O SINGER SOLITARY
Law&Order: Criminal Intent Fanfiction By Boom
Disclaimer: Alex Eames belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC. Bobby Goren belongs to nobody but himself.
Rating: "A" for heavy-duty but rather understandable Bobby-angst, "NC-17" for adult content, "R" for language.
This takes place immediately following the events in "Anti-Thesis." Spoilers. Pretend you haven't seen "A Person of Interest" Thanks to Papa Walt for the verse and the title.
"O, you singer solitary, singing by yourself,
projecting me, O solitary me listening, never more shall I
cease perpetuating you Never more shall I escape, never more the
reverberations Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be
absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night By the sea under the yellow and
sagging moon The messenger there arous'd, the fire
The sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me."
--Walt Whitman
ONE
The sun coming in the enormous windows was warm, but Bobby Goren was cold. Eames had said something to him-something about scones-but he wasn't paying attention. He was gone; he was inside, inside his head-where he went when it got too hard.
The beautifully appointed apartment seemed oddly empty without its most recent tenant. The flowers on the table were dying. Bobby wandered through the rooms, looking, touching. A few of Nicole's clothes-expensive blouses and skirts-were still hanging in the closet. The bed was unmade, and he wondered if the warmth from her body was still within the tossed sheets.
On a dreadful impulse, he picked up the pillow and held it to his nose. Chanel Chance. He closed his eyes, drinking in the fragrance, the smooth feel of the silk pillow case in his fingers, against his cheek.
They had danced a dangerous dance, he and Nicole-a bizarre intellectual and emotional tango, in which they had traded positions of dominance and submission. And she had gotten away. She had thought to-what? Break him with her knowledge of him? Not very likely. And he hadn't been able to break her either. Tit for tat. My pain, your pain. My secrets and yours. It hadn't been a fair trade after all.
He was sitting on the end of the bed, holding the crushed pillow in his hand, when Eames poked her head in.
"Hey," she said. "I'm heading back to the office. You comin'?" She looked at him quizzically.
"Yeah. Sure."
TWO
For the rest of the afternoon, he was distracted. Eames, seeming to sense something was up, left him to himself. There was, as always, about a ton and a half of paperwork to do, and Bobby kept himself buried in it until long after Eames had called it a day.
It was after ten before he came across it-Nicole Wallace's papers. He stared at the grainy black and white photo, looking for the evil he knew lay behind her calm intriguing gaze. All he saw was a pretty young woman. He knew, intellectually, what she had done. He knew her history, the names of the deaths she was responsible for, but he couldn't put it together with the woman in the photograph.
Maybe he had finally been too cocky, too sure of himself. He put the photo back into the stack of papers and went home.
In his kitchen, the light on the answering machine was blinking furiously. He pushed the button and took off his tie and jacket.
A message from the cable company.
A message from Eames-had he brought home the Jackson file because she couldn't find it?
A message from Leo-was he coming to the book signing on Wednesday night?
And two messages that were just empty air.
He frowned and took his head out of the refrigerator. He stood in its pool of chilly light, a bottle of Sam Adams in his hand. Rewind.
The empty messages played again. He listened carefully. No, it wasn't just empty air. There was something there-in the background.
Rewind.
It sounded like the airport. He ran his fingers through his short hair and listened again. And again. There! It did sound like the airport.
It was like she was there in the room, standing next to him. Evil and seductive, her non-presence wrapped itself around him, clenching hard. He could bring the tape to the lab, sure. Have it analyzed. Have his phone records checked. But he wouldn't. Instead, he called Carmel Ridge. Fine, fine, his mother was fine, no, no she had had no visitors, no calls.He started breathing normally again. He spoke to the director, telling her not to admit anyone she didn't know, not to accept any strange phone calls. He told her the bare bones of the situation-the woman had known him for years, knew he was a cop, and so asked only the important questions.
Next, he called a private security company and talked to his old Army buddy Nick DeFalco. Nicky agreed to send two of his best guys up to Carmel Ridge.
"Gonna cost you a few bucks, Bobby," Nicky said, sounding concerned.
"Do I sound like I care, Nick? This is important. Just do it."
He couldn't sleep that night, so he sat in the dark living room, smoking one cigarette after another until the sun rose over the city.
As soon as it was a decent hour, he called Eames at home, waking her up.
"Geez, Bobby, its.quarter past six."
"Look, I'm not coming in this morning. I have.something I have to handle.from home."
"Sure, sure. I'll cover it. Nothing going on this morning, anyway. Just paperwork. Is everything okay?" He could hear the frown in his partner's voice.
"Yeah.Everything's fine."
Hanging up, he rubbed a hand over his face. Tired, he was so tired. But he had work to do.
By noon, he had satisfied himself that Nicole Wallace was gone-gone somewhere. One of the airlines he called-and he called over twenty- confirmed that a young, blonde Englishwoman had traveled to Grand Cayman the previous evening. She had given the name Vivian Regan. Vivian Regan was the name of Philip Marlowe's girl in "The Big Sleep." Dammit, even if she was gone, she was still thumbing her nose at him. She knew, of course, that he would know the name. The detective's girlfriend. Bitch. She'd known he'd be looking for her-the name, the phone calls-were part of her game. She knew he wouldn't be able to let go. It was too late for that- for either of them.
Still holding the phone, he closed his eyes as a terrible rush of anger-and an even more terrifying rush of desire-washed over him.
THREE
Bobby worked all that afternoon without hearing a word anybody said to him. He went through the motions-he was an ace at that-and was even able to participate in a couple of conversations and have coffee with Ron Carver. All the while, Nichole's voice was echoing in his head-"Tell me, Robert.How old were you." Over and over. It seemed that the people he worked with were so accustomed to him being abstracted and distant, that nobody noticed the difference. Maybe he was making mistakes all the time, he thought, watching Eames kid around with a couple of uniforms from the Two-Five. Maybe he should talk more, be friendlier, and try to respond better to people. Eames was always joking with him, and he had seen her looks of irritation, even of hurt, when he brushed her off or even ignored her completely. He lived inside his own head too damn much, that was the problem.
And then he heard his own voice, speaking to Nicole with deadly sincerity, "When I met you.you wanted me to know who you truly are.You wanted me to know you, Nicole Wallace . . .Nicole . . .He had wanted to know her. But when she revealed that she knew him.Perhaps inside himself was the safest place. . .
That night, he dreamed about her. She came to him silently at first, naked in his arms. Her gold hair was longer, curling around her bare white shoulders. He tangled his fingers in its cool silk and kissed her. Oh, her mouth was hot, dangerous. She pressed her slender body against his chest, and he slid his hands down to her narrow waist, holding her hard. Her legs, smooth, strong, wound about him, pulling him in. "Ah, Robert.Were you ashamed?," she said, her gentle English schoolgirl voice caressing him. "Were you ashamed . .
He woke from the dream sweating and shivering in the dark, his cock as hard as iron. He took care of the physical problem in short order, coming so violently he almost passed out. The problem messing with his head was not so easily dismissed. He spent another night in the armchair, smoking and thinking, so deep in his own head that he barely moved except to light one cigarette from another, hearing again, "How old were you . . ?"
FOUR
Over the next week, Bobby's telephones kept ringing. His desk, at home, his cell phone. Usually it was a person-a friend, Captain Deakins, the lab, Nicky DeFalco reporting that yes, yes, everything was cool-but sometimes there was just silence. Sometimes he imagined he heard soft breathing, and sometimes he even smelled the half-remembered scent of Chanel Chance. Four times, he had the dream. Four times she came to him, driving him mad, asking him the same question. It rang in his head. He was hardly sleeping for the dreams, and he was aware enough to know that Eames was beginning to notice.
FIVE
Eames was beginning to notice. She saw her partner quiet and tired. She knew he didn't think she saw anything, didn't recognize the problem that was haunting him. She thought she had done something to him, said something to him-that Hitchens woman. He hadn't been the same since he had spoken to her alone.
She waited four days for him to come out of the funk on his own. When he didn't, she figured she had better do something. He was shutting her out, and that was bad.
She waited until Friday, when almost everyone was gone. Bobby was in the file room, puttering on the computer. Eames went in, shutting the door behind her.
"What's up?" he asked. He didn't look up at her. She stared hard at him for a few seconds. God, he really looks terrible, she thought.
"You," Eames said, propping herself against the desk next to him and folding her arms. "You are what's up." He looked up at her. His eyes were tired. He needed a haircut, and he was three days past his usual needing a shave bad. His shirtsleeves were shoved up; his tie lay crumpled on the desktop. Jesus.
She took a breath and flipped her hair. "Whatever it is.Bobby, it's gone on long enough. I let you have a few days to sort it out, but-I really need your head back where it belongs. So. You either talk to me, or I talk to Deakins. Whaddya say?" He crunched himself further over and poked at the keyboard. She felt like shaking him, like smacking him, until he paid attention to her. He was the most impossible man she had ever known, and he was breaking her fucking heart.
"I'm not-" he started.
"Yeah," she said firmly, determined to do this. "You are. And I'm not done. You must think I'm stupid, I guess, or that I don't notice anything."
"I don't-"
"Shut up. You do. And I put up with it. Because usually you're at least halfway normal. I never signed on to be your Watson, but I guess that's what I am." She blinked, sudden tears flooding her eyes. Her face was burning. "If-if it wasn't okay, I would have asked for a transfer months ago. But since this Hudson University thing-this Elizabeth Hitchens thing- "" "Her name is Nicole," he said softly.
Aw, fuck. She was right. She reached out a hand and touched his arm.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. She could hear him breathing.
"Goddammit, Bobby," she said softly. "Talk to me."
She could tell he was fighting with himself. She saw the muscles in his jaw working. "I can't," he said. "Eames.Alex.I don't think I can."
"You have to." She had regained some measure of herself. She took her hand off his arm. "I mean it."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Look.Eames." he said, not meeting her eyes.
"She said something terrible to you, didn't she?" Eames pitched her voice low. "Something unforgivable?"
"Yeah."
"And you're gonna.what.kill yourself over it? You're gonna let some woman wreck everything you've worked for?"
"She.knew things," Bobby said. "She saw me.I saw her, too."
"She was evil. But.I think you liked her.didn't you?"
Bobby exploded out of the chair, spinning to face the wall of filing cabinets, slamming his hand onto the top.
Eames didn't react to his anger. "It isn't a crime, Bobby. It happens."
"No, it doesn't. It's not supposed to."
"You mean it's not supposed to happen to you. Mister Perfect. Mister Super-Detective." She knew she sounded awful and sarcastic, but she couldn't help herself.
"Fuck that," he said quietly, keeping his back turned.
"No," Alex said. "Fuck you. Who the hell can keep up with that every day?" She paused, treading carefully. "You made it as safe as you could, didn't you?"
There was a long silence, then "Yeah, I did."
"Is there anything else you can do?"
"No."
"Then let it go."
"I don't know if I can."
"You'd better."
"Some things.Some things are hard to let go."
Alex threw up her hands, exasperated with him. "Oh. Well. Gee, that's convenient, isn't it? 'I can't.' Boy, that's easy. It gives you an excuse not to do anything."
"What's that, Eames? Chicken Soup Sarcasm?"
"Yeah," she said. "You have a problem with my sarcasm? I'll even really piss you off if that will help."
She watched him make a little move that showed he was at least thinking, was at least hearing her. He sighed, then he started playing with the handle of the filing cabinet. He tipped his head and looked at her. Good. Then he raised one eyebrow. Better. He was coming back.
"'That which does not kill us makes us stronger', huh?" He sounded almost normal. Maybe she had gotten to him.just a little. Fine. Just a little was fine for right now.
"The Nietzsche defense, right?"
"Yeah." He moved away from the now-dented filing cabinet, actually meeting her eyes. The fagged and haunted look was still there, but he was mostly back. "Can I ask you something?"
"Um, sure," she said, feeling uncertain for the first time.
He paused, and the long moment hung between them. "Why do you care?"
Alex cocked her thumbs into her belt and gazed at him. That was easy. In all her years on the Job, in all her upbringing, there was only one answer to that question. She was surprised he had to ask, but she gave it to him anyway. "Bobby.I'm your partner."
FINIS
Law&Order: Criminal Intent Fanfiction By Boom
Disclaimer: Alex Eames belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC. Bobby Goren belongs to nobody but himself.
Rating: "A" for heavy-duty but rather understandable Bobby-angst, "NC-17" for adult content, "R" for language.
This takes place immediately following the events in "Anti-Thesis." Spoilers. Pretend you haven't seen "A Person of Interest" Thanks to Papa Walt for the verse and the title.
"O, you singer solitary, singing by yourself,
projecting me, O solitary me listening, never more shall I
cease perpetuating you Never more shall I escape, never more the
reverberations Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be
absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night By the sea under the yellow and
sagging moon The messenger there arous'd, the fire
The sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me."
--Walt Whitman
ONE
The sun coming in the enormous windows was warm, but Bobby Goren was cold. Eames had said something to him-something about scones-but he wasn't paying attention. He was gone; he was inside, inside his head-where he went when it got too hard.
The beautifully appointed apartment seemed oddly empty without its most recent tenant. The flowers on the table were dying. Bobby wandered through the rooms, looking, touching. A few of Nicole's clothes-expensive blouses and skirts-were still hanging in the closet. The bed was unmade, and he wondered if the warmth from her body was still within the tossed sheets.
On a dreadful impulse, he picked up the pillow and held it to his nose. Chanel Chance. He closed his eyes, drinking in the fragrance, the smooth feel of the silk pillow case in his fingers, against his cheek.
They had danced a dangerous dance, he and Nicole-a bizarre intellectual and emotional tango, in which they had traded positions of dominance and submission. And she had gotten away. She had thought to-what? Break him with her knowledge of him? Not very likely. And he hadn't been able to break her either. Tit for tat. My pain, your pain. My secrets and yours. It hadn't been a fair trade after all.
He was sitting on the end of the bed, holding the crushed pillow in his hand, when Eames poked her head in.
"Hey," she said. "I'm heading back to the office. You comin'?" She looked at him quizzically.
"Yeah. Sure."
TWO
For the rest of the afternoon, he was distracted. Eames, seeming to sense something was up, left him to himself. There was, as always, about a ton and a half of paperwork to do, and Bobby kept himself buried in it until long after Eames had called it a day.
It was after ten before he came across it-Nicole Wallace's papers. He stared at the grainy black and white photo, looking for the evil he knew lay behind her calm intriguing gaze. All he saw was a pretty young woman. He knew, intellectually, what she had done. He knew her history, the names of the deaths she was responsible for, but he couldn't put it together with the woman in the photograph.
Maybe he had finally been too cocky, too sure of himself. He put the photo back into the stack of papers and went home.
In his kitchen, the light on the answering machine was blinking furiously. He pushed the button and took off his tie and jacket.
A message from the cable company.
A message from Eames-had he brought home the Jackson file because she couldn't find it?
A message from Leo-was he coming to the book signing on Wednesday night?
And two messages that were just empty air.
He frowned and took his head out of the refrigerator. He stood in its pool of chilly light, a bottle of Sam Adams in his hand. Rewind.
The empty messages played again. He listened carefully. No, it wasn't just empty air. There was something there-in the background.
Rewind.
It sounded like the airport. He ran his fingers through his short hair and listened again. And again. There! It did sound like the airport.
It was like she was there in the room, standing next to him. Evil and seductive, her non-presence wrapped itself around him, clenching hard. He could bring the tape to the lab, sure. Have it analyzed. Have his phone records checked. But he wouldn't. Instead, he called Carmel Ridge. Fine, fine, his mother was fine, no, no she had had no visitors, no calls.He started breathing normally again. He spoke to the director, telling her not to admit anyone she didn't know, not to accept any strange phone calls. He told her the bare bones of the situation-the woman had known him for years, knew he was a cop, and so asked only the important questions.
Next, he called a private security company and talked to his old Army buddy Nick DeFalco. Nicky agreed to send two of his best guys up to Carmel Ridge.
"Gonna cost you a few bucks, Bobby," Nicky said, sounding concerned.
"Do I sound like I care, Nick? This is important. Just do it."
He couldn't sleep that night, so he sat in the dark living room, smoking one cigarette after another until the sun rose over the city.
As soon as it was a decent hour, he called Eames at home, waking her up.
"Geez, Bobby, its.quarter past six."
"Look, I'm not coming in this morning. I have.something I have to handle.from home."
"Sure, sure. I'll cover it. Nothing going on this morning, anyway. Just paperwork. Is everything okay?" He could hear the frown in his partner's voice.
"Yeah.Everything's fine."
Hanging up, he rubbed a hand over his face. Tired, he was so tired. But he had work to do.
By noon, he had satisfied himself that Nicole Wallace was gone-gone somewhere. One of the airlines he called-and he called over twenty- confirmed that a young, blonde Englishwoman had traveled to Grand Cayman the previous evening. She had given the name Vivian Regan. Vivian Regan was the name of Philip Marlowe's girl in "The Big Sleep." Dammit, even if she was gone, she was still thumbing her nose at him. She knew, of course, that he would know the name. The detective's girlfriend. Bitch. She'd known he'd be looking for her-the name, the phone calls-were part of her game. She knew he wouldn't be able to let go. It was too late for that- for either of them.
Still holding the phone, he closed his eyes as a terrible rush of anger-and an even more terrifying rush of desire-washed over him.
THREE
Bobby worked all that afternoon without hearing a word anybody said to him. He went through the motions-he was an ace at that-and was even able to participate in a couple of conversations and have coffee with Ron Carver. All the while, Nichole's voice was echoing in his head-"Tell me, Robert.How old were you." Over and over. It seemed that the people he worked with were so accustomed to him being abstracted and distant, that nobody noticed the difference. Maybe he was making mistakes all the time, he thought, watching Eames kid around with a couple of uniforms from the Two-Five. Maybe he should talk more, be friendlier, and try to respond better to people. Eames was always joking with him, and he had seen her looks of irritation, even of hurt, when he brushed her off or even ignored her completely. He lived inside his own head too damn much, that was the problem.
And then he heard his own voice, speaking to Nicole with deadly sincerity, "When I met you.you wanted me to know who you truly are.You wanted me to know you, Nicole Wallace . . .Nicole . . .He had wanted to know her. But when she revealed that she knew him.Perhaps inside himself was the safest place. . .
That night, he dreamed about her. She came to him silently at first, naked in his arms. Her gold hair was longer, curling around her bare white shoulders. He tangled his fingers in its cool silk and kissed her. Oh, her mouth was hot, dangerous. She pressed her slender body against his chest, and he slid his hands down to her narrow waist, holding her hard. Her legs, smooth, strong, wound about him, pulling him in. "Ah, Robert.Were you ashamed?," she said, her gentle English schoolgirl voice caressing him. "Were you ashamed . .
He woke from the dream sweating and shivering in the dark, his cock as hard as iron. He took care of the physical problem in short order, coming so violently he almost passed out. The problem messing with his head was not so easily dismissed. He spent another night in the armchair, smoking and thinking, so deep in his own head that he barely moved except to light one cigarette from another, hearing again, "How old were you . . ?"
FOUR
Over the next week, Bobby's telephones kept ringing. His desk, at home, his cell phone. Usually it was a person-a friend, Captain Deakins, the lab, Nicky DeFalco reporting that yes, yes, everything was cool-but sometimes there was just silence. Sometimes he imagined he heard soft breathing, and sometimes he even smelled the half-remembered scent of Chanel Chance. Four times, he had the dream. Four times she came to him, driving him mad, asking him the same question. It rang in his head. He was hardly sleeping for the dreams, and he was aware enough to know that Eames was beginning to notice.
FIVE
Eames was beginning to notice. She saw her partner quiet and tired. She knew he didn't think she saw anything, didn't recognize the problem that was haunting him. She thought she had done something to him, said something to him-that Hitchens woman. He hadn't been the same since he had spoken to her alone.
She waited four days for him to come out of the funk on his own. When he didn't, she figured she had better do something. He was shutting her out, and that was bad.
She waited until Friday, when almost everyone was gone. Bobby was in the file room, puttering on the computer. Eames went in, shutting the door behind her.
"What's up?" he asked. He didn't look up at her. She stared hard at him for a few seconds. God, he really looks terrible, she thought.
"You," Eames said, propping herself against the desk next to him and folding her arms. "You are what's up." He looked up at her. His eyes were tired. He needed a haircut, and he was three days past his usual needing a shave bad. His shirtsleeves were shoved up; his tie lay crumpled on the desktop. Jesus.
She took a breath and flipped her hair. "Whatever it is.Bobby, it's gone on long enough. I let you have a few days to sort it out, but-I really need your head back where it belongs. So. You either talk to me, or I talk to Deakins. Whaddya say?" He crunched himself further over and poked at the keyboard. She felt like shaking him, like smacking him, until he paid attention to her. He was the most impossible man she had ever known, and he was breaking her fucking heart.
"I'm not-" he started.
"Yeah," she said firmly, determined to do this. "You are. And I'm not done. You must think I'm stupid, I guess, or that I don't notice anything."
"I don't-"
"Shut up. You do. And I put up with it. Because usually you're at least halfway normal. I never signed on to be your Watson, but I guess that's what I am." She blinked, sudden tears flooding her eyes. Her face was burning. "If-if it wasn't okay, I would have asked for a transfer months ago. But since this Hudson University thing-this Elizabeth Hitchens thing- "" "Her name is Nicole," he said softly.
Aw, fuck. She was right. She reached out a hand and touched his arm.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. She could hear him breathing.
"Goddammit, Bobby," she said softly. "Talk to me."
She could tell he was fighting with himself. She saw the muscles in his jaw working. "I can't," he said. "Eames.Alex.I don't think I can."
"You have to." She had regained some measure of herself. She took her hand off his arm. "I mean it."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Look.Eames." he said, not meeting her eyes.
"She said something terrible to you, didn't she?" Eames pitched her voice low. "Something unforgivable?"
"Yeah."
"And you're gonna.what.kill yourself over it? You're gonna let some woman wreck everything you've worked for?"
"She.knew things," Bobby said. "She saw me.I saw her, too."
"She was evil. But.I think you liked her.didn't you?"
Bobby exploded out of the chair, spinning to face the wall of filing cabinets, slamming his hand onto the top.
Eames didn't react to his anger. "It isn't a crime, Bobby. It happens."
"No, it doesn't. It's not supposed to."
"You mean it's not supposed to happen to you. Mister Perfect. Mister Super-Detective." She knew she sounded awful and sarcastic, but she couldn't help herself.
"Fuck that," he said quietly, keeping his back turned.
"No," Alex said. "Fuck you. Who the hell can keep up with that every day?" She paused, treading carefully. "You made it as safe as you could, didn't you?"
There was a long silence, then "Yeah, I did."
"Is there anything else you can do?"
"No."
"Then let it go."
"I don't know if I can."
"You'd better."
"Some things.Some things are hard to let go."
Alex threw up her hands, exasperated with him. "Oh. Well. Gee, that's convenient, isn't it? 'I can't.' Boy, that's easy. It gives you an excuse not to do anything."
"What's that, Eames? Chicken Soup Sarcasm?"
"Yeah," she said. "You have a problem with my sarcasm? I'll even really piss you off if that will help."
She watched him make a little move that showed he was at least thinking, was at least hearing her. He sighed, then he started playing with the handle of the filing cabinet. He tipped his head and looked at her. Good. Then he raised one eyebrow. Better. He was coming back.
"'That which does not kill us makes us stronger', huh?" He sounded almost normal. Maybe she had gotten to him.just a little. Fine. Just a little was fine for right now.
"The Nietzsche defense, right?"
"Yeah." He moved away from the now-dented filing cabinet, actually meeting her eyes. The fagged and haunted look was still there, but he was mostly back. "Can I ask you something?"
"Um, sure," she said, feeling uncertain for the first time.
He paused, and the long moment hung between them. "Why do you care?"
Alex cocked her thumbs into her belt and gazed at him. That was easy. In all her years on the Job, in all her upbringing, there was only one answer to that question. She was surprised he had to ask, but she gave it to him anyway. "Bobby.I'm your partner."
FINIS