"Missing sequence from 'Ghost' "
by Jenn
Even from the kitchen, watching steam come in wisps from the tea kettle, I can hear Alex's anxious movements. I hear her pace in the living room, her socks padding against the wooden floorboards. I hear her violently turning the pages of Liam Connors' file, sighing and mumbling. I had excused myself after twenty minutes of watching her bite her lip in concentration, her brow furrow, adjust her glasses. It stirred too many memories: Alex was not supposed to be here, in this federal-issued temporary apartment, with her hair swept up like a mid-western soccer mom. She was supposed to bite her lip beneath bookcases stacked full with volumes of leather bound legal books, frown in the glare of her District Attorney's office florescent light, adjust her glasses and begin to write a brief for some other case, not her own attempted murder.
When I had first learned that Connors was responsible for Alex's shooting, I expected to feel unprecedented anger swell inside me. After all, he had taken everything from her and everything from me. Alex was gone; part of me had gone with her. I survived--cried more, drank more-- but lived nonetheless. And, thank God, Alex survived too. But, when I looked at him through the mirror into the interrogation room at the 1-6, it wasn't really anger that I felt. It was pity. How undeserving, how stupid, could a person be to have tried to take the life of Alex Cabot? Alex surviving the shooting only reaffirmed my beliefs that she was other-worldly, that she was some ethereal being. Of course Alex couldn't die. What a disservice, was what I thought. Liam Connors had done a disservice to her. Isn't that strange?
With two mugs in hand, I re-enter the living room and steadily set my cup on the coffee table. Then, I move to stand near the pacing blonde in front of large windows framing the corporate glow of upper Manhattan.
"Tea," I say and she stops, looking up from the file. I hand her the mug and she accepts wordlessly. "One sugar and a little cream."
"You remembered how I take my tea?" she asks.
"Of course," I try to smile and put a hand over the file, "Give this a rest. I think you've memorized it by now. Come sit down." I see a flash in her eye, like she's going to fight with me, but it dies the second it surfaces. Wisconsin had made her docile. She closes the file and takes a seat in one of the modern, armless chairs; she wraps her long fingers around the warm mug and tucks her feet under. She brings the tea closer to her face and lets the steam rise and make her eyes seem a cloudy, troubled blue.
"So," I say, sitting on the couch opposite her, "do you eat a lot of good cheese?"
She frowns, "Excuse me?"
"You live in Wisconsin. They're supposed to have good cheese, right?" It takes a few seconds for Alex's mouth to pull taut into a smile, and a few more for a laugh to billow up from deep within and escape in a truly refreshing, unreserved sound.
"Olivia," she giggles, eyes twinkling, "we're about to go court to try an indicted hit man for the Columbian drug cartel and the IRA and prosecute him for the murder of two innocent people, the attempted murder of an eight-year-old boy, the attempted murder of myself and God knows who else and you're asking me about the cheese in Wisconsin?".
"Yeah," I begin to laugh too, "I guess I am." We are wrapped in laughter for a few more moments, then let it die without any attempts to rescue the conversation. We sit and sip at our tea, afraid to talk again. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it's around eleven. "It's late," I say, "You should get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a big day."
"It is, you're right." Alex stands up and motions for my empty mug. I hand it over, then follow her to the kitchen where she places both in the titanium sink. She turns and leans on the counter; the kitchen is narrow, but I lean on the counter opposite her. Our toes touch, and Alex wriggles hers on top of mine: Blue over black socks.
"Did you miss me... when I was in the Program?" she asks tentatively. I look her in the eye, and try not to let my gaze wobble like it wants to.
"Every day," I respond.
"Liv..." she breathes, and pushes herself off the counter toward me, then falters, "I missed you too."
We stare at each other a moment, and I feel a stinging behind my eyes. Don't look at me like that, Alex.
"Which bedroom is mine?" I ask.
"What? Oh, the one down the hall on the left," she turns her back, twists the knobs of the faucet, and begins to wash the two mugs with her fingers. I nod, but she can't see.
"Good night, Alex," I say, "If you hear anything, I mean anything unusual at all, come get me. Okay?"
"Night, Liv," she says, still without turning around.
In my bed, I am awoken with a murmur in my chest. A feather-light touch to my shoulder sends me bolt upright and reaching for my Glock; I have the safety off and the slide pulled back before I'm fully awake.
"Olivia, hey, it's just me. It's Alex," I hear her voice and I relax, but only slightly.
"What is it, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing is wrong. For God's sake, put down the gun."
"Sorry," I say and click the safety back in place. I can feel Alex sit on the side of the bed as I reach and place my gun back on the table. The clock reads: 1:13 am. "You can't sleep?" I prompt her.
"No, not really..." She hesitates; I know she wants to say something else and I nudge her.
"What is it?"
"I don't really know how to say what I mean..." I allow her time to collect her thoughts that seem to float asunder, tangible in the air. "...being Emily is lonely. I mean, it seems like my only company is my fear; like I'm sharing a bed with Velez's gun. There's Rick, the claims adjuster, but he leaves in the middle of the night and...."
"Alex," I hold a corner of the comforter open for her to climb in next to me. This is the first time we have shared a bed and I have to lace my fingers together over my heart to keep it from falling out. Her scent is all around me, her blonde hair loose and tangled as she buries her face into my neck. This is the closest we've ever been to one another. Hell, this is the closest I have ever felt to anyone.
"I'm just so... alone," she begins to cry. I place my hand on the back of her head, the other I drape over her waist and pull her close to me. If ever I would admit it to myself a year ago when Alex and I were untouchable, two careening forces that collided as in battle at the precinct, in the bullpen, her office. I remember her flushed cheeks, how blue her eyes became, how the pulse in her neck beat faster, then faster still, how her lips would curl lushly and if she was really mad, how her teeth would show when she enunciated. God, as much as I wanted to ravish her in those moments, I wanted to apologize and throw my arms around her just like I have now.
But, it isn't the same; her heaving shoulders and wracking breath remind me. Time has passed; Alex is not in my bed because she desires me, but because she's hurt and alone. And let me tell you something: it breaks my fucking heart.
The skin on my neck is slick with warm, salty tears and I absolutely cherish the way they slide down and bleed into the collar of my t-shirt. Her breath is hot, erratic, close to my ear, and it sends a shiver down the length of my body. I want to console her, have words of advice or wisdom to impart; I'd even take a friendly consolation embrace. But, my body is reacting to Alex so close. She seems to sense a shift in me and she stiffens and quiets.
"I'm sorry..." she sniffles and retracts from me. I can already feel the distance between us like a rush of wind. We are flying apart already, back to our respective jobs, apartments, lives. I struggle to breathe at the prospect of losing Alex all over again.
"You're crying," she says softly. I reach up with the pad of my fingers to my cheek and discover that I am indeed. Bizarrely, Alex's fingers flutter to cover mine and we stare at each other with swollen eyes lying on our sides in some strange apartment, in a city I barely recognize without her in it.
"Please..." she starts, then closes her eyes. Her next words are spoken in darkness, in a hush, that I had to strain to hear, "Say you don't love me".
In retrospect, I suppose I should have welcomed that open door. I could have walked right through, confessed my long hidden feelings and taken Alex back into my arms. We would have fumbled, kissed clumsily, perhaps even have made love. I would have found all her tender spots, kissed the freckle at the base of her throat that I had caught many times peeking out of a particularly unbuttoned blouse. I would have marveled at her skin, treasured the blush that would surface like rose petals in a bowl of milk. Alas, I respond with an answer that will always be a complexity to me and, I suppose, to Alex as well.
"I don't love you," I say. She opens her eyes; I can see them glistening in the darkness. Something is breaking in them, something like the groan of an Alaskan river as the ice cracks in the advent of Spring.
"Okay," she says and gingerly removes the comforter from herself. Alex twists in place and slides one long leg onto the floor, then the other; her back is to me. She sits for a moment, poised in that affluent way she has, perhaps contemplating if there is anything left to say. I guess she decides that there is not and she gets up and walks out of the room.