The sun was just too damn bright. He hauled himself off the recliner, his back twisted into more knots than a macramé planter. The headache, however, distracted him from his knotted back, swamping that pain and chasing it into a quiet corner to deal with later. His stomach added to the mix by lurching unpleasantly, unable to decide if it needed emptying or filling. He staggered to the bathroom, taking care not to make a mess. Not my home, he reminded himself. He tried not to recall how much cleaning he'd had to do over the past two years or so after taking his body to extreme limits, seeking some kind of peace. He had finally given in to the fact that he could not drink enough to find dreamless sleep. The monsters were always there, always lurking, ready to ambush him as soon as his guard was down.
Eames... He closed his eyes and pressed his aching head against the cool tile wall. After leaving Frank's body in the care of Rodgers and her people, he left the scene and called Eames. I need you. The words slipped past his lips before he could stop them. He was still in shock, stunned by his brother's death. Stunned, but not surprised. Eames spent the rest of the day with him, and it was only because of her that he was able to hold it together. He fell asleep on the couch, his head resting on her thigh. When the nightmares woke him, she was still there, and he found that comforting.
Thoughts of his partner persisted as he showered. Often, the shower was just the place for him to let his thoughts wander freely. Not today, though. Today, he found no pleasure in any part of his body. He toweled off and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. He rubbed his temple as he returned to the too-bright living room. Time to pull the shades, his head demanded.
There were a lot of windows and it took awhile for him to get the room to just the right balance of dim light and dusky shadow. His hangover was just beginning to calm when the doorbell echoed through the room, and then re-echoed endlessly through his head. He swore softly and moved toward the door as quickly as he could, to keep whoever was there from ringing the damn doorbell again. Yanking the door open, he squinted against the sunlight he had just banished from the house.
His eyes adjusted slowly to the brilliance of the day, and he was surprised to see Ellie standing on the porch. She gave him a sympathetic smile and held up a covered bowl. "This is the soup my mother used to give my father when he dragged himself home way too late. It may help you, and it certainly can't hurt."
He raised a hand to make a point, but lowered it without speaking. Silently stepping back from the door, he let her in. She was not surprised to find the shades all drawn. She went into the kitchen and heated the soup as he watched her from the doorway. Moistening his lips, he said, "Why are you here?"
She stirred the soup. "I just want to help."
"And you can't find anyone else in town to help?"
Testing the temperature, she hummed, "Perfect. Sit down."
He hesitated, but she ushered him to the table and set the bowl in front of him with a spoon. "No," she said quietly, hovering at his shoulder once he'd taken a seat. "I couldn't find anyone more in need of help."
She moved away as he stirred the thick soup. "Just what makes you think that I need help?"
She returned from the kitchen and placed a glass of water by his bowl. She sat across from him and said, "I understand people. I can sense when someone is out of sorts with everything around him."
"And you think that's me? Out of sorts with my world?"
"Aren't you?"
He turned his attention to his bowl, and she was pleased when he began to eat, even if he was eating to avoid answering her. Don't push it, Ellie. Let him come around in his own time. Her inner voice was rarely wrong.
She pushed her chair back. "I can see you're not in the mood for company today. Would you object to spending a little time with me tomorrow?"
"Ellie..."
"Please, Robert. Otherwise my mother will come with me, and I would prefer spending time with someone my own age."
"You don't know anyone else around here your own age?"
Don't tell him, not yet. He'll just try to distract you, to help you, and you don't need help any more.
"I would like you to come along."
He looked up and studied her face. Finally, he conceded. "All right."
She smiled, reaching out to touch his arm. "Thank you. I'll come by around nine."
She rose and left the house. Once on the porch, she stopped. Despair was one of the most difficult human emotions to overcome, and this man was mired in it. He was hurting deeply, but none of his pain was physical. She sensed that physical pain would be a welcome relief for him, something he knew how to handle. But emotional pain...that was something he was ill-equipped to cope with. She had her work cut out for her, and she knew she could not do it alone. Looking up at the bright blue sky she silently implored, Please, inspire me.
After the sun went down, Goren opened the shades at the back of the house and went out onto the back deck with a beer. He could hear the ocean waves crash on the beach and he relaxed a little. Sitting in a chaise lounge chair, he listened intently to the ocean sounds, and he released the tight control he kept on his mind. He was so tired. His mind and his soul were bruised and battered, struggling to heal.
His thoughts wandered.
Six months of weekly sessions with Elizabeth Olivet had gotten him his job back, but they had done him little good. Olivet tried to discuss his relationship with Eames, but he had been disappointing in that regard. His greatest success was in making Eames a peripheral concern in his therapy sessions as Olivet focused on his anger issues. He could tell she was frustrated by his refusal to discuss his partner, and if she had known how important Eames was to him, she would have pressed the issue, especially if she knew things weren't right between them. But his desire to get back to work, back to her, had superseded everything else, and that was what his sessions had focused on. Once he had been reinstated, he terminated the therapy sessions. Olivet would have preferred that he continue coming to see her, and maybe Eames would have, too, but he was not inclined to do that. Always, he preferred to deal with his problems in his own way. He intellectualized his life, and in particular his emotions, because that was the only way he knew to deal with them. He could not cope with emotion on an emotional level, and when the pain got beyond his ability to control, as it was now, he turned to other means, primarily alcohol, to help him deal with it.
He trusted Eames with his life, his physical well being, and he would readily give his life for her. But he trusted no one, not even his partner, with his personal, his emotional, life. He didn't know how to open up and trust another person; that was something he had never learned to do. His mother's illness had taught him to internalize his feelings, to bury them, and he had learned to deal with them intellectually. He was a master at compartmentalization and denial. But things had become too much for him, and his life had fallen apart. He was convinced it was not salvageable, and the one thing he could not make himself do was discuss it with Eames. That, he feared, would be the final straw, the last in a long line of increasingly unforgivable events that would send her out of his life for good. If she really knew how bad he was, she would finally walk away and he was not in a place where he could deal with that.
They had been partners for almost ten years. Ten years... that was nearly twenty percent of his life. Only Declan and Lewis, aside from his mother and Frank, had been a consistent, important part of his life longer. But now...now no one was more important to him than she was. If he lost her, he was not sure he could go on, and it was that fear that prevented him from finding what he needed in himself to move forward. He was stuck, floundering in a quagmire of uncertainty, and it seemed the more he fought it, the more firmly entrenched he became.
Of one thing, he was certain, and that was that Eames did not know how important she was to him. He tried hard to focus on the fact that she would be perfectly fine without him. He was the one who would be utterly lost without her, and that gave her the upper hand in their relationship. He was fairly certain she knew she had the upper hand, but he was equally certain she did not know why she had it. Not the real reason, anyway.
The sound of the surf was soothing and, in spite of his turmoil, he fell asleep, his mind filled with images and memories of Eames.
The rain woke him. It was a moderate summer rain, and he was soaked. He got up from the chair and went into the house, stripping down to his boxers in the laundry room and draping his wet clothes over a drying rack in the corner.
He took a warm shower and dressed in a pair of sweatpants. In the kitchen, he glanced at the time as he pulled a beer from the refrigerator. Almost one a.m. Walking to the nearest window, he looked out from the dark house into the darker night. Rain tapped steadily against the window and ran in rivulets down the glass. Water...life force of the planet. Streams ran into rivers which eventually led to the ocean. Currents flowed and eddied, frothing and swirling as the water made its cyclic journey.
He touched the window with his fingertip. Everything eventually comes full circle, and he wondered just where in the circle his life currently was. The last year of his mother's life had been the worst of his. His life had hit a downward spiral, like water swirling down a drain, and he'd lost his grip on everything. Despair had consumed him and just getting out of bed in the morning took a great deal of effort. The thought of facing another day was overwhelming. Yet through it all, though he had not taken the time to look, Eames had been there, steadfast and certain. She was the beacon that guided him through the storm and saw him safely to the other side, but he'd taken her for granted. More than once she'd borne the brunt of his anger and frustration at the world. And when he lashed out at her, she lashed back, stunning him, forcing him to notice her. Yet, in spite of all he'd put her through, she'd never strayed from his side.
Suddenly overwhelmed, he crossed to the coffee table and grabbed his phone. Without thinking, he called Eames. It wasn't until he heard her sleepy voice that he remembered the time. "I, uh, I woke you. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. What's wrong?"
Her question caught him off guard, and he couldn't verbalize an answer. He wasn't even sure why he called her, beyond the need to hear her voice, a need he couldn't identify and refused to dwell on. Her voice penetrated his thoughts. "Bobby?"
He drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "I'm okay, Eames. I just..."
He just what? What possible explanation could he have for calling her in the middle of the night? Silence hung heavy between them until she spoke again. "I'm glad you called."
"Are you? Why?"
"I'm just happy that you called, that's all."
He was the one who called her instead of the other way around, and to her that was significant. He rubbed the back of his neck and began to pace. He still didn't know what to say. She did not allow the silence to linger. "So, how is Connecticut?"
Lonely, he thought. You aren't here. Those were thoughts he could not give voice to. "It's nice. Raining."
He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, "You like the rain."
"So do you," he replied.
"Are you resting?"
Not very well. "Some, I suppose."
"I know it's not easy for you to unwind, but try."
His restlessness increased. "What have you been doing?"
"Wheeler and I have a case."
"Tell me about it."
"Bobby, you are supposed to be taking a break."
"I don't need a break from work, Eames." I don't need a break from you. It's life that has beaten me down. "My personal life is what fell apart, and now...well, there really aren't any pieces left to pick up and put back together. I have a clean slate and nothing to put on it."
"Something will turn up."
"Right now, all I have is you."
As soon as the words were out, he regretted saying them. He wasn't sure how they escaped, but they were out there now and he couldn't take them back. He panicked. "I, uh, I'm sorry...I shouldn't have called." His pulse was racing. "Good night, Eames."
He ended the call and dropped the phone as if it had suddenly become a hot coal in his hand. He sat heavily in the recliner and buried his head in his arms. He'd spoken the truth to her. There was no one else. Except for Eames, he was alone in the world, and he felt that emptiness like a weight across his shoulders. All I have is you...
