BOBBY
He doesn't know where to begin and even that wonderful phrase from Alice in Wonderland - "Begin at the beginning and when you get to the end, stop" – doesn't help here. After all, where is the beginning? Is the beginning one year and nine months ago when Alex started off on this journey that's brought her to where they now are? Or does it begin before that, with a bundle of cells that some say are too insignificant to be called a life?
Bobby doesn't know the details of his partner's abortion – it wouldn't, after all, be something he would inquire about in polite (or even impolite) conversation. He simply knows that she had one and that, given it all to do over again, she'd make the same choice because she stands firmly by her decision as the right one for her to make at the time. That's Alex – tough as nails and absolutely unyielding once she makes her mind up about something.
And yet what did that decision cost her? Not in time, or money, or physical well being, but in general? What part of herself did she lose with that bundle of cells and how does it compare to what she gave up for her sister's new baby?
Bobby has more questions than answers – a rare circumstance for him - and yet instead of asking her anything, somehow his mouth begins to form words that tell her what's been on his mind as the anniversary of Delivery Day crept closer.
"You know, I was thinking today about the last case I worked with Bishop while you were on leave."
Her brows knit in confusion but also with polite interest and she says, "The one with the computer games?"
He gives a small nod and continues aimlessly with his story, not really sure where he's going, but somehow finding the words springing to his lips with ease as he stares straight ahead, avoiding her eyes and temporarily lost in the memory. "When we started, we thought we were investigating the murder of a woman involved in a ring of credit card fraud. When we dug a little deeper, we traced everything back to an online video game and its designers, Jack and Neil… They were friends and…"
He brings his right hand up towards his mouth the way he does when he's turning a thought over in his head, running the knuckles over his lips as he leaves the last sentence unfinished and picks up a new thread. "I thought I was getting somewhere and…" He trails off for a moment, then starts up again: "Croyden…"
"Croyden?" Alex interrupts. She looks a bit concerned. "Bobby, Croyden's dead."
"I know," he meets her gaze briefly. "It was a guy just like him – behind on his child support, ignoring his wife and kids…"
"Oh," is all she says and, just as he knew that she would, he can see she understands. Without his telling her, she knows exactly how he behaved and how far over the line he stepped. She knows because she's been there with him before. Their history is in her "oh" and she doesn't have to say any more.
Bobby gives a rueful half-smile. "It took me a minute to see the similarities in the two cases."
"Only a minute?" she repeats, eyebrows raised in a clear indication that she knows a lie when she hears it. She is not judging, but she won't let him circumvent the truth either.
"You would have seen it right away," he looks down at the floor again, knuckles resuming their absent pacing against his mouth.
He hesitates before telling her the next part, not knowing how much to reveal. He doesn't feel comfortable telling her that by the time she'd given birth he'd already gone through more emotions towards her than he owned pairs of socks. He'd experienced everything from frustration at her absence and the stifling presence of Detective Bishop, anger at the fact that Alex had seemingly abandoned him, jealousy that she had something she considered bigger and more important than anything else – him included - pride that she was willing to take such a huge leap of faith, overwhelming guilt at being angry with her in the first place, and all possible shades of gray in between. And yet his emotions are as much a part of the story as those that motivated Neil Colby, the murderer in the story he's begun to tell. In fact, for a few moments while conducting the investigation, he'd even found himself empathizing with the man. He'd understood the anger and desperation and, while he isn't sure if he could have stooped to murder, he too had needed an outlet for his feelings. A paper wad hurled at Alex's empty chair had served well enough in a split second of weakness, but had he been out of the office, Bobby isn't sure what might have happened.
While he's wrestling with his thoughts, however, words take shape on his tongue, negotiating smoothly past his indecision and falling into the air between he and his partner. Still staring in the direction of the coffee table, he says: "I looked at Bishop and I got it. She agreed that we should go after this guy - she thought we were on the right track."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alex's eyebrows raise in question and turns to face her. "And that's when I realized… I realized she wasn't you."
"Thank you – I think," Alex tries to lighten the moment with a bit of sarcasm and he can tell he's verbally crossed some invisible line between them, the line that divides their spoken and unspoken feelings and their working and personal lives. Tonight, however, it seems somehow all right – appropriate even – and despite her uncomfortable response, Bobby can tell that Alex doesn't mind. She even seems flattered.
He gives her a small smile and shakes his head. "Once I saw that, I understood every pathological emotion Neil had acted on. He was… desperate. He missed his partner – he missed what they'd had and he wanted it back. Jack was the only audience he worried about pleasing, the only opinion he'd ever trusted. Without him, Neil felt… lost. Vulnerable." His voice has grown much softer now and he's resumed looking at the coffee table, knuckles resting against his bottom lip but no longer moving.
"I understood the case then because I understood him. I understood the desperation of yearning for something you've lost and you fear you'll never get back."
He finishes with a whoosh of air from his chest and is afraid to look at her for a moment, afraid that he's said too much in his leap over that unspoken boundary in their relationship that keeps them categorized safely under the title "friends from work." He is therefore stunned when he peeks nervously at her from the corner of his eye and sees that silent tears are running down her face and she's making no effort to stop them.
"Eames?" he asks softly – very softly.
"It hurts, Bobby," she manages to say. "It hurts so much…"
The questions all spring back into his mind now – all still without answers – and yet somehow his body knows how to silence them. His mind holds him back briefly, protesting against the unfamiliar act he is preparing to perform, but his hesitation is swept carelessly aside as he slides across the couch and gathers her into his arms.