The story continues...
Lesson Learned
"Go."
Bobby issued the pronouncement calmly and purposefully. His arm rose in time with his words, one hand, one finger pointing toward the apartment door.
"Bobby," Blake sighed, turning his name into a sad plea. "I wish you wouldn't be like this."
He cut her off, taking a step forward and planting himself firmly between her and the rest of his humble abode.
"Go, Blake. ... Now."
For ten long seconds, each one feeling like ten minutes of its own, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief. He was being utterly pig-headed, but she had no way to convince him otherwise. She could stay and continue arguing in circles, or she could do, as he demanded.
Alright. Fine. She would do it his way then.
Turning, she walked away with obvious frustration, barely managing not to stomp her feet as she strode out of the apartment without looking back. For the first time in a long time, she didn't even feel the lingering weight of Bobby's stare as she forcefully – just this side of slamming - closed the door.
Midnight - seven hours later - and Bobby sat in one of his reading chairs, a book on Forensic Psychology open in his hands. He was trying to 'read himself to sleep', while also struggling not to look at the clock.
Of course, he knew better than to expect her back that night. For one thing, it was very late and another, she was probably still angry with him. They rarely argued as they had done earlier that afternoon. He was probably almost as angry with himself as she was with him.
So he read. Or tried to. In every profile he read, he saw himself. All he wanted to do was plead his case with the author. Why not? He'd been arguing with everyone else – Blake, the late-night television news reporter who'd tried to give him the day's highlights, even himself.
Especially himself. Had he done the right thing?
Blake had come over that afternoon, talking about a birthday party taking place later that night for one of the other detectives in Major Case. Bobby and the man didn't particularly know each other – a not unusual arrangement for Bobby. This idle piece of news was mildly interesting, but didn't hold his interest for long.
The problem came when Blake mentioned that she'd actually been invited to the event – over a week ago - and that she had decided not to go, planning instead to spend her evening with him at his apartment.
Now, it wasn't the fact that she wished to spend the evening with him that had responsible for their disagreement. How could he be angry with her when he wished the same thing? And it wasn't the fact that, in the process, she would turn down a chance to mingle with the other detectives. No, what angered him was that she would keep the invitation and her refusal of that invitation quiet, until the last minute. The implication was clear to him, she didn't want him to feel left out or abandoned.
Changing her life to include him was one thing. He didn't always approve, but he knew those decisions were hers – decisions he benefited greatly from – even as all the choices in her life remained hers. But trying to keep it from him, as if she felt she needed to protect him from such truths – needed to shield him from the truth that she had other choices she could make - that angered him.
So, naturally, he had demanded that she go to the party. Now she had to go, as far as he was concerned. He'd shown her the door - quite literally - much to his later shame.
In her determination, and to her credit, she had used every argument in the book to counter him.
"I've already told them I wouldn't be able to attend."
"No one is going to miss me, if I'm not there."
But in the end, she had stopped arguing. As a look of pained helplessness crossed her face, she admitted defeat and she had finally walked away. Just as he demanded.
And now here he sat. Trying to forget.
It was about an hour later, when the faint clicking noise began. A sound he knew, a rhythm he recognized. Blake, her footsteps echoing in the hallway outside his apartment, was approaching in high heels.
Then the clicking stopped. The world around him simply became very quiet. He knew she was standing outside the door, waiting, composing herself.
"I know you're there," he stated flatly, after the silence continued for too long. He didn't turn to face the door so his back remained turned from the apartment's entrance, but he could almost feel her eyes on him. An interesting switch of perspective.
Her footfalls started up again, crossing the room, ending with her hand alighting gently on his shoulder. But still, he did not look up.
A residue of annoyance? Maybe. Regret over his behavior? Probably. Either way, he denied her his attention, prompting her into action.
Stepping around the arm of the chair, she gently nudged his book away and replaced it with herself. The Forensic Psychology tome, determinately removed from his hands to be toss carelessly on the adjacent end table, while Blake carefully slid climbed into his tensely rigid lap.
Such a small decision to make – one that was hers and hers alone. Soon, it had an effect that went well beyond her merely perching on his legs. She had worn a simple black dress, with a lightweight, deep red wrap. She wiggled in his lap as she removed the wrap, her movements causing her to teeter unbalanced before his arms came up around her to fence her in, to keep her from falling.
As she unwrapped the cover-up, she slowly extended her arm to release it. He watched as it pooled over his book. As she dropped the garment, to join his book on the table, so had his reserve dropped away from him. She was back in black, her wardrobe matching his. Black sought black, as she looped her arms around his neck, pulling herself into his embrace, as he finally relented. Even if his anger was directed mostly toward himself, he still could not deny the affection of this woman. His arms encircled her, pulling her close.
"I'm sorry," he murmured alongside her ear, as she rested her head to his shoulder. A simple apology, but so very heart-felt.
"I know," she soothed, her actions granting him even more forgiveness as she burrowed into his safety. Yes, she had risked the late-night streets and his anger to be here. But it was worth it, for this.
"And I'm sorry I left," she added. No matter how insistent he'd been, she chastised herself for not having found her strength to stand up against him. Sometimes, it was up to her. She knew that, it was simply part of being with this man. And she accepted it.
His head dipped to hers, one hand rising to caress the back of her neck. She'd pinned her hair up, the revelation of skin catching his helpless eyes. "You're beautiful tonight," he spoke softly. The words escaped before he'd even realized it. Some truths demanded to be heard.
Blake smiled her modest thanks, before pressing a kiss to his neck. "I came straight over after the party. Just try and send me away again, tonight."
To his surprise, Bobby actually found the beginnings of self-forgiveness within his next words. "I wouldn't even attempt it," he stated quite sincerely. "I ... I'm not ready to see you leave again."
She nodded her agreement, then relaxed in his arms ...a tired sigh released beneath his chin.
"You're tired," he hushed. "Did you have a good time at the party?"
"For the most part," she replied, fibbing all the way. Her calf swung lazily where it draped over the arm of the chair, and she let out another breath. "I danced most of the night, actually. I found a dance partner almost as good as you."
And there came the expected stiffening in Bobby' muscles. She knew the effect of her words would have, she had chosen them purposely. It was, however, the simple truth.
A ragged breath made shallow by adrenaline and muffled by regret was his only response. He had no one to blame but himself. He knew that. Once again he cursed his earlier behavior, especially since he could never fully take it back. What was done, was done.
An expression of concern flickered across his face – only for her safety – and perhaps as well as a veiled threat in case her dancing partner had exceeded the boundaries of propriety.
"He was an absolute gentleman," Blake cooed, with a smile Bobby could hear rather than see. Then she added, "George is a very lucky man."
George? George Hackett. He realized she had given him a piece of a puzzle for him to logic his way through. Hackett had been her partner in Homicide when she was at the 3-4. Gordon's lifepartner was Christopher Mullens, a Captain in the 1-3. Birthday boy had transferred into Major Case from the 3-4. It was probable that Mullens would have gone to the party with Hackett.
And just in case, Blake went on to make it crystal clear. "Gordon couldn't make it. Fortunately for me, Christopher is quite a talented dancer, especially with nice slow waltzes. I can't tell you how many times we circled the room."
Bobby chuckled, obviously relieved. "I had no idea you could be such a minx, Blake."
She, however, was no longer laughing or teasing. "You would do well to remember that then," she insisted firmly but gently. Her head tilted back so she could catch - demand - his attention. "You know, I've never let anyone make my decisions for me, and I'm not going to let you make them either." One feminine fingertip rubbed mournfully at his chin. "Don't ever do that to me again. Don't ever tell me to leave like that."
Bobby swallowed. Silently.
The last vestiges of anger were disappearing, as too were any worries over her little joke. Even the guilt was somehow subsiding, utterly overpowered by the look in her eyes. It was all that simple, and it was all right there.
"I won't," he replied. The shortest of answers, sealed with his word of honor. Then he gave her the truest welcome home, gathering her tightly as she climbed further into the curve of his neck.
Long minutes passed while silent forgiveness was both granted and accepted. A return to each other. A peace, during which time could finally sneak up on them.
"You're tired," he murmured. She was growing limp in his arms, her breathing settling into the most regular, most comforting cadence. A sound, almost like her own poetic beat, her own rhythm - that he'd spent more time in quiet wonder of, than he would ever admit.
Blake shifted, purposefully waking up and reining in her drifting mind. She wasn't done with the day yet. "In a minute. I want to dance first."
"Dance?" he laughed. "Now?"
"Yeah, now." She resisted the urge to point out the obvious irony. Traditionally, it was she who questioned his timing and urge to 'trip the light fantastic'. "I kept the last spot open on my dance card. Saved the best for last."
He laughed again. "You're so tired, you can't even stand up, let alone dance."
Blake's lips roamed from his cheek to hover near his ear, as she whispered, "Then you'll just have to help hold me up, won't you?" although thankfully he couldn't see that her eyes did remain closed in exhaustion.
His grip tightened, already preparing for just such a task ... and knowing from the beginning how much he would enjoy it.
"If I have to, I have to," he replied, taking her with him as he rose from the chair. "Whatever you need, whenever you need."
As they did little more than shuffle their weight from foot to foot, with that simple cadence and combination of easy movement and breath, they recaptured their balance.
More to come...
