Intentional End

Chapter 31

Thursday Late Afternoon

October 18

Eames returned to her desk after talking with Deakins and thought about what to do first. Finish that dead pilot case, she thought.

One by one, individuals in the squad room made their way over to her, asking about Bobby. She told them that he was in shock, it looked like an accident, nothing was known about services and she didn't know when he would be back. Each person offered to assist in any way. Eames thanked them and tried to refocus after each interruption.

Eventually, the last of the paperwork was in order and she prepared it to be delivered to Carver's office. Then, she called the new guy at the FBI.

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Through the windshield, Bobby watched the autumn leaves drift from the trees surrounding the cemetery and thought, Gleason loved the autumn; she said the island where she spent her early childhood had autumn weather year round. It was her season, Bobby thought. Her hair was the colour of maple leaves gone golden, just into the red; and it blew out behind her like a sail of leaves from a tree. Her cheeks would redden in the cool air, the colour of mackintosh apples. How she would layer clothing on cool days; at night she snuggled close to him, "nestling weather," she would say.

The ring of his cell made him jump. "Goren," he said and then listened. "Ok, yeah. I'm, I'm on my way. Thanks. Ok, around back."

He flipped shut his phone and went to see his wife.

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Eames rang Sledge's cell and left a message. She wasn't sure how Edward might help, but he was inside the FBI now and that was worth something. It would be odd, talking with him again, especially after the way they left it. Eames missed him on one level, still had feelings for him; and, she thought she had feelings for Peter. Eames was mildly surprised to discover that the old feelings she had for Bobby were back; feelings that had been shut in a drawer when she and Edward started their relationship. She looked at her watch and thought about going to Bobby's apartment, but it was too early.

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Matt McFarland met Bobby at the back door of the funeral home, neither saying a word. Bobby followed Matt down a wide, painted brick hallway to a plain white door.

"She's in here, Mr. Goren. You take as much time as you need." Matt put a hand on the other man's upper arm and squeezed. Then he pushed open the door and Bobby entered what looked like a sitting room.

Gleason lay on a gurney with a sheet covering her from toes to neck. Bobby stood by the door a minute, not afraid, not embarrassed, but suddenly shy with his wife's body. Then he crossed and looked at her. He hitched a sob and breathed fast and shallowly.

She looked asleep, but wasn't curled on her side with her hands curved and tucked under her chin. Her crazy curly hair splayed out around her head on the gurney, he didn't think of her cranial cap being removed.

"Oh, Honey," he said softly and reached to touch her forehead. So gently he ran his hand over her cool, hard, greying skin, brushing hair from her face as he always did. "Gleason, I am so sorry this happened. Honey, I am so sorry." Bobby talked softly, tears streaming from his eyes.

"This isn't the way our life together is supposed to be. We are supposed to be a family. Honey, you are pregnant, didn't I say I thought you were? We are supposed to be a family with children; we almost had two." He had to wait a moment and then pulled his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and nose. Then, he carefully reached under the sheet for her hand; he did not want to move the sheet as he did not want to see the autopsy incisions. Her hand felt like clay, cold and hard. Nevertheless, he held it and ran his thumb over the back, the way he does.

"Glea, you know what you always say, 'I'll love you forever'? Well, Sweetheart, it is true, I'll love you forever and ever. You'll always be with me, Honey, forever." Again, he had to pause, he drank in her face, wanting to imprint it in his mind, sear her beauty in his memory forever.

"Oh, God, Gleason, I love you so much." He hitched sobs, "My whole life I was alone, even in a house with three other people, I was alone. And then, then there you were. Remember, Honey, in the conference room that day? Jesus, you were perfect. I knew right then, I knew you were the one, my one and only." He cried and set her hand back on the gurney, returning to stroke her forehead, run the back of his fingers down her cheek.

"We survived so much, so much; when you were shot, and then the miscarriage, and then your heart. So much, but we survived. We were supposed to survive. You weren't supposed to die yet. We were to have children, Gleason. You would have been a good mother, you would have; and I would have been a good father. Our children would have been happy and good."

His hand gently touched her hair; he knew Rodgers had stitched down the cranial cap, and Gleason's wild, red mane hid any evidence. Bobby gently ran his hand over her head, pushing the hair from her neck.

For nearly forty minutes, Bobby stood and stared, talked and cried. He argued with himself, knowing it was time to leave her, but not wanting to. Not ever wanting to. Finally, he sobbed aloud and then brushed his lips over her forehead. He wiped his face and walked back into the hall. He stood, pulling himself together and heard Matt come down stairs he hadn't noticed earlier.

Matt offered Bobby a cold bottle of water that he took gratefully and drank. Neither said anything, Matt waiting for the tall man to begin. "Thank you," he whispered.

Matt nodded silently and then said, "Do you want to sit down for a while?"

"Uh, no, thanks." Bobby stared at the floor and shuffled. "Thank you so much for letting me see her, talk with her."

Again, Matt nodded.

"Can I … is it possible … uh, I want to have a lock of her hair." At this, Bobby looked at the slim man.

"Certainly, Mr. Goren, I can arrange that. Do you want a lock or more?"

Bobby thought a moment, "A nice, long lock, that's all."

"Of course."

The two stood quietly, Bobby took another drink, draining the water bottle and then he said, "When … when …?"

"The package and box will be ready in two or three days. I'll give you a call. What else can I do for you, Mr. Goren?"

"Nothing. This, this was, I needed to see her again. I needed to talk with her. Thank you. Thank you."

Matt McFarland smiled sadly and nodded, took the empty bottle from Bobby and the two shook hands. Without another word, they headed back to the door and Bobby left.

He sat in his vehicle and blew his nose, wiped his eyes and felt another layer of weight lift. He said everything he needed to say to her. And, he knew, he knew she heard him. He knew she would always love him. He would always love her. Forever. Until they were together again.

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Early Thursday Evening

"Bobby asked me to stop by on my way home. I'm going to pick up some Chinese, maybe he'll eat again. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah. Thanks for looking after him. Call me if you need me." They nodded to each other and Eames headed out.

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Exhaustion overwhelmed him as he walked to the car. All he wanted to do was to go home and lie down; his neck was stiff from tension and his head ached from crying. Bobby knew his fatigue was his body's way of telling him to stop, just stop. His understanding of human emotional reaction provided a clear insight into his current state of being. And, he knew the worst of his pain was ahead of him.

He drove home, had to park a block and a half away and walked slowly to his building; he didn't even pick up his mail or the three newspapers stuffed into the paper box. Bobby pulled himself up the steps and into his apartment. He shut the door and turned the bolt, but didn't set the flip bar.

He took four aspirin, went to the bathroom and then to the bedroom, shutting the door. It was hard to look at the bed where she would never rest again, never make love again. He kicked off his shoes, took off his sweater, dropped onto the bed and rolled toward her side. Bobby reached his arm as he would had she been there and felt tears coming; but, before they fell, he was asleep.

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Eames stopped at Pan's and got every one of Bobby's favourites and two extra spring rolls; but said no to the fortune cookies, trading them for extra chopsticks. She carried the two laden bags to her sedan and headed to Bobby's apartment.

Fifteen blocks from his place, Eames was trapped in a traffic jam. Shit! She could see neither in front of nor behind her as the traffic was so dense. What should have been a forty minute drive had become an hour, and she still had a ways to go. The side streets were also blocked as everyone ahead of her tried to go around whatever was causing the hold-up.

The aroma from the food made her mouth water and she was starving having worked through lunch. Should I call him, she wondered; no, he knows I'm coming. Creep by creep, she inched up the block. She couldn't resist any longer and dug into the bag, searching for a spring roll. Into the bag she went again, looking for a packet of sweet and sour sauce, ripping it with her teeth. The roll was still warm and so crispy. She dabbed on dots of sauce and promptly dribbled it onto her jacket. Son-of-a …, she grumbled, wiping at the stickiness with a paper napkin, making it worse. She gobbled the spring roll and was thirsty – of course having nothing to drink. Nearly twenty minutes later, the traffic began to move.

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He walked along the path, picking up pieces of Gleason's clothing. Where is she, he wondered, and why are her clothes on the path? Suddenly he realised that she was in danger – she was naked somewhere and cold. Bobby began to run up the hill, but the hill kept getting longer and higher.

"Gleason!" he called. "Honey? Where are you?" He had to stop and catch his breath. "Gleason! Glea-?"

In his sleep, Bobby moaned and pulled at Gleason's pillow. Goosebumps sprang up on his biceps and forearms, below his undershirt. He began to draw deep breaths and he groaned again. Still asleep, he dragged her green throw over his arms and snuggled her pillow tight against him.

Finally, he sighed deeply and settled. He would not recall this dream.

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Thursday Evening

Eames lucked out and got a spot just up the block from his building and let herself into the lobby, lugging the bags of food up the steps and down the hall. She tried the door – locked. She knocked and waited, hoping that he was home as she didn't see his car anywhere; and, that he hadn't set the flip bar. She knocked again then used her key, tensing as she turned the knob and pushed. It opened.

The apartment was dark. Eames set the bags on the kitchen table, flipped on the light over the sink and called his name softly, hearing only silence. Quietly, she walked down the hall and called again, barely above a whisper. The bedroom door was shut, he's sleeping, she thought; but she had to make sure he was sleeping and nothing else.

Eames carefully opened the door and made out his prone form in the dim light; hearing the deep, slow breathing of his sleep and her heart filled, all the feelings from before flooding back. She wanted to cross to him, touch him, hold him. Eames made herself back out and return to the kitchen, pulling shut the door.

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"Hi," he said simply, running his hand over his curls.

Eames turned from the microwave and smiled at him, "Hi, sleepy head. Did you rest well?"

He just nodded and crossed to his chair. "How did you get in?"

"Your super gave me a key. I brought us Chinese, everything you like. What do you want to drink?"

"Ted gave you a key?" Eames nodded and he continued, "There's a beer in the fridge, I think. Help yourself to anything."

She got him a bottle and searched for the opener, pulling open drawers. "Here, it's in here," he said, reaching behind him, finding it, and removing the cap.

"Do you want a glass?"

He shook his head and took a long, long draught on the beer. Eames watched him and worried that he would start drinking tonight. The microwave dinged and they ate.

After a few minutes of silence, Bobby said, "How come you only got five spring rolls?"

Eames blushed and said, "Well, I bought six and now there are five."

He glanced at her, "You ate one on the way over?" She didn't miss the whiff of incredulity in his voice.

"Yes, I got stuck in traffic and was starving and ate one."

"So that's sweet and sour sauce mixed with paper napkin on your jacket?"

Eames shook her head and had to smile, "You do not miss a thing, do you?"

He swallowed and replied, "Not usually."

Eames' heart took flight.

They finished and Eames started putting away the leftovers and setting dishes in the sink.

"Just leave that stuff. I'll get it later," he lied.

"It won't take a minute. Should I make some coffee?"

"Huh uh," he said standing and retrieving the fresh bottle of scotch from the counter, pausing at the cabinet, reaching for a glass, "You want a drink?"

She looked at him, hesitated and then said softly, "Bobby. . ."

His eyes slammed shut and he put up the fingers of both hands not holding the bottle and glass, "Do not start with me, Eames. I'm going to drink if I want to drink. Understand?"

She heard, and felt, the edge in his voice. She turned her back to him and filled the coffee pot, he will need this later, she thought.

Bobby took the bottle and glass and sat in his chair in the living room. He opened the bottle, poured himself one, drained it, poured another and drained half. He listened to Eames work in the kitchen and closed his eyes, imagining Gleason. He was on his third drink when Eames came and sat on the sofa. She reached up and turned on the end table lamp.

"Why did you want me to come over after work? To feed you?" She couldn't hide the hurt and disappointment.

He rolled his head toward her, finished his drink and said, "No. I thought it would be nice. I'll pay you for the dinner." He looked away and picked up the bottle.

She stared at him and shook her head. She loved him and hated him right now. "Well, your belly is full, your kitchen is clean and you have everything you need in that bottle. I'm wasting my time here." She stood.

"Don't go. Alex, don't. I, I need your help. You said you would help me." Suddenly he was contrite and she heard the fear in his voice; he still held the bottle.

"Then give me that goddamn bottle."

He did not want to do that, not one bit; it was good when he was drunk, he didn't think and didn't feel. "Alex. . ."

She took a step toward the door and he said, "Ok, ok, here, take it," holding out the bottle. "Alex, you have to help me. I've got no one else." He stood and walked to the kitchen, twisting on the cap and setting it on the counter.

Eames followed him, stepped around him and picked up the bottle, twisting off the cap.

"What are you – oh, Alex, don't. . ." and he watched her pour all that good scotch down the drain. "Goddamn it," he said with resignation, turning back to the living room.

She poured them each a cup of coffee and took them into the living room. "Here," she said, handing him a cup. She crossed to the sofa and sat with her left leg folded under her, sipping the coffee. "Tell me what you want me to do."

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