Bobby poured himself another glass from the bottle that's more empty than it should be. Or not empty enough, if the events of the past (how long was it now? did it matter?) were taken in consideration. The scotch burns down his throat and spreads. He waits for it to take effect and burn away the edges of his thoughts and memories, always careful. There's a fine line between self medication and alcoholism. In his honest moments, Bobby is fairly certain he crossed it at some point between his mother's illness and death and his mentor's 'gifts'. Hate burned even brighter than the alcohol's numbness, fed by so much pain. Declan had been trying to save Bobby, or at least that's what his claim was. Bobby had never asked anyone to save him, never would. Saving was for people with families or lives.
With Frank and his mother dead, Bobby might as well have no family. To ever see his nephew again would be to send him back to jail. The thought made his stomach clench in ways that threatened the ulcer he was always waiting for. Yes, there had been futile attempts at lasting relationships. Women who had put up with him until something pushed them away. The list of reasons was long enough; his eccentricities, his mother, his brother, the fact he was already married to his job, suspicions he was in love with his partner. The last one had never made sense to him. Eames was Eames. A fifty-year-old, old fashioned, one of the boys cop stuck in the body of a fairly attractive woman. Their relationship was comfortable in work, but that was it. Besides, she still loved her husband too much.
No, the closest thing he had ever found to a woman who was his other half was Nicole Wallace. A slight flicker of that thought and he emptied the glass, hoping to drown the disgust that rose at the thought. His personal Moriarty, if he was being boastful enough to calling himself Holmes. The shining girl. The one he wonders about at night. What if he had disappointed them both and slept with her? Even as bile threatens to choke him, he knows that chances were good they'd have both found a rare moment of peace in the act. Someone to share a bed and body with who was as intelligent as they both were. But he had never taken that fall, never laid with the devil. Scotch is poured straight from the bottle and down his throat as he realized he wished he had.
At last the alcohol numbed Bobby enough that he can look at himself honestly. Enough to change his mind. He's glad he didn't sleep with her in his later years. His younger self who's scars were defined by lines in flesh would be something else. But the man he catches glimpses of in the mirror when he's not careful is not the man he would want in that bed. Newer scars were different, less defined. The extra weight that was the cost of so much worry and so little time to fight the slowing of his metabolism and the easy access of greasy foods. The lack of concern for his appearance that came as part of questioning his sanity. Poorly fitting clothing because his own actions left him unable to be as careful as he was. Better that Nicole lived in the time when he was a worthy adversary.
There was a loneliness to the thought that had him considering going to the neighborhood bar for some company. Even drunk and disheveled he could normally muster enough of his former charm to convince a woman to go home with him. Maybe they thought they could mend him, find some way to fix the brokenness in him. Women so often wanted to fix things. True, they were older than the women he used to pick up, but so was he. Bobby had no desire to be a young woman's introduction to what a cop's life and habits could do to a body. The women who had seen more of the world suited him/ All it would take would be putting away the nearly empty bottle and putting himself together in the mirror so he wouldn't scare people away. It was too much work when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. Instead he emptied what little scotch was left down the sink and puts the bottle in the trash. Satisfied that he won't be confronted with his actions the next morning, he goes to bed where he prays without faith that his mind will give him a break from thought in sleep.