A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and provided suggestions for the last chapter! I think I've got a thin thread of a storyline started now...
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In the kitchen, Bobby opened a can of soup as quietly as he could, listening to the sounds coming from the bedroom. He heard hangers clicking together for a few minutes as she shoved things around in her closet, then the hollow thudof a hanger hitting either the closet or bedroom door. "Eames? You ok?" he called, reminding himself that she wouldn't appreciate him knocking on the door to check on her.
"Just fine!" she yelled back, glaring at the tank top that she had just flung over a lamp shade. If she came across one more shirt that she couldn't get on, she was going to scream!
Not feeling very comforted by her reply, he reluctantly turned back to the pot of soup that was warming on the stove, giving it a few stirs to keep it from burning
She may be stubborn, he reminded himself, but she's not stupid. If she thinks she really can't do it without hurting herself, she'll ask for help. Yeah, right. He wondered how well-healed the incision from her surgery was. Were the stitches in danger of breaking? "Alex-" he started again.
"Yeah?" she said from the doorway, startling him.
With the spoon still in his hand, he whirled around to face her, splattering droplets of tomato soup across her chest. He studied her for a few seconds, confused. "Uh . . . isn't that mine?" he finally asked, gesturing to the blue chambray shirt that almost reached her knees.
"Yeah, and I'm sure as hell not going to be the one who washes the soup out of it now," she said, dabbing at the stains with a dish towel. When he continued to look at her, she sighed. "I can't lift my arms up to pull a shirt over my head, and this is the only button-down one I could find. You left it here a few weeks ago when you changed after a case."
"Is it clean?"
"Does it matter? It's this or nothing." She didn't add, And I know you don't want me in nothing, but holding it back took effort.
He turned back to the soup, looking down into the pot as if it held the answers to everything. "You can't wear one of my dirty shirts. It's . . . dirty."
"Stop it, your dazzling intellect is blinding me," she said dryly, walking up behind him. "Tomato?"
"Yes," he said without looking at her. "How are your stitches?"
"Huh?"
"Your stitches," he repeated. "From the operation. How much have they healed?"
"They're fine. When's the soup going to be done?"
"Five minutes and don't ignore my question."
"I wasn't ignoring it. It just didn't fit into the conversation," she said, reaching around him to hold a hand over the pot so she could feel how much heat the soup was radiating.
"Well, what's the answer?" he said, trying to ignore where she was pressed against his side to reach the stove.
"They're fine. You eating too?"
"If you don't mind, yeah. How 'fine' are they?"
"Fine enough that you don't need to worry about them," she said over her shoulder as she moved to the opposite counter and reached for the cabinet she kept her bowls in. An "ow!" escaped her as her ribs protested the movement. She quickly dropped her arms and turned to put her back against the counter as she tried to get rid of the shooting pain in her side.
"What?" he said, remembering to put down the spoon this time before he turned to face her.
She shook her head and . "Nothing. I just wasn't thinking and I reached too far for the bowls."
"Hurt yourself?"
"Not really."
"Liar. How bad did it hurt?" he said, taking a step toward her with the intention of evaluating her ribs.
"I'm fine," she insisted, tensing slightly.
He took another step and began to reach for her. "Let me look -"
"No!" she cried, closing her eyes and pressing back against the counter.
She didn't sound annoyed with him, he realized. She sounded alarmed. He stopped short. "Alex? Look at me."
She kept her eyes closed and just shook her head. "No. Please just . . . back up."
He obeyed, moving back a large step as he tried to absorb the fact that . . . "Are you scared of me?"
She opened her eyes slightly as she sensed his movement away. "No. I mean, not . . . of you. You're just, uh, overwhelming."
He wanted to kick himself for not having foreseen this. "I backed you up against a wall," he said softly.
"Yes."
He moved back to the stove, glad that he could look at the soup and keep his face turned away from her. If she looked at him, she'd see how much her reaction had unsettled him, and that was the last thing he needed her to worry about at the moment. "I'm sorry. I'll stay over here."
She nodded. "It's . . . stupid. It's not you, honestly."
"It's ok, Eames. I understand."
He probably did, at least partially, she decided. Goren had always had a talent for getting into people's heads, although this was the first time she detected him in hers. "I'm sorry. You -"
"I'm too big," he acknowledged emotionlessly, cutting off her explanation.
"No, it's not that. It's just . . ."
"It's fine, Eames. Drop it."
Back to calling her by her last name, she thought. He was obviously hurt by her fear, and he was making it clear that he didn't want to talk about it. With a sigh, she decided to do as he asked and let the subject drop. "Is the soup done?"
"Yes. Where are your bowls?"
She pointed to the cabinet over her shoulder and then moved away from it.
"I'm not going to jump on you," he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Alex froze where she stood, in front of the refrigerator. "I know you're not," she said quietly after a second. "I said I was sorry."
He ground the heel of his hand into his forehead, unable to believe he'd actually let that slip out. "You don't need to apologize. None of this is your fault."
"It's -"
"Go sit in the other room," he said as he pulled a bowl out of the cabinet. "I'll bring you your food."
"Bobby . . ."
"Just go."
With one last look at him, searching his face for some hint of his feelings, she went.
Bobby watched her until she disappeared around the corner, then allowed himself to sag against the counter. It was bad enough to know that the attack had been his fault to begin with, but now to find out that she was actually scared of him . . .
He didn't know how to handle this. Bobby Goren simply did not scare people unless he intentionally set out to scare them. He knew that she probably wasn't actually afraid he would attack her as the suspect had done; she knew him better than that. But if the emotional scars the attack had clearly left her with remained as close to the surface as they were today, he didn't know how she could continue to work with him. Their line of work was too dependent on trust to work with someone you feared, even unconsciously.
When would she tell him that? He should be prepared, have a response already composed, so that she didn't have to realize the wound she was inflicting. No, he couldn't think about that now. He'd need to be alone to do that. Right now, he just needed to focus on her.
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he picked up the bowl he'd filled, set it on a plate, and moved toward the living room, where he assumed she'd gone.
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When she left Bobby in the kitchen, Alex walked through the living room without stopping, retreating into her room and quietly closing the door behind her. The burst of adrenaline that her fear had sent through her was beginning to fade, leaving her shaky, weak, and angry at herself. Trying to forget the terrible feeling the encounter with her partner had given in her, she sank down on the bed and buried her face in the satin-covered pillows.
Why had she reacted the way she had? She'd never been scared of him in the slightest, even after the attack, until today, when he had unknowingly reenacted the attack itself.
It wasn't him, she thought. It was her. Bobby didn't scare her, no matter what his size - it was being trapped between a man and a wall that had terrified her. Why hadn't she been able to explain that? Her sudden distress had probably scared him as much as he had scared her.
It didn't take much psychological insight to know that he had probably added her fear to the list of things he blamed himself for. He'd be trying to think of what he could have done differently, or maybe just worrying about what damage he might have inflicted on her.
So why didn't she get up and go to him, try to explain again? Make him feel better?
She slipped under the covers and closed her eyes. She couldn't go out there because she was still scared. Even though her conscious mind knew without a doubt that he meant no harm and never would, she was afraid of how she'd react if he put her in that situation again.
Or if someone else did. How did a cop continue working when she became irrationally terrified any time someone came too close?
She didn't want to think about that. She couldn't think about that now, not with her head still spinning from the events of a few minutes ago. Maybe she should humor herself, stay here in bed until she could calm down. She didn't want to hurt him again.
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Bobby stared at the closed bedroom door, trying to decide what to do. He needed to get her to eat, if nothing else, but he couldn't bring himself to disturb her again. He didn't want to see what might appear in her eyes.
But still, she needed to eat and take another painkiller, he thought, looking down at the food and medicine in his hands. He would just put them down outside the door, he decided.
"Eames," he said, knocking lightly on the door. "I'm going to leave your soup and your painkillers outside the door and then go. You can call me if you need anyth-"
"No!" she called from behind the door, struggling to disentangle herself from the sheets. She couldn't let him leave, not feeling as she knew he did. "Stay there."
"I don't think that's a good idea. I, uh . . . you don't need to be stressed any more than you are."
She bit her lip. "Just stay there for a minute, ok? I'm going to . . . come out." Or at least try. She needed to prove to both him and herself that it wasn't him she was frightened of. Slowly, fighting against her own mind, she reached for the doorknob and turned it, pulling the door open a bit.
Her food was on the floor to the side of the doorway . . . and Bobby was halfway out the front door of her apartment. "Hey!" she called sharply. "Come back here."
He shook his head. "You can't . . . I don't think . . ."
"Come here," she repeated. "We're going to try an experiment."
He gave her a wary look, but stepped back inside and closed the door. "What kind of experiment?"
"Just stay where you are," she ordered, walking closer. "And don't make any fast movements."
Bobby winced. She sounded like she was talking to a criminal holding a gun, not her partner. Still, he stayed put, looking around at the narrow entryway he was occupying and then at her as she advanced on him. "Alex . . ."
"Just don't move." Taking a deep breath, she took another step, placing herself within his reach and waiting to see if she was assaulted by fear.
When a few seconds had passed and all she felt was the anxiety of waiting to be scared, she allowed herself to relax a little. "It's not you," she told him.
He held out a hand to stop her. "You don't know -"
"It's not," she repeated, moving closer. "It was having my back against the wall, not having you in front of me."
"I'm -"
Another step. Her body was almost touching his now, and still no fear. She looked up at him and grinned. "See? It's not you."
He stared down at her, waiting for the fear to set in, waiting for her to bolt. When he had counted silently to ten and she was still standing there, smiling up at him, he finally relaxed a little, leaning back against the door. "You're sure?"
"I'm standing here, aren't I? Honestly, Bobby," she said, raising an arm as high as she could lift it in an attempt to touch his face, "I'm not scared of you. I would have to be insane to be scared of you, to think you'd ever purposely hurt me - damnit!" she interrupted herself as her ribs protested her movement before she'd gotten her hand above his neck.
He tensed again. "What's wrong?"
"Can't lift my arm," she grumbled, letting the arm in question rest against his shoulder. "I was going to try to be all sweet and reassuring and touch your face."
He blinked. "You were . . . excuse me?"
"Never mind. I guess I won't be up to sweet reassurances for another few days."
"Reassurance?"
She sighed. "You have no idea how much you looked like a puppy waiting to find out if it was going to kicked. You just . . . looked like you could use a little reassurance."
He lifted his own hand and touched hers where it lay against his shirt. "You're being reassuring already," he said after a second's thought. "But if you still want to touch my face, I can lift you up so you can reach."
She grinned. "It's really useful to be trying to reassure someone who could pick me up with one arm. Go ahead and lift."
He shoved aside the voice in his head that was screaming about how he couldn't possibly be dumber than to pick her up and bring her closer to him, and didn't he realize that if he kept her there more than a few seconds she'd notice what happened to him? That voice could wait. Right now, he wanted all the physical contact he could get, after seeing her run from him a few minutes ago.
"Bobby?" she said when he didn't move. "We gonna do this?"
"Oh, sorry." He looked down at her. "Your hips are ok, right?"
"Hips are fine. Just don't touch - whoa!" she broke off as he put his hands on her hips and lifted her before she was done talking, bringing her face even with his. "Hi," she said with a small smile as their eyes met.
"Hi. So, about that face touching . . .?"
Her smile got a little bigger. "Right," she said, pleased to find that she didn't feel even a twinge when she lifted her arm. "How's this?" she asked, resting her hand on his cheek.
It felt wonderful, he thought. In fact, he'd be quite happy to stay like this all day.
The languorous look that spread across his face told her all she needed to know, and she held back a giggle as she watched him turn his face more into her palm. The giggle died in her throat, though, when his hands relaxed slightly on her hips and she began to sink until his hands were just below her injured ribs, instead. She sucked in a breath and gritted her teeth at the pain, not wanting to break the moment. "Bobby!" she said after a second, realizing that it would only get worse if his hands moved up. "You're . . ."
It took him a second to figure out what she was talking about, then he wrapped first one arm and then the other around the tops of her thighs and hoisted her up a few inches.
Not wanting to be dropped again, she reflexively wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned her weight into him.
His hands wound up on a little lower than they'd started, supporting her butt. He resisted the urge to pull them back from that forbidden part of her anatomy. "Uh, sorry . . ."
"It's ok," she said. "Makes me feel less like I'm going to fall." She raised her hand back to his face. "Now, where was I?"
"You, uh," he began, moving his eyes away from where he'd been concentrating on her legs, "you . . ." His voice trailed off as he raised his head and found her face so close to his that he could feel the heat of her skin.
Their eyes locked and they stared at each other, not moving. Then she moved her hand from his cheek, sliding both arms around his neck. "Bobby . . ." she murmured, searching his eyes for some hint of what he wanted.
He moved his head forward a fraction of an inch and covered her lips with his.