Miles and Miles of Squares
Notes: A handful of moments during those missing three days at the end of "Grow." Written for thursday100plus at LiveJournal.
In the dream, it's Bishop who finds him.
He's sitting on the floor in a corner of the conference room, surrounded by dozens of open maps. Layers and layers of crisp creased colored paper, each one covered in thin meandering marker lines. Endless options for a fleeing woman and child. Endless directions to go to get yourself lost. He doesn't have any idea how long he's been sitting here, absently tracing possibilities. He blinks, and his dry eyes water. It takes him a minute to figure out what state he's been staring at.
He looks up when he hears her clear her throat. She's standing framed in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest, her body bisected by the cluttered table between them. He catches the look of annoyance (disgust?) before she can mask it. Hoping she'll simply wander away if he ignores her - a trick that's worked more than once in their time together - he returns to the maps. Follows another highway with his black pen.
"Goren, we don't have time for this," she says. "We've got to go."
His head snaps up at that, eyes finding hers as he tries to remember. Go? Where? He has absolutely no idea, and for a moment that scares the hell out of him. But as quick as it comes, the panic dulls. Wherever it is, he decides, it can't be more important than this. He shuffles through the maps, looking for a wider view. "Doesn't matter," he tells her, pushing pages aside. "I've got to find her."
"Look, I know you've got some history with this perp, but it's been two days. She's got to be across state lines by now, maybe out of the country. It's somebody else's problem."
He flinches at the casual way she says those words, "some history." Like Nicole was just some mugger he once put away, some common petty criminal he once happened across during his years on the force. Just another Bad Guy out there doing Bad Things.
"It's not... somebody else's problem. It's my problem. I let her- I let her get away." He's on his hands and knees now, becoming more agitated in his search for the absent page. For every map he uncovers there's another beneath, and none of them the one he needs. "I have to find her," he mumbles again.
"You'll never find her," Bishop says from the doorway. "She could be anywhere."
"No!" It comes out as a shout, not what he intended. He's got the feeling now that if he can just find the one he's missing, the whole thing will become obvious. He'll know where she's gone, and they can arrest her. Protect Gwen. If he can find it.
"No," he says again, trying for a more reasonable tone. This time he hits a little closer, but the shout still tickles the back of his throat. It's hard to be reasonable, surrounded by all this paper, this frustration, but he can't let her see anything else. She doesn't understand. He can't risk letting her see. Not when he can't trust her. "No, I-I'll find her. I can find her." He doesn't spare the time it'll take to look up at her.
"Goren, it's hopeless. Let it go."
The pages under his right hand slide against one another. His supporting arm slips out from beneath his weight. The dream breaks.
"So you do sleep. You know, I was beginning to wonder..."
His knuckles are digging into his temple. And something smells like fresh coffee.
Too slowly his exhausted mind begins to fill in the rest of the details, cracking fine lines between reality and the lingering sensations of his dream. In the conference room, yes - but at the table, not on the floor. Back stiff from falling asleep hunched over in the chair, elbow sore from constant contact with unyielding metal while propping up the weight of his head. An open atlas, free of any unpublished markings. His partner standing across from him, holding a steaming styrofoam cup.
His real partner.
He straightens up, the tension in his shoulders sending spikes of pain up his neck and through his already aching head. The inside of his mouth feels sticky, as stale as the air in the room. Nodding his thanks as she sets the cup within his reach, he rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands in an attempt to bring Eames into better focus.
"What, uh... what time is it?"
"Almost six-thirty." She perches on the edge of the table, watching him. Within his reach. "You hungry?"
He shakes his head. Runs his fingers lightly over the bright shades of a two-dimensional U.S., fingertips blocking out entire tiny states as they pass over. Hopeless.
"Why don't you take a break?" she says. "Go home, change your clothes, maybe get some more sleep?"
He looks at her blankly, knows he should come up with some kind of response. Tries to work up the energy for the necessary protest. He can't leave now. Leaving now would feel far too much like giving up.
She sighs. "Come on, Bobby - You've been here, what? Thirty, thirty-two hours now? I know what this means to you, but we've got all the angles covered here. You can spare a couple of hours away from this place."
He shakes his head again, wincing as the motion increases the beat of his headache. "No, I've got to... I should get back to the phones."
"Yeah, well, apparently there's no shortage of blonde women driving brown-haired little girls around the country. Or people who want to call and tell us about it. I'm betting all this false lead fun will still be here when you get back."
She's wearing different clothes, he notices now. He vaguely recalls her leaving at some point. Returning at some point. His eyes drift down to the cell phone, waiting half-buried under a handful of notes. He toys with the idea of a cigarette, willing the phone to ring. Wonders if a smoke break will be enough to pacify her.
"I've got to find her," he says, almost to himself.
"We'll find her," Eames says. "She's not getting away from us again."
The utter confidence with which she says it makes him look up at her again, meet her eyes. She's tired but determined, he sees. Convinced. She isn't giving up on this any time soon. She'll be beside him, as long as it takes.
They'll find her.
A new flush of energy begins to spread through him, and he pushes himself to his feet. He pulls on his jacket, fishing past the wad of his tie to feel for his cigarettes in an inside pocket. "You're right," he says, taking a breath to clear his head. "I think I'll... uh, get some air."
She smiles and hands him his coffee. Together they leave the room.
end.