Three Feet of Space

(~(~)~)

"It's barbaric," Eames said, sliding the picture to Ron. "An arranged marriage, in this day and age."

Just last night, Elizabeth's cell phone, flung in one of her increasingly frequent flashes of temper, had almost grazed the side of Ron's head. He grimaced. "Especially since people have such spectacular success choosing their own mates - in this day and age."

Eames gave him a vaguely hurt look, which he ignored. If that's all the thicker your skin is, after two years working with Bobby...

Deakins gave Bobby and Eames their instructions, and Ron had his own, and the meeting broke up. He gathered his coat and briefcase and tried to ignore the looming that was going on in the doorway.

Bobby didn't move when Ron tried to leave the room. Ron gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes focused on Bobby's tie. "Excuse me, Detective Goren."

"Ron, wait."

"I have a very important motion hearing to prepare for." He tried to get around Bobby. He might as well have tried to get around Kilimanjaro.

"Ron, wait." Bobby's hand came very close to Ron's arm - close enough that Ron felt the burning heat radiating from Bobby's skin into his own. But Bobby wouldn't actually touch him. Oh, no, not Bobby Goren and the incorruptible moral code that no one else could comprehend.

Bobby dropped his hand, and Ron sighed. "I'm okay," he said, still not looking the other man in the eye. "Just another long, crazy week at the DA's office."

And Bobby was the smartest man Ron knew, but he bought it. "Okay," he said and stepped aside.

"Thanks." Ron flashed a lips-only smile and raised his eyes quickly enough that Bobby might miss that they hadn't actually made eye contact. "See you tomorrow."

(~(~)~)

By the time tomorrow rolled around, Adan Devlin was in jail for the murder of his sister, and Bobby showed up in Ron's office in the middle of the afternoon with a line of bruises beginning to color his cheek.

"Did you get slapped?" Ron took a step toward Bobby, and Bobby took a step back. Of course.

"Yes, I did."

"Was it one of the Devlin women?" Ron was already hunting up the necessary paperwork. "We would love to have something to hang on everybody in that family. Assaulting a police officer would be an excellent place to start."

"It was Elizabeth," Bobby said quietly.

Ron stopped dead, dark hands stilling against the desktop. "My Elizabeth?"

"Yeah." Bobby wasn't doing any of his normal ticcing, and Ron was getting nervous.

"My wife slapped you?" Ron came around the desk again. "Bobby, what happened?"

"She was, ah, waiting when Eames and I got back from the Devlins'," he said haltingly, then rushed on, "Alex tried to warn me, but it - it was too late."

"She just walked up to you and slapped you?"

"First she, ah, called me a home wrecker."

"Oh." Ron leaned against the front of his desk. "I see." He felt like he should say more - apologize to Bobby, for starters - but words wouldn't come.

"What - what's happening, Ron?" Bobby ducked his head to catch Ron's eye. "Why - why would she do that? Why would she say that?"

Ron had deliberately pulled a brick from the bottom of the prison wall he'd built around himself by marrying Elizabeth. The wall that had kept him socially acceptable, and safe, and completely isolated from his own emotions. Now he was watching it collapse. "The papers might have something to do with it," he mused.

"Papers. Divorce papers?"

Ron nodded. "It was time."

Bobby lowered himself carefully into one of Ron's chairs. He always moved carefully around chairs; Ron wondered how many had betrayed him. "Why?" he asked softly.

"I was sick of it, Bobby." He gestured to the empty space. "I was sick of you always leaving three feet of space between us. Sick of making love to her and praying she couldn't tell I was thinking of you, and then seeing you and never knowing what you were thinking." He shook his head. "Mostly, I was sick of how much energy lying took."

Bobby's eyes were dark and his face was pale. "If you did this for me--"

"I did it for me, Bobby," Ron said sharply. He spread his hands. "I'm a free man now. If you want to join me in celebrating my freedom, you know where you can find me."

"Okay." Bobby pushed out of the chair. "We have a suspect cooling his heels at the station. Alex has probably scared him enough by now. I should get back to it."

Ron just nodded.

"Ron?"

Ron looked up and waited.

"What did you say to Elizabeth to make her slap me?"

Ron sighed at this proof of how stunningly his deceptions had failed. "Honestly, Bobby, I didn't mention your name once."

(~(~)~)

When the knock on the door came, Ron assumed it was Elizabeth. She was the only person who'd ever come over. Until yesterday, these had been merely visits to endure, as she tried to talk him into returning to the house. Now that she'd involved Bobby in their marital problems - now that she'd smacked him in the middle of his own squad room - Ron relished the chance to take her on. He yanked open the door, ready to brawl.

And there was Bobby.

He peered around Ron. "Nice place," he said brightly.

"Uh...thank you." Ron shook his head and moved aside. "Come in." Bobby moved inside, letting his arm brush, almost imperceptibly, against Ron's chest. Ron blinked. What the hell crazy dimension had they fallen into here? Bobby at his door at 8:30 on a Thursday night, deliberately touching him, carrying - Ron squinted - a bottle of wine?

"It's a little Spartan," Bobby said.

Oh, that was rich, coming from a man whose home decorating scheme consisted of nine shades of off-white. Ron crossed his arms and waited for Bobby to finish his circuit. He put the wine on the dining table. He studied the pictures of Ron's brothers on the mantle. He paused at the window. Ah, yes. Bobby and his views. "This is nice." He waved a hand at the street. "Nice neighborhood. Quiet?" He turned to look at Ron. "Not where I'd pictured you, though."

Ron shrugged. "Time was a factor in the decision."

"Huh. Yeah." Nodding, Bobby moved on. "And you've been here...how long?"

Ron chuckled. "About four months." He waited.

His tour of the living room complete, Bobby returned to the entryway and stood his customary three feet away. Ron had never seen that look in his eyes before. The world narrowed to the two of them, two points connecting the shortest line on the planet. "Three months, three weeks, five days, and seventeen hours," Bobby murmured.

"Why are you here, Bobby?" Ron's voice sounded so strangled in his own ears.

"Because I've already stayed away too long."

At last, Bobby closed that maddening three-foot gap, rested his hands on Ron's shoulders, and kissed him.

Kissing Bobby was a mistake. Kissing Bobby was the best mistake Ron had ever made, but it was the one, he knew, that was going to haunt him most. Bobby's mouth moved against his with a gentleness he hadn't expected, carefully resisting Ron's efforts to turn it into anything deeper. Bobby pulled away, and his soft smile almost knocked away the last hold Ron had on a normal life. He felt like Judas, only in reverse - he'd betrayed himself with a kiss - an almost-perfect kiss that couldn't be repeated, not as long as unsigned divorce papers sat on a desk in a house he used to call home.

And now he wanted more. Didn't know how he could last until the resolution of the divorce without feeling that close to Bobby again.

Bobby pointed to the table. "I brought wine."

Ron moved quickly to the table and picked up the bottle. A sangiovese. One of the best. He chuckled. "You have excellent tastes, Bobby."

Bobby was at the closet, finally hanging up his coat. Ron had changed into jeans and a sweater, but Bobby, as always, couldn't be bothered to do anything but take off his tie. Bobby shook his head. "You know I don't," he said. "I just knew the name." And Ron understood. Bobby knew wine the way he knew most everything - and he did know most everything - intellectually, rather than experientially.

"I'll get glasses." Ron didn't have real wine glasses; those had stayed at the house with Elizabeth. Good wine in cheap glassware seemed an apt metaphor for his relationship with Bobby, if only he could figure out which thing symbolized which of them.

Bobby was suddenly behind him, his breath warm against the side of Ron's face as he said, "I'd love for you to teach me, someday."

Ron's hands shook slightly against the dark green bottle glass, but he nodded. The silence that lay between them couldn't decide if it wanted to be awkward or comfortable.

"You know, in the region of Italy where this wine is made--"

"Bobby, don't," Ron said sharply.

Bobby stopped, frowning. "What? What's wrong?"

"There's nobody here but us," Ron said, concentrating more than he needed to on the wine. "There's no one you need to impress."

Bobby nodded once and took the proffered glass without comment. They moved to the couch, where the silence remained undecided. Bobby lifted his glass. "To Ron Carver, the free man."

And how had Ron thought this was awkward? In spite of everything that came between them - despite the three feet of space and the specter of Elizabeth, never far behind - this was Bobby. He leaned over and clinked his glass against Bobby's. "To Ron Carver, the free man," he echoed.

For a time they talked of useless things. Eames had been giving Bobby a hard time again about salivating over old cars. Ron had run into an old law professor, about to retire to Scottsdale, and had almost asked her if she wanted company.

Bobby looked around the apartment - its emptiness; the view Ron rarely noticed; the tentative, 'this-is-not-home' feel of it. "Will Elizabeth keep the house?"

Ron refilled his glass. The bottle was nearly empty. "And welcome to it."

"You'll stay here?"

"For a while." Ron looked around, too. "Eventually, I'll move someplace that doesn't scream, 'Befuddled man in the middle of a divorce.'"

Bobby looked down at the couch, plucking at a loose thread. "You could move in with me."

Ron stared. So this was a Bobby Goren relationship - from zero to sixty in one bottle of wine. "No, I couldn't."

Bobby raised his eyes. "I have space."

"I know you do." Ron set down his glass and faced Bobby. "But I haven't lived on my own in almost ten years. I need this time for me."

"Oh. Okay." If Bobby thought he was trying not to sound disappointed, he must know he was failing.

Ron tilted his head down, catching Bobby's eye. "The next place I move into, you don't have to wait four months to come over."

The corner of Bobby's mouth twitched. "Three months, three weeks, five days, and twenty-one hours."

Ron checked his watch. "I hadn't realized it had gotten so late."

"We should get some sleep," Bobby said, and Ron had no doubt he meant a collective 'we.'

"It's not over yet, Bobby," Ron warned him. "Elizabeth will get the best divorce lawyer she can find - and she can find a very good one. Any hint of impropriety now will be fodder for her to--"

"Then I'll sleep on the couch. But I'm going to be here. Your marriage--" Bobby laughed shrilly. "Your marriage has been crumbling around you, and, and I've been so...worried about protecting you from any accusation of wrongdoing that I never considered that you--" He shrugged.

Ron watched him through narrowed eyes. "That I what?"

"Need me."

Ron leaned back abruptly. "I've survived far worse than divorce without you."

"You have." Bobby nodded. "You have - and you could again. But you shouldn't have to. You don't have to. Now."

Ron's petulant, five-year-old inner child protested that he wouldn't be in this situation if not for Bobby, but his rational side knew that wasn't true - and certainly wasn't fair to Bobby. "You'll never fit on this couch. Take the bed."

"I'm not putting you out of your own bed."

"Bobby, the couch is too short for me. Think of what it'll do to you. Sleep in the bed."

Bobby stood and looked down at him. "We'll share."

"Bobby--"

"To sleep." He extended his hand to Ron. "Only to sleep."

"It's not a sharing bed." But he was taking Bobby's hand and standing, and Bobby was making his way to the bedroom as though this weren't his first time setting foot in the apartment, and Ron was following. God help him, he was following, barely keeping his head enough to grab Bobby a pillow from the hall closet.

Bobby staggered a little when he saw the bed. Ron allowed himself a smirk. "I didn't buy it with you in mind." Indeed, he'd gone out of his way to find a bed that wouldn't fit Bobby.

But Bobby was already efficiently removing his jacket, his shoes, his shirt. "Still better than an Army cot," he said, grinning at Ron.

Something in Ron demanded that he put this insolent man out - out of his bedroom, his apartment, his life. But with Bobby standing there in his boxers and undershirt, the closest to vulnerable Ron had ever seen him, the battle was lost.

The bed wasn't big enough for 'sides,' but they held to the corners as best they could, keeping their backs to each other and their good-nights perfunctory. But here was Bobby, in his bed. Ron could feel Bobby's heat, smell Bobby's skin, and he knew that any sleep he got tonight would be a miracle.

(~(~)~)

Ron's heart hammered frantically; his face was drenched in sweat. The blanket was crushing him. It was too hot, too heavy. He pawed at it until it grunted and rolled away.

Bobby. Not a blanket at all. Bobby.

Ron leapt off the bed and raced to the bathroom. The tightness in his chest didn't ease.

"Ron?" Bobby's arms closed around Ron's upper arms. He shook them off. Did Bobby not realize his heart was about to burst? "Come on, sit down," Bobby said softly, leading Ron to sit on the edge of the bathtub. He filled a cup from the tap and pressed it into Ron's shaking hands, sitting next to him. "Drink."

Though he vaguely wondered why he wasn't insisting that Bobby call 911, Ron drank the water. Bobby's hands returned to his arms, rubbing lightly. He made himself forget, most of the time, that Bobby had so much gentleness in him.

His heartbeat slowed. The tremor in his hands subsided. He slumped against the tiled wall.

"Ron?" Strong fingers lifted his chin, and he looked up into Bobby's worried eyes. Bobby looked fuzzy to Ron without his glasses. "Better?"

Ron carefully set his glass on the corner of the sink. "So that's what a panic attack feels like."

Bobby's hands fell away. "You've never had one?" Ron shook his head, and Bobby pushed to his feet with that always-surprising grace. "I guess I won't be sleeping in the bedroom anymore."

Ron squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could argue. "Not until Elizabeth signs the papers," he said, voice rasping.

"Back to the couch, then," Bobby said with brittle cheer.

"Bobby, the couch will kill you. I'll take it."

"It's your bed, Ron."

The smart thing would've been to send Bobby home. Get themselves out of the path of the train wreck they courted every time they were together. But the thought of trying to get back to sleep tonight without Bobby somewhere in the apartment felt like enough to bring back the panic attack. And he had no idea what time it was, but it was probably an impolite hour to be evicting the house guests. "Fine," he said, "but I will have no sympathy for any back, neck, or other injuries it causes you."

Bobby laughed. "Understood, Counselor." He went into the bedroom to collect his pillow and the top blanket.

Ron followed Bobby to the living room and watched him prepare the bedding in a series of strategic, almost ritualistic gestures that must have been with him since the Army. He lay down and commenced squirming. "Comfortable?" Ron asked.

Bobby tilted his head up and back. "This couch is too short for me."

Snorting, Ron made his way toward the light switch. "Good night, Bobby."

"Good night, Ron. See you in the morning."

Ron hesitated. He'd expected that Bobby would want to be up and gone before Ron was up in the morning, to be alone with his inevitable rethinking of the situation.

Once again seeming to read Ron's mind, Bobby left the couch and crossed to him. "When I said I was going to be here, I meant I was going to. Be. Here. Is that clear?"

Damn him. He was going to crack all of Ron's carefully constructed facades. He nodded. "Thank you, Bobby."

"Get to sleep, Ron. You look like crap."

Ron snorted and returned to the bedroom. The couch was protesting Bobby's efforts to subdue it. Ron lay in the darkness and watched patterns of light from passing headlamps slide across his walls.

The distance to the living room couch was much greater than Bobby's three feet of space. They'd just presented Elizabeth with their reputations and careers on a plate, if she wanted them. And Ron's hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline rush of his panic attack. In the living room, Bobby cursed not quite softly enough. In the bedroom, Ron smiled and slept well for the first time in three months, three weeks, and five nights.