A/N: A one shot that came to me after seeing the word 'nightmare'. Set post 'Untethered' it's my interpretation of Bobby's frame of mind. I struggled to give this a title, veering between 'Claustrophobia' and 'Goren's Suspension Blues' but thanks to a trusty old thesaurus, i came across 'Nocturne' and the description given seemed to fit. The characters from LOCI, esp Bobby Goren don't belong to me. I wish that he did but i needed to write something and this is what came out. It's short but all thoughts as always appreciated.
Nocturne: A painting of a night scene….
Damn it.
He wakes up with a violent start.
Cold sweat coats his body as his scrambled brain fights for control once again.
His breath leaves his lungs in a loud gasp of what? He doesn't know.
For a brief moment he stares at the shadows dancing on his ceiling, his addled brain still not computing what his eyes are seeing, have seen.
Damn it.
Everything starts to come together for him now and his heart rhythm begins to slow down as common sense makes its presence known. He's safe. He's at his apartment. He's safe.
He turns his head and looks at the luminous numbers on his long-suffering alarm clock.
Just gone three. He sighs and begins to sit up.
There's no damn way he's going to get anymore sleep tonight.
He gets out of bed and wipes at his face. He feels the sweat coat his fingertips and he curses. What he wouldn't give for a full night of unbroken sleep. It's something he aspires to. He can't remember the last time he did, if he ever did that was. Sure, a few shots of something stronger than coffee helps to lay the foundation stones but he always wakes up the next morning feeling like shit.
It doesn't help that he's still on suspension and sinking fast.
He ignores the half empty bottle of scotch on his kitchen table. Instead he grabs an upturned glass from the drainer and flips it over. With the other hand he reaches for the faucet and switches it on. He pushes the glass beneath the torrent of water that spills out and watches it fill. A swift twist and the flow stops. He raises the glass to his lips and drinks, and feels the coolness of the liquid quench and chill his dry but sour mouth.
He suffers from nightmares. He thought that as a child he would grow out of them, that his sharp adult mind would understand the terrors that haunted his subconscious but here he is, an adult and those nightmares still have the power to paralyse and terrify him. Maybe his mind isn't as sharp as it used to be.
He walks into his small living room.
He listens.
For the most part its silent but he hears the muffled roar of passing traffic, the occasional whine of a siren. He turns his head and looks at his phone. His shield rests beside it and he stares at it. He realises that the phone has been silent for a while. The joys of suspension he muses to himself.
If he's to be perfectly honest, then this silence is more from his own making than anything else. Sure the phone did ring in those early days but he let the answering machine pick them up and one by one those phone calls stopped, even those from his partner. He tells himself that he likes the peace and quiet but it still stings a little that Eames doesn't call any more. It doesn't occur to him to pick up the phone and actually call her.
He's thought about therapy; he's thought about sitting with someone and just letting it all spill out but he's not a one to share his deepest, most darkest secrets. He doesn't like the idea of a stranger being privy to what makes Robert Goren tick. His life is on a need to know basis and he doesn't care how many people he pisses off in the process protecting that. It's who he is and who he forever will be. The thought of the mandatory psychiatric session that lie ahead for him after his suspension is over almost make him smile.
He sits down on his sofa and stares at nothing in particular. He rubs at his chin and feels the bristles beneath his fingertips. He always likes a little stubble, Major Case expects him to be smart and respectable and that includes being clean-shaven. Well he's never been one to follow the rules, not entirely. He likes to think of it being his own quiet act of rebellion. The hair on his head and in his beard is mostly grey these days and it's a reminder to him of time passing by. He looks down at the ratty old t-shirt he's wearing, yep, time is definitely catching up with him.
He doesn't remember falling asleep but somehow he has and the next memory he has is of the sunshine pouring through the window and poking at his eyelids. Bewildered he sits up and looks around. The sunshine reminds him of the mess that his life has become. He sighs. He doesn't care anymore.
He wonders whether the phone will ring today.
FIN.