Title: Misdirection
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Spoilers: After Vanishing Act
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: And now for my next trick...
/
One of the most important things to remember when thinking about misdirection and magic is this: a larger movement conceals a smaller movement.
/
Abracadabra
A lot of it happened when he wasn't paying attention. Bobby Goren, the great observer of human traits and quirks and expressions, the known expert on facial tics and vocal gaffes and every gesticulation known to mankind was somehow missing what was right in front of him.
Funny thing, that.
He'd made her laugh, he hadn't missed that — he couldn't get the sound of her laughter out of his head for days after, and her smile was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids when he tried to find sleep. How long had it been since he'd heard her laugh, really laugh, just because she was happy? He couldn't remember. He'd been doing magic for god's sakes, silly little tricks and routines he'd picked up during the darkest days of his youth and had continued to refine into adulthood. Magic had been an escape, a sweet diversion, not unlike his precious books, his long, rambling walks, the hours spent exploring the cramped corridors of his mind. Magic was, well, mysterious, intriguing, breathtaking, mesmerizing, at times frustrating, but always … magical.
Not unlike her, if he thought about it. And now that it was becoming clear (what, exactly, was becoming clear, though?), he needed to investigate further. He needed to recapture whatever had been there between them, what had sprung up between the flowers and scarves and the wands and the boxes of knives.
"Hey, Eames."
"What?" She didn't look up from her desk. She was…scribbling something. Doing a crossword? Filling in reports? He didn't know and he wasn't about to ask. He'd given up on paperwork for the day. He was bored, antsy. He leaned forward. He watched her hand move across the page, watched her hair swing across her face and felt his stomach do a slow, lazy flip-flop. He was going to say something, he wasn't sure what, but it was on the tip of his tongue, pricking at the edges of his brain—
She threw down her pen, then, rubbed her cramped fingers.
"I'm getting coffee. Want some?"
And it was gone, poof, the good, sweet feeling he'd just been on the verge of recapturing. He shook his head. She pushed away from the desk, and walked away. He watched her. He looked around the room, wondered if anyone else was watching her. Nope. Was anyone watching him watching her? No. Good.
When she returned he was gone. He was gone, his binder was gone, and everything was very neat and tidy and untouched but for a bag of Skittles sitting in the middle of her desk.
/
Conjuror
It wasn't all about pulling rabbits out of hats, or scarves out of sleeves, or, for that matter, magicians out of dollhouses. He'd made her laugh with his silly tricks, flowers and half a woman, and because he had laughed, had seemed so genuinely pleased, she had been, too. How could she not? How could anyone not respond to that bounce, that grin, that boundless energy? And when the energy was positive, when it was directed at her, she felt giddy, she felt like a hormonal teenager and she could feel herself being pulled in, swept along by the wild flow, the inescapable power of it.
"Where did you learn that stuff, anyway?" she asked later as they drove, hoping he wouldn't tell her.
"I could tell you," he said, still grinning. "But…"
"Right." She smiled back. She wanted to keep it going, keep the magic alive as long as possible. She drove as slowly as she could, praying for bad traffic, for potholes, for blown tires. She didn't want the day to end. She didn't want what had happened between them to end.
Despite the thousands of tricks he'd performed over the years, all the times he'd gotten suspects to confess, to break down, to admit the impossible, he'd still managed to surprise her that day, as much as ever could, ever had, and all she could do was laugh. It had all been so silly, so sweetly goofy, so unlike them for so long, really. If she hadn't already been in love with him, that day would have sealed the deal.
She parked the car. He looked around, surprised to find them outside his apartment. How did that happen?
"Well," she said.
"Well," he said. He paused. He moved as if to get out, then stopped. He looked suddenly nervous. "And now, for my next trick."
From the cuff of his jacket he produced a long, shimmering scarf, different from the ones found at Carmine's apartment. This one was light grey, shot through with silvery threads and iridescent flowers. It felt like water between her hands and for a moment she wondered if it actually existed at all.
"Ta da," he said softly, then turned and was gone.
Ta da.
So, he made her see things that weren't really there, better things, sweeter things, and for that she was ever grateful.
She also wondered what other tricks he had up his sleeve.
/
Fakir
Then there were the bad days, of course. There were always bad days and his bad days were worse than most. Days when he was lost inside his own head and didn't dare invite anyone — especially her — in for a look around. Those were the days when he wanted nothing more than to evaporate, vanish, slip into a box of his own, wave his wand, and reappear…somewhere else not here. Those were the days he caught her looking at him when he slammed the phone down, when he yelled at Ross for no good reason…well, there was always a reason, but some were better than others. When his head throbbed and pounded, the skin tightening around his eyes so he could hardly see. When he skipped lunch, when he sneaked a smoke, when he ditched her yet again, just because. And he hated himself for it, but on those days there was nothing else to be done, really.
"You…all right?" she asked quietly on one of Those Days, after he'd slammed his desk drawer shut hard enough to make her side shudder. She already knew the answer.
He gathered his papers together, shoved them into his binder. "I'm…thinking I'll go home early. My head…"
She nodded.
He pushed to his feet, closed his eyes, but there was no relief there. He opened them. She was watching him, brow furrowed, hands curled into small balls on her blotter. What would she do, he wondered, if he asked her to come home with him, lie down, go to sleep with him? What would she say? Would she smile shyly and agree, laugh out loud at the sheer absurdity, sneer in disgust? He wondered as he stood there, staring down at her, what she would do if he simply took her hand and pulled her along with him?
Only of course, it didn't matter, none of it, because he wasn't going to do any such thing any time soon. He turned and walked away.
Those were the days when all the good, magical feelings were nowhere to be found.
/
Legerdemain
But there was work to keep them occupied, always work. It was a good thing, she knew, because it kept her from thinking too much, from wondering what the hell he was doing, making her laugh, staring at her, giving her presents, for pity's sake. She threw herself into the work to a point of such furious distraction that even she had to admit was ridiculous at times.
For instance, attempting to carry fifteen awkward and heavy folders by herself, from the file room to her desk. He leapt to his feet when he saw her staggering slightly but she frowned at him: Leave me alone.
"Let me help you," he said, hovering.
"No."
"Eames, let me take some."
"I'm fine. I've got it."
"I know you've got it, I just want to help."
"No."
"You're really stubborn."
"Ha. Look who's talking."
She dropped the pile of folders on her desk and glared at him.
"Now you can help me. We need to go through every one. Tonight."
"All right."
She didn't have anything to say to that. Neither one moved.
"So?" She waved her arms. "What are we waiting for?"
He reached behind her head. She started. "What are you doing—"
He pulled back, holding a quarter between his fingers. She rolled her eyes.
"Let me guess…that was in my ear."
He shook his head gravely.
"No. It was in my hand. It's a trick, Eames."
She stared at him. Then she started laughing.
/
Hocus Pocus
She caught herself looking at him more than usual, which was unusual for her. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, or at, but she'd catch herself more and more often and have to consciously drag her eyes away, focus on something else, talk her heart down from its precarious ledge.
Seeing things that aren't there. Feeling things that don't exist. You make me believe, Bobby, and sometimes I hate you for that.
"What? What is it?" he said when he caught her.
"Nothing."
"Something…"
"Sometimes…I have no idea what you're thinking."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Really? I'm not all that hard to read."
She shrugged, sorry she'd said anything.
"All right."
"I'm serious. I'm…pretty transparent, I think."
"All right." She went back to her work.
"I bet you, of anyone, could figure it out."
What did that mean? She sighed, a long hiss between her teeth. "Maybe I don't want to figure it out," she said.
He smiled. "Give it a try."
She stared at him. He stared back, eyes dark and liquid. She forced a laugh. It hurt her throat.
"What, you think I can read minds now?"
"I think you can read mine," he said very quietly.
She held her breath, waited for something to happen. He tilted his head.
"For instance…what am I thinking right now?"
His voice was low and gravelly but she had no trouble hearing him, even over the busyness of their surroundings, phones ringing, drawers slamming, shoes clicking.
He stared at her and she felt herself starting to blush. Oh god make it stop. She looked down, away, anywhere but at him. The blush was spreading down her neck, into the V of her sweater. Great. She gathered herself as best she could, attempted an indifferent stance.
"I don't know, Bobby. Really."
He nodded, spread his hands flat on his desktop.
"I'm thinking…" He cleared his throat. "…this would be a good time to go for lunch."
She smirked and nodded. She looked back up and his face was composed, but his eyes—
"You agree?"
She shook her head. Then nodded.
"Yeah. Lunch sounds perfect right about now."
They walked to the elevator, found themselves alone as they rode down. Eames was careful to stand a good six inches away from him, stared straight ahead.
"You're a tricky one, Bobby," she said quietly to the door in front of her.
"Sometimes." He shrugged. "When I have to be."
"I think you do have the makings of a great magician."
"So I've been told." And he pulled a single red rose out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
/
Prestidigitation
She didn't like for him to touch her. Well, she liked it, but too many strange things happened to her insides when, on the very rare occasion, his hands managed to come in contact with any part of her body. And because she didn't want to think about why her insides went all strange when he touched her, she planned to just avoid the entire scenario completely, if at all possible.
It wasn't supposed to end that way, that particular evening. A quick dinner at the café before moving on to the next suspect, the next third degree, the next performance. But after they finished eating they hurried outside and it was raining and she was standing too close to the curb and the car was moving very fast and a wall of water was rising and he could see she didn't see it. Before he thought about it too much, he'd grabbed her arm, pulled her back, not quite fast enough because her feet got soaked, but they lost their balance and ended up very nearly against the brick wall of the café.
"Gee…thanks," she said, staring down at her dripping shoes. "I didn't even see—"
It became rather blurry after that. There were a lot of hands and fingers doing a lot of different things Somehow he maneuvered himself in front of her, pushing against her, pushing her back against the wall. He slid one hand along her neck, his fingertips brushing her collarbone and against the ends of her hair, which were wet. He could feel her pulse, bright and hard in her neck. Her hands were up on his chest, but then one moved higher, over his collarbone and along the side of his neck. It was dark and wet and then they were kissing, which had never happened before. He pushed her back against the wall, at first gently then more insistently because he was kissing her more insistently. Her head bumped back against the wall and she felt her hair sticking to the bricks, pulling on strands here and there, but she found she didn't mind. She was aware of his weight, his warmth, his mouth, his fingers. She pulled back a little. It was hard to see very much. She could feel his warm breath on her face. She liked it.
"You're kissing me," she said.
"I am. And you're kissing me," he said.
"But you started it."
"Prove it."
She opened her mouth and he covered it with his. Her tongue slid into his mouth then and her hand slid down between them—
"Eames…what are you doing?"
"What? I know a few tricks of my own."
/
Sim Sala Bim
So many things seemed to happen while they drove and he usually missed them. He let her drive so he could concentrate on other things — more important things, he'd thought, for years — but he was realizing how wrong he'd been. He was trying harder these days to pay attention. He didn't want to miss anything these days. They had both worked very hard to forget the episode outside the café and so far they were mostly successful. Neither one was thinking at all about the kiss, the hands, the fingers, the breaths, the way their legs shook, their tongues—
He was staring at her again.
"What?" she said, not looking over. He was about to answer when the car swerved violently. Bobby grabbed the dashboard, looked around. Damn. Missed it again.
"What happened?"
"Didn't you see that?"
"What?"
"Are you serious? That…idiot…shit! He almost hit us!"
He shook his head and smiled with half his mouth. He cut his eyes to her and then away, wondered idly if he had the nerve to say it, then realized he did.
"No. As usual, I was too busy watching the pretty girl."
Funny thing, magic.
/
Fin