Life In Ponds & Streams, a law and order: ci fanfic

Title: Life In Ponds & Streams
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: After Untethered.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Summary: She was there, and then she wasn't. She was on the ice and then she was under it and she could have been dead, it was so quiet and still and cold.

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Her bathroom sink tap dripped. It had dripped for months and every time she became aware of it she thought, Have to get that fixed. On the rare occasion she had time for a bath, when she put her head back and let the hot water envelop her, when she closed her eyes and tried to think about nothing, she'd hear it.

Plop.

And she'd sigh and try to ignore it. Until she went to bed and tried to settle her mind down and then…there it was again, weirdly loud and insistent even against all the city night noises. She'd roll and push her face into the pillow and try to not think about work or Bobby or work—

Plop.

Have to get that fixed.

One of the many things that no one knew about Alex Eames was the fact that she liked to swim. Loved it, in fact, and tried at least once a week to get to the pool for laps. Once in the water she forgot about almost everything else except the movement of her body — arms, legs, kick and pull — and the sensation that she was almost flying. When she'd been pregnant she'd gone often, relishing the buoyancy offered her awkwardly expanding body.

Kick and pull and glide.

All she had to focus on was the water, the movement, and trying not to drown.

Another one of many things no one knew about Alex Eames was that she'd spent many of her childhood summers at her cousin Karen's farmhouse in upstate New York. She remembered those summers with a fondness that bordered on the surreal, because they were so perfect, so idyllic, she was sure they couldn't be as good as she now made them to be.

The farmhouse had a barn with chickens and goats, rolling fields, and its own stream, where she and Karen had spent hours and hours, wading in the cold water looking for gold nuggets but finding crayfish instead. Karen would squeal and splash away when Alex picked them up, mindful of their claws, studying them closely. Then she chased Karen with them.

She remembered the feel of the water running over her feet, numbing up to her ankles. She remembered gathering stones from the creek bed, smooth and glistening beneath the water, but once dried in the sun they never looked as pretty and how that disappointed her, bitterly.

Water, she decided then, was lovely and magical, but it also concealed, and it lied.

Charles Wiebe, mild-mannered college computer teacher, had killed three, many four people in as many weeks. His apartment was empty, had been for days, but his mother lived in a country house two hours outside the city. They left early afternoon but it was almost dark when they finally arrived. The house was set back from the road and flanked by trees and Alex immediately thought of the farmhouse, the stream, the pebbles. She looked over at Bobby, maybe to tell him so, but he was looking down at his portfolio, murmuring to himself, and so she said nothing.

Mrs. Wiebe, in a pale blue bathrobe and an angry expression, barred the door.

"Why are you here?" she asked three times. "Charles has done nothing."

"He's killed three people."

"Why are they here?" she demanded, pointing at the two police officers stalking the perimeter of the house.

"They're looking for Charles," Alex said. "We have a warrant, Mrs. Wiebe."

She glared then, pulled her bathrobe tighter and let them in.

They moved to the living room. It was almost dark.

"My son is a genius."

"Your son is a murderer," Alex said. "But, you already know that."

"I know nothing of the kind and I want you out of my house—"

"Oh, we're not going anywhere," Alex sat then, stared at the woman. Bobby stood, offered a small smile.

A police officer in a heavy winter coat appeared in the doorway. His cheeks were red.

"The property's secured," the officer said. "If Wiebe was here, he's gone now."

"Or, he's hiding, right Mrs. Wiebe?" Bobby glanced at the woman. "You have…what, three acres here?"

"Five," the woman said, smoothing her bathrobe over her knees. Her hands trembled. "Lot of trees, too."

"Maybe he climbed one," Alex said, her voice dry and cold. The woman glared at her, leaned forward slightly.

"That's right, missy. Maybe he did. He was always very athletic, my Charles."

"Wow. Smart and sporty. And a murderer. How does he fit it all in?"

Mrs. Wiebe jabbed a finger in Alex's direction.

"You don't talk about Charles like that. He's—"

"Right, right. He's a genius. I know."

Bobby smiled. Alex sighed, rose to her feet. "I'm going outside. The air in here is making me queasy."

The cold night air felt wonderful after the stifling heat in the house. Alex took a deep breath, and another, closed her eyes for a moment. Her lungs felt crisp and cold, the skin of her face rubbed raw. She flicked on her flashlight, moved the beam across the rutted, frozen ground. Old snow, grass, dirt. No chance of finding footprints but she didn't want to go back inside, so she walked away from the house, flashlight swinging back and froth in front of her feet. It was very dark out here, away from the city and she thought again of Karen's house, of the stars at night and the black arms of the trees circling the farm, of the stream and the night sounds she still heard in her dreams. The crayfish twisting between her fingers, the pebbles just beneath the water's surface and how they never looked the same when she fished them out and held them in her hand. She kept walking.

Inside Mrs. Wiebe looked at Bobby, smoothed her bathrobe again.

"That woman—" she began and smiled coyly.

"Detective Eames," Bobby said.

"She's wasting her time out there. If Charles doesn't want to be found, he won't be found. He knows this property like the back of his hand."

Bobby nodded. "So, he is here…somewhere."

"No," Mrs. Wiebe smiled again. "He's not. Like I said, wasting her time."

She sighed and leaned back. She looked at Bobby again. "I just hope she's mindful of the pond."

A pause.

"The…pardon?"

"Five acres, like I said, detective. Five acres with a pond. Small, but deep. Awfully dark out there, and I'm fairly sure it hasn't frozen completely over yet."

She watched him run from the room and when she smoothed down her bathrobe again her hands no longer shook.

Sweep of light and shuffle of feet. She leaned her head back and looked at the sky. She thought about quitting her job and moving out here. She'd buy a hobby farm, raise chickens and goats, wear a straw hat. She laughed, looked back at the house, realized how far she'd wandered and thought about heading back.

Shuffle of feet and she understood then that the ground beneath her had changed, was different than it had been for quite some time. She had moved down a small slope and she was slipping a bit. For how long? How far had she gone? She stopped short, breath catching a bit in her throat as she considered.

She was walking across ice.

He saw the light, flickering back and forth like a firefly and his heart gave a small lurch. She was far enough away that he would have to yell and her name was in his throat when the light was suddenly gone.

Extinguished.

It all happened very quickly.

The sound, the crack, almost like a gunshot she thought later, the sensation of ground giving away, of dropping down, and then the shock shock shock of cold: It all happened so incredibly fast.

She was there, and then she wasn't. She was on the ice and then she was under it and she could have been dead, it was so quiet and still and cold.

Then:

I don't want to die here, she thought. This is not where I want to die.

He thought maybe she had just turned the light off but he knew she hadn't, because he'd heard the sound, too, almost like a gunshot but not. Not a gunshot but so much more terrifying at the moment. The sound of ice cracking and breaking and her light vanishing, just like that. She was there, and then she wasn't and he tried to yell, tried to scream, really, but no sound was coming out except panicked gasps and he realized he was running and he understood he was running for her life.

It was very dark beneath the water and she was unable to move for several seconds. Shock, she told herself. It's shock. Then, don't panic. Do not panic. She tried to remember what she knew about hypothermia, tried to force herself to stay calm. She was rising back to the surface, her head breaking free of the water and she raised her arms, so heavy and stiff in the wet wool coat, and her gloved hands clumsily gripped the ice's surface. She drew a few shaky breaths, watched white plumes of breath billow in front of her face, felt the desperate hammer of her heart in her chest.

She'd never felt so cold in her life.

But, she was alive.

Okay, good, she thought. Now what?

He couldn't see her. He couldn't see her but he could see the hole, the jagged black spot where she had disappeared and he felt his heart literally stop, then, like an apparition, she was there, her head, her arms. He could see her breath billowing and he felt his heart hammer against his ribs.

She was alive.

He ran to her.

She could hear him, hear his gasping breaths (or were those her own?), hear his heavy footsteps and she realized through her haze she had to stop him, make him stop. He was coming to her because he thought he could save her or something lovely and heroic but completely idiotic and she had to make him stop.

"Bobby," she said. Still, she heard movement. "Bobby," she said with more force. It hurt to talk. She couldn't fill her lungs.

"Eames!" He was close, but he was coming no closer.

"Don't…don't come out here. You…need to stop."

"I need to come get you—"

"No. No." She looked up then and saw him, standing near the edge of the pond, and even from where she was she could see his eyes, see the frantic light in them. His hands were twitching. He wasn't thinking. God almighty, she was chest deep in ice cold water and had more presence of mind than he did.

"Eames—" His voice sounded like it hurt, like it actually pained him to say her name.

Kick, she thought. I need to kick. She remembered now. Don't try to pull yourself up. Kick your feet. Kick. Now. Hard.

She didn't take her eyes off him.

She moved her legs.

He watched her kick and struggle for exactly four seconds before he threw himself flat on his stomach and inched his way towards her. She was grunting with exertion but she was doing it, she was slowly moving up and forward on the ice.

"Keep going…keep going, Eames…keep going."

She kicked. He could hear the water splashing around her. It sounded like she was almost crying with the effort.

He didn't take his eyes off her.

He stretched his arms out in front of him, moved forwards, forwards. There, almost there. She looked at him. He was all she could see. He grabbed her hand, pulled her towards him, dragged her to him, wrapped his arms around her and rolled to the shore. He pressed his lips to the side of her head, her soaking hair. She was so cold.

His mouth at her ear:

"I've got you…I've got you, Alex."

Beneath the ice, beneath the water, she'd thought she'd never be warm again, but later, in her bed, she can't remember ever feeling cold.

Night noises, warmth, and then, Bobby.

"Your tap drips," he whispered against her neck.

"Really?" she whispered back. Hand in hair, hand on cheek.

He slid his hands along her ribs, up her back. Finally warm.

She sighed.

"Have to get that fixed."

Fin