a/n: This could be anytime season seven. It's purposefully vague in many ways... shippy or not, the content of her dreams... let it speak to you how it will.
She was sleeping now. He gently sifted his fingers through her hair, carefully untangling the knots formed during her restless night's sleep. He loved her hair. It was fine and straight and crackled with static during the winter months. Like her, it had a mind of its own. But here in the early morning light, it yielded to his touch like spun gold flowing through his fingers.
Had she been awake she never would have allowed this level of intimacy. But she had fallen asleep on his couch several hours before, after a long nights work. She slept soundly while he tidied up their papers, and then settled down in his favorite seat, an antique Morris chair that fit his large frame well. He himself finally dozed off, as he had on countless other nights, while in the middle of reading the latest issue of Scientific American.
Her restless turnings on the couch woke him. As he struggled awake, his magazine slid off his lap and onto the floor. Restless nights were nothing new for this man, but he was surprised to see his partner in the throes of what was clearly a bad dream. He sat and watched her through heavy sleep lidded eyes, running his hands over the well worn arms of his chair, waiting. Waiting to see if she would go back to sleep, or if her dreams would escalate.
She had seemed to settle down, so he had closed his eyes for a few minutes when he heard her call out. "Please, no..." and then... she called a name. He was awake instantly, sitting forward in an agony of indecision. The name, followed by "...it can't be you..." Head in his hands, he turned the name over in his mind, weighing her intent. Was she accusing Jo... her captor, her abuser... or calling for Joe ... her lover, her murdered husband? Either choice made his going to her difficult.
"Wait... wait... please don't leave me," she implored. Indecisive no longer, he knelt by the couch and put his hand on her shoulder, calling softly, "Alex." He shook her slightly. "Alex, wake up."
"Don't leave," she cried once more before his shaking awakened her. "Bobby?" she asked. Clutching his shirt she blurted out, "Oh Bobby, I was so alone..."
"You were having a bad dream. Everything's OK. You're not alone. Not now."
She looked around, the dream and reality still muddled in her mind. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and sat up. While she disentangled herself from the afghan, he stood, his bad knee protesting briefly. Ignoring the pain, he got up and headed across the room into his kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the drainboard, he poured her some cold orange juice, and brought it to her.
"Take some deep breaths," he said, as he sat beside her on the couch. "And drink this. It'll help." She said little as she tried to get her breathing under control and calm herself, but he could see the gratitude in her eyes. He didn't press her for details, although his curious mind couldn't help but wonder about her dream.
There was a comfortable silence between them as she drank her juice and eventually he convinced her to try and go back to sleep. She propped a pillow up against his leg and lay down next to him on the sofa. As he was helping her adjust the afghan, she looked up at him and said, "Read me something Bobby?"
"Read to you Eames?"
"You're always reading. Read me something... anything..."
There was a stack of books within his reach, on the end table next to the sofa. He had been going through his mother's books, keeping some, tossing some, re-reading others. Trying to keep some connection with her now that she was gone. He often read to her in the wee hours of the morning. Phone calls at unexpected hours were common when her dreams or her delusions got the better of her and she needed soothing. He had done this for many years, but he never expected to do it for his partner.
"Please Bobby?"
He was powerless to deny Alex this simple request. He'd refused her so many things lately, and that guilt ate at the edges of his stubborn pride. He glanced at the titles of the books nearest him and he pulled one from the pile.
"OK, Eames. Just close your eyes and try to go back to sleep." He opened the red leather book and began to read softly, "The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens. Chapter One. Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the country, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any creature living."
"I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp or a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is kinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse."
He read until he could be sure that she had fallen asleep. He set the book down quietly, and found himself contemplating the woman curled up asleep next to him. He smoothed the hair back from in front of her face, and found himself idly running his fingers through her hair. She had been letting her hair grow lately and it was much longer than it had ever been in all the years he had known her. The color had been subtly changed by her hair stylist many times, but she had generally kept the length short. It was longer now, and sometimes she needed a clip to keep it out of her face. He wondered why she had decided to let it grow. He wondered many things about this woman, but he suspected even he would never be able to solve all of Eames' mysteries.
With a sigh he leaned his head back against the sofa and with a last brief caress of her cheek with his thumb, whispered. "Sleep well, Eames. Sweet dreams..."