Set in season 8.
(Notes from Bobby's binder:)
If half of all females are sexually molested before their eighteenth birthday, then half are not.
If half the girls who are molested show signs of trauma for the rest of their lives, then half do not.
/
He was making her coffee.
She could hear him out there in his cold little kitchen, grinding beans, measuring water and clattering around with the drip machine, humming (humming!) while he busied himself making her a morning cup.
(so strong, so sweet, so hot … )
He was making her a morning cup of coffee before going to work.
But not before tugging her into wakefulness with only the gentle strength of his gaze. Not before bathing her in fairy kisses, washing her with puffs of breath everywhere, with little brushes of his lips and tiny endearments.
(strong, sweet, hot)
Not before being sure to fill her completely with her own deliciousness.
She didn't feel even a little bit like hiding her smile.
(strong, sweet, hot … )
She didn't feel even a little bit like disagreeing with him.
She said, I could definitely get used to this.
So here she was, in Bobby's bed with his eiderdown pulled up to her nose and both eyes determinedly pressed shut against the pale early light, stretching her legs into the spot he'd vacated, absorbing his heat. Listening to him in the kitchen.
Just thinking about this, right then and there, entirely unclothed in his bed in the early morning.
Allowing herself to absorb his warmth.
Allowing herself to bask in his devotion.
And allowing herself to simply acknowledge this plain truth -
He was scared, too.
Of course, he'd seen it right away. He closed his door against the bitter cold and everything else out there and leaned against it. His back against his door, Glock in his hand, staring.
Staring.
"I'm sorry, Bobby. I should've called first," she started apologizing, her bag bulging against her hip.
So many things. So much stuff.
She gathered herself with a quick frown. "I know it was my decision that we, that it had to be like this," and she paused.
A lame non-answer to a pretty direct question.
"What are you doing here?"
She wasn't sure how to explain. Where to begin.
It took a healthy dose of discipline, but she did not scratch her nose.
She looked anywhere but at him.
Even at this ungodly hour, she'd interrupted him reading. A stack piled on the floor, Modern Genetic Analysis on top. There on the seat of the chair, a slim, worn copy of The Mysterious Stranger, a Smithsonian draped over the arm.
Water in a tall glass and cherry tomatoes in a small dish on the side table.
No stale cigarette-smoke-and-dirty-socks air. No pizza boxes.
Just Bobby, clean-shaven and barefoot, leaning with his back against his door and his Glock in his hand, clicking the safety back on.
I was wrong would be a good place to begin.
I can't stop feeling like I've made a mistake. Like this is a mistake. A healthy admission. Truthfulness. This would also be good.
How about, I'm scared?
Or, I love you.
She picked something less dramatic.
"I can't sleep."
He kept staring. She took a deep breath.
"I … . I miss you."
She could hear a clock somewhere, ticking.
"Ever since last summer, it's almost as though …"
He wasn't making it easy on her, leaning there, staring. Say something, she thought at him. He stared. She frowned, feeling conspicuous, self-conscious. Standing in the middle of his sitting room in her boots and coat, thinking that she'd maybe made a mistake.
She told him again, "I can't sleep. I miss you. I'm sorry to show up like this, I didn't mean to … I should have called."
Then she looked directly at him, into his guarded face, into his wary eyes. The door seemed so far away.
"I just keep going over and over that … just the way she looked and I keep thinking, what if there's no more time?" Then she scratched her nose, sighed, said, "And actually, I think that some wuh ... what?"
Because he'd pushed away from the door, given his head a little shake, then and broken into a boyish grin.
"You. You're ridiculous."
He put his weapon in its spot beside his shield. Then moved toward her, deliberately slowly, like he was afraid she might bolt.
She sagged a bit, her relief smoothing the line of her upper lip, undoing the hitch in her shoulders.
"What, did you think I wouldn't want you here?"
Her face belied her real uncertainty, and her embarrassment about it.
He's strong and he's a lot bigger than she is so it wasn't much for him to stoop a bit and wrap his arms around her and pick her up, bag and all, carry her to his bedroom.
"You're here. You know I'm not letting you leave again, right?"
/
"You think what?" He mumbled into her shoulder later on, and some of her hair was in his mouth and he was so happy.
"Hmm?"
"When you came in … 'you think some' … ?"
"Oh," she said, roused enough by the question to wiggle further down his body, snug in alongside him, scrambling a bit below their waists with one hand.
"Blanket, please."
He reached down and pulled it up to cover them.
She tensed herself up, stretched her toes, her back, her arms. Then released, relaxed, curled up against his side with her head resting on his arm. Feeling good, so good. Even his exposed armpit smelled clean and good. So like him. So comfortable.
So safe.
She sighed a little bit, rested her hand on his chest and he covered it with one of his. Then she said,
"Someone's been in my house."