Chapter Twelve

July 23, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway – 9:12 a.m.

Her room. Her bed. Eames lay but inches away from him, in repose. Her face appeared relaxed. He fought the urge to touch her again, like he'd touched her last night.

He watched her ribcage rhythmically rise and fall in even increments. Perhaps she was finally free from the night terrors that had disturbed both of their sleeping patterns several times during the night.

Over the past week, the trials they'd faced as individuals were enough to warrant professional psychological services for life. Eames had been forcefully subjected to cruel and unusual treatment at the hands of a fledgling killer, and abducted to a place where she understand that she was to be killed. Strung up by her limbs like prey, in a room where she could hear every awful sound that reverberated out of the "killing chamber," Eames had been completely conscious of her surrounding, all the while being bound and gagged in an adjacent queue, waiting for the first victim to die.

And while there was no reason to compare their unfortunate experiences, Goren too had suffered a harsh form of psychological torment.

With the ordeal behind them, he closed his eyes as his mind waded through the events from last night.

As he recalled, their first meeting, post-abduction, had been grossly impeded. Not only because Eames had been heavily sedated, but rather because the hospital could not provide the privacy necessary for the kind of intimacy their reunion deserved. Therefore, not long after they'd crossed Eames' threshold, and when they felt as if they could finally lower their guards –

"Eames, I uh, I never thought I'd see you again, you know uh, see you alive."

". . . and of course, I, I thought of you. I couldn't bear it. And at one point, I was afraid for Sebastian. Afraid you'd do something rash. Afraid of what you'd do after all was said and done. Worried about what would happen to you. I-I - "

That's when it happened: when the pain outweighed his tentativeness about how to rationally deal with the situation. Listening to his heart, he swept in for no other reason than: it felt right. And for fuck's sake, he needed her now, perhaps as much as she needed him.

This was his Eames, deconstructing in front of him. And it's not that he didn't expect to see her break-down, but rather his discomfiture came from understanding that she was a private person, and that falling apart in front of anyone, even her partner, would pain her.

Gripping her shaking body, he became overwhelmed by their shared pain. He tightened his grip around her overcome by sadness and regret, while several thoughts wildly flashed inside his skull: the private conversation he'd shared with Jack McCoy, and regret over what could have been. Regret because there had been no time, no goddamned time in the last week, month or year, to tell her how he felt.

He felt her tears and warm breath through his shirt. Suddenly afraid that he might be crushing her, he released her when he was certain that he could perceive what appeared to be a muffled voice working against the center of his chest.

And then there was the awkwardness of height.

He never liked the fact that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, so he gently guided her to the sofa.

"Eames," he spoke softly, his right hand stroking her back and shoulders, back and forth in a repetitive motion.

He was trying to calm her, while at the same time holding back his own need to touch her everywhere. This was Eames, and she was here: present and alive, i.e., in a state he'd only dreamed and prayed she'd be in since receiving the text message from "Sebastian."

The tears continued to silently stream down her cheeks, gravity forcing each lone droplet over her lovely high cheekbones; her eyes shining brightly in the low lighting of her living area.

"Eames," he spoke just above a whisper, his right hand brushing a tear from the hollow of her left cheek, "please. Please let me get you something. Uh, can I convince you to eat?"

She raised her right eyebrow in thought before nodding slowly.

Within ten minutes, he heated up pasta; courtesy of her family, who had stopped by earlier in the day to help him stock Eames' refrigerator.

They ate on her couch. She nibbled, while he attacked his plate. Discovering after only a few bites that he was starving.

He finished his plate and was just starting to consider going for seconds, when Eames' voice cut through the his thoughts.

"You should get more."

"Your mom's pasta is, uh, it's really good."

"She was always good with comfort food."

"My mom wasn't half bad either, she too, uh, made a mean pasta. But it was a marinara sauce with seafood, not the uh, meatball, or land animal variety," Goren pushed a stray noodle across his mostly empty plate.

"Go get more," Eames smiled, nudging him, "I like watching you eat."

"Really?" Goren chuckled, "that's not what most of my exes would say about me."

"And what would they say?"

"He launders and folds clothes neatly and is a amazing in the sack, so I think I'll keep him around," he managed with a straight face.

"Get seconds before I change my mind," Eames snorted.

It was heartwarming to see her smile, to watch her eyes sparkle with the same luster they'd had before the abduction.


While she showered and prepared for bed, he did the dishes.

Settling himself on the couch, he leaned in towards the short hallway that lead to her room and asked her if she needed anything.

He fell asleep reading an article about the Golden Gate bridge: one which detailed several theories on why more people commit suicide from the San Francisco suspension bridge than from any other bridge in the world.

A little after one a.m., he awoke when he heard her first night terror. Edging himself off the couch, he went in to her room to reassure her. And with each passing hour, he fought the all-powerful urge to keep touching her, stroking her hair, running his fingertips down the length of her arm, or spine, or fuck, it didn't matter.

And in all honesty, this time his need to touch had less to do with any generic sexual appetite, and more to do with the sheer wonder associated with knowing that together, they'd escaped a dreadful fate.

A fate that would have sent him running for the Golden Gate, or shit - why go that far? The Verrazano-Narrows was but a stone's throw away in comparison.

Indeed, in an alternative universe on this very night, Eames could be spending the night under the fluorescents of the ME's office. But for now, he lay beside her, watching the soothing rhythms of her respirations.

So when the time was right of course, and if Eames would entertain his thought, Goren devised to ask her if he could continue laying beside her for the length of her natural life.