Goren was dozing on the couch Sunday when his doorbell rang. He woke easily and got to his feet, limping to the door. Pulling it open, he smiled. "Marcy...come in."
She held out his keys as she came into the apartment. "Thank you, Bobby. Like I told you yesterday, I'm sorry I didn't bring it back yesterday, but I spent the entire day at the Yarborough's home.""
He took the keys and crossed the room to set them down by the phone. "It's fine. I slept most of the day anyway. How's Teddy?"
"He's doing great. How are you feeling?"
He shrugged. "I'm all right."
"Are you still in a lot of pain?"
"It's calmed down quite a bit. Uh, can I get you something?"
She held up a bag. "I brought lunch, if you're hungry."
He motioned toward the couch. Sitting down, she watched him carefully sit and prop his injured leg on the coffee table. She touched the hand of his splinted arm. "How is your arm?" she asked.
"Better. I have an appointment tomorrow to have a cast put on it."
She unpacked the bag and set two styrofoam containers on the table. "Do you need a ride?"
"No, thank you. Eames is going to take me."
She nodded, then she turned her head to look at him. "Do you always call her by her last name?"
"Uh, yes. I always have."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "She's my partner."
"Is it easier to think of her as 'Eames' instead of 'Alex'? Or is it just more impersonal?"
"Impersonal? No..."
"She calls you 'Bobby'."
"We just have different styles, that's all."
She handed him one of the take-out boxes. Now that she'd opened the door, she might as well step on through. "Something happened between the two of you recently."
He was quiet as he looked at the closed container in his hands. Deliberately, he opened it. Meatloaf, potatoes and green beans...the quintessential comfort food meal. "Coffee..I'll put on some fresh coffee."
He moved to get up but she reached out and rested a hand on his arm. "I'll get it."
He watched her rise from the couch and cross the room toward the kitchen. She found the coffee and filters and set about making a fresh pot, giving him time to consider the answer to her observation. She carried two coffee cups into the living room and set them on the coffee table. "Cream, no sugar, right?"
"Right."
She handed him a plastic-wrapped knife and fork. "So...what happened?"
He sighed. "It was...my fault. We're...getting our equilibrium back."
"Are you?"
"We're trying."
Her gray eyes studied him. "Something..." She searched for the proper word for what she sensed they had been through. "...catastrophic happened. Something deeply personal."
"Yes," he agreed. "My mother...developed cancer. She died last summer."
"Were you close to her?"
"In a manner of speaking...as close as anyone ever was, I suppose. She was sick all my life, and I took care of her. She was the primary focus of my personal life, and she was all I had. At least, I thought so."
"Are you an only child?"
"I might as well be. My brother is a junkie. I don't have anything to do with him, and he never helped care for her."
She sensed a reluctance in him. He wasn't used to talking about matters that were deeply personal to him, not like this. But she gently pushed on. "So what happened between you and Alex?"
He ran his hand through his hair, restless. She waited, watching him expectantly, with a look of intense interest on her face. She wanted to help him, and she hoped he understood that. He didn't answer, turning his attention toward the food on the coffee table, but not reaching for it yet. She watched him retreat, and she reached out to him. Her hand gently rubbed his arm and she leaned closer to look at his face.
He met her eyes, and he saw an open curiosity and a deep interest; he felt a powerful sense of caring. She could read people well, but she was also open to being read. He touched her cheek. Eames did not trust her, but he saw more in this woman than his partner did. He was more open to her, perhaps, but he saw no deception in anything she had said or done. He decided that placing a small amount of trust in her was not likely to backfire on him. "I-I pushed her away, and she pushed back. I didn't handle that too well. I was a wreck, and I didn't see that she was there for me. She tried to head off the crash, but she couldn't, so she put herself to the task of picking up the pieces. Now...I'm trying to repair the damage. She seems...reluctant to, uh, to trust me again. An-and I can't blame her."
"You don't want to lose her."
"No. I don't. But I'm afraid that I'm offering too little, too late. It's no one's fault, but my own."
"I wouldn't underestimate her attachment to you, Bobby."
"Eames will do fine without me. I'm the one who flounders in her absence."
Marcy leaned back against the couch. "I see part of your problem. You don't give either of you enough credit."
"Maybe she just expects too much from me."
"Is it too much for you to accept a helping hand?"
"It's too much for me to be a burden to a friend."
"So you think that by pushing her away and letting your life fall apart you would be less of a burden to her than if you had let her in to give you support in the first place? How could it not have been difficult for her to watch you disintegrate?"
Knowing a little more about what had happened between the partners, what had happened to damage their friendship, Marcy felt in a stronger position to help them. But she backed off for now, letting him eat in peace and mull over her words, which is exactly what he did.
She had stopped pushing just short of driving him underground. She poked enough to get him worked up, but not far enough to drive him to withdraw. They finished their lunch in silence; she let him stew over her words.
Once she cleared away the remains of their meal, in spite of his protest that he would do it, she returned to the couch. "So...what do you feel up for? We can play cards...or watch TV...or we can talk..."
"Cards...that's a good idea," he said quickly, wanting to avoid an afternoon of conversation. "There's a deck in the desk, top drawer on the left."
She walked to the desk and pulled open the drawer. Settled on top of the deck was an unframed photograph of two young boys. They looked a lot alike: dark hair that was long enough to curl but short enough to not be unruly, dark eyes in smiling faces. The older boy had his arm around the shoulder of the younger; they looked like best friends. She turned it over and read the caption, written in a woman's script: Frank and Bobby, Carnarsie Pier, Brooklyn, September 1966.
She returned it to its place as she grabbed the deck of cards. A soft smile touched her face as she looked at the picture again, but it faded quickly. She studied the image of young Bobby and, with her mind's eye and the sixth sense that sometimes came unbidden, she saw something that made her heart catch in her throat. No...
She pushed the drawer closed. She had to be wrong...but she knew she wasn't. The image was clear and vibrant, and she could not shake it from her mind as she sat back on the couch, handing him the deck. "Marcy? What's wrong?"
She shook her head. "It's nothing. Um, how about a game of gin rummy?"
"Are you sure you're all right? You look a little pale."
"Indigestion," she assured him. "That meatloaf was a little spicier than my stomach likes."
He looked unconvinced, but he accepted her answer and shuffled the cards.
As the afternoon wore on, her mood lightened, thanks in part to gentle teasing from him. She didn't bring up his partner again, shaken as she was by the image she had seen in the photograph. She found he could get her to laugh with little effort, and she was again drawn to his gentle affection. Losing track of who's turn it was, she reached toward the discard pile, her hand coming into contact with his. She looked up, surprised. He looked up at the same moment, meeting her eyes with a soft smile. Neither withdrew their hand. Instead, he closed his fingers around hers and drew her closer, gently pulling her into a kiss. She was too overwhelmed to withdraw and she raised her other hand to touch his cheek.
When they pulled back, his smile reappeared. She returned it and said, "It-It's your turn."
With a soft chuckle, he drew a card from the deck and the game continued.
It was just after five, and there was a knock at the door. Marcy jumped up to answer it. Eames stood in the hallway, annoyed but not surprised to see her. Marcy offered a friendly smile. "Hello, Detective Eames...come in."
Eames hesitated, but stepped past her into the apartment. Goren smiled at her. "Hello, Eames."
"Hi, Bobby. I just came by to see how you're feeling."
"A little better than yesterday. How was your niece's birthday party?"
"It was nice."
"Uh...your eye?"
"I told you yesterday, there's nothing wrong with it. It's just a bruise. Stop worrying." She sighed, eyes darting from the cards spread on the couch beside him to Marcy standing near the television.. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I guess I'll be on my way home now."
Goren frowned. "You came all this way for a two minute visit?"
"I told you, I just wanted to check on you."
"You could have done that with a phone call."
"Next time I will," she snapped irritably.
She left the apartment and he leaned his head back with a frustrated sigh. Marcy hurried after Eames. "Detective Eames...wait a minute, please."
Eames could think of no way to gracefully avoid stopping to talk to the woman, so she did, but her annoyance was evident. Marcy ignored it. "Don't leave. I have to be going anyway. Stay and talk to him. He wants that from you."
Eames' eyes narrowed at her. "And how would you know what he wants?"
"Please trust me with this, detective. He needs you more than you seem to realize."
"What I realize, Miss Chambers, is that he would rather have your company."
"What makes you say that?"
Eames let out a slow, frustrated breath. "I have known him for almost seven years, and it's clear that he wants...to get to know you better. So go in there and get to know him."
"I am fully aware of what he thinks he wants and what he really does want. Detective, I could very easily go back in there and with the proper encouragement, and very little effort, you're right. I could get to know him very well. He's lonely and he craves...positive interaction. He'll take it from me because he likes me and there is nothing to prevent us from developing a deeper relationship. But there is something in his heart that he is having difficulty acknowledging. I can see it in his eyes every time he talks about you. But he buries it deep, and you are the only one who can bring it out."
"What are you talking about? Bring what out?"
Marcy sighed. "You do know that he loves you."
"That's not any of your business."
"Please...parts of his heart are very easy to read. He cares deeply for you, but I wonder if you realize just how much he cares."
When Eames didn't answer, she went on, "Detective Eames, he will settle for me, and never even realize that's what he's doing. I don't want him to settle, not when the woman he wants is right in front of him, taunting him on a daily basis."
Anger flashed in Eames' eyes. "Excuse me...I..."
Marcy raised a hand, gently interrupting. "Yes. You do. Just by being close by. Talk to him. Watch how he acts and reacts to you. It's there. You just have to see it for what it really is, not for what you imagine it to be. Until you deal with it, the tension between the two of you will never dissipate. Ultimately, it will tear you apart. Please stay, at least for a little while. I'm going home."
Eames considered her words. "What's in this for you?"
"Why do you think I want something? I...care about him, that's all. He deserves to be happy."
Finally, Eames sighed heavily and started back down the hall to his apartment. "There's one more thing, Detective Eames."
Eames stopped. Here it comes... "What is that?"
"Do you remember that I told you I can sometimes see a person's fate in a photograph? That was how I knew that Teddy was not going to die."
"I remember. What about it?"
"I know you think it's a bunch of stuff and nonsense, but I have never been wrong with that particular ability. I have no idea if that fate can be changed, but I have to ask you to please...watch out for him. I saw a picture of him with his brother..." She hung her head, still disturbed by what she'd seen. "He's going to die, detective, soon...and violently. I won't waste your time with more detail, since I know you don't believe me. Just...take care of him."
In spite of herself, Eames was disturbed by what Marcy told her. She tried to remind herself that she did not believe in psychics, and yet, she could not shake the dread caused by that particular prediction. She looked Marcy in the eye before turning away and continuing into the apartment. Marcy followed her.
Goren watched them come through the door, his eyes darting nervously from one woman to the other. Eames was impressed that he'd stayed where he was. Marcy stepped up to him and leaned down to kiss his cheek. "I have to go now. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Do you have a way home?"
"Yes. I don't have too far to go. Good night, Bobby."
"Be careful, Marcy."
She gave him a warm smile, then looked at Eames. "Good-bye, Detective Eames."
"Good night, Miss Chambers."
She grabbed her bag and left the apartment. Goren looked at his partner. "You're angry."
"No, Bobby. I'm annoyed, but that's not entirely your fault. I just...I don't want you to get hurt."
He paused before answering, "We always risk getting hurt when we get involved with another person. You know that. But if we never take the risk...what's the point?"
She watched him gather the cards and shuffle them together. It will tear you apart... She sat on the couch beside him. "How are you feeling?"
"Better. My head's not in such a fog."
"Good." She touched his knee. "How's the knee doing?"
"Not so good. It still hurts to walk and the swelling hasn't gone down any, but my arm is all right."
She nodded. "It will get better," she assured him.
"I know it will. Eames, what did you tell Marcy?"
"If you want to know if I chased her away, no, I didn't. She wanted me to stay and keep you company."
His mouth set in a grim line. He wondered if he'd scared her when he kissed her. She was probably relived to see Eames so she could retreat gracefully and not leave him alone, before something else happened. He leaned back and sighed heavily. Eames gave him a smile. "You didn't chase her off, either, if that's what you're thinking. If you would rather spend time with her than with me..."
"I never said that..."
"You like her."
He didn't like the way she made it sound like an accusation. "Yes, I do. It's not a crime."
She supposed she should have expected defensiveness. He hated her disapproval, even if he would stand his ground with her when he believed in something. Apparently, he liked Marcy enough to take a stand for her, and Eames respected him for that. "You're right," she conceded. "There's no rule that says I have to like your girlfriends. But I don't have to be around them, either."
"I'm not dating her, Eames."
"Yet," she shot back with a little more venom than she intended.
When she made a move to get up, he grabbed her arm. "Please don't leave."
She decided it was time to challenge him. She wasn't sure if she believed Marcy's psychic abilities or not, but there was no doubt of the woman's ability to read people. "Why?"
One simple word and she could see how much off-guard it caught him. The word might be simple, but she knew there was nothing simple about the answer. He became restless-- unable, or unwilling, to face the real answer to her question. "I just want you...to stay. I feel better when you're here."
"And why is that?"
He frowned. "I don't know. Does there have to be a reason?"
"With you, there is always a reason."
But he turned the tables on her by deflecting her question away from him. "Did you really come by for a two minute visit?"
She let him get away with it for the moment, unwilling to agitate him. Just because his knee was injured did not mean he wouldn't start pacing anyway if he was upset. He suffered enough pain. "Of course not. I came by to have dinner with you..."
He looked surprised. "You did? But you were going to leave..."
"Because Marcy was here? Yes."
"I don't understand why you hate her so much."
"I don't hate her. I just don't like her. I don't trust her motives, especially with you."
He let his breath out in an aggravated huff. "Can we not have that argument again, please."
"Fine. I'll fix dinner. You...just sit here and stay out of the way."
She knew if she didn't tell him to stay put, he wouldn't. It was questionable if he'd stay there anyway, but he did. She fixed a simple chicken stir fry that she'd learned from him and knew he liked. Dinner was comfortable, but mostly quiet. She knew he was thinking and she left him alone to analyze whatever was in his mind.
When they finished eating, she cleaned up, threatening to knock him down if he got off the couch to help. His injuries gave her a little bit of an advantage over him and she was going to make the most of it. The only other time she stood a chance was when he was drunk and she was not, but then she usually spent so much time laughing, her advantage dissolved.
He remained where he was, annoyed, which amused her. It took her ten minutes to clean up and she returned to the living room. "There. Done. It would have taken twice as long if I had to trip over you in the kitchen."
"I hate being waited on."
"I know. You prefer to be moving. But you're not up for it right now, so deal with it."
His sigh was a half-growl, but he didn't argue any further. She smiled to herself. "Want to watch a movie?"
He shrugged. "Whatever you want to do."
She chose a DVD and slipped it into the player, then sat beside him on the couch. "What did you do all afternoon?"
"Not much. Played cards."
She didn't comment, for which he was glad. She waited until partway through the movie, when he was half-asleep. Reaching toward him, she gently grasped his arm and drew him toward her, until his head was resting in her lap. He tensed briefly, but when she began to lightly rub his temple, he relaxed. She was surprised, but pleased, when he remained where he was. He rested the hand of his splinted arm against her leg and he felt himself fading in response to the gentle circles she traced through his hair and along the side of his face. It occurred to him to wonder what she was doing, but the thought vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Once he was asleep, she absently ran her fingers through his hair and thought about what Marcy had told her. Was she sincere, or had she enacted a self-fulfilling prophesy? Did saying make it so? Only time would tell and she realized, with a fleeting sense of panic, Goren's life could lay in the balance. It was not a chance she was willing to take.
