This is my first CI fic that I've posted, and I'm really quite terrified, but I refuse to be afraid anymore. It's about Alex looking back on a high school experience with a guy who was a lot like Bobby, back when she was still the prom queen type and probably a bit superficial, and how it affects her relationship with Bobby. Toward the end, it's sort of a post ITWSH, but seeing as I haven't actually seen it, I just know the basics. It might be OOC, I'm not really sure. And I would love some reviews for this.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine.

Somebody wrote a profile about me once.

I was a Senior in high school, Class of 1984, when my English teacher had paired me up to write this profile-autobiography thing with some kid I barely knew, and even now only remember as "Jonathan". (He did not like to be called merely "John" and always called me "Alexandra" instead of Alex.) We were different in virtually every way—he was over six feet to my five two, brunette to my blonde, Olive skinned to my fair. Nice looking enough I guess, but someone I didn't know, and honestly had no care to. I was seventeen and the youngest in my senior class, the darling of most of my teachers, reigning Prom Queen, the works. Living the ultimate charmed existence; the sharp-witted daughter of a family of cops who could and would verbally assail anyone who forgot it.

And needless to say I was not overly pleased to be paired up with some kid whose name I couldn't bring myself to remember for the life of me. I remember the day we interviewed each other, because we were dancing around whose house we were going to go to to actually get this done. First it was mine, but then we rescheduled a bunch of times because my dad just couldn't heed interruptions while watching the Nicks with his cop friends. Jonathan wouldn't even consider his, saying that it was a place that I probably would not want to go to. Of course, I realize now as a forty year old woman that it was something deeper than mere self consciousness, but then, I just chalked it up to him being weird. And sometimes, when I look back on it, I wonder at the fact that for a major case detective in the making I was just as remarkably dim as any other Junior Prom Queen.

The house was finally free eventually, and we asked each other general questions that did not dare to delve into personal psyche while a large tape recorder listened nearby. He asked me about my family, and I described how I was from the infamous Eames cop dynasty. I remember Jonathan responding, in that rumbling voice so low that it barely tapped the ears, "Sounds like you guys are a high spirited bunch." And I laughed, at the understatement of the century. I could hear a Bob Barker-esque voice in my ear; tell him what he's won!

"I think that's code for: You guys are erratic, if anyone pisses you off, a twenty two is a mere belt loop away."

At his laughter which fell no louder than a whisper, I felt a measure of accomplishment within me that made no sense. The laughter did not last long, nor was it in any way loud, but there was no mistaking its authenticity. And I appreciated that more than I ever did those guys on the football teams raucous laughs and ravenous stares. Something clicked with me for the rest of the day, something that compelled me to be on the top of my game just to elicit one of those very brief but genuine smiles.

The connection could have been something, but it wound up being nothing, solely by my doing. With the profile due in a week, I blew the assignment off, scheduling it for later date after later date. Parties seemed to crop up out of nowhere, and I attended them all, deciding that this last assignment for English was not that important, that my GPA was among the highest in the senior class, that Jonathan would not mind if I gave him a crappy profile to take home with him.

None of the above.

I hadn't even had the grace to pull an all-nighter the day before it was due, and wound up writing the crappiest, most superficial thing that I have ever written in my natural born life. I was ashamed of it even as I was placing it on paper; I was sorry for Jonathan even before he saw it.

The next day was basically a blur, a shameful blur in which I felt awful about myself, but still, one that I do not remember well. Except his comments on me—so astute, so dead on, and on such a deep level that I remember it scaring the hell out of me.

Alexandra Eames is a walking contradiction—a tiny, delicate looking woman with enough wit and enough edge for someone twice her size. She's unafraid to walk toe to toe with everyone, and can verbally take down absolutely anyone. But there is something hiding behind her pale blue eyes, past the shield of almost intimidation. There's a vulnerability that she rarely shows, probably out of fear, but, when she does show it, is probably one of the most beautiful things about her.

And all I remember thinking was, who the hell put the hidden camera inside my goddamn head? The rest of the day passed, and I remember him reading my profile about him, face almost falling no matter how he tried to hide it. And at that moment, I got it—got why Jonathan had wanted some effort, because no one else in his life bothered to give it to him. No one else bothered to give him one hundred, or even seventy five, percent. I had just added myself to that list, of half ass people who didn't give a damn. The crowning high school achievement of Senior Prom queen Alex Eames. I met his eyes, and tried to convey that I was sorry, but how could I put that into words? I'm sorry, but a few parties with people who don't really get me were more important than someone's feelings. Yeah, that conversation was not destined to end well. So, I let it go. And this, too, shall pass.

But sometimes, even now, I go back and regret it at certain points. In 2001, I became a member of the major Case Squad, and met my partner, Detective Robert Goren. Goren would actually permit me to call him Bobby, and he, too, was over six feet to my five two, Brunette to my blonde, olive skinned to my fair. He called me Eames, the formal way to refer to people at work, as Jonathan had insisted on calling me my entire first name in school. He was everything I ever imagined that Jonathan would have grown up to be; sweet, insightful, and heart- stoppingly brilliant. And for those first few days when I felt that I couldn't handle his quirks, I almost made the same mistake all over again. But something stopped me, something told me to give it another shot, and I withdrew the request letter. It was definetly one of the best decisions I've made, but came back to bite me in the ass a few weeks ago, when the letter resurfaced again. I had been forced to read it on the stand, and cried my eyes out, for what I was doing and had done to people that I did not have the capacity to understand.

And even though Bobby forgave me, even agreed that he was an "acquired taste", I still felt like shit, and still beat up on myself for my insensitivity toward two men who were so similar. I hadn't even learned my lessons by thirty five years old beginning major case, and that stung. But now, I am grateful for Jonathan; I am grateful for Bobby. I am grateful to have been around Bobby long enough to have an almost allergic reaction to normality. And I'm grateful that I can now say that I am completely disconnected to the teenager I used to be.

But last night there was one more thing that I had to do to put all of this to rest. One more thing to assuage the guilt I felt for what I had done, for rash moments of judging without attempting to understand.

Robert Goren is a star major case detective with a troubled past, but a bright future. He assuages all rumors about him with one genuine conversation, all whispers with one gentle glance of his chocolate brown eyes. He is passionately there for everyone he cares about, whether with a kind well selected word, or a tentative hand on the shoulder. "Bobby" as his friends call him, is often haunted by his past, but never, ever uses it as an excuse for anything but to work harder. He is an attribute to his department on the NYPD and everywhere else.

This morning I came in at the same time I always do, carrying coffee for my partner and I. I handed him his two creams, two sugars, and we got to work. Or he did. I stared for a while, almost contemplative, until he looked up at me with confusion clearly written across his features.

"What's up, Eames?"

In that second I made a decision that I was terrified that I would regret later—I knew that I would regret it later. But I also knew that it was something I had to face up to and do right now. Never breaking away from his eyes, I pulled the folded paper out of my back pocket and handed it to him; he took it and patted my hand reassuringly, as though he were used to me pulling foreign objects seemingly from nowhere. He released my eyes and wordlessly began reading it. About halfway through the two pages, he was smiling that tentative, but beautifully authentic smile that I loved about him, knotting up my stomach. And I knew, knew that I had done the right thing, when he began to shake his head and look embarrassedly pleased.

This one's for you, Jonathan.

Fin.