Of Comfort

A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews of earlier chapters - you encouraged me to keep going. I'm trying to let go of the shame of being bad at something new and just enjoy the process :)

Bobby tosses his keys into the dish on the radiator when he comes through the door. He slumps his shoulders out of his long wool coat and hangs the heavy garment neatly on its hook. He slides his feet out of his sensible leather shoes and lines them up on the mat. Then he bee-lines to his liquor cabinet and pours himself a generous finger of whiskey. When at last he collapses into his well-worn chair and puts his socked feet up, his eyes droop shut. Visions of Cassandra Friele's viciously bashed in head jerk them back open.

Jesus. Scrubbing his face with his hands removes none of the gore. He replays the scene in sickening detail: Cassandra's wickedly bruised eyes, shattered nose, split bottom lip and fractured skull. The Pilates instructor found her body sprawled, broken arm and legs akimbo, in Cassandra's very expensive apartment. That poor woman will be scarred for life.

And his partner... Bobby could read her face well enough by now. She was so good at playing it cool, playing it tough. And she was tough. But this proximity to cruel violence, day in and day out... what did it take from her, from him? The injustice of a stolen life tasted bitter, especially when the victim was young (and beautiful - he didn't want to admit this but it was true).

The single malt warms his throat but isn't quite strong enough to quiet his mind. He imagines what kind of mindset it takes to beat a woman to death with your own hands. To leave knuckles and fingers garishly imprinted on the victim's skin. He flexes his own hands in front of him and imagines a killer's point of view. Shudders. How?

Alexandra Eames is taking what might be the longest shower of her life. Try as she might, she can't stop picturing the lifeless eyes of Cassandra Friele. The hot water warms her skin and she tries to distract herself with its small comfort. When the shower begins to run cold, she reluctantly turns the taps off and steps out into her chilly little bathroom. She's left shivering, wet and naked in the overwhelming silence of the darkened apartment. Her chest feels acutely empty and she begins to cry.

Bobby's had another splash of whiskey and is feeling emboldened. He can't sit in his chair and despair over the senselessness of it all anymore. There's no way his partner isn't reeling like he is. He decides it's now or never and moves to put his shoes and coat back on before he can doubt himself out of action.

Alex has settled into the couch with her fleece-lined sweatpants and one of Joe's worn in fun-run tees. She balances a glass of Malbec in one hand and the TV remote in the other, clicking through channels and hoping to find something to distract herself with. Her body is completely drained, and her eyes are slipping closed. Cassandra Friele's destroyed face burns on the back of her eyelids and she jerks them open. Trying again, she leans her head back, lets her eyes close, and...

Knock knock knock.

What the fuck? Alex's eyes flick open again. She mutes the TV and waits a few beats in silence. There's no mistaking the second knock at the door. Warily, she places the wine glass and the remote down and pulls herself from the warm confines of the couch. It's 9:30 and she's not expecting any visitors. She stands on tip-toe to put her eye to the peephole. It's a surprise in some ways, although not in others, to see the bulky form of her partner filling the view.

Bobby hears the chain slide and the deadbolt's heavy clunk from the other side of the door. There's an uncharacteristic queasy feeling in his stomach. This is brand new territory for both of them. He clenches and unclenches his hands in his pockets to divert some nervous energy. When his partner opens her door, his chest tightens painfully.

"I'm sorry..." he begins, unsure of how to explain himself to her. He tries again, but succeeds only in letting out a heavy exhale. Alex can see the darkness in his eyes and the weariness in his posture. Seeing her own pain reflected in his face makes her feel like she might cry again. She sweeps the door open for him.

"It's alright," she says softly. "Come on in".