Disconnect
What’s the word for a theme the writer can’t let go of? I think it’s a French or Latin phrase. Anyway, here’s another “Purgatory” story. Inspired by my iPod, of all things.I dreamed these characters one night, then Dick Wolf stole them from my dream. Legally I don’t own them. Spiritually they are MINE MINE MINE!
After nearly six months without a job, he missed the connection to her more than anything else. He didn’t think he would have missed it as much as he did, really. Poor introspection on his part. Until the Stoat job had come his way, he didn’t even get out of bed most days. It wasn’t all the things he thought he would have missed. It wasn’t the intimacy of the interrogation room, it wasn’t the high of finally connecting all the dots, figuring out not only their moves but his next move, what he had to do to get this reaction or that confession. No. It was his connection to her. Typical anthropological reaction, people needed people to be people after all. He needed her so he could be him. He was sure she felt the same way.
He felt it most strongly that day outside the diner, when he met her accidentally. He wanted to tell her, he almost felt a physical need, but he knew the only way it would come out right was if he did not tell her. He’d put her through enough crap lately to last a lifetime. She was well away from this. But he missed the connection. He thought he could see in her eyes she did too.
He thought for a moment, as the cops had burst in on him and Eames had found herself pointing her gun at him, that they were back in synch, because he could see in her eyes the same thing he felt: horror and shock and pain a what this road had come to.
He didn’t know what her reaction would be to the news, but her emotions so plain on her face, first worry, then confusion, shock and shattering betrayal, were terrible to see. He hated himself at that moment. He sought her forgiveness, later, when they were alone. First he tried the professional “I’m sorry,” because he knew she always kept it close to the vest emotionally and wanted to show he understood. When that didn’t work, he tried other words. Explanations, motive, what was best for her, what was best for him. Please Eames. Alex. Understand. Let me make it up to you. Let me come back. He almost felt lightheaded as the connection remained severed as she said, “I hope it was worth it.”
He understood her better then. This connection of theirs, he had always thought it meant something extraordinary to her. When she had shown sorrow, even grief, about the withdrawn letter, he was sure this meant she needed him as much as he needed her. Now he knew. She was herself, and all that she needed, without him. The bond between them, compared to what it meant to him, meant little to her. He saw the end of her marriage in a way he never had before. She must have learned a great deal when Joe had died and that bond was severed. She was strong now. He was the weak one. He was not the smart one, he was not the kind one, he was not the one in the lead. He was the weak one. He was the lamp. She was the power.
When it was clear she would still deign to speak to him, he tried an abject apology again. You’re right. You’re smart. I appreciate you. I respect you. Then he said, I need you.
They were in the break room talking about Dean Holiday and his pathological attachment to magic. “People like that, they shouldn’t be working in the real world anyway.” Eames popped a Skittle into her mouth and shook her head. “They never grew up. Boy, are they a trip when you’re dating them.”
“No,” he said, “I’m sure he could hold down a steady job, if he had to.”
“Then why does he insist on playing with toys you gave up as a kid?”
“Because,” he said sorrowfully, “they are his sine qua non. Without which, nothing. He’s not him outside of the magic. It is his meaning, his spark.” He looked down at his feet. It was now or never. “Eames, you’ve been my meaning, my spark, for a long time. I just figured you knew. You’ve never carried my water. You’ve been carrying my soul for years.”
There was a silence of ten seconds that stretched for eternity. He was worried that she would stand up and leave. Then, “I can’t believe he thinks you’ve lost your edge. You’ve got a long time left. I should have slapped that smug punk. I wonder if he can make a black eye disappear.”
And somewhere inside Goren a spark the size of a Christmas tree light warmed him.
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