"And we are leaving
And we won't be back for years..."
iii. Silver Spaceships Lying in the Yellow Haze of the Sun
Cigarette smoke makes dirty love with her midnight blue blazer, and she absently tucks on the hood at her neck as alcohol mumbles laughter.
"I should tell you something about my brother."
Bobby raises an eyebrow as they slow their approach to his table.
"He's the--he's the youngest, he's a computer nerd, he listens to all the best music..." Bobby trails off with details he's remembered her mentioning.
"He reads a lot and watches--look, he's like those people in that group. I mean, he doesn't believe he was kidnapped by aliens, but he thinks he saw one on this camping trip and he has theories and--"
Bobby stops, sensing her uncomfortableness.
"He's not crazy, and he doesn't talk about it unless you ask him. He's like Mulder, I guess...Oh God, how many times have I mentioned The X-Files today?" She rubs at her eyebrow.
"Eames, a lot of people believe in aliens, it's not--"
"But he writes essays about it and..."
She starts to move forward, but Bobby's hand on her shoulder stops her.
"Eames, he's not crazy," he says with conviction, and she smiles.
"We've always been close," she says of her brother, tilting her head towards the melted caramel curls flopping loftily in the air to a bass rhythm on the jukebox behind him. They see his long-sleeved arm waving to them above the crowd. He's wearing a shirt, proclaiming an obvious love for Monty Python, and Bobby already feels a kinship with him, remembering his youth.
"You're getting shaggy," Eames says as she runs her right hand through her brother's curls.
Sean swats her hand away playfully. "Keeps me warm."
Then, "Bobby, good to see you. You're everything I pictured, minus the eye in the back of your head."
Bobby shakes Sean's hand and inclines his head slightly leftward in confusion.
"You see everything," Sean supplies, with a smirk, his pointer finger tapping his right temple. "Anyway, are you going to stay?"
"Not tonight. We've got a high priority case."
Bobby shuffles his feet on the hardwood floor, restless.
"Do you know anything about C.E.E.?" she asks.
The corner of Sean's mouth lifts up, sardonically. "I'm being used. And yes, I do. Interesting anagram."
"Inventive," Bobby offers, in agreement, thinking there must be an intentionally symbolic meaning to that moniker. See.
"Most of the people are fairly reclusive, but harmless. There are some people there that--well, they're mentally unhinged, sort of dangerously paranoid, and they just get agitated when they go there. But the clientele, they have to pay for the services, it's not like a support group. They've got professional therapists there, they charge for it. Why do you want to know?"
"The high priority case."
"Ah."
"Yeah," she says, stirring the thin red straw through amber rivers reflecting dimly lit bar lights.
"Bobby, I hear you're a genius, or something. You should come play for my team soon, we could use a show-off."
Eames opens her mouth to speak.
"Not a word," forestalls her brother, open palm jokingly threatening before her face.
"I-I'd like that. After this case..."
"Sure, I'll give you a call."
Eames finishes her amaretto and Bobby pulls his coat closer to his body.
"If you need anything else, Lexi..." her brother begins.
She nods and smiles, ruffling his hair once more and laying a few bills on the table.
"Live long and prosper," Sean calls out, as Goren and Eames leave with a laugh.
"Have you talked to the neighbor yet?" Deakins questions the next morning.
"We think he might be a suspect," Bobby supplies, without looking up from his binder.
"On what basis?"
"Some circumstantial evidence, at first, but Detective Fischer's partner told us that apparently Patrick McGann attends C.E.E. on a regular basis."
"C.E.E.?" Deakins questions.
"'Center for Extraterrestrial Encounters. They're a--an organization for people coping with...unique experiences."
"This is a riot," he notes, pointedly.
Eames scribbles a note on a pad. "If we confront the neighbor, directly, he'll just close off."
"We might close this quicker if we--if we can gain his trust."
"Undercover," Deakins finishes.
Goren and Eames nod, awaiting approval.
"Like the Detective whose murder you're investigating."
"A calculated risk."
"Are we assuming this...McGann guy found out who she really was?"
"We don't know how he behaves; if he's deeply paranoid, the knowledge of--of her true identity could've set him off."
"We're ruling out the possibility that any money is being collected, by this organization, under false pretenses?" Deakins questions, rocking once on the balls of his feet.
"Well, that's what Detectives Fischer and Elyer were investigating; it seems to be a legitimate organization, albeit--"
"Cooky," Deakins supplies, amusedly.
"That's one word for it," Eames fires back.
"This is going to be a quick undercover," Deakins orders, a slight air of authority creeping into his voice.
"We're just in town visiting."
For all her preparation (well, she was slightly more versed in this than Bobby, anyway), she is actually surprised when greeted by drab grey walls and a poster of the Northern Lights covering the entire span of wall from halfway between the ceiling and floor, right below the clock. She was expecting surveillance pictures of UFOs and rudimentary drawings of aliens.
She turns the prior thought over in her head again; she is more familiar with these stories, these people, than Bobby. It's a liberating feeling, for once, and not at all in a competitive way; rather, a yes, I am needed way.
She plays the part; her sunglasses stay over her eyes for now and she keeps her arm looped through Bobby's as he introduces them to the...president?
"I'm Marty Caster, this is my wife, Liz."
Oh, those names, she winces, smiling widely above the surface.
"Don Redwell. I run C.E.E. and I'd be happy to assist you in any way possible."
"Mr. Redwell--"
"Don, please, we're a family here."
Bobby shares an invisible look with Eames as he continues, "We just wanted to stop in today. We're driving back up to Maine soon, but my wife's been having her nightmares again and I thought I should bring her here, you know, speak to other people. We've heard so many good things about this organization."
Redwell smiles arrogantly. "Well, we're having our monthly group potluck in about half an hour. You're welcome to stay, get a feel for the place, and then mingle. If necessary, we have some licensed therapists available for consultation. At a minor fee, of course."
"Of course."
"Well, the food will be served in the alcove to your left. Just ask anyone if you have questions. But right now, I must attend to some other obligations."
With that, Redwell is gone.
"Nightmares," Eames whispers, though Redwell is far out of earshot now.
"This isn't my area, Eames."
"Your area? Bobby, you're osmosis personified, everything is your area," she says, but with a hint of a tease in her voice, knowing he is, in fact, a bit of a virgin regarding this subject.
"Impress me," he teases back, slightly surprising her.
Noticing her arm still grips his, she casually loosens her hold and wanders towards the poster of the Northern Lights. She studies it for a second, eyes focusing on the darkest shade of blue ascending upwards in a narrowing bend of light.
"He doesn't actually think he saw an alien, anymore, but I think...he started believing in the possibility of their existence that night."
She cups her right elbow with her left hand and touches the glass with the tip of her pointer finger, continuing in a hushed whisper.
"You can see anything in those lights." If you know how to look, she thinks as a silent aside.
He opens his mouth to offer something, but it occurs to him immediately that she's sharing an indirectly emotional piece of herself with him and he's not certain anything but silence would be a satisfactory reply. But he smiles, and--
"I have trouble seeing at night," he shares back.
And then there really is silence: the most fitting solidification of kinship between a wayward wallflower and an eager firefly.