A/N: Holy shit, you should have seen my first draft for this chapter. It was truly horrible! After writing 5000 words, I went back and erased 3000 of them and started again - ending up with what you see here. Mayyyybe another chapter tonight, if I have insomnia like I did yesterday...
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Goren was still sitting at his desk when she emerged from Deakins's office. When he caught sight of her, he pushed his chair back, stood, and walked to meet her, whispering, "What did he say?"
She shook her head and tried to walk past him. "Don't ask."
He took a step to the side, still blocking her path. "Tell me."
"No way." Hardly pausing, she braced her hand on his chest and pushed, forcing him backwards a step. "You don't need any more information about this, you're agitated enough already."
"I'm not agitated!" he said loudly.
The room took on a hushed quality as everyone looked to see what the unflappable Goren was yelling about. Eames looked up at him and smirked. "Sure you're not."
Dropping both his voice and his head, he growled, "Alex."
She crossed her arms and looked at him unwaveringly. "I'm not giving you any more ammunition."
"Ammu- what?" he asked incredulously.
Glancing around at the interested faces that still surrounded them, she picked up his portfolio and her laptop and grabbed his arm, dragging him from the room. When they were in the less populated area to the side of the elevators, she put down the computer and portfolio and grabbed his tie, pulling his face down to hers. "I'm tired, I'm frustrated, and I'm feeling persecuted. Don't mess with me today. Got it?"
Carefully pulling his tie out of her hand, he straightened up. "I don't want to mess with you. I just want to talk to you."
"Not tonight."
"You seemed eager to discuss it this morning," he pointed out.
"That was before I had another terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."
"At least you have a sense of humor about it," he began, recognizing the title of a children's book in her words. "That's - ow!" He pulled his foot out from under heeled boot and shuffled back a step. "Ok, you're stressed," he admitted.
"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms angrily, "and guess whose fault that is?"
"I'd be happy to play your punching bag if you'll just let me talk to you tonight."
"No." She stabbed at the down button next to the elevator.
"Eames," he pleaded as the elevator doors opened.
She shoved his portfolio at him and repeated, "No," then retreated into the elevator, holding down the door closed button until the doors moved together and she couldn't see his stricken face any longer. When she was sure he couldn't see her, she sagged back against the wall and let out the breath she'd been holding.
Why did he have to do this to her? After last night, she knew that if they got together outside of work, things would happen. He'd be flippant and forget about them by the next day, and she'd be left feeling used and pathetic.
Definitely not her idea of a good night.
But she could still picture the sincere look on his face as the elevator doors had closed. What if he really did just want to make things right?
No, she told herself; if he needed to explain himself, he could do it over lunch during the day or something. It would be just as convenient, and that way he couldn't get close enough to make her lose her head.
Last night had not only been aggravating, it had been embarrassing. The hide-your-face, never-speak-of-this-again kind of embarrassing. He'd known. He'd known that if he kissed her, she'd be too distracted to question the motives for his earlier insults any further. And he'd played her like a violin to get things the way he wanted them.
Sometimes she really hated working with someone who might as well be psychic.
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Goren watched the elevators doors close in front of him as he tried to figure out what had just happened. Her reaction to his first question hadn't really been angry, it had just been brisk. When he'd stepped in front of her, he'd known it would piss her off, but he was used to dealing with a mildly pissed off Eames. What he hadn't expected was her sudden explosion into fury.
What he whispered to her before leaving last night had not only been correct, it had been an understatement. She was far beyond being angry with him; he was pretty sure she was approaching true rage. What had he done to set off this explosion?
Well, he knew what he'd done, but he'd considered the ramifications of a kiss before doing it, and nothing had indicated that it would damage their already-strained relationship. He'd figured that the physical contact would break through their barrier of silence; whether she welcomed his touch or not, the cat would be out of the bag and they would no longer have to pretend they didn't know what was going on.
But things were worse now. In the time between last night and this morning, she must have spun the events into some kind of evil plan on his part. That had to be it; why else wouldn't she be willing to at least yell at him about it?
She probably thought that he had plotted the whole thing carefully, that he had had ulterior motives for kissing her. That he was pulling her strings like a marionette. He groaned.
Sometimes he hated having people think he was smarter than he actually was.
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Later, Alex lay on her couch with a book in her hands, staring sightlessly at the pages. She'd been on the same paragraph for an hour; every time she got to the end of it, her phone would ring as it was doing now. She set the book down on top of her leg and looked at the portable phone's caller ID display.
Bobby again.
She picked up the book and returned her eyes to the beginning of the paragraph she'd been working on.
Her answering machine beeped. "I know you're home, Alex," Goren's tinny voice told her. "Pick up the phone. You think things are worse than they are. Pick up and talk to me so I can-" His plea was cut off by a strident beep indicating that his time was up.
That was the fourth message he'd left on her machine tonight. Most of them said essentially the same things: he was sorry, he wanted to talk to her, she was overreacting.
She didn't want to believe him. Her anger felt strangely comforting. She didn't get to wallow enough in her life, she decided, and now she was taking advantage of the opportunity. Besides, Goren deserved it for manipulating her. With a sigh, she told herself to get over it and returned to her book.
The next time the phone rang, she didn't bother checking the caller ID; she just listened for the beep.
Beep... "It's me again," his voice said. "I . . . you're obviously avoiding my calls. I just wanted to . . . I need to talk to you. I think I gave you the wrong impression about the-" Beep!
Immediately, the phone rang again. Beep... "The machine cut me off. Please call me, Eames. I think I gave you the wrong impression about what happened last night. I need to explain. You can can me at home or on my cell." He beat the beep this time. She imagined he felt pleased with himself.
He really did sound concerned, she thought. Maybe she should . . .
No! She was in the right here, she reminded herself. It was Goren's responsibility to fix this. She stared down at her book, determined to pay attention to it this time.
To her relief, the phone was silent for almost half an hour before ringing again. She had managed to turn a page in the book and get into the story, and when the phone's ring split the air, she jumped in surprise. Lowering the book, she eyed the caller ID. Not Goren's number, she noted when the sequence appeared on the screen. He had probably stooped to calling from a pay phone. She raised the book again, listening with half an ear for what Goren would whine this time.
Instead, she heard a different voice. "Alex? You home? It's Logan." A pause. "It's a work night. I bet you're home and just refusing to answer. I'm not Goren, ok? Pick up!"
Dropping the book, she dove to grab the phone before the machine hung up on her caller. "Hello?"
"Alex," his surprised voice said. "I was just about to hang up."
"Sorry. I've been getting . . . crank calls."
Crank calls named Robert Goren, Logan thought to himself. "If you say so," he told her tolerantly. "You interested in why I'm calling when you're probably already in bed?"
"Hey, why not. Why are you calling, Mike?" she dutifully asked.
"I heard you had an interesting last few minutes at One PP today."
She groaned. "Great, like I needed more office gossip circulating about me."
"Sorry. I did try to sound like I didn't believe it when someone told me what happened."
"What, exactly, did they tell you?"
Ah, he'd gotten her hooked now. "Two things. First, you bitched out Deakins about something or other. Gossip varies on what the topic was. Second, you nearly ripped Goren's head off a few minutes later. True?" he questioned.
"True, I guess," she said tiredly. "Although I wouldn't have put it in those words. Besides, the Deakins thing was as much your fault as mine."
"My fault? What'd I do?"
"He wanted me to explain what happened yesterday, which I expected. What threw me off was when he asked if you were the one who picked a fight with me, then asked what I was doing alone with you in the bathroom."
"I take it you denied the allegations?"
"I didn't curse at him, but it was close."
"Well, that's something."
"I guess." Deciding that this discussion called for something more than a romance novel and a couch, she went into the kitchen and pulled out the bottle of vodka she rarely used.
"What's that noise?" Logan asked as her glass clinked against the counter.
"I've been reduced to boozing," she said with a hint of irony. "Vodka and cranberry, here I come."
"Poor girl," he said with a chuckle. "You want some company?"
She suddenly flashed back to the last time she'd gotten really drunk:
It had been at the department Christmas party a year or two ago. Everyone expected to you to get blitzed at those things, and she'd been vaguely depressed about having only her family to go home to on the holiday, so she'd accepted all the drinks she was offered. By the end of the party, she'd been clinging to Goren, who'd taken note of the fact that she couldn't walk straight and appointed himself her guardian for the night.
He'd even danced with her once before turning her over to Deakins. Her dance with Deakins had been cut short, though, as the captain executed a flashy turn and Alex's stomach chose that moment to rebel. She'd left him on the dance floor and run for the bathroom. A few minutes later, Bobby had walked nonchalantly into the ladies room, smiled at two shocked women standing at the sinks, and stretched out his arm to unlock the door to the stall Alex was in.
She must have looked beyond pathetic, she knew. Her once-chic outfit was wrinkled and stained with the remains of a drink she'd spilled a few hours earlier. Her hair had slipped out of its french twist and hung down in her face every time she stopped holding it back with her hand. She'd been hunched over the toilet for fifteen minutes, wanting to die and yet knowing that things would be ok because . . .
"Eames?" he said, crouching down behind and slightly to the side of her. One of his large hands ran up her back, rubbing it soothingly. "How do you feel?"
Her response had been to groan and lay her head on the toilet seat. Amazing how she suddenly didn't care how dirty the thing was, now that it was her lifeline.
"That good, huh," he said with quiet humor. "I'll be right back." He'd stolen a nearly empty garbage bag out of one of the cans and brought it to her. "Hold this. I'm going to stand you up."
She'd passively allowed him to hoist her to her feet, where she swayed for a few seconds, swallowing convulsively. "I think I'm . . . ok," she'd finally managed. "Does the captain -"
"Taken care of," he assure her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I made your excuses. Feel up to walking out to my car?"
She'd nodded. "Get me out of here."
He'd bent down then to look into her eyes. "It happens to the best of us," he said reassuringly as he guided her out of the bathroom and then out of the building.
The ride to her apartment had been silent, as Alex clutched the trash bag and Bobby kept one eye on her and one eye on the road. He'd walked her up to her door and she'd expected him to leave her there, but he'd followed her inside, settling her on the couch with a garbage can by her side.
"I'm ok," she mumbled, not sure why he was still there.
"Well," he'd said in his understated way, "I'm going to stay with you a while, if you don't mind. I want to make sure you stay ok."
Of course she hadn't minded. In fact, it was almost like being a child again - sick on the couch, covered by a warm blanket, a warm hand and caring voice perched on the edge next to her, soothing her, offering her water . . .
She'd fallen asleep some time between two and three, and when she woke up the next afternoon, royally hung-over, he'd been gone. All that was left was a note on the end table by her head, telling her that he figured she'd be ok without him now, but to call him if she needed him.
She'd spent the rest of that day curled up on the couch, occasionally re-reading the note and trying to extract some hint of affection or comfort from it.
"Alex?" Logan's voice cut into her thoughts. "You there?"
She blinked. "Huh? Sorry."
"I asked you if you wanted some drinking company."
"Oh, uh . . ." She was suddenly hit by a need to see Bobby, he of the warm hands and soothing voice. "Thanks, but no," she told Logan quickly. "Listen, I have to go."
There was a pause. "Are you ok?" he asked after a few seconds.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just . . . have to go do something. Talk to you later." She hung up, cutting off his answer, and swung around to face the rest of the kitchen. What did she have in stock?