Slowly, Goren opened his eyes. He didn't feel too bad. His chest hurt and his head was pounding mercilessly, but those injuries were only, what, two days old? Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe Father Sean was ok. Maybe he hadn't shut down that bar and then had a shouting match with his partner. Maybe he really hadn't made her cry. Then he rolled over, and the reality of everything that had become his life came crashing down on him. Dear God, what had he done? He glanced over in the bed, hoping maybe she had forgiven him…but no, and he certainly didn't blame her. The one person in his life he couldn't live without, and he'd chased her away with his dark mood and angry temper. Now what was going to happen to him?
Maybe he could explain, if she'd listen. When he'd called the squad and they'd told him she was at the scene of a murder with Deakins, he'd been ok with that. After all, he wasn't cleared for duty and she had never been taken off duty. When they'd told him Father Sean was the victim, he'd lost it.
His first thought had been, why hadn't she told him? His first emotion had been betrayal, then pain. In a rage, he'd taken out his pain on the apartment. It hadn't helped. He'd poured himself a drink…but ended up shattering the glass against the wall. So he went to St. Cecelia's.
It took all his will power not to hit the captain when he'd told him Eames was working under his orders not to tell him about this. How dare he put her in that situation! Squatting beside the kind priest's body, he felt a huge turmoil of emotion he didn't want or know what to do with. He felt a whirlwind of rage and fury underlying a maelstrom of grief and pain. When Eames handed him the note from the grieving widow, he understood what had happened. The scene supported the murder-suicide scenario. But it hadn't relieved any of his pain. Handing back the note, he struggled for all he was worth to keep the rage under control. He'd apologized to the innocent man for somehow failing him…for not seeing this coming. The fact that there was no way he could have didn't even register, given the emotional state he was in. He'd looked at her. He knew from the look in her eyes and the pain on her face that she could read his struggle. It never even occurred to him that she had misinterpreted his pain.
He'd left the rectory, and the fury inside him grew. By the time he got to the car, it was barely controllable. He surprised himself with the force behind his rage when he'd shattered the window. He couldn't be around anyone and he knew it. So he drove. When he'd started getting reckless behind the wheel, he'd parked. As he got out of the car, the phone rang and he'd angrily thrown it against the floorboards and slammed the door. He didn't even remember where he'd parked it, or how he'd ended up walking the harbor path in Battery Park. But he kept walking. Trying not to think or feel, he had walked, and before he even realized it, it was dark.
He found a bar somewhere along the way. He wouldn't be able to find it again if he tried; he had no clue where it was. And he'd started drinking, hoping the alcohol would quench the pain and stifle the rage. The longer they remained, the more he drank. When the bar closed, he'd pulled out his wallet to pay. The bartender had taken the wallet, gotten his address from his driver's license, and called a cab to take him home.
Finding his apartment shouldn't have been as hard as it was, but he'd found it. And when he'd stumbled into a clean apartment, and his partner sitting there, eyes red and filled with pain…that was it. He didn't want to talk about it. But damn she was stubborn! All he really remembered was shouting at her…then she'd gotten right in his face and shouted back. No fear, that one. God, he loved her. He did remember kissing her. He also remembered the fear and the fury that had driven him to do it…and he remembered telling her to leave. And that was it. He didn't remember anything else.
Right now, he felt exhausted, hungover and sick to his stomach. He didn't want to move…he knew what came with that. Most of the pain he felt right now was physical. He wondered what he'd done to his ribs, and reaching up to feel the wound on his head, he was surprised to find it was sticky with blood. He was even more surprised to look at his hand and find it caked with dried blood. No doubt he was a mess.
The rage that had driven him yesterday was gone. The pain was not. He was still angry at Deakins for putting Eames in a situation she never should have been in. His initial feelings of anger and betrayal were long gone…he knew she had done what Deakins had told her to do…and he knew she would never have done anything to hurt him. Not her. And all his attempts to take the blame for Father Sean's death had crumbled. As badly as he felt, this was one crime he could not "own," as Eames had put it. So all that was left to him now was grief for the good father and regret for any pain he'd caused his partner…and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that wouldn't go away until he made things right with her, until he knew that everything was ok between them…that their partnership, and their love, was intact.