He didn't leave. He wouldn't let himself. Walking out the door of her apartment would be severing whatever of their connection was left after the events of the last few days.
So he cleaned, thankful for once that Alex had a tendency to drop her clothes and books on the floor instead of putting them away.
He organized her living room, even squaring the edge of her couch perfectly with the wall and folding the afghan her mother had made into a neat military triangle. When he'd exhausted the possibilities of that room, he moved on to her bathroom, which was, unfortunately for him, nearly immaculate to begin with. He gave the counter and shower walls a thorough wipe-down and then, unable to find anything else that needed cleaning, he moved on to the kitchen.
He'd just cleaned this room all of two days ago, but he wasn't surprised to find that her counter had again become home to a host of dry goods. He put all of the boxes away in their correct cabinets, making sure they all faced the same direction. When he finished the counters, he found some Lysol and attacked her kitchen counters, scrubbing furiously at every drip or spot he could find. Then he swept the floor. He even took a Brillo pad to her sink, scouring away the stains and calcium deposits.
There still hadn't been a sound from her room. Nothing to indicate she was even awake, let alone willing to speak to him. When he finished the kitchen, he went and stood outside the bedroom door for a few minutes, repeatedly raising his had to knock and then losing his nerve. Then he just stood there with his hands at his sides, trying to will her to open the door. Still no movement from inside the room.
So he returned to the kitchen, took all the boxes out of the cabinets, and set about creating a new organizational scheme for the room. When he realized that his new system involved alphabetizing her groceries, he knew he'd lost what little sanity he'd had left after today's fight.
With a heavy sigh, he sat down at her kitchen table with his head in his hands.
How was he going to fix this?
She would have been completely within her rights to end the fight by knocking him out, rather than sending Logan home and leaving herself alone with her very angry, very jealous partner.
He'd gotten into enough fights in his younger days to know that when he was truly furious, people tended to run for cover. He was well aware that he just appeared too big to not be dangerous, even if he never made a move toward the person. He had almost never needed to actually throw a punch; just the threat of it had a strange way of making people back away and try to claim they'd been joking. And when he really lost his head and hit someone, he invariably woke up the next morning drowning in guilt, knowing that just the weight behind his punches usually left his opponents laid out flat, if not stumbling to the emergency room.
And yet Alex had, when it came down to it, consciously put herself in what she had to have known was a precarious situation. Rather than hiding behind Logan, she'd sent him away. She was probably aware that things were going to get worse before they got better, and he should have known that it was her nature to take whatever blows she needed to to protect those she cared about.
She'd seen him pissed in the past, even if she hadn't seen him in a fist fight. Any other woman, even if she was brave enough to be alone with him in such a situation in the first place, would probably have been double-checking that the snap on her gun's holster was open.
But she, all hundred pounds and sixty-two inches of her, had gone toe-to-toe with him and shouted into his face that he was a worthless idiot. No weapon other than her voice used, no weapon other than her voice needed. The reality of her rage had actually cowed him, regardless of her size, and he had backed down.
And then, still as infuriated as he'd ever seen her, she'd sat him down and checked him for injuries. Was that just the cop instinct, or did she do it because she was truly concerned?
He couldn't leave this apartment. At the very least, he needed to know how much damage he'd done today.
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Alex lay curled up in her bed, almost entirely covered by the pile of blankets she'd pulled over herself, wondering if he was still out there. It had been hours since she'd told him to leave - she'd been unable to stop herself from glancing at the clock every few minutes - and she was still torn between resignation and rage.
She'd stripped down to her underwear, which was her usual habit for a daytime nap, an hour ago, with the desperate hope that that it might trick her body into thinking it was really nap time, but now she was just cold in addition to being resigned, pissed, and still awake.
This whole thing had been Bobby's fault. He'd gone from plain old jealousy to dog-in-the-manger syndrome. He'd hit another man in her living room, for god's sake! At least she'd put a stop to that before some neighbor called 911; she couldn't think of anything worse than having to explain to Deakins why two male co-workers had been in her apartment fighting over her. "Why yes, sir, it's just that I'm such a prize. You know, we middle-aged female cops are in high demand . . ."
She punched her pillow. Why couldn't she get back to sleep? If she slept, she wouldn't have to think about this horrible day. She looked over at the clock again.
Only one minute had passed since she last checked. It was officially time to admit to herself that it just wasn't going to happen.
She rolled out of bed with a groan, realizing that it was approaching dinner time. Maybe she could find a recipe for something really complicated. Something French, maybe. Having to concentrate on not burning her dinner would probably distract her.
Shrugging on a half-length robe, she unlocked the bedroom door.
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He was still here, she realized a few minutes later with a hint of dread. She could see his elbow around the corner of the kitchen wall. She could tell he was sitting at the table, but she couldn't see enough of him to ascertain what he was doing.
She tied the robe's belt a little tighter and took a tentative step into the room . . .
His head was down on the table, his hands flat against the wood and his cheek pillowed on his hands. He could have been sleeping, she decided, but he could also just be deep in thought. Either way, she needed him out of her kitchen.
Taking a deep breath and reminding herself that she'd already vanquished him once today, she said softly, "Bobby?"
He didn't move.
She took a step closer and touched his arm as lightly as she could. "Bobby."
He jerked his head up with a sharp intake of breath. She jumped back, slamming her hip into the corner of the counter. "Ow!"
He tried to blink the sleep from his eyes while the turned his head to see what she was yelling about.
Oh god, she wasn't dressed.
Well, she did have clothes on, but the robe, well . . . it didn't cover much.
She pulled the lapels of the robe closed with one hand and rubbed her sore hip with the other. "Stop looking at me."
He turned his head away, muttering an embarrassed, "Sorry."
Needing a reason to look away from him, she turned toward the cabinet she kept her pasta in. "Why are you still here?"
"I didn't want to leave with you still thinking that what I did earlier is me." He turned his head, looking at her. "Uh, if you're looking for the pasta . . . it's on the third shelf of the pantry now."
She shut the cabinet and faced him again with an incredulous look on her face. "You re-organized my kitchen?"
He shrugged. "I couldn't just sit here."
She nervously tightened the robe again and shifted back to his point of a few seconds ago. "I already know that rage isn't typical of you. You didn't have to stay here to tell me that."
He warily stood up, moving slowly to keep from spooking her. "Yes, I did."
"No, Bobby. You didn't. You knew I wanted you gone. Are you going to keep on ignoring what I ask you to do?"
"I . . . maybe. It depends on what you ask."
"And if I ask you to leave?" she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
She hadn't budged, he thought. That was good, very good. Deciding to press his luck, he started walking toward her. "I can't leave yet."
She held her ground, watching with a direct gaze as he approached. "Wrong. You can definitely leave. There's the door," she said, unfolding her arms to point.
He stopped mere inches from her, searching her face for a hint to her true feelings.
She re-crossed her arms and frowned at him. "What are you doing?"
"Seeing if you're . . . afraid of me."
She had expected him to make an excuse to cover the fact that he was trying to either intimidate her or distract her. "If . . . what?"
He leaned against the counter, putting one hand on either side of her. "I'm making sure you're not scared of me."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Why the hell would I be scared of you?"
He hadn't thought it was that hard to understand. "Because I lost my temper and hit another person right in front of you," he said patiently.
She sighed. "Yeah, you did. But that means I think you're an asshole, not that I'm scared of you."
"Even though I could easily have hurt you, too?" he asked, hesitant to believe he would get off so easily.
"Oh, for god's sake, stop pitying yourself. If you were going to hit me, you would have done it when I got in your face. I knew you wouldn't, and you didn't. Therefore I have no reason to be afraid of you," she snapped. "There, do you feel better now?"
He stared at her. "Not much."
"You know, it's really not nice of you to try to make me feel sorry for you when I'm busy being mad at you," she told him, lifting one of his arms and walking under it so she could reach the pantry he'd told her the pasta was in. "It pisses me off when I don't get to stay angry."
"Sorry."
She pulled a box of linguine off of the shelf and sighed. "You hungry?"
"What?" he asked, caught off guard by the casualness of her question.
"If you're not going to leave while I make dinner, you might as well eat," she explained impatiently. "So is linguine ok?"
He nodded slowly. "I guess so. But, uh . . . you're going to cook in that?" he asked, indicating her robe. "What if something splashes?"
She stared at him for a long second, an idea forming in her head. His obvious worry had, as she'd told him, lessened her anger . . . but at the same time, she resented that. And maybe now she could take a little revenge.
After all, she didn't have anything he hadn't seen before . . .
A slow smile spread across her face. "You're right, Bobby," she said brightly, untying the belt. "I wouldn't want to stain this nice robe." She was gratified to see his jaw drop as she slipped the robe off and tossed it over a chair.
It took him a few seconds to process the fact that she'd just casually stripped down to her underwear. Not that he was displeased, but this hadn't exactly been what he intended with his question. Finally, he forced out, "I was thinking . . . more along the lines of, uh, you getting burned. Because you had, uh . . . skin exposed." She had to be doing this purposely, he thought suddenly. She knew exactly how frustrating it was for him!
"Oh, I'll be ok," she said lightly as she turned to the stove. "I'm not likely to fall into the pot on my stomach, believe me."
"You . . ."
She looked over her shoulder and handed him a pot. "Fill this, would you?"
He obediently set in the sink and turned on the tap, then continued staring at her nearly-naked body. Damn, she was beautiful. What game was she playing now?
"Uh, Bobby . . ."
He tore his eyes away from her. "Huh?"
"Pot's full," she said, pointing to where the pot lay overflowing in the sink. "You ought to pay more attention."
Caught in the act! "Oops." He rescued the pot, pouring out enough water to make room for the pasta, and slid it onto the stove.
She turned the burner on, then jumped up to sit on the counter a few feet to the side of it. "So, while we wait for the watched pot to boil, you want to tell me why you seem so convinced I have something going with Mike Logan?"