He keeps his window down on the ride home even though out of the corner of his eye he can see Eames trying not to shiver.
"I'm sorry," he says after a while. "I—I need the air."
She glances over at him. "I don't remember windows in isolation at Tates. It was probably…stifling."
Thunder cracks above them.
"Storm's starting," he comments.
She doesn't bother to respond.
No wonder.
If he can't answer her calls he supposes it's more than fair that she won't answer his idiotic conversational gambits.
His hand is on the door handle before she even pulls in to the parking lot, and then he's murmuring his thanks and vaguely promising to call and sliding out of the car as soon as her foot touches the brake.
She turns the car off.
"Eames—I appreciate it, but—"
"I hate driving in storms," she lies, and it's such a blatant, obvious lie that he grins inwardly at her standing there and not giving a fuck that he knows she's lying.
He still hesitates.
"I've stayed over at your place before," she points out. "Is it a problem?"
Well, no, but he finds that when she doesspend the night he can't stop thinking of her, of her sitting on his couch and holding his remote and washing her hands in his sink. Of her in his bed. Of them as something more than part—currently, of them as anything.
"Earth, Bobby. Come back."
He finds her standing in front of him, and—when did this happen—her warm fingers are pressed into his palm.
"I'm here," he says at last. "No—no problem. I'll sleep on the couch."
***
So she's in his shower and now he really, really can't stop thinking of her, and his body is responding (look Eames I'm answering you now), so he decides to go to the couch and hide under the covers and wait for morning so he can do whatever the hell it is he does during his suspension, because mostly he hasn't figured it out yet.
He pulls the blankets up to his chin and closes his eyes as he hears the shower turn off and the thunder crash and his heart beat.
He keeps his eyes closed as he hears Eames emerge from the bathroom, probably dressed in the shorts and tank top she keeps in a drawer in his vanity. Sleeping Alex I'm sleeping please please please go to bed and sleep I can't answer any more questions.
He senses her standing before him, staring down at him. NononoI'masleeppleasedonotdisturbthankyou.
She flips the blankets back and slides in beside him.
"Eames."
"What?" Her eyes are a glowing study of innocence. "I don't like your bed. It's not very comfortable."
"It's old." He tries to edge farther back into the couch. "You can have the couch then; I'll take the bed."
She shrugs. "You're here already. Might as well stay."
"I don't think that's a very good idea."
She tilts her head at him, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Really? Why not?"
"Just—just because. Not—yeah, it's not a good idea. If you'll just let me out, then…"
Her arms go around him and she lays her head down on the pillow beside his and he can feel her beside him, so oh so close and so wonderful and so Eames and so who he'll never have in any capacity ever again now that he's probably out of a job.
"You held me the entire night after I got out of the hospital last year," she points out. "And there were other times…"
"That's different. Those were…necessary. Comfort purposes—it's been proven that hugging a loved one for at least twelve seconds decreases blood pressure and releases endorphins and—and it's just nice sometimes, you know, to have—to have someone hold you, but I don't need comforted and I don't think this is a good idea, really, in the slightest, so if you'll just please move…"
She snuggles up even closer. "It is nice," she agrees. "Return the niceness, please, loved one."
He is aching, shaking, pressed back as far into the couch as he can go and it's not far enough because she is still right there and oh God he didn't mean it like that. "Loved one—anyone you care about, in—in any way, you know? Not like"—he shakes his head, swallows—"not like loved one."
"I know." She is quiet for a minute, her arms living smoldering feeling creatures branding directly into his waist, a ring of Eames fire around his torso. "Are you claustrophobic right now, Bobby?"
"No." How could he be claustrophobic with her when he keeps dreaming of her in ways that are much much closer than this. "I just don't want to risk…anything. I don't want to screw this up."
"You won't screw this up," she murmurs. "You're not actively pushing me away; that's a good start towards not screwing this up."
"You don't know what will happen. So many things could go wrong, and"—he pauses, waits until his voice is steady—"I might not get back on the job, ever, and…then what?"
"You'll get back," she says fiercely. "Bobby. You will."
"I don't know," he whispers. "I don't think there's anything I can do—God, I'd do anything to get back."
He balls his hands up in her tank top, twisting the fabric in his fingers. "Eames—"
"What, Bobby?" she murmurs.
What will happen if I don't get back on the job and we aren't partners anymore—it'd be terrible horrible very very bad but we'd be free to…anything, not that you'd want to, but the option at least exists then but God I want to get back God please please God because I need the engaging and the activity and the puzzles and the time consumption and you, you you you you, I need to see you every single day and bounce ideas back and forth and have you talk to me and be able to answer and I don't know what's going to happen if I can't get back to the job because I can't imagine working anything else and I don't want to work anything else and I had some plans for when I retire but it's far too early I'm too young and if I don't work and I don't fill my time I'm going to go insane—I know this more than I know perhaps anything else, more than I know who my parents are and who you are and that the stars exist in the sky—
"Bobby."
"Nothing," he says at last. "I'm sorry. I'm tired."
"I bet, after walking around all day." She rests her head against his chest and he swallows, a muscle in his jaw working. "What else did you do today?"
"Ask Ross," he mutters.
"What?"
"Nothing. I didn't do anything else today. Tried to be normal for a while—that failed."
She yawns into his shirt and when she speaks she sounds sleepy. "'Course it did. You're not normal, Bobby."
"Thanks."
"And it's good that you're not normal. It's…you'd be boring if you were normal. You wouldn't be my partner. Our solve rate would be shot, and I'd be bored, and…" she stops and he thinks she's drifting off, but then she raises her head and looks him straight in the eyes. "I wouldn't like you quite so much if you were normal."
One lone lock of her hair escapes and falls over her face, and he clenches his hand to prevent himself from brushing it off. "You might actually call me once in a while if you were normal, though," she mutters. "And that would be nice. It'd be nice not having to force myself on you."
"It's hard," he says quietly. "I can't look at you and not think of the job. And it's just easier to shut myself off from everyone, you know? Easier to stay alone."
"But is it better?" she whispers.
He doesn't answer.
Her hand slips up under his shirt and she traces his spine slowly. At the base of his neck she drags her fingers back down and snakes them around to his stomach, brushing over his skin until she finds the throb of his heart in his chest. "What do you think, Bobby?" she murmurs. "Better or not?"
She presses her hand against his heart.
Leans forward until her lips just rub against his, a bare, delicate kiss. His hands are locked on her back, frozen, terrified to move and disturb this watery balance lest the whole act vanish.
"Still thinking of the job?" she whispers into his breath.
Just you.
Oh, Eames.
"Still thinking it's easier?"
Her lips press down on his, liquid but firm ground, and he's kissing her back, his hands moving down to her hips, his eyelids fluttering open and closed and his lashes brushing against hers. She's opening her mouth and exploring and so is he and thank God he didn't go back to his bed, because she is sighing deep in her throat, full and satisfied and longing, and it's just like his dreams only better because (unless he's suddenly gone insane and imagining this) he's not going to wake up to nothing but barren cool space around his body.
Just Eames.
His nerves have gone haywire; everywhere she touches him sparking and spiking and pulsing until he is electric; long dead batteries charging up, trains grinding into action, remote control airplanes swooping into the sky.
City lights under a blanket of clouds.
He feels this desperate urge to talk, suddenly, to talk to her, to spill his guts, but he doesn't want to pull away and risk losing this so he mutters something into her mouth and rolls over so he's on top of her and his hands are sliding up and she has a leg wrapped around him and oh God—he's trying to keep his weight off of her because she's still a little uneasy about being so trapped, but he wants her so fucking much that he's aching into her and she is absolving his pain, taking it and replacing it with her.
He's sliding her shorts down, moaning and cupping and touching and primed to go, when she gasps against his lips. Pushes him off. Slides off the couch.
Shoves the sun back behind the clouds.
Gives him right back his pain.
Shit.
I'm sorry is on the tip of his tongue, fully formed, but he can't say it and so he swallows it, picturing the words banging around down his esophagus and settling in a pool of stomach acid.
"I didn't mean for this to happen—I didn't think it would go this far." She is shaking, her fingers trembling as she adjusts her clothing. "I just—had a point to make; just wanted to show you that this is still real and then"—she touches her lips—"it just felt so—so—"
God only knows what he'll dream tonight.
Eames talks to him some more, but she's careful to keep her distance and he doesn't hear the words assaulting his ears.
"I'm sorry," he says every so often, apologizing and apologizing but it doesn't make any difference because it's done and over with.
"It's not your fault, Bobby," she keeps saying, shaking her head, holding her hands out to him. "I was…participating too. But I think it's best if we just let it go at that…you know? We're partners."
Partners.
Not right now, Eames.
"I'm going to go home," she says softly. "I'll…call you, okay? And you'll answer?"
Right.
She leaves.