Title: A Few Things I Learned Today
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: All of it
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: I can't believe you actually died.
For the ci_fans unite challenge: character death.
A/N: The hardest character death story I've ever written. And I'll never do it again.
//
Up and died, you up and died on me
I can't believe you actually died.
//
Tuesday.
Dear Eames—
The story I'm telling you takes place mostly today, but it actually all started about three weeks ago, I guess. Yes. Three weeks. Three weeks today, actually.
I wish I knew how to say what
I've written you a lot of letters since it happened, but I ripped all the other ones up and threw them out. This is the only one I'm keeping. This is the only one that counts.
I used to think I knew everything. Well, maybe not everything, but a lot. I thought I knew a lot, but I've learned a few things since this all happened.
I've learned that sleeping, or trying to sleep, is pretty pointless.
I've learned that there is no right thing to say to someone who has lost someone.
I've learned I love you.
I didn't learn that I love you today. No. I've known that for a long time. A long time. But I don't know if you actually knew it. How much, I mean.
I've learned that I should have told you
I've learned I'm not very good at writing letters. I wish I'd written you more. Maybe this would be easier if I had, but I doubt it.
The funny thing was we had just started sleeping together about a week before you left. Remember? Of course you do. Or, maybe you don't. Anyway. Here's how I remember it—
//
Late-October and the leaves had already fallen, the weather already turned.
They'd been chasing him, John Waring, for weeks. A banker who killed his wife and children to be with his 20-year-old girlfriend. And they got him. They finally got him, but the case had eaten at them both, worn them both down. And the girlfriend, Melanie, was getting off. They couldn't convict her and she was remorseless, resentful. She'd screamed at them all the way down the hallway, hysterical.
"You have no right! We were going to get married! You don't know! You have no right!"
Eames had only stared at the girl, disbelieving.
"You want to be with him…still?"
"I love him! You bitch! I love him!"
"He…killed his wife. His children." Eames had clenched her fists, started to advance and Bobby had pulled her back, away, taken her home.
"I'll never understand these people," she said wearily as she climbed into his car. He glanced over at her, something in her beaten, bitter tone jarring him.
She was exhausted, pale and spent.
"Someone like you wouldn't," he said quietly.
She fell asleep on the way home, her head bouncing lightly against the car window. He drove cautiously, avoiding potholes when he could and taking turns as slowly as possible.
He parked, looked over at her.
"Eames."
"Where are we?"
"My apartment."
"What? Why?"
"I was too tired to drive any further and you…well. You passed out an hour ago."
She rubbed her eyes, made a waking up noise in her throat.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
She stretched. "Where's my car?"
"At the precinct. We drove in mine, remember?"
She gave a short laugh. "Right. So…now what? You want me to take yours and pick you up on the way in tomorrow?"
He smiled at her. "No. I want you to come up and sleep."
She cocked an eyebrow and allowed a smile. She didn't say anything.
"I'm serious. It's too late and we're both exhausted and I have a comfortable couch."
"Uh." She sighed, stifled a yawn, and nodded, almost against her will. Almost.
He remembered glancing at his feet as they walked down the long, dimly lit hallway together. There were patterns on the maroon carpet — diamonds and vines — that he'd studied thousands of times before, had counted methodically but tonight he was on autopilot, numbers appearing in his head unbidden
Forty-six.
Forty-seven.
Key in the lock.
His apartment was too warm and stuffy and he threw open a few windows as she shrugged off her coat and shoes, unwound her scarf.
"You can have my bed."
"I'm not sleeping in your bed, Bobby."
"But—"
"Just give me some blankets and I'll be fine," she said, nodding at the couch.
"But—"
"The couch, Bobby." And that was that, until 3 a.m. when he awoke with a jump.
She was standing beside him, clutching a blanket to her chest.
He struggled to sit up, tangled in his sheets. "What? What's wrong?"
She just shook her head.
"I don't know." A sigh. "Can't sleep."
"Oh."
They stared at each other. Then, without a word, he moved over and she lay down next to him. She rolled on her side to face him, her blanket draped around her.
"I'm so tired…and I can't sleep."
"Yeah."
"Why would someone murder his family?"
"I…don't know."
"He had everything. He had it. And he threw it all away for…that girl."
Bobby nodded.
She didn't say anything for awhile, and he was beginning to think she'd fallen asleep when he felt her hand brush his arm, felt her fingers curl around his hand. She was trembling.
"Eames?"
She didn't answer. He rolled over, propped himself up and leaned close. He brushed her face with his free hand. Her cheeks were wet.
He leaned closer and kissed her cheek, tasted the warm saltiness. He kissed her again, then again and again and then she turned her face slightly so he was kissing her mouth.
"Don't stop," she breathed which made him almost laugh because now that he'd started he was afraid he was never going to be able to stop.
//
I haven't cried, it hasn't rained on me
cause I can't believe you actually died.
//
Anyway. That's what I remember and maybe it's not completely accurate, and maybe I've romanticized parts of it, but it makes me happy. You made me happy. I know I didn't tell you that enough. I probably never told you that. But you were pretty much the only reason I kept working as long as I did, the reason I came to work at all, most days.
You were the only one for
Now. This is the hardest part of the letter. This is how you left me. That sounds dramatic, doesn't it? Anyway. I guess death is. Dramatic.
Even though I've tried very hard to forget, I can't, and I'll write it down now, for you.
This is how it happened:
//
Another October night, late, cold.
He'd heard enough gunshots in his life, too many, but there in the parking garage with the concrete and metal and endless echoes, low ceilings and slick walls the noise was deafening, all consuming and stayed in his ears long after Melanie had fled.
Eames saw it happening before he did. She yelled out a quick warning, her hand already moving to her own gun, but Melanie was ahead of them again and one-two-three-four and the noise and the flares of pain and he saw Eames falling first. He remembered her falling back and down not in slow motion but too fast, like film sped up, her head whipping back onto the concrete. Then he was falling too, and the thunder of gunshots filled his head and under it all was the sound of Melanie's footsteps running from them, leaving them to die.
Then it was all very still and quiet. Too still and too quiet.
"Eames—"
He stared up at the low ceiling, at a maze of heating ducts and grates and moved his left arm out a bit, searching for her. He knew she was close. He could sense it.
"Here."
He made a feeble grab for her and missed. His arm was on fire, and his shoulder, his neck. He felt the fading heat of her fingers and panicked and tried again. He heard her voice, not too far away, her voice saying his name, over and over. It was suddenly so dark and cold and he suddenly needed to see and touch her more than anything in the world.
He rolled on his side, groaning with the effort. The pain! Everything was on fire, but cold at the same time. Now he could see her, at least. She was close. She was flat on her back, but her head was turned towards him. Her eyes were both dark and bright. She watched him steadily. He could see the blood, her blood, everywhere. So much blood. Dark and shiny. He could smell it. She closed her eyes for longer than a blink, then opened them. She still watched him, but her eyes weren't so bright as before.
"You okay?" she said quietly and he could see it hurt her to ask. He could see she was dying.
"I'm fine. I'm fine. Eames—"
She smiled.
"I love you," he said then, babbling in the cold and the dark. "I love you I love you I love—"
She smiled again. A beautiful smile.
"I love you, too—"
It was so quiet in their space and all he could hear was her breathing. Her breathing seemed to fill the whole world and it just kept getting louder and louder. It sounded like she was trying to breathe under water.
He found her hand, finally and took it. He squeezed her fingers as hard as he could and she squeezed back as hard as she could, for as long as she could.
"Bobby—"
"Eames. Hang on. Hang on, okay? Hang on. Hang on. Don't leave. Don't leave me. Don't—"
Then it just got quieter and quieter until all he could hear was the sound of his own voice, panicked, plaintive.
//
After that I kept waiting for something to happen, but it never did. Nothing happened. You died and then I kept waiting. And waiting. People around me did things. They cried and hugged me. They said nice things about you and hugged me. They told me to be strong, and hugged me. I just stood there. Waiting.
Nothing happened.
After you died nothing else happened.
//
I haven't tried cause you're not dead, you're free.
I can't believe you actually died.
//
Eames' family visited him in the hospital, but he could barely look at them. Ross came, with Rodgers, the two of them letting go of each other's hand just as they walked into the room. Rodgers was fighting tears and Ross looked ashen.
"I'm…so sorry," Rodgers said.
"How…are you feeling?" Ross said, indicating his arm, his shoulder.
Bobby just stared at them.
"Everyone…sends their best wishes. And their condolences."
Bobby blinked.
"Take all the time you need…to…heal."
Bobby breathed.
"If you need anything…please let me know."
Bobby nodded.
"Okay, then. I need Eames."
Ross looked away. He shook his head. He looked like he might cry.
//
I was in the hospital for a couple of days. I was kind of out of it, but dreaming, too. Do you know what I mean? I kept dreaming about the garage and the noise and the blood. But, in my dreams you didn't die. I managed to save you.
You didn't die.
Then I'd wake up and realize I'd been dreaming and I'd try to go back to sleep, but it never worked.
I talked to you a lot. Sometimes I did it out loud and then I'd realize what I was doing because people would look at me like I was crazy, so I stopped.
When I got home I started dr
So, I started writing you letters instead. A lot of letters.
Good thing I got shot in the right arm, ha ha.
//
The first night home he walked down the hallway, staring down at the maroon carpet, counting diamonds and vines and remembering the two of them walking on the same carpet, together, not that long ago. He tried counting but got all confused after seven or so and ran the rest of the way to his door.
//
and I know that you're happy there
even though I don't know where
//
They asked me to speak at, you know, your funeral. Your brother asked me, and your sister and I said no. I kept saying no. Then your Dad asked me and I thought about it long and hard, but in the end I still said no.
What could I say? I had nothing to say.
The problem was I kept thinking it was all a joke. Or a dream. Or a trick. Like magic. A magic act. Where's Eames? She's vanished. Like, I could wave my hands, or a wand, say hocus pocus and you'd reappear.
Like magic.
I had nothing left. You were gone and I had no one left.
//
Ross drove him to the funeral. He hadn't planned on attending at all, had planned on saying he was in too much pain, but the psychiatrist told him it was necessary for the healing process.
Healing process.
Bobby had just stared at the psychiatrist when he said that, blinked a few times and nodded, as if in agreement, but really it was at the utterly ludicrous notion that there was any kind of healing in his future.
So he went, but didn't remember much about the day, except that it was sunny. It was sunny and almost warm for the first time in weeks and as he stood in his dress uniform, surrounded by a sombre sea of blue and watched the coffin sink into the earth, all he could think about was the sun on the back of his neck and the drops of sweat trickling down from under his hat, one by one by one.
//
The Other Side. The side I try to see.
I can't believe you actually died.
//
I've thought about all the places I would have liked to visit with you. I would have liked to have gone to England. Spain. Mallorca! Maine. Did you know there's an island there with no electricity? We could have spent time there. Montreal. Or, we could have gone nowhere and that would have been fine, too. I should have asked you to ma
I guess I've been thinking about magic, too. I've been thinking about The Great Carmine and how he ignited that passion in me again. And Dean Holiday and how he "read" you that day. About someone close to you letting you down, again. I'd do pretty much anything to go back and change things I said and did. These are the things I think about when I'm not sleeping. If you were here, I'd tell you these things, instead of writing them down.
But, you're gone. I know this.
I wish I knew the spell to either bring you back or make myself go away, too.
//
"Well, this is interesting," she said, shifting against him. It was all skin against skin and for the first time in weeks he felt warm. October wind flattened cold rain against the windows, rattling the panes. He didn't want to go anywhere ever again.
"What's that?" he said, pressing his mouth to her wrist.
"Uh…"
She turned on her side, her eyes finding his, holding them.
"I just wasn't expecting this."
"What?"
She swallowed hard and put her mouth on his instead of answering.
He had a hard time keeping his hands off her, his mouth off her. He balanced himself above her and moved his hands and mouth over and across her body, her face, up, down, not particularly sexually, but more investigative until she grabbed his hand.
"What are you doing, exactly?"
He paused. "Memorizing you."
She smiled. "What?"
He kissed her. The he just put his arms around her and pushed his face into the impossible softness of her hair. He closed his eyes, tried to hang on.
"What is it?" she asked, trying to pull back so she could see him, but he held on tighter and shook his head.
"Nothing."
Just, don't leave me, ever.
//
Your body's gone but your ghost haunts me.
I can't believe you actually died.
//
You'd think I'd be used to death by now. To people leaving, to the utter finality of it all. To the great empty aching void people leave behind when they go. After all, I've lost enough people now to be used to it all.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
//
He told himself — promised himself — he'd stay away from the cemetery, but of course he went. He went two weeks later on a cold and windy afternoon. His arm was still bandaged and slinged tight against his chest under his coat, which was open and flapping around him as he walked. He found her grave without any trouble, even without a headstone.
He stood there and looked down at the ground and tried to feel something. Tried to feel anything other than cold and sore. He thought about her. He could see her in his head, and hear her voice and smell her. But, he didn't feel anything.
After awhile he turned and walked away.
//
So, Alex—
I should have called you Alex more often. I don't know. You were always just Eames to me. It wasn't a derogatory thing, or meant to be disrespectful, as my Mom used to insist. It was just the opposite, really.
Just one in a long list of my many regrets.
Eames.
I'm almost done with this letter. I don't have much more to say.
Here are a few of the things I learned today:
No one loved you as much as I did.
I would have liked to see what our kids looked like.
Ross loves Rodgers. Don't ask me how I know.
I don't really want to hang around here if you're not here to keep me company. It's not nearly as much fun.
I still haven't cried.
I'm tired.
And kind of scared
Lonely.
Eames.
Rhymes with dreams.
Hang on. I'm almost done.
//
I can't believe that you actually died.
I can't believe that you made your parents cry.
//
His face was wet. He wiped at it, and again. It was still wet. He put the pen down and touched his face. He was crying. Huh. He put his hands over and face and let himself cry. He could hear his voice ringing in the emptiness, could feel his shoulders shaking with the effort. He just kept his face in his hands and cried and was afraid that now that he'd started he was never going to be able to stop.
//
—anyway, I don't have much more to say. My arm is still hurting and I'm not sleeping well, and I've told you almost everything I wanted you to know.
It's time to go.
So, remember this, if nothing else —
//
Here's how it ended:
One day he woke up and decided today was The Day. That was Today.
Today.
Today he woke up and did these things:
He got dressed.
He brushed his teeth.
He ate his breakfast (bagel with cream cheese light and coffee black).
He wrote a letter. He cried. He put the letter in an envelope and placed it gently on his kitchen table.
He put on his coat. It was cold out, being November. He hated November, but he wasn't too crazy about October, either. He debated for awhile about gloves/hat/scarf, etc., but in the end decided no. No. Those things didn't matter. Then he remembered the scarf she'd given him, oh, five years ago? Black plaid one, kept safe in his sock drawer, hidden. He pulled it out, put it on. It smelled like her, even though it didn't really. But, he pretended it did and it looked nice with his coat. He imagined her picking it out and thinking about him. It made him feel happy.
He opened his door. He closed it. He locked it. One can never be too careful, you know.
He walked down his apartment hallway. He looked down at his feet, at the worn maroon carpet. He counted the diamonds and vines for the last time.
Forty-six.
Forty-seven.
He opened the last door.
He didn't look back.
He disappeared.
//
Up and died, you up and died on me
I can't believe you actually died.
//
there was only ever you
hocus pocus
love always
B—
//
Fin
*I can't believe you actually died — The Microphones