Title: It Doesn't Matter
Show: LOCI
Pairing: None. Could be seen as BA if you want, but you'd have to look pretty hard.
Disclaimer: Sadly enough, I don't own anything. This is written for pure enjoyment only and no profit to be gained!
Rating: T to be safe. Just some minor fucking language. Get it? =)
Spoilers: Endgame.
Authors Note: So pretend that at the end of Endgame, Alex never found out that Bobby's mom died.
Warning: This is filled with nothing but anguish.
Summary: How do I possibly describe this story? It doesn't matter.
Chapter: 1
He's drunk. He acquired this state at home, not at a bar. He'd rather not be in public right now…or ever.
After looking around the dark room, he stumbles up off the couch deciding he should take a shower. He doesn't know why, but he feels dirty all of a sudden. Or maybe it's just something to do.
Once he's undressed, he enters the shower; turns the handle hotter so it's almost burning his skin. He doesn't care. He welcomes the feeling.
Hell, it's better than feeling nothing, he admits.
He takes a drag off his cigarette which he brought into the shower with him. He's never done it before. He briefly wonders why he's doing it now. Doesn't matter, he soon deduces.
Another drag.
As he taps it with his long finger, he watches the ash fall from his cigarette. The ash lands in the passage way of the water, on the wall and even on him. He stares at it. After a few minutes, he washes it away as if it was his own life he was erasing. His head tilts down toward the drain. It's like his life, he knows, going down the drain like the water.
After he finishes his cigarette, he slides one of the doors open to the shower and flicks the butt towards the garbage can. He misses. Big fucking surprise. He misses a lot of things nowadays. He watches the cigarette fall to the floor. He doesn't correct his error. It's out. He knows it'll cause no harm. He shuts the door and resumes standing under the scolding hot water.
He's been staring at this wall too long; his long arms outstretched and his hands resting flat against the cold tile. It's too depressing, so he turns around; his back now towards the water. He tilts his head back. The hot water feels good on his back. When he looks to the side again to examine his cigarette that's still lying on the floor is when he notices. The sliding doors to his shower. He's so drunk he didn't notice it before. They're backwards. The one with the handle that is normally in the back is now in the front.
How could I have done this without noticing?
He ignores it for a few minutes. It's like a challenge to him. He grins because there's no room for his OCD tonight. He continues to stare at the glass doors, his smile long gone. He's feeling numb, so very numb as he dips his head under the running water. His mouth is slightly open, so water freely runs into his mouth until it's full and begins to seep back out. Finally, finally, he stands up straight and fixes them – sliding the front door to the back and vise versa.
Then he notices he never locked the bathroom door. He always does, always has even though he lives alone. Goddammit, he's so alone. But it doesn't bother him tonight - the door being unlocked - because no one is going to barge in on him. No one ever does.
So he looks back down. Watches the water run down the same path, into the drain. The water isn't as warm as it was ten minutes ago. But it's okay. Everything changes - kind of like his life. It's not perfect. Hell, it's not even good. But that's okay, too, he deems. His life has no meaning. At least this water has a purpose; to cleanse his body. He, however, has no meaning. His life is pointless. But that's okay, he thinks. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
The water finally turns cold and in this time he realizes he hasn't even washed his hair yet. So he quickly does it - almost like there's no point. His fading, gray hair…who cares? He doesn't. Certainly no woman does. But he hastily washes it anyway.
Afterward, he washes his body with a bar of Dove soap. He drops the soap once. He laughs. He thinks it's comical. Then he drops it a second, third, fourth time. He loses count after five. It's not so funny anymore.
He rinses his body, hoping to purge all he hates out of his being. It doesn't work, of course. Has it ever?
He shuts off the water, and like all other times, squeegees his tile. After that, he does the same to his glass doors with such precision. He wishes his life was this easy.
He steps out of the shower, looks at the cigarette on the floor again. He thinks about resting against the wall and sliding down it, but shakes his head. He doesn't want to sit on the floor. So he dries himself off. His movements are lethargic because, remember, nothing matters now.
Before he leaves his bathroom, he looks at himself long and hard in the mirror. He doesn't like what he observes so he quickly stops doing that. He turns the light and the fan vent off even though he knows you're suppose to leave it on for at least twenty minutes after you shower. He doesn't care about that tonight either.
He slips into a pair of boxers. He doesn't bother putting on a shirt. He plops down on the bed, not bothering to pull back the covers.
He's thinking now, a lot more than he was before. When he was in the shower, not once did he allow himself to think about Eames. He is now. He allows himself to remember that he actually went over to her place around midnight. He pauses. What time is it now? He figures it's at least 4 am. Great.
So yeah, he went over to her place after he left Carmel Ridge. He didn't bother to knock - he let himself into her house with the spare key she gave him years ago. He walked in, noticing everything was dark. He knew she was home, but he also knew she was asleep. He didn't bother to wake her. He sat on her couch for about an hour. He listened to the sounds her house made. For the most part, it was utterly silent. It was then that he started to cry. His eyes were full of tears and he finally allowed them to be released when he blinked.
He got up and left, leaving no trace of evidence that he was ever there. He'll never tell her that he was. He'll never reveal to her that for a split moment, he actually considered confiding in her, fucking crying on her shoulder.
On the way back to his place, he stocked up on alcohol. And now here he is, lying in bed several hours later letting the affects of the alcohol devour him. He's not as drunk as he was, but he still has a good buzz going.
He doesn't consume anymore alcohol.
He lets his head rest heavily on his pillow. His legs are spread wide apart as he listens to the sounds of his own house. It's silent, too.
Lastly, he thinks about his mom. He keeps pushing her out of his thoughts, but it's hard. He knows she's in a better place, but he can't help but feel so fucking alone now. He shakes at the thought. My mom, she's dead, so yeah…
He stops thinking about her. It's still too raw.
He's been staring too long at the ceiling. His vision begins to blur. He blinks a few times and then finally closes his eyes as the sun begins to rise. What is he suppose to do tomorrow? He doesn't know, he doesn't know. He realizes he's going to have to tell Eames and Ross at some point. He'll more than likely not be in to work tomorrow, but he concludes that doesn't matter either.
The End.
A/N: A tough read, I know. I promise my next story will be happy. Thanks for reading.
-Snyder-