He actually takes a few steps towards the kitchen with the intent of making the coffee he had invited her up for before she grabs his arm and pulls him back. The next thing he knows her lips are on his (again) but this time it isn't at all like the kiss they shared outside of the bar, it's every bit the opposite. One of her hands cups his neck, the other his shoulder, as she pulls him frantically closer, tongue already seeking his, one of her hands sliding its fingertips under the collar of his shirt and he can't believe how fast this is all happening. Both in the literal - the rate at which they are moving back toward the couch - and the figurative sense of the word.
"Alex," he manages to gasp out, startled by how breathless he already is, "are you...? This is happening really fast, do you want to slow down, or..."
"No. Trust me, Bobby, I'm fine." She tells him, quick to get back to kissing, not realizing that his concern isn't just for her.
Little more than a second later he's sitting with Alex straddling his lap, still kissing him, her deft fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt, and his is head positively swimming.
Control is something he values. Control over his emotions, his actions, interrogations, etc. And he's always moving, poking this, prodding that, fidgeting, shifting. So he surprises himself when he finds that he now has completely relinquished all control to her. He feels paralyzed, frozen in his place, as her tongue glides into his mouth, kissing and exploring. Her hips bare down against his and jolts of electricity make him shiver as they careen down his spine. It feels like she's everywhere at once, her hands in his hair, her chest pressed against his, her skin under his hands, her lips on his lips, her taste in his mouth, her scent in his nose. He's overwhelmed. All he can do is hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on until he can't anymore because she's pulling his hands away, trying to remove the shirt from his shoulders. She pries at his hands for a few moments, panting, before she realizes something is wrong. Then she sits back in his lap, closer to his knees so that her hips are no longer above his and touches a hand to his cheek, anchoring his gaze to hers.
"Seriously, Bobby, if you want to slow down, we can," She tells him, determined to show him the understanding, the tenderness in her eyes. "We can sit and talk. Or I can just go, if that's what you -"
"No!" He says quickly, hands shooting out to hold her in place though she has made no move to go. "No, don't... don't leave."
"Okay, it's okay. I won't go anywhere unless you want me to. But I don't know what you want unless you tell me, Bobby. I'm not a mind reader."
Funny. Everyone else seemed to think she was. A reader of his mind, at least. But apparently not. Or maybe her power was only limited to thoughts related to the job.
"You don't need to apologize," Alex sighs. She's still so sick of hearing that word, remembering a time when it seemed to be the only one he knew.
"Sor- uh, right. Okay. But I - I do want this, Eames." Couldn't she see that? Couldn't she feel it? She was in his lap, after all. "This is all just happening really fast and I guess I got a little... lost."
"Lost? Don't tell me you've forgotten how this works." She cracks, suddenly grinning at him.
"Ah, no," he chuckles a little then; it was so good to see her smile. "It hasn't been that long."
"So you don't want to stop?" She asks, voice lowering. She's already leaning forward, lips once again centimeters from his.
"No," he whispers back.
"Good." She mumbles against his lips, "because neither do I." And this time when she kisses him he is there, matching her intensity, tongue sliding along hers. He shrugs his shirt from his shoulder, not caring that it gets wrinkled when it gets trapped between him and the couch a moment later.
From the time he was very small, Bobby was constantly made to witness, first hand, the devastating consequences that came with a lack of self control. He learned over and over that people who lost control only ever broke things. The earliest example he could remember of this dated back to when he was no older than five. Just a few weeks after his fifth birthday, in fact.
He was sitting on the floor of their living room playing with a little train or car - some simple toy that Frank had managed to scrape together the money to get him for his birthday, an instant favorite for Bobby because it came from his older brother - when his father came slurring and staggering home from 'work.' Back then, before his mother's illness exacerbated the issue, his father's drinking had been a relatively infrequent, but not uncommon thing.
On that particular occasion, it had been the second time in less than a week that his father had come home drunk before dinner, and though he didn't understand all of what was said, he did catch the gist of the argument that ensued between his parents.
It started with his mother quietly - for she knew then how to control her temper and handle her drunken husband - reprimanding him for coming home in the state he was in and spoiling her plans for a pleasant evening. Bobby had watched as she spent the entire afternoon preparing an elaborate - or, elaborate by their standards - meal, explaining to a casually listening Frank what she was doing as she did it, and ignoring any of Bobby's inquiries as to whether or not he could help. This had been in the early days when he was just beginning to realize that there was something different about the way his mother treated him. With Frank her voice was soft and patient, often filled with pride. When addressing Bobby, she was curt and annoyed, as though every little thing he did were a burden to her. That day she had refused to let Bobby help as she and Frank set the table with the 'good' plates - chipped blue china that they had gotten at a flea market somewhere. At the time, his little five year old mind understood that these plates meant something special was going on. It wasn't until years later that he realized that evening had been his parent's anniversary.
They had never had a lot of money, but his mother had put a lot of effort into that evening and he thought she had done an exceptional job with what little she had. His father only scoffed at it. From his place hidden just behind his mother in the doorway to the dining room, Bobby didn't quite catch the entire exchange, all he knew was that things got very bad very fast. His mother must have made some sort of comment about her work not being appreciated, which made his father start yelling at her for always complaining. Then his mother started yelling back to him about how he shouldn't be yelling in front of the children, about how she was sick of him coming home drunk, about how he was turning into an alcoholic.
Alcoholic. That was a word that Bobby had latched onto because he didn't recognize it. Even at his young age, he was eager to learn, to assimilate any new information into his growing collection of knowledge. Though he didn't know what it meant, he knew it must have been a powerful word, an angry word. A word his father denied vehemently, picking a plate from the table and hurling it at his mother in outrage. The fragile old china arched just over his mother's ducked head, landing mere feet away from Bobby and shattering into pieces that bounced up off the floor and cut at his little ankles. He could feel the blood, warm on his delicate skin.
But, years later, it isn't the blood or the cuts or the faint scars that he remembers. It's the shiny shards of blue china that glittered as they skittered across the floor and stung as they sliced into his skin.
He doesn't ask before he enters her; he doesn't need to. Although he is looking her in the eye as he does it, it is not to check that this is okay with her, he already knows it is. So much has lead up to this that he knows, deep inside his soul he knows, that this is what she wants.
He slides just the very tip of himself into her, shaking for control and the feeling of cool air on his back. There has always been a significant size difference between them, but he has never been so aware of it as he is in this moment. It has been a long time for him, so long, and he wants her so much that it is a battle of will for him to keep from losing himself in her. But he knows that it has been a while for her too - he can feel it in the impossible tightness of her that both arouses and worries him. She hisses, and he rests his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and gripping the sheets hard in his fists as he fights for self control, holding every muscle completely still as he waits for her to adjust to him.
After a few moments she gives a whimper and bucks against him, drawing him in further and making him shudder. She moans as she takes him in completely, her arms tighten around his neck as she mutters an explicative in his ear.
He is concentrating so hard on maintaining control, so terrified that he will hurt her, that it takes him a moment to notice the way she has relaxed, then tensed again underneath him. She is grinding her hips against his now, a soft moan of pleasure greets his ear as she arches up to him.
Hesitantly, ever aware of her under him, he starts to move in slow, controlled movements.
"Bobby," she murmurs. Her hands slide down his back, already slick with a fine perspiration from the effort of maintaining control. He doesn't realize it, but she can feel him holding back, making her nervous with the way his muscles tremble from the exertion. She catches his attention with a hand on the side of his neck, thumb rubbing up and down the column of his throat. "It's okay."
"Eam - Alex, I..." He stops, not sure how he wants to finish his sentence. I love you, need you, want you, don't want to hurt you, love you too damn much. Because he feels all of those rolled into one bundle of confused and overpowering emotion that he is struggling to hold onto.
"It's okay," Alex repeats softly, as though she can read his mind, can feel the small cloud of chaos churning through his body - the fight within himself, "it's okay to let go. I won't break. We won't break."
He wants to believe that. He wants to believe that it's okay to let himself go, to trust himself. But, though he doubts himself, if there is one person in the world he trusts completely, it's Alex. And if she trusts him then maybe, just maybe, that could be good enough.
With a deep exhale. a rush of air and an expulsion of doubt, he closes his eyes, swallows, and lets go.
And, for once, nothing breaks.