ELEGY – Chapter One
Disclaimer: all together now…All publicly recognizable characters and places are the property of Universal Studios, NBC and Dick Wolf et al. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not for money. No infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended.
Alex knew it would be hard, coming to the funeral. She braced herself for it as her taxi pulled to a stop by the church and she saw the barriers, the TV cameras corralled off to the side, the PA system set up for the crowds of mourners. As she maneuvered herself out onto the sidewalk, a man in religious robes hurried by, carrying a large framed photo of Officer Gilman looking young and proud at his Academy graduation, probably destined to be propped up on the altar. Guess the Department decided to go all out for the sympathy vote, she thought. She had to struggle not to roll her eyes when, from her seat inside the sanctuary, she heard the motorcade pull up outside and the bagpipes start to skirl "Amazing Grace."
Oh yes, she had her cynicism turned up high – but even her most tried-and-true defense mechanism couldn't keep some things from resonating painfully in memory. The faces of the pallbearers, stone-hard with grief held in check…the way the minister's sermon was punctuated by the soft sounds of people crying…and maybe most of all, the sight of Martin Louis' widow walking behind his coffin, stiff and dry-eyed. They've never met, but Alex knows, with bone-deep certainty, that Cynthia Louis looked so angry because she was holding herself together by the merest thread. She doesn't want comfort, because she'll fall apart if anyone dares to offer it. And once she falls apart, she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to put the pieces back together. Oh yes, I remember.
The service left her restless, uncomfortable from sitting still too long and wrestling with a difficult, agitated sort of sadness. It didn't help that she felt awkward and out of place, sitting alone at the end of a pew full of people who obviously knew each other and the slain officers. She'd said to Bobby that she'd meet him at the church, but she'd forgotten that the church would be small, and that (aside from a few representatives of the NYPD brass and one pregnant detective) only Louis' and Gilman's own colleagues would get to join their families and friends in the sanctuary. So Bobby was somewhere outside with Bishop and Deakins, standing at attention with the other cops who had come from precincts all over the city to pay their respects.
She should have been out there too, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of them in her dress blues. But she can't stand for that long, these days, and her uniform doesn't fit. I don't fit, she thinks with sudden bleak misery, and then pushes the thought away, scolding herself for being melodramatic.
She's sitting on a low wall at the top of the church steps, waiting for the people and cars to disperse enough that she can call a cab. The funeral procession has snaked out of sight on its way to the cemetery, and the uniformed cops have broken ranks and are standing in small subdued groups on the sidewalk. She locates Bobby with the Captain and Bishop – hard to miss that striking red hair. A stab of irrational jealousy – God, she looks good in the uniform. Bobby catches sight of her watching, and detaches himself from the group.
"Hey," she greets him as he comes up the stairs towards her. A small voice in her mind whispers wow, he looks good in the uniform too. She berates it inwardly for being shallow and unprofessional.
"How are you doing?" he asks.
"Fine. Tired," she admits. She wonders when it happened that just being in his presence, talking to him, became something that could comfort her, steady her. He gives her a long look.
"What?" she says.
"Nothing," he shakes his head, looking around in that aimless way of his and finally settling next to her on the low wall. "I just – I figure things like this must be…difficult," he says, fiddling with something on the band of his cap, not meeting her eyes. "For you. Because of your husband."
She draws in a surprised breath, and then forces herself to let it out slowly. In the whole course of their partnership, she can probably count on one hand the number of times either of them has mentioned Rory. Her first fight-or-flight impulse is to deflect, make some light-hearted comment, find a reason to move away…but the thought of standing up seems just too exhausting right now – and she finds that she can't cavalierly dismiss the mention of her husband, either. Not today.
"Yeah," she says carefully. "Seeing their wives – I remember how that felt. It's hard."
He doesn't say anything, for which she is profoundly grateful. She takes another deep breath.
"Rory's funeral wasn't such a circus, though."
"No?" He gives her a quick sideways look.
"No way. Oh, the Department offered – full honours, the whole nine yards – but he wouldn't have wanted it…the formality, the rules, people wearing black all over the place and being miserable." She hears an echo of Rory in her voice as she speaks, something of his inflection and way of putting words together. It's been a long time since that happened, she realizes with a pang.
"You would have hated all the fuss too," Bobby says, and it's not a question. She hasn't seen him much lately; it's easy to forget how well he knows her. She manages a wry smile.
"Yeah. We had a private service at the church where he was baptized." And his buddies at the squad held a large and raucous wake at the local pub. She didn't go – couldn't stand the thought of them coming up one by one to awkwardly tell her how sorry they were. She regrets that now, wishes that she had been there, to hear the stories…to say goodbye to Rory with laughter, the way he would have wanted her to.
She passes a hand over her face. God, I'm tired. As if in response to that, the baby makes its presence known, executing a slow roll. Ouch. She shifts on the cold stone, presses a hand to the side of her stomach. You better sleep when I sleep, tonight, she tells it silently.
Bobby leans in just slightly, nudging her with his elbow. "Eames – let me drive you home."
"You? Drive? I don't think so," she says automatically, and part of her breathes a sigh of relief at being back on familiar ground with him. Another part feels something like regret – feels that maybe it was…nice…to let Bobby into a part of her life that she's always kept private. Her mind shies away from the implications of that. Familiar ground, she repeats to herself.
"No, seriously," she tells him. "Don't worry about it. I'll just get a cab now that the road's clear."
She can see that he's about to protest, but then something catches his eye behind her.
"Mr. Eames," he says, standing up. What? She twists awkwardly around.
"Hello, Alexandra," says her dad. He's in uniform – she can't remember the last time she saw him wearing the full kit. Was it Jen's wedding? He nods to Bobby. "Goren."
"Dad. What are you doing here?" It comes out more abruptly than she meant it to, and she feels Bobby look at her. She answers her own question.
"Jen told you I was coming, didn't she?" She tries to master her irritation.
"I wanted to pay my respects," her dad says mildly, "and I thought maybe you'd be glad of a ride home."
She sighs. This business of talking to her sister almost every day – most of the time she likes it. She's grateful for the way the surrogacy has made them better friends, and it's good to have someone willing to listen and sympathize with all her complaints about pregnancy. She remembers the relief she felt when she realized that her sister actually needed to know every detail…that Alex's initial efforts to downplay the upheavals of her condition were making Jen feel left out, like salt on the open wound of her inability to carry this child herself.
But their new closeness has had one really annoying side effect, which is that her whole family knows a lot more than she'd like about what she's doing on any given day. She can just picture Jen getting concerned at the thought of her going to a police funeral, telling her mom who would discuss it with her dad, all of them thinking god, that'll be hard for poor Alex. She hates the knowledge that people are scrutinizing and pitying her. It makes her feel exposed, itchy and hot with embarrassment.
"Dad…" she starts. But he's only trying to take care of her, and what is she going to do – start a fight on the church steps in front of half the NYPD?
And I'm tired and sad and I want to go home. So she capitulates, less than gracefully.
"Never mind. I'll come with you." She cringes inwardly at how sulky she sounds. Her dad ignores her tone.
"I'm parked around the corner. Are you okay to walk?"
"Yes, Dad, I'm fine," she grits out. Then she turns to Bobby, who's watching with a small, amused smile. Damn him. Figures he'd be on the spot to see me regress to age sixteen.
"I'm glad you've got a lift," he says. "Go home and get some rest, okay?"
"Sure," she says, trying to smile. He bends slightly to catch her eyes, giving her another searching look. God, don't do that, she thinks involuntarily. She is suddenly, alarmingly close to tears, and Bobby being gentle and concerned and perceptive is practically guaranteed to put her over the edge. He looks like he might want to give her a hug, and longing for the simple contact hits her like a sandbag behind the knees. But they don't really hug, she and Bobby, so there's no standard operating procedure. Neither of them seems to know how to bridge the gap between them, and her dad is standing waiting, and in the end Bobby settles for touching her shoulder.
"I'll talk to you later," he says, and she nods and turns away. He always says that these days, but it's rare for him to actually call. He and Bishop have probably already caught another case or several, and his focus will narrow to just the work, the way it always does. And that's fine, she tells herself, not for the first time. No reason for him to act any differently. You'll be back to the partnership in a month or two.
It's silly to feel bereft.
TBC...