I'm back! Writer's block... may it never happen to you. *makes a face* Read
and review-I'm still taking names! *grin* Sylphide, Sunset, RiverStar,
ylanissima, Madame Isabel, Kathryn Janeway, Gin, Amanda, thank you!!!
Goren was done his work, but he was not bored like usual and Eames was nowhere in sight. He kept staring hard at the closed door to Deakins's office, trying to see past it, but he had no special sight-at least not in his eyes-and the door stayed shut all afternoon.
So he hovered around his desk, looking foolish and feeling miserably awry, until early in the evening when the station was quiet. Goren was ready to get up and go, seeing the last person leave, when he saw Eames standing close to the doorway.
"Eames," he called softly, "do you want a ride..." He trailed off as he glimpsed her face: she wore the same pale, pained expression as Deakins. "Eames?"
"Goren." She swallowed something and tried to smile. "I'm taking the train, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Hey-" He caught her arm as she stepped outside, and they stood shivering on the front steps. "Deakins can shut himself up in his office, but you can't. What's going on?"
Eames had closed her eyes at the mention of Deakins's name, and now she blinked furiously a couple of times. "I talked to his secretary," she finally said in a flat voice. "Olivia died just a few hours ago."
"...Olivia? Deakins's daughter, Olivia?" This was making no sense. "She's dead?"
"Sudden infant death syndrome. The doctors still can't explain it." Eames sounded like she was reporting a case, stating the facts, but suddenly she broke down. "She was only three days old!"
Bewildered and helpless, Goren awkwardly put a hand on her shoulder and then an arm, letting her weep; Eames, unable to fight back the tears in her eyes, had never felt so alone.
The night that followed was long and terrible. Eames, shaking with sheer exhaustion, curled up on her couch and tried to sleep, only to be woken by nightmares that left her wailing like a child. When the morning sun slanted through the windows she was lying motionless, staring blindly into the darkness with wide eyes.
She was dazed and drowsy that day, incoherent to the point of babbling. Goren, after seeing her frustrated to the point of tears over trying to write a short report, knelt by her desk. "Go home," he said unceremoniously, his voice gruff. "You're useless here. Try and get some sleep."
"I can't." Eames buried her face in her hands; her voice was strangled. "I can't sleep... every time I go to sleep I hear her crying, and then I see her dead in her crib..."
"Do you have any sleeping pills?" When she didn't answer, Goren lightly touched her face. "Do you have somebody to talk to?"
Eames still said nothing, but looked at him with haunted eyes. She could see that Goren wanted to help, badly, but he didn't understand. It was merely a sad fact of life for him that Olivia died; a terrible tragedy, but not his personal loss. He didn't understand that something of her subject's soul went into every drawing she did, and that for one afternoon she had known Olivia, and loved her, more than anyone else around her.
"Eames." Goren's voice brought her out of her stupor. "I'll take you home, if you want-"
"It's all right, I'll stay," she answered quickly. "I need to work."
Goren nodded slowly, looking at her, and Eames suddenly got the feeling that he did understand after all-a feeling both disconcerting and reassuring.
That evening, Eames did not try to make herself forget by watching TV or reading. She sat down at her kitchen table and opened her sketchbook, flipping through the pages until she reached her last piece of work-the painting of Olivia, done only two days ago.
She stayed seated for a long time, absorbing the details of the drawing, memorizing each tint of colour and shade of shadow. She gazed into the bright eyes and traced the outline of a tiny hand with one fingertip. Then she rose to her feet and rummaged around in a drawer, fishing for a pair of scissors.
Returning to the table, she carefully cut the picture out of the sketchbook and stuffed it into her bag. The sketchbook was tucked away out of sight, the scissors returned to their place.
That night, Eames fell into a long, peaceful, and dreamless sleep and did not wake up until the next morning.
Goren was done his work, but he was not bored like usual and Eames was nowhere in sight. He kept staring hard at the closed door to Deakins's office, trying to see past it, but he had no special sight-at least not in his eyes-and the door stayed shut all afternoon.
So he hovered around his desk, looking foolish and feeling miserably awry, until early in the evening when the station was quiet. Goren was ready to get up and go, seeing the last person leave, when he saw Eames standing close to the doorway.
"Eames," he called softly, "do you want a ride..." He trailed off as he glimpsed her face: she wore the same pale, pained expression as Deakins. "Eames?"
"Goren." She swallowed something and tried to smile. "I'm taking the train, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Hey-" He caught her arm as she stepped outside, and they stood shivering on the front steps. "Deakins can shut himself up in his office, but you can't. What's going on?"
Eames had closed her eyes at the mention of Deakins's name, and now she blinked furiously a couple of times. "I talked to his secretary," she finally said in a flat voice. "Olivia died just a few hours ago."
"...Olivia? Deakins's daughter, Olivia?" This was making no sense. "She's dead?"
"Sudden infant death syndrome. The doctors still can't explain it." Eames sounded like she was reporting a case, stating the facts, but suddenly she broke down. "She was only three days old!"
Bewildered and helpless, Goren awkwardly put a hand on her shoulder and then an arm, letting her weep; Eames, unable to fight back the tears in her eyes, had never felt so alone.
The night that followed was long and terrible. Eames, shaking with sheer exhaustion, curled up on her couch and tried to sleep, only to be woken by nightmares that left her wailing like a child. When the morning sun slanted through the windows she was lying motionless, staring blindly into the darkness with wide eyes.
She was dazed and drowsy that day, incoherent to the point of babbling. Goren, after seeing her frustrated to the point of tears over trying to write a short report, knelt by her desk. "Go home," he said unceremoniously, his voice gruff. "You're useless here. Try and get some sleep."
"I can't." Eames buried her face in her hands; her voice was strangled. "I can't sleep... every time I go to sleep I hear her crying, and then I see her dead in her crib..."
"Do you have any sleeping pills?" When she didn't answer, Goren lightly touched her face. "Do you have somebody to talk to?"
Eames still said nothing, but looked at him with haunted eyes. She could see that Goren wanted to help, badly, but he didn't understand. It was merely a sad fact of life for him that Olivia died; a terrible tragedy, but not his personal loss. He didn't understand that something of her subject's soul went into every drawing she did, and that for one afternoon she had known Olivia, and loved her, more than anyone else around her.
"Eames." Goren's voice brought her out of her stupor. "I'll take you home, if you want-"
"It's all right, I'll stay," she answered quickly. "I need to work."
Goren nodded slowly, looking at her, and Eames suddenly got the feeling that he did understand after all-a feeling both disconcerting and reassuring.
That evening, Eames did not try to make herself forget by watching TV or reading. She sat down at her kitchen table and opened her sketchbook, flipping through the pages until she reached her last piece of work-the painting of Olivia, done only two days ago.
She stayed seated for a long time, absorbing the details of the drawing, memorizing each tint of colour and shade of shadow. She gazed into the bright eyes and traced the outline of a tiny hand with one fingertip. Then she rose to her feet and rummaged around in a drawer, fishing for a pair of scissors.
Returning to the table, she carefully cut the picture out of the sketchbook and stuffed it into her bag. The sketchbook was tucked away out of sight, the scissors returned to their place.
That night, Eames fell into a long, peaceful, and dreamless sleep and did not wake up until the next morning.