A/N: Argh I didn't plan on doing Bobby POV chapters, but part of me felt that he needed more explanation, and we're not going to get that through Alex- not soon anyway. So I wrote this for him - the title is also a departure from 'The Road Not Taken' theme - because I sort of feel that poem is Alex's. This title is another Robert Frost poem though, he wrote it at the same time as 'The Road Not Taken' and I felt it was appropriate. So enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue please.


I hate Christmas. I always have, ever since I was a child. In fact, as far as I can recall, this is the first year I've done anything about it- acknowledged it, participated- sure when I was in the Army I went to the dinners, chewy turkey with soggy stuffing- but I didn't get excited. No packages from home greeted me in the morning, no letters, no phone calls. I was trying this year though- and not for my sake, but for hers. It was an odd feeling, thinking you would never do something and yet finding yourself changing all of your perceptions based on one small person. I never expected her, never saw her coming, but I often found myself watching her sleep, a feeling of relief so intense coming over me that I almost couldn't breathe. Relief that she had come along.

As I walked down the hall I cringed at the wall's pale green color that was supposed to be soothing – I'm sure the center did it's research, hiring designer's familiar with color and how it can affect the mood. If I remembered correctly green in particular was supposed to represent nature, health and renewal. In cooler shades it is supposed to soothe, calm, and represent healing. A perfect choice for a hospital or medical center like this one- but what all the color specialists forget is that if you see something in association with negative stimuli- that thing becomes negative as well. No, I doubted I would ever see green as a calm, soothing color. It only brought up horrible memories for me. My mind wanders towards her upon my next step – wondering if she was happy- having a good day. I laughed slightly- of course she was. Her family- her- they were like some foreign country to me. That type of bond, that type of joy found within the walls of her childhood home. As I stood there last night- I had felt an incredible sense of yearning. Longing to learn that language, master it. I sighed slightly at the thought- wondering if I even could. It wasn't simply another language to learn, like German or French- it was a way of life. An attitude- and so far, I think I almost had her fooled. Convinced that I was a good guy- normal.

I snorted at that thought. Normal. Right- because all my childhood memories are normal. It's normal to have your father run away – leave you and your older brother with a mother who could barely care for herself. It's normal to have the older brother you looked up to, just slide away into darkness, not even bothering to care about those he left behind. I was a kid- I should have been out playing and instead I was dealing with a mother who saw things that weren't there, heard people that weren't talking. It wasn't always bad- as a kid I loved the manic stages. Not that I knew they were manic phases- but I knew there were blocks of days where Mom would be fun. She would run into life with the intent of filling our days as much as possible. Having as much fun as possible, not caring about the consequences. I used to imagine that those times made up for the darker days that came after. The days when she would tell me that it was my fault. She never wanted me, and I made him leave. When she would run after me in the house- screaming that if I was gone he would come back. Days when I would squeeze myself into the corner of a closet, or under my bed- sometimes the attic – I would close my eyes tightly and tell myself the happy times were worth it. That of course I had to pay for them.

Now I knew- I knew it was never her- it was the illness – but it didn't stop the guilt from coming at night. Because in the end- I left too. I couldn't take it anymore- having her repeat the same cycle over and over again, and refusing help. She had told me, right before I signed up for the Army, that she would rather die than admit she was crazy. Even though I pleaded with her- begged her to get help- in the end I had been unable to stay. And so, like my father and brother before me – I left. I was overseas for almost eight years- only coming home when I got a call that she had actually attempted to make her wish come true. She wrote me about it- how she had been standing in the kitchen with the knife in her hand, and suddenly became so convinced that there was something evil and foreign inside her, that she stabbed herself four times. The neighbors had found her, laying in her own blood and had called an ambulance. The day she was released from the hospital she checked herself in here. Because normal people don't stab themselves in a fit of delusion. I had felt sick upon reading it- and so damn guilty. If I had been a good son- if I hadn't been just like my father- I would have been there. And she wouldn't have done that. As I continued down the seemingly never ending hall I felt the weight of that guilt tug down on me. Even now- I would rather be anywhere but here today. I didn't want to sit with her- I didn't want to have to call her everyday, I didn't want to walk into that room, tensing for the inevitable blow. Good day or bad day? Would the meds be working, or would she be in her own world, talking to me- and yet not to me at all. Of course, the guilt ate away at me as I thought these things- just the way it ate at me whenever I was with Alex. Guilt that I didn't tell her- guilt that my visits were becoming more spaced- once a week instead of every other day. Guilt that when I did leave to come here, I longed to be back at home, wrapped in warm arms and gold hair – guilt that while I may still physically be showing up for my mother, emotionally I wasn't even present.

"Merry Christmas Officer Goren!" The day nurse greeted me warmly, and I nodded in response with a smile- wondering at how she can effect so much cheer in a place like this. I think it takes someone special to care for the people here- it's certainly a thankless job. "Oh- Dr. Shimo wanted to speak to you for a moment before you went in to see her this morning. He's in his office." I nodded and thanked her for the message, a secret thrill of relief stirring in me. My steps could turn away from the hall- I could have a brief respite before going in. Knocking on his door, I stepped in at his muttered 'come in'.

"Bobby- good. I wanted to see you before you went in. Frances hasn't been doing to well on her medication- the olanzapine. I've lowered her dosage – but she has had some adverse effects." His face was kind as he spoke gently – a tone he must have to use everyday, but I didn't really care about his issues, I cared about my own. I sank into the chair in front of his desk, my hands tapping along the arms as I thought quickly.

"I've- I've read that they're doing clinical studies on a few new drugs – ah Seroquel and Risperdal? What are the chances we can get her involved in the tests?" His face registers surprise at my question, but only for a moment. By now, he's used to my questions, and my almost rabid reading that I do on her illness. It's how I fight in my own way, I suppose-if I know it I can target it's weakness. I can win. Granted this isn't a battle, and the enemy isn't something tangible, but the law still applies. Knowledge is the best weapon. It what I was trained to obtain in the military, and I find it hard to just leave that behind.

"Well Bobby- those drugs are still in the early stages- we have no idea what their effects are-"

"Could it be worse? Really? I mean her only option now is the olanzapine or nothing. She's suffer from personality disorder side effects, which can only be controlled by the moderation in which you give her the drugs. How could becoming part of a clinical study be much worse?" I rub a hand over my forehead as I speak, pressure beginning to build behind my eyes already. I somehow just know- I know today is not going to be a good day. I close my eyes for the briefest moment, a vision of Alex's skin lit up by red and green lights dancing before my mind's eye.

"I can certainly look into it Bobby- if that's what you wish. I'll call you and let you know if she's a candidate, all right?" I nodded, recognizing the tone of dismissal in his voice. Standing, I can only nod when he says 'Happy Holidays' choking back a sarcastic laugh at the back of my throat. I exit the room, feeling the lead weight sink down once more, dragging me along by an invisible force, until I found myself in front of the one door I don't want to be in front of. I pressed a hand against the wood, before sighing heavily and pushing it open.


When I got to escape, it took everything in me to force my steps to be calm, and not run from there like the hounds of hell were after me. Once outside I breathed in the night air deeply, feeling the freeing effects immediately. I stood outside my car for a brief moment, leaning against it for support as the events of the day echoed around me. I had been wrong when I thought it would be a bad day- bad didn't even come close to describing it. As soon as I had entered the room, she had demanded to know where my father was. Why wasn't he there, taking care of her? Why was I the one there instead- everyone knew she hadn't wanted me, hadn't wanted to get pregnant. But my father had wanted a girl- the perfect family, a boy, a girl, a happy picture. If I hadn't of been born defective- her rantings had only become more agitated as the day wore on. She had pushed me away, literally and figuratively – had screamed at me – had hit me a few times. It didn't hurt as much as it had when I was a kid- it helped that I grew so large and she seemed to shrink into herself, becoming frailer as the years went by. As she had declared that everything was my fault, and she hated me, and she should have killed me when I was small and she was able- I had repeated the mantra. It's not her, it's the illness. Sinking into the leather seats of my car, I frowned. Sometimes I hated that expression. Sometimes I wanted to hate her, blame her. But that just made the guilt claw through me, rising like bile from my stomach to my throat.

Turning the keys in the ignition, I glanced at the clock. It was almost eight and I knew Alex would have left her parents a few hours ago. Dammit- I was supposed to pick her up. I had foolishly hoped that today's visit might be brief. She had kissed me in the car, her skin soft under mine and her smile bright as she told me if it was past six, she would get her father to drive her home. I found myself hoping that when she said home, she meant my place. Hardly a second after I thought it, I prayed she had gone to her own place. All I felt today was a darkness dragging me down – and she didn't need to be subjected to that. As much as I would love to bury myself within her and seek comfort, I wouldn't be able to- the effort to pretend I was fine and everything was normal would cost too much. I drove mindlessly, and when I pulled myself out of my morose thoughts I found that I was in my building parking lot with no clear recollection of how I had gotten there.

Dragging myself inside, I leaned against my door for a moment – just wanting to crawl into bed and have this day be over. As I walked into the silent apartment I felt a brief surge of hope- there was no sound, but even as I thought it, I could smell her. The faint scent of vanilla and spice that she wore lingering in the air. I stood still for a moment, savoring it and hating it's intrusion all at once. Stepping into the living area, I saw why it was so quiet – she was curled up on the sofa, one hand tucked under her face, asleep. The tree was lit up- but it was the only source of light in the room, casting it's cheerful glow on the floor. I glanced at the expanse of rug in front of the tree, my mind filled with images of what I had done to her on it last night- and what she had done to me. My chest tightened for a moment and I felt the heat of tears behind my eyes. I sank to the floor, taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself before I woke her.

I wanted to wake her- I wanted to sit with her hands in my hair like a small child and tell her everything. I wanted to trust that she would stay once I did. But everything in me screamed that she wouldn't. No one else had – why would she? Why would she want to be with a man who couldn't face the thought of having children for fear that history could repeat itself? A man who was putting someone else above her? I sat, watching her even breaths, terror freezing me to the spot. Wanting her to wake- and take the decision out of my hands, wanting her to sleep so I didn't have to face these fears. I sat, unable to move, unable to tear my eyes away. Wanting.

I had to lace my trembling hands together- for fear that they would touch her on their own, tuck the stray hairs behind her ear and trace along her small face, across the high cheekbones and along the slightly turned up nose that was possibly my favorite feature of hers. I stayed perfectly still for a moment, almost shaking with the effort of it. I tried to regulate my breathing to match hers, even and steady, not shuddering and rasping like they had been. When the pattern of my breaths matched hers, I felt a sense of peace invade my heart. It was a feeling I had shied away from at first- but now I was slowly becoming accustomed to.

She had terrified me in the beginning. I never expected to stumble across the compact package of everything I wanted. Not yet- not ever, even. But Fate- or whatever you called it- had a different plan. Yesterday- when we had been in church together, I had listened to the priest's words with avid interest. I had never been very much of a good Catholic – too preoccupied with hiding my mother's affliction from the world as a child – she had stopped attending church the day she felt like their faces were watching her – judging her. The priest had spoken not only about the birth of Christ but the rebirth that would come later. I of course, knew the stories – from being a child, from things I had read in my adulthood – but to hear someone place their confidence in an event that they would not witness- and would never know when it was coming- it had made me wonder. I didn't really believe – but I understood why other people did. Placing trust in the theory that someone else was in control, that everything was done for a reason, even if we didn't see it – it was comforting. Like a parent telling a small child everything would be fine even if it wouldn't. Even if they didn't know – they gave the words as a source of comfort.

Growing up the way I had- I couldn't place faith in or take comfort from the idea that it all had been part of someone's plan. But with Alex's arrival in my life, I often found myself wondering. What if she had transferred to Vice in the new year? She had told me one day – that was what she had originally intended, but her father had convinced her to dive in immediately. If she hadn't listened to him- I wouldn't have met her – and it made me wonder how that one small decision on her part would have affected me, without me ever knowing. Thoughts like that made me wish I could believe. Made me wish that she had been sent here- and I could know that she was for me. I sighed softly, the air stirring the strands of hair over her face. She shifted and mumbled, and I could see the signs that she was waking. I sat frozen, my mind still telling me I had time to run, but my body remaining immobile – unable to flee.

"Bobby?" Her voice was soft and thick with sleep. She blinked once, pushing up slightly as her eyes opened and became alert, traveling across my face. I hated to think of what she saw there- the exhaustion and pain written there clearly. I tensed waiting for the inevitable, the probing questions that would be like a finger pushing into an open wound. She slid off the couch, her body falling to the floor with an unnatural grace. She smiled softly, but she didn't open her mouth or even say anything. She just reached her tiny hands out, pulling me forward, into her embrace. As she cradled my head against her shoulder, her hands ran through my hair and she seemed to rock slightly. I sat still for a moment, still tense, still waiting for the questions. "It's all right Bobby. It will be all right." Her voice was a soft breath against my ear, her tone the soothing lie told to a child.

But I wrapped my arms around her small frame, and felt the pressure , the tension break at her words. I wanted to believe them so badly – that I did the unthinkable. I let myself. I let myself burrow my face into her neck as I struggled for control. I let her hands run over my head and back and I let myself sink into her as she murmured in my ear. I let my tightly wound control go, and I held onto her, praying that she would pull me through. I felt my breathing grow irregular, and felt the hot wetness pressed into her soft skin. Through it all, she didn't move, she didn't get uncomfortable, she just sat with me, silently attending to a wound she did not know.

When I could finally breathe again, I felt lighter- free from the ever present guilt that pressed me down. I looked away from her, not wanting to see her face, not wanting to have to hear the inevitable judgements. But her hands, cool against my heated skin, turned me towards her. When my eyes met hers, I was surprised to see only concern and perhaps something warmer within them. Her hands ran along the sides of my face and she stretched up, pressing a kiss to my forehead gently. She smoothed the hair there back, before taking my hand in hers and standing, pulling me up. She paused to turn out the lights and the room plunged into darkness, but she pulled on my hand again, pulling me through it.

In the bedroom, she slipped under the covers, and I followed her, shedding my cloths, and shedding the events of my day with it. I wrapped my arms around her, watching her face in the pale moonlight with wonder. She hadn't asked. Hadn't blinked. Part of my mind felt a little bereft that she hadn't- but the relief outweighed it.

"When you're ready Bobby- you can tell me. Until then, I'll just be here. Waiting." She snuggled deeper into my arms as her whisper reached me, and I lay on my back, my arms around her and the wind knocked out of me. She didn't not ask because she didn't want to know- she didn't ask because she knew I wouldn't be forced. I felt my heart beat in an irregular pattern, a quick quick slow step. My arm pulled her closer, and I felt her lips brush the skin above my heart, and I knew. That I had to tell her- that I had to risk the loss, because complete trust was a part of this foreign feeling causing my heart to change it's rhythm. But for right now- until that time came, she would be here. As I closed my eyes and became still and silent, I could feel the vibration of her heart beat against my skin. And it was an echo of my own.