A.N. Hey, I just wanted to thank y'all for the great reviews, you guys are the best. I was a little worried when this was just out of the gate and didn't seem to be getting much love, but the rise in interest lately has been very exciting. Thanks again! :)
His head hurt, and Eames still wasn't answering her cell.
Bobby, right now you are a suspect.
Had the elevator always taken this long to get to the eleventh floor?
Had the lights always glared this bright?
Fluorescent. Gas discharge lamp. Electricity excites mercury vapor, which, which produces short-wave ultraviolet light that then causes—it causes—
(think Goren think Goren thinkthinkthink it's right there rightfuckingthere)
Causes—
(buzzbuzzbuzz go the lights and hahaha go the lights hahahabuzzbuzzbuzz)
"It causes—"
(all your pain is self-inflicted)
She had tilted her head up, baring her throat and baring her soul through her eyes wide and wet and edged in black that made the almond topaz shine even brighter wetter softer sadder Bobby, right now you are a suspect—
"Shut up!" he snapped out loud, and then had to jump to look around and make sure he was on the elevator alone.
"Sorry," he muttered to the complete lack of people around him.
Eames was probably still pissed at him. That was why she wasn't answering. Of course it was.
He pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the elevator wall. He shut his eyes and the darkness was nowhere near dark enough.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and his lips brushed smooth steel.
Eames was probably upstairs. She was probably sitting right at her desk. She was probably sitting safe and sound right at her desk and he would walk in and tell her what he'd learned about Jo and they would bounce theories off each other and he would buy her Skittles and—
"Right," he laugh-whispered into the not-quite-black. "Right. Of course. That's ex—exactly what'll happen." And his hands came up between him and the elevator wall and scrubbed furiously at his closed eyes.
He used to think that the worst possible thing would be for Eames to leave him.
Now he knew that it would be for her to stay because she was too—tired? defeated? tied to him and his reputation? all of the above?—to try to go.
"Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry—"
(lips against the metal and it smells and tastes like iron, like blood)
Ding! And he jumped, and he opened his eyes, but it wasn't the eleventh floor yet, just two uniforms getting on at the seventh and they glanced at him sideways and he realized he was squashed up against the wall and he shuffled away mumbling something and goddamn it his head hurt, a dagger stabbing into his left temple—
"S—" And he barely managed to shut his mouth in time shit shit shit and when was the last time he slept and maybe he should just apologize to Eames and then go home and sleep while she put together a whole tidy file of evidence so someone could arrest him
--please let someone else arrest him not her not her not her because she would look up at him against with those wet sad broken eyes and broken was a thing that Eames was never supposed to be—
I'll do whatever you ask, Eames, just please don't ever look at me like that again, or the way you looked at Brady like he was a bug like he wasn't even human like you could squash him without even noticing
and the lights are still TOO FUCKING BRIGHT and I can't breathe with all these people crowding me in with their not-understanding and you're not here and you're never here anymore even when you are and I need you I
(need you)
and I
(miss you)
so much all the time the way you used to smile all the time and now you smile sometimes but it's tired and you're tired of me of this of everything and I miss you so m—
"Hey! Buddy!" One of the uniforms was waving his hand in front of Goren's face. "Hey! This your stop or what?"
"Oh." He blinked. "Oh. Right. R-right. Sorry."
There was a snicker as he exited, and he felt his fists clench, wanted suddenly to spin around and punch that jackass in the face, feel the crunch of bone under his fist, the spurt of blood, the cry of pain, he wanted to feel something besides—besides—
Eames' desk was empty.
Shit.
He sank into his chair.
The lights were still too bright.
(hahahabuzzbuzzbuzzhahahahahhahaahahaaaaa)
Whackjob.
Whackjob.
Whackjob.
Where did the human predilection for ordering things in threes come from? He remembered reading an article once, arguing that the human brain wasn't designed to fathom numbers beyond four. Not even four really, just the concept of three plus one. The Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. One plus three. Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
And then there was the human predilection for opposing binaries. Good/bad black/white day/night. Mulder and Scully, Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Why had Declan lied to him about Jo? He should ask Eames, maybe if she got back soon and wasn't too angry still—he should apologize first, even if she had checked her voice mails—they could discuss it and she could calm his brain down and it would make sense and he'd still have time to make it out to Carmel Ridge—
Shit.
He still forgot sometimes. Not as often as he used to, but still sometimes.
And now he had three more people to forget about. There were whole grand vistas of forgetting to look forward to, time to be spent automatically scanning crowds of homeless junkies for Frank's face or gaggles of teenagers for Donny's hair or crime scene reports for Nicole's signature (whackjob)and what kind of word was 'whackjob' anyway? He should look it up.
Maybe in the prison library if he didn't get the death penalty.
Would Alex come to his execution?
Would he want her to?
Now he was just getting maudlin. Stupid and maudlin and everything would be okay once he figured out how Nicole could be dead and why Declan lied about Jo and where the hell Eames was and where Donny's body was and why his head felt like a rusty tin can that someone kept pounding a nail into—
Tylenol. He could really use some Tylenol. Eames kept some Midol in her desk, which wasn't exactly the same thing but fuck emasculation, it was a pain medication, right?
He rifled through her drawer and found it, and as he struggled to twist off the cap it crossed his mind that Eames would probably get a kick out of this—that time of the month, Bobby?—and he looked up, hoping irrationally that somehow she would choose just that second to walk in.
She didn't.
Ross did.
"C—captain, have you—do you know where Eames is? I—" and the rest of what he was planning to say disintegrated into mumbles in the back of his throat and then silence at the look on Ross' face.
"No, Detective, I don't. Believe it or not, I have an entire squad to keep track of besides you two. I haven't seen her she stormed out after you."
"But that was—I've been gone for—"
Ross pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Goren, there are exactly three things I want you to do right now." He ticked them off on his fingers as though Bobby might lose count otherwise. "Apologize to Eames. Apologize to Rodgers. Go to sleep. Can you handle that?"
Oil and water, Bobby thought, looking up at Ross, but he just nodded, which all of a sudden was hard to do because his head was so goddamn heavy. His whole body was one gigantic lead mold, creaking and groaning with the strain of holding him together,
holding in all the fat straining pushing at his skin, dragging him down into inertia and stillness and nothing as it swarmed over and choked his brain, clogged every bit of space inside him till he couldn't breathe couldn't think, clogged with sticky sugar and fat and Scotch and other things almost as worthless as him, crushing his airpipe and his thoughts with the hopelessness of any comfort beyond that brief burst of relief of taste on his tongue, of feeling something besides so goddamn EMPTY
(empty)
"Detective, you…have been a complete ass." Bobby's head jerked up, scowling, but to his surprise Ross' features held only—compassion? "She does believe you're innocent." He nodded towards Goren's desk. "I can't see Eames wasting good pastry on a suspect."
For the first time since he sat down Goren really looked at his desk. There was a plain white box bearing the label of a local bakery. He reached out and touched it with one finger, as if not entirely sure it was real.
"Y—you said you hadn't seen her…"
"Face it," Ross said, not unkindly. "The anonymous-pastry-list for you is running a little short these days."
"But…but you—you didn't actually see her—" And Bobby was fiddling with the tape now, picking plucking frantically at it and it wouldn't come off it wouldn't come off and this isn't right this isn't right something is wrong and his brain was rushing roaring trying to get the words out to Ross to make him understand Eames is pissed at me she wouldn't do this right now this isn't her modus operandi you don't get it but he couldn't get the words out and he couldn't get the top off so he tucked it under his right arm and pulled with his left hand tugged tugged TUGGED and Ross' voice, exasperated, said, "Here, let me help" and they both
TUGGED
And riiiiiiiiip –fwwoomph!—offwiththelidexplosionslipping and—
Thud! And he was looking up at golden exploding burst of light topaz wheat flax silky shimmer soft (hard beneath him, on his back, the floor cold) and he heard Ross say "What the hell?" and beneath the fluorescent lights the golden honey rays glazed a soft and unworldly sheen and for one completely irrational split second Bobby thought angel feathers and in the next just as irrational split second he thought living sun and then the soft strands filtered down through the air in horrible, unstoppable slow-motion in the suddenly silent squad room, they sighed down through the unmoving frozen air and carpeted the desks, the chairs, the floor, they settled gently into a glimmering fairy-thin blanket over Bobby's prone body, tickled his skin, and all he could do was stare up into their dizzying descent against the backdrop of the glaring buzzing lights…
Eames' hair.
His cellphone began to ring.
A.N. Remember, every time you don't leave a review, the Chief of D's gets a piece of chocolate cake. Sure he'll eventually be driven into a diabetic coma or heart attack, but do you really want him to be happy in the meantime?
Next chapter we'll be back to Eames. Which reminds me…remember how I'm evil? Think about that before you move on to the next chapter. You should probably also consider how well you deal with graphic imagery.
