When he entered the room five minutes later, she was lying on her back under the sheets, counting the cracks in her ceiling, for lack of anything better to do. The upstairs neighbors have really got to either move their bed or stop having so much sex, she mused, because if that crack gets any bigger, they're going to fall into my lap one night.
"Ea - uh - Alex?" he said, walking closer. "You awake?"
"Yeah," she said, not bothering to move from her comfortable position. "Gimme."
He obediently held out the plate of toast; she reached over and grabbed a slice, then immediately dropped it back onto the plate. "Ew, what the . . ?" she exclaimed, turning her head to look at him and the offending toast. "Peanut butter?"
"It's protein. You can't just live on bread and soup while you recover."
"I don't have anything against peanut butter, but you could have warned me before I stuck my hand right into it," she groused, licking a glob off of her finger.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and handed the plate to her again. "You looked, uh, preoccupied with your ceiling. I didn't want to disturb your thoughts."
She picked up the slice of toast again, this time by the edges, and took a bite. "I was trying to figure out," she mumbled through the mouthful, then swallowed, "how long it would take for my upstairs neighbors to drop in on me, literally. Their bedroom's right above mine," she added by way of explanation.
He looked up and noticed the large crack. "That's not good. You should . . ."
"Nah. All I have to say about it at this point is that if they fall on top of me one night, I am not inviting them to stay for a drink."
How did one respond to a statement like that? He just shook his head tolerantly and stood up. "Are you getting tired yet?"
"Cool your jets, it's been all of five minutes since I took the pills. My digestive system doesn't work that fast. And," she said, waving her toast at him pointedly, "you only want me to go to sleep so you can escape."
He looked away from her. "I already explained this to you, Eames. It . . . it's basic biochemistry."
She crammed the last bite of toast into her mouth and glared at the side of his head while she chewed. Then, swallowing, she sat up and sighed. "Three points, Goren. One: didn't I tell you to stop calling me Eames? Humor a sick woman! Two: the phrase 'basic biochemistry' is an oxymoron for everyone except you, and maybe Stephen Hawking. Three: do I need to remind you of what's going to happen once I fall asleep with you nowhere nearby?"
He could counter her first two arguments, but she had a point with the third. Rubbing the back of his neck, he walked to the other side of the room and put his back to the wall, only then looking back at her again. "Fine, if you want to go the point-counterpoint route, we can do that. First: it's much easier to call you Alex at the times when I'm not tempted to wring your neck. Second: there is, indeed, such a thing as basic biochemistry, just like there's basic criminal justice and basic, uh . . . food preparation. Third: I won't leave the apartment, how's that? I'll still be able to hear you if you dream."
"Food preparation?" she echoed with raised eyebrows.
"You put me on the spot," he said, shrugging. "I would have needed a few more seconds to come up with a better example."
She rolled her eyes. "Forgive me for not intuiting that." Then, glowering at him, she added, "I should know better than to try to use logic on you."
"You should," he agreed with a hint of amusement. "Are you tired yet?"
"No!" Picking up her now-empty plate, she added, "You know, if I didn't have a problem with breaking my own belongings, I'd throw this at you."
He stepped forward and plucked the plate out of her hand. "In that case, I think I'll take charge of this." He just smiled in response to her sour look and made his way out of the bedroom into the kitchen. Once there, he dropped the dirty plate in her sink, ran a hand through his hair, and tried to gather his wits.
He wouldn't be cruel enough to leave her to her nightmares; that was a given. But if he was going to stay with her without having anything happen that one of them would end up regretting, he needed a strategy.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
In the bedroom, Alex slid back under the covers and resumed staring at the ceiling, this time while contemplating what she was going to do with her partner, Mr. Enigma-wrapped-in-a-tall-dark-and-handsome-package.
Unlike Bobby, she would have no scruples about resuming their earlier activities. She had been enjoying herself before he put a stop to their kiss, and given that she didn't believe the drugs were impairing her judgment, she was pretty sure that was her talking, not the Vicodin. He may be able to peek inside my head, she thought, but I'm the one who runs things in there.
Besides, she really just didn't want him to leave her alone. The nightmares hadn't eased in the weeks since the attack, and the only times she'd had any relief from them was when he was physically in bed with her. But of course, he'd be paranoid about getting too close to her now, and she doubted if she'd even be able to talk him into the bedroom again without some strong persuasion.
Persuasion it would have to be, then. What could she do to convince him he wouldn't end up violating whatever weird principles he was operating off of?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Fifteen minutes later, Bobby still wasn't happy with his situation, but he figured he'd been gone too long already, and if he didn't go back to her soon, she'd think he upped and died in her kitchen. So, with lagging steps and a furiously churning mind, he returned to her bedroom.
She was on her side, under the covers, and watched him through mostly-closed eyes as he tentatively approach the bed. "Well?" she said, startling him. "What's the decision?"
"Don't scare me like that! I thought you were asleep."
"Hah! You wish. Perfectly awake, thanks. Now tell me what you're going to do."
He reached down and touched the comforter as though testing its texture. "Have you ever heard of bundling?"
She blinked. "In a sense other than 'making bundles of something'?"
"Yes."
"No."
"It's a historic practice," he began, pulling the comforter down a little.
Alex groaned and turned over, knowing she was about to be treated to another encyclopedic lecture.
". . . in which two people of opposite sexes share a bed," he went on, ignoring her groan. "Both people remain clothed and there's a barrier placed between them, usually a board or a bolster. It's, uh, still fairly common among the Pensylvania Dutch."
She'd been prepared to tune him out, but this was a little too outlandish to be ignored. "You want to put a board between us?" she said, sitting up and staring at him. "What am I, a succubus? If I freak you out that much, I'll give you some blankets and you can sleep on the damn floor!"
He stiffened and turned away from her. "I wasn't suggesting a board. I was about to suggest pillows."
"Same difference, you still feel like you need a wall between us. Honestly, you're forty-four years old and you're telling me you can't control yourself for one little nap?" Her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, but she wanted this resolved before the drugs really kicked in.
Surprised by her attack, he turned back to her and faltered, "It's not a matter of . . ."
"Yes, it is," she cut him off. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I promise to push you off the bed if you start getting frisky."
He blinked and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. "Frisky?"
She grinned. "You got a better word? Now, are you staying or are you going?"
"Staying," he said with a sigh. "Maybe I can finally start catching up on my sleep, too."
". . . which was my point to begin with," she said archly. "We seem to be the only cures for each other's nightmares. Not sure what that says about the state of either of our psyches."
He pulled off a shoe and then twisted around to look at her. "It's a logical post-trauma reaction."
"Why's that?" she questioned, watching him take off his other shoe and reminding herself that he would probably have a nervous breakdown if she suggested he remove his shirt, too. "Well?" she prompted after a few seconds, flipping back the covers for him.
"Huh? Oh." He sat down on the bed, hesitated a second, and then slid under the covers as far away from her as he could get. "It's logical because it was a traumatic experience that you and I, and onlyyou and I, went through together."
"Hmm." She considered that for a second. "That would explain why I feel more comfortable talking to you about it than Deakins, but it still doesn't explain why you cure my bad dreams."
"Aren't you tired yet?" he sighed.
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, actually, but I'm too busy arguing you out of your paranoia to fall asleep at the moment."
"I'm not paranoid."
"And just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you. Right. But really, what do you call being so distrustful of yourself that you can't bring yourself to get in a bed?"
"Right now, I'd call it 'preserving my sanity'."
"Hmph." She turned over so her back was facing him. "You keep preserving, then, and I'll sleep."
Giving the back of her head a dirty look, he mirrored her position, trying to make sure he didn't touch her.
"Bobby," she mumbled without turning over.
"What?"
"You're going to fall off the edge of the bed, and that's not supposed to happen until you pounce on me and I kick you. So move the hell over, will you?"
He hid a smile at her grouchiness and shifted a little closer to the center of the bed.
"Thank you," she said. "Now sleep."
Now that he was settled and slightly more relaxed, sleep sounded like a good idea to him. "Ok."
She took in a deep breath, let it out, and let her head sink into the pillows.