I can't say thank you enough to everybody who has reviewed-you have all
been incredibly supportive and thoughtful, and I hope you get fantastic
reviews on each and every one of your own stories *very, very, very big
smile*. My grateful thanks to everyone!
The day was limpid and bright as Eames walked into the station, the sun just beginning to rise. Only a few people were in headquarters, scattered across the cluttered and crowded room.
Goren was waiting for her at their desk, his eyes dark with concern. He had spent a restless night worrying about her, and he anxiously searched her face for traces of anguish or fear. But instead of grief, a strange clarity was luminous in Eames's eyes. "Are you okay?"
"Better, thanks." Her smile was warm and genuine. "Just a second-" and she was walking steadily towards Deakins's office. Her partner rose to his feet, uncertain about whether to follow her, then slowly sat back down again.
Eames tested the handle on the door, then swung it open. Deakins was leaning against the wall, reading from a file stuffed with faxes, and he acknowledged her with the briefest of nods. "Yes, Detective?"
"Sir, I came to give you this." Eames started forward, pulling a loose sheet out of her bag, and held it out to him. "I did it a couple of days ago, and...and I thought you might like to have it."
Deakins raised his eyebrows, took the paper-the painting of Olivia-and gave it a quick glance before dropping his file folder and staring in amazement. Eames watched in alarm as he clutched the sheet in both hands, so hard it seemed ready to rip apart, and sunk into his chair with his eyes still riveted to the drawing.
Then Captain James Deakins did something Eames had never seen him do, nor ever saw him do again: he wept.
She retreated to the door and was about to slip back outside when Deakins choked out, "Wait... stop, Eames, don't go!" He composed himself with a steeled effort as she slowly edged towards the desk. "I... Sarah and I, we never took a picture of her... You don't know what this means to us..."
"I do," said Eames quietly. "I really think I do. Thank you, sir." And then she left, and rejoined Goren at their desk, who said nothing but gave her the shy half-smile that few people rarely saw.
"I did a new drawing this morning," Eames announced after a few minutes of silence.
"Let's see," said Goren instantly, watching as she drew the sketchbook out and handed it over to him. He skimmed the sheets and stopped on a certain page, the last one: it was a drawing of him, sitting at his desk with his feet propped up. Eames had used all of her skill to create the sketch, and it showed plainly; the sparkle of sharp humour, the smouldering rebellion, the keen intuition-all were evident.
Goren was briefly taken aback before he understood. He looked back up at Eames with eyes that said everything, and she smiled back at him.
It was going to be a good day.
The day was limpid and bright as Eames walked into the station, the sun just beginning to rise. Only a few people were in headquarters, scattered across the cluttered and crowded room.
Goren was waiting for her at their desk, his eyes dark with concern. He had spent a restless night worrying about her, and he anxiously searched her face for traces of anguish or fear. But instead of grief, a strange clarity was luminous in Eames's eyes. "Are you okay?"
"Better, thanks." Her smile was warm and genuine. "Just a second-" and she was walking steadily towards Deakins's office. Her partner rose to his feet, uncertain about whether to follow her, then slowly sat back down again.
Eames tested the handle on the door, then swung it open. Deakins was leaning against the wall, reading from a file stuffed with faxes, and he acknowledged her with the briefest of nods. "Yes, Detective?"
"Sir, I came to give you this." Eames started forward, pulling a loose sheet out of her bag, and held it out to him. "I did it a couple of days ago, and...and I thought you might like to have it."
Deakins raised his eyebrows, took the paper-the painting of Olivia-and gave it a quick glance before dropping his file folder and staring in amazement. Eames watched in alarm as he clutched the sheet in both hands, so hard it seemed ready to rip apart, and sunk into his chair with his eyes still riveted to the drawing.
Then Captain James Deakins did something Eames had never seen him do, nor ever saw him do again: he wept.
She retreated to the door and was about to slip back outside when Deakins choked out, "Wait... stop, Eames, don't go!" He composed himself with a steeled effort as she slowly edged towards the desk. "I... Sarah and I, we never took a picture of her... You don't know what this means to us..."
"I do," said Eames quietly. "I really think I do. Thank you, sir." And then she left, and rejoined Goren at their desk, who said nothing but gave her the shy half-smile that few people rarely saw.
"I did a new drawing this morning," Eames announced after a few minutes of silence.
"Let's see," said Goren instantly, watching as she drew the sketchbook out and handed it over to him. He skimmed the sheets and stopped on a certain page, the last one: it was a drawing of him, sitting at his desk with his feet propped up. Eames had used all of her skill to create the sketch, and it showed plainly; the sparkle of sharp humour, the smouldering rebellion, the keen intuition-all were evident.
Goren was briefly taken aback before he understood. He looked back up at Eames with eyes that said everything, and she smiled back at him.
It was going to be a good day.