Fortune
"Did you enjoy it, Blake?" Bobby inquired, rubbing the shoulder of the girl currently reclined against his side. In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure she'd even been awake for most of the last half of the movie. Not that he would complain though, not that he would complain at all. Not when she chose to spend what free time both of them had, with him, with such closeness.
"Mmhmm," she replied, surprisingly coherent, nodding where her head lay against his shoulder. "But now I'm worried I'll find you hiding behind some potted plant, talking to Shakespeare over there."
He glanced behind them, toward the small bust of Shakespeare acting as a book stop on the shelf above the desk. Considering they'd just watched 'Cyrano de Bergerac', he could imagine her point. He did have an admitted propensity for impromptu re-enactments. . As for the potted plant, there was none to be found anywhere.
"I would prefer to think I speak quite well enough for myself," he replied, feigning a little offense, but only a little. "Couple that with the absence of any potted plants in the apartment, I don't think you have much to worry about in this regard."
Drowsily, she offered, "Plants are good for you; the oxygen they give off will make it easier for you to absorb all that much more minutia about … everything." She patted his chest, before nuzzling closer.
His arm tightened, knowing he should rise and remove the disk from the player. It was late, and he should soon see her safely home building.
'Should', however, does not always equal 'could'.
Add into the mix that today had been one of those rare days, they had been able to spend the whole day together, and he was finding it especially difficult to watch their evening end.
"Thank you," she murmured, shifting her head so she could see him properly. "I liked this."
Her hand rose, fingers curving to lie gently on his chest. A sensation he could feel right through to his core. It could have been worse, he could have lost his nerves' ability to feel such a feather light, exquisite touch. Sweet torture indeed.
"I have something for you," he commented softly. "Before you return home."
Blake smiled. "As long as it's not another case history. I really don't want to play the head case game tonight." She'd made the grave mistake of asking him to recommend work-related reading material for her. He was enthusiastic to share not only his books and materials, but his process and knowledge. She discovered him to be a natural teacher.
Bobby chuckled. "Nothing nearly so cerebral tonight, I should say. Although, I am coming to appreciate your … your imaginative profiling skills."
And then, the time had come, he forced himself to rise from the couch, supporting and coaxing Blake until she too was vertical.
"You're tired, aren't you," he teased when he had to steady her for a second time. "Come, this won't take long."
'Giving' her something had become a tricky endeavor.
Something too personal, or too obvious in any way, might arouse suspicion among her friends – mostly the same detectives he saw everyday – it was a risk neither seemed ready to face. Something too impersonal, and she might choose to keep here, where it would only taunt him with its presence, reminding him of her when she couldn't be here.
Yes, the endeavor had become quite a minefield. Bobby was good at minefields though. He had maneuvered through them most of his life. Probably always would.
What he had selected tonight would be something to encompass all of those qualities, and in a way that if she chose to keep it here, the memory it generated would hopefully delight rather than taunt.
Taking her hand, he led her into the second bedroom of his apartment.
"That is for you," he remarked affectionately, pointing toward a table. Something most rectangular and edged sat atop it, covered with a swatch of blue velvet. "Go on," he coaxed. "It's yours to do with as you wish."
Stepping forward, she gingerly pulled off the velvet, peering with interest as the cloth slipped away, slowly revealing…
Well ... she wasn't sure what it was at first. Its overall shape was much like an antique cash register ... complete with a series of buttons on top. These buttons were electronic, however.
He moved up behind her, one arm slipping around her waist to steady himself - or at least that was how he would justify it – if called upon to do so. He leaned beside her, reaching past her to turn the machine on.
It sprang to life ... lights flashing. And what could only be described as a reel of ticker-tape paper, swiftly jumpstarted and jerked itself into position.
"Does it really work?" Blake asked playfully, with one eyebrow raised. She took in the exotic beauty of the dark haired mannequin face staring back at her, its wispy garments fluttering as its hands passed over a perfectly scaled down version of a crystal ball. It was a tabletop fortune-telling machine.
"I actually found this at the property clerk's auction a couple of weeks ago. It needed cleaned up some and some of the gold gilt needed to be redone. The restoration took a little longer than I thought …" He paused for a moment, suddenly quite nervous and anxious to point out her options. ... "You need not keep it, if it doesn't strike your fancy."
"At least you've given me a graceful out, if it doesn't 'strike my fancy'," She laughed. "which is more than I gave you when I brought over that magician's blade box. If we keep this theme up, we'll be able to open up a booth in Coney Island."
Proudly Bobby ran one hand along the machine's front edge. It had restored to excellent condition.
She was joking, of course, but Bobby took the opportunity to play right along. "Well then you must test it for them, wouldn't want any of the paying clientele to be taken advantage of." His hand pointing toward a lever with 'Tell Me No Lies' sprawled across it in whimsical script, he continued to goad her, "Don't you believe, Blake? Don't you believe? ... ... Please, do try it."
With another amused chuckle, she relented and grasped the handle. "All right."
Down came the immaculately clean lever, and chink, click, chink went the printing device, the fortune spitting out at her on a stream of paper.
That fortune appeared far too long, however - and the chinking and clicking continued for far too long - for it to be correct. That was Bobby's first hint that something was amiss. Ripping the ticker-tape off, Blake read it aloud.
"He loves you ... with all that he shall ... but that is rarely enough."
Her voice tilted into a question at the end as she realized how bad that actually sounded. Especially given where she was standing, and who she was standing so close to. "Well that's not the most encouraging thing I've ever heard," she stated, a bit taken aback.
Bobby's pensive "Hmmmmmm" hummed across the back of her head. "Yes indeed. That certainly wasn't supposed to happen." Glancing at her, "See, it's a good thing we tested it first, before opening for business."
Reaching around her again, he set and reset a few buttons on the side of the obstinate little machine - then paused, clearly frustrated - then gave it a good sharp thwack on its metal frame.
"Beating it up isn't going to help," she chided.
"It came from a raid at a bar. Isn't that the way most drunks would attempt to remedy the situation? There, try ... try again."
"But maybe that's why it didn't work right." Blake took a stubborn breath, cast him a humorously wary look, then pulled the lever a second time.
Chink, click, chink ... ... and she read the result.
"The best of intentions are rarely enough ..."
Two large hands landed at her waist, no longer needing to discipline the machine. It was working, he stepped a little closer behind her, his smile hidden from her amused gaze. "Try again."
This time, her glance back at him was a bit more suspicious, but she did as he suggested. More clinking. More clicking. And she read…
"Yet he shall strive with all that he is ..."
His hands slid happily around her midriff. A liberty taken with the confidence of success. "Again," he purred.
Another pull of the lever, to produce -- --
"Because ..."
This time, she glanced at him with the most affectionate shyness, unsurprised to find that 'face' of his mirroring the sentiment back so perfectly. And this time, she needed no prompting.
One last pull. A chink and a click. -- --
"He loves you ..."
Silence for a moment, after her whisper of the words ended. He leaned closer along the side of her head, hoping that everything was indeed all right ... assured of it, when her fingers carefully gathered together the precious little strips of paper, squeezing them between her palms. A further moment, while she fought back the tears.
"This machine, isn't going anywhere," her hushed voice quite resolutely declared, staring at the little machine she now absolutely adored. "It stays here. But these," she smoothed the ends of the paper strips, peaking out from between her hands, "These come with me. These are mine."
Bobby's head propped to hers, breathing a sigh of both joy and relief. "Yes," he agreed simply. "They are."
"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes still trying to escape that same lever she had been so reluctant to pull.
"Do you believe now, Blake?" he asked, breathing the words into her hair.
A few more blinks, as she tried unsuccessfully to slow the welling tears. "Yeah," she whispered, then carefully jarred his reluctant arms loose, just enough to turn for a proper embrace. "Yeah. I think I really do."