He dropped his spoon into the bowl and stood up, walking to the window that looked out over the wet street. You can let me in or you can let me go.

His biggest problem was that he did not know how to do either. A lifetime of sequestering his emotions ensured that they were locked up tight, available only to torture him. Sometimes, his most powerful feelings broke through...rage, pain...but that was rare. He was careful to keep his emotions buried, even from her, although sometimes, she saw how much he hurt. And once, she saw how much he loved. He was good at showing some emotion while keeping the bulk of it hidden away. Eames knew he cared about her and that he always had, but she never knew how deeply he cared. She never knew how much he loved her, and even now, she didn't know the extent of it. He wasn't even certain he knew.

His partnership with Eames was the longest, most positive relationship of his life, and the thought that it could be ending was unbearable. Struggle as he had to keep it professional, it had taken a turn Christmas morning, a turn he had neither anticipated nor intended. Now, he had no real idea what the status of their relationship was. For weeks, he had been struggling to get a grip on it and he'd failed miserably.

"D-do you want to stay tonight?"

"That all depends on you," she answered.

"Alex...I-I don't know how...to let you in, and I can't let you go. So where does that leave me?"

If she left, the weight of his life would crush him. Without her to steady him, his life would spiral out of control even more than it already was. Without her to remind him that there actually was a life out there worth living, he would self-destruct.

But his other option, to let her in, was so foreign to him he had no idea how to go about doing it. The inner part of himself, the part she wanted access to, was hidden behind defenses so secure no one had ever breached them. Not even his mother could see his pain, if she cared enough to look, which, sadly, she did not.

But, somehow, Alex seemed to sense it. She caught the raw emotion that sometimes seeped past his ability to control it. She seemed to have a rudimentary understanding of the turmoil and pain that tortured him and ate at his soul. And she wanted to soothe that pain for him, to ease the hurt and cool the fire that consumed him, only to replace it with a different kind of fire...one he welcomed.

His voice was not much more than a whisper. "T-tell me how..." he pleaded. "H-how can I let you...How can you help me?"

Finally, she realized with a sigh of relief, he was reaching out to her. She took the last bite of her sandwich and finished her drink. It did not escape her notice that he still had not touched his food. With concern, she realized she could not remember the last time he'd actually eaten lunch. For the first time since she'd known him, Bobby was more than just tired. He was soul-weary.

He went into the kitchen again, and she heard the sound of glass hitting glass. When he reappeared in the doorway, there was a freshly opened bottle in his hand, and she wondered just how much he was drinking these days. She silently chastised herself for not noticing before how out of control his life had gotten.

Rising from her chair, she took her dishes into the kitchen and set them in the sink. She could feel his eyes on her; she always knew when he was watching her. She stopped beside him in the doorway. "You can talk to me," she said softly. "That's where we need to start. You need to be honest, with yourself and with me. Can you do that?"

"I-I don't know. But I can try."

It was a start. Leaning up, she pressed her lips against his cheek. His eyes slid closed and some of the weary tension eased from him. He turned his face toward her, easing her lips into full contact with his. When she pulled back, he let her step away.

She took his hand and led him to the couch. He collapsed onto it, rubbing his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose. She folded one leg beneath her and sat lightly beside him. She knew he had no idea where to start, that she would have to lead him through this, but she was fine with that. At least he was now willing to talk; he was no longer shutting her out.

Reaching out, she touched his arm, letting her hand slide from shoulder to wrist, and he seemed to relax a little more. So she placed her hand along his cheek, surprised at the warmth she found there. He'd been eating little, sleeping less, and drinking more. His body could not take much more of that abuse. It was time to put the brakes on his downward spiral, if it was not too late to save him.