Author: Muse of Fire
Rating: PG13 for cursing, nothing too traumatic
Spoilers: Blindspot, Endgame, the beginning of Amends
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, I make no money or profit from them, I just use them at my whim
A/N: Inspired by, and leading up to, the beginning of “Amends”, where we see Bobby just sitting on the floor of his kitchen.
This is my first LOCI fanfic, so comments are welcomed!
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After the funeral of his mother, Robert Goren was given personal leave which gave him lots of time: time to grieve, time to mourn, time to think. Too much time, really. After a few days spent moving between the few small rooms of his apartment, sitting and staring blankly into space while he contemplated his universe, he tried to pass the time and to be productive. He started with trying to organize the volumes overflowing on his too-few bookshelves, and that worked temporarily, until he got distracted by some overdue library books, and that just made him think about his mother, which led to another bout of sitting and staring.
Bobby debated a few times calling Frank, even though Frank hadn’t bothered to show for the funeral. Briefly, he harbored fantasies of his brother getting clean and coming through for him – being a big brother when Bobby needed it most of all, when an arm around his shoulder and reminisces of their mother’s shared good moments would be a comfort, and Bobby could stop obsessing on his own about what he could have done differently to make his mother be less sick, and love him more. What was it like for people who leaned on their older brothers?
At other times he thought about Mark Ford Brady, and tried hard not to think about the physical damage that Brady had inflicted on his mother. Bobby thought (reluctantly, but how could he NOT think) about the implications of Brady being his father, and tried to reconcile his gut reaction that he was doomed to be a psycho (or rapist, or worse) against his rational and educated mind which told him that violence was not – is not – an inherited trait. Temper, maybe, but not sadistic violence.
He contemplated Eames, too. He’d finally reached a point where he no longer experienced a moment of panic when Eames didn’t walk in to 1PP exactly on time; Jo was put away, Nicole hadn’t surfaced in a while and he felt guilty and disloyal thinking Eames couldn’t take care of herself, even though he still let out a mental sigh of relief when she finally tossed her coat over her chair, or was already there, drinking her coffee (with way too much sugar), when he got in. He thought about the way she tolerated him with such ease and (mostly) good humor, gritting her teeth and forgiving him, even when dealing with his mother’s cancer got to him, and he pushed her away, snapping and storming out like a petulant child. Then he started remembering again what it felt like when the bottom dropped out of his world as he read the text from her kidnapper, and he thought for a moment about what his life would be like without Eames – and he tried to go back to thinking about less painful things, like Frank and his mother. (“Is that your wife?” Frank had asked, when he saw Eames waiting.)
Bobby tried to give up deep thought and make himself eat, but he found it easier to just pop another cap off a bottle of beer. Actual food required a whole other level of thought that he just wasn’t ready for, not quite yet.
/ / /
It was the end of another day of nothing, and Bobby had gotten showered and dressed sometime during the morning, hoping that by the time the last drop of water evaporated from his curly (and grey – when did it get so grey?) hair that he’d have a reason to have bothered, and maybe even to leave the house. He started on the bookshelves again – tempted this time to organize his books autobiographically, as he’d seen in a movie on TV recently – but he couldn’t keep up even the pretense of whimsy.
Instead, Bobby went back to the kitchen, trying to get motivated to heat some soup, or steam some frozen broccoli, or (aw fuck it) just open another bottle of beer, but instead he kept walking back and forth between the fridge and the stove, rubbing the back of his neck, not sure what he wanted, what would satiate him, until he realized that he was just pacing again and wasn’t really in the mood for booze or food… or anything.
Stopping, he rested his back against the wall, bent his head back and looked at the ceiling, exhaling loudly.
“God damn it.”
Motivation wasn’t happening. Bobby gave up, and slid to the floor where he stayed for who knows how long, getting lost again in thought (his mother - the last conversation they’d had - her clutching his sleeve and crying - him loving her and hating her at the same time, and thinking …Mom, please don’t go out like this), until his phone rang three times, went to voicemail, and then his cell phone rang because apparently whomever was calling was hell bent on giving him the motivation he’d been lacking to stand up and fucking DO something today.
It was Eames. A cop had been shot. She apologized for bothering him when he was supposed to be on leave, and he tried not to let her know quite how relieved he was to have something break his routine of staunchly and determinedly doing nothing, already grabbing his jacket as she started explaining, and snatching his badge off the counter.
“No, Eames, it’s right that you called, ok? I’ll meet you there.”
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