making you feel pity - making you believe that he feels pity. It's especially effective on women. He forgets that after years of watching him work, I know his style better than he does. So I am perfectly able to ignore it when he lifts his eyebrows into some kind of visual question mark. "Is it really only me you're mad at?"
"No s, Sherlock," I say, too quickly, slithering haphazardly around his second question. "I couldn't believe that you were laughing in there. What is the matter with you?"
He ignores the insult, making me feel cheap. I admit it isn't up to my normal standard of witty repartee but then I think I can be forgiven, under the circumstances. "I was just relieved, that's all," he says. "I thought I was about to lose my badge altogether. You're mad at me," he says slowly, unfolding his arms and shaking them loosely by his side, "because of what you thoughtyou might lose for a minute back there."
I finally meet his gaze. He stands looking distinctly uncomfortable. He puts one hand out towards me, palm up, in a supplicatory gesture. "But Eames ... that wouldn't be so bad, would it? I mean, in the past ... well, you've already lost so much. And you've coped perfectly fine. You can handle it better than most people I know. It's almost a speciality with you."
Deliberately, I purse my lips to stop from shouting at him. No way am I going to allow him to draw me out. Not that that will stop him trying. He's like a dog with a bone. "Like ... when your father was caught defrauding the police pensions fund?" he says. "That was a loss. A loss of face. A blow to your pride as well as to your father's. A loss of money. What was it - fifty thousand bucks? And ... and you had to pay it all back. In the mid-1980s that was a lot of money, Eames. How many extra shifts did you pull to help him make up for it? How did your family afford to care for your mother? What did you have to give up to make it work?"
Goren appears to lose his train of thought for a moment, gets distracted. He frowns. "I was about to say that I couldn't possibly imagine what that must have felt like for you. But actually, I can."
Well at least he's being honest now. And the focus is off me, which suits me just fine, thanks. He pulls off his tie clip and slides his tie out from round his neck, loosening a couple of buttons. With maddening slowness he rolls the tie and puts it on the table.
"Then, you lost your husband, of course ... ended up trying to take a new direction in a new department, and then getting lumbered with me. The station whack job." He grins, but the sentiment on his lips never gets up as far as his eyes. I suspect that label hurts him a lot more than he ever lets on. He tries to use it to his advantage, instead. "Slowly but surely your chances of promotion are lost to you. Especially after today."
"I told you that wasn't important."
"No? How 'bout the money? You're telling me you wouldn't like to be able to move nearer to your sister, be able to buy better presents for her kid? Oh - yes - that was another loss, of course, The baby."
Oh, God. Please Bobby, no. Don't do this. I can't stop him, though. This next bit is going to be like the encounter in my apartment ... just something that happens, just something that has to happen. I fiddle with my car keys and examine a faint white ring on the table, wondering if it was coffee or tea that made it.
"Maybe losing the child wasn't such a big deal? I mean - he was never yours in the first place ... you always knew that, didn't you. It was just a ... just a human being that started life inside your body, that's all. The pain and damage that you went through to give birth was all part of the deal, wasn't it? How many pints of blood did you lose that night? Was it three?"
OK: that's it. "Back off, Goren." Oh, I know only too well where he is headed with this. I stand up abruptly, making the chair rattle behind my knees. I don't even want to be in the same room with him now, but he takes my request literally and backs himself over to the door. Is he scared of me? He folds his arms again defensively and cocks his head. Then he waits. I have to control my rising sense of panic. Not easy, on four hours' sleep. I was fretting so much about today. Briefly I consider drawing my weapon and shooting him in the foot or something.
"Ahh, yes. I remember now." he says suddenly, regaining his stride. He pushes himself away from the wall. "You said 'back off' just now. That lit a light bulb in my head. I bet ... I bet you started getting mad at me when I wouldn't let you help me with my family situation! Sheesh, you've been carrying that around a long time, Eames."
Normally this is right about the time when he moves in towards the person he is working on, physically invading their personal space in order to increase their discomfort. He must guess that I am on to him though, because he stays put. He stands unusually still. Reversing the psychology. When did our relationship get so complicated?
"Oh - I nearly forgot - you lost your liberty, too; coulda lost your life - and coped with that. This whole time you've fought the good fight and consistently coped with everything life throws at you, Alex."
Can't help myself - have to look up at him. He almost never calls me by my given name. I scrutinise his face and have to make myself remember that this is a confrontational situation. He appears genuinely concerned, but I can't let myself be fooled by that. He'll use any expression, any gesture, any ploy, in order to prove his point.
"You've 'coped' with it all so well. But you're angry with me because ... because I haven't coped. Doesn't that make you sick? I haven't coped with my losses at all. I'm getting a lot of attention - most of it negative - because of that. You're mad at me because you are playing by all the rules of how a cop is supposed to deal with this kind of stuff, and your distress is being overlooked - "
"No! That's not true. This isn't about ME, Bobby. This is all about you. I had the counselling, remember? You're trying to re-draw the picture - "
"No, I'm not. This isn't another one of my little games, as you call them." His voice rises slightly. He's angry now. "This is all about how everyone in New York City seems to know that Detective Robert Goren, third class, lost his childhood and his parents and his family and his liberty and his career and his control. Control, that's what this is about - that's what it has always been about, Eames."
He stops. I have to remind myself to breathe again. Now it is his turn to avoid my gaze, and his eyes flicker evasively all over the room. I don't think he actually meant to lose his temper just then. I feel a subtle shift in the emphasis between us. His voice when he speaks again is very, very quiet.
"I have to tell myself that, in order to make sense of what happened in your apartment the other night. I tell myself you were just trying to get me back into a place where I felt capable and in control again. You saw me at my very worst. Your expression when you saw the marks on my arms - you knew what that experience had felt like. Didn't you."
GOREN: That wasn't a question. I have to stop now. My voice is suddenly not reliable any more. I watch her face - normally so well controlled; God, how I admire that in her - as it begins to dismantle itself. She's crying in utter silence, now. It's a terrible sight. I did this!
I had to do this. I need to get Eames - the old, well defended, effective Eames - back. I had to provoke her, let her see that I understood why she seduced me. But this is horrible.
Crossing the room, I fumble in my pocket for a handkerchief and rest my other hand on her shoulder. She blows her nose expressively and I make a point of not taking the handkerchief back again. But I don't take my hand away, either. I sit on the coffee table instead. Now we're finally at the same level - emotionally as well as physically. I feel as though I am granted permission to look her in the eye again. I've earned that right. I think we both needed reminding that we have a lot in common, bad things, things that we can use to hold us together.
I can smell citrus, sandalwood - maybe lemon balm. Is it lemon balm? Before I realise exactly what I am doing - it's been a long day, after all - I have leant over slightly, bathing my face in her hair and am inhaling deeply.
"Dammit Goren quit sniffing my hair!" She pushes me away and wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm.
Oh, look. I think the old Eames just came back.
EAMES: Something felt like it clicked just a moment ago. I dislocated my shoulder when I was 10 years old falling off my new Schwinn, and my father grabbed my arm and twisted it back into the socket. Boy, did I scream. I hate crying. But I have to admit I do feel a bit more relaxed now. I understand what Goren was doing. He was twisting my arm back into the socket. I feel exhausted. Am I safe to drive?
"Are we done here? Can we go now?" I implore him, jangling car keys. But I am talking as much about our relationship - professional as well as personal - as I am about driving home through New York traffic.
"Ah - no. I'll ... I'll walk home." He pulls a battered cell phone from another pocket. I don't recognise it. "I could use some air."
I look quizzically at him and the phone. "Oh - I've just got something I need to do ..." he says simply.