A/N: I know! Another 'Loyalty' centered fic! Ahhh!…Okay, each chapter is going to be a somewhat missing scene from the part 2 episode of 'Loyalty' before continuing after the episode aired into my own 'what if' story. It won't be long though; I'm aiming for only about five chapters. Anyway, Thanks and Enjoy!

Rating: T

Pairing: B/A (of course)

Warnings/Spoilers: Season 9 spoilers for 'Loyalty'.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, seriously.

"Loyalty means nothing unless is has at its heart the absolute principle of self-sacrifice." -- Woodrow Wilson

"I'm not torturing myself."

Those had been the first words out of his mouth when he opened the door to let her in. It had been a lie; one that she had caught onto quickly. He didn't even try to hide the pain in his voice, his eyes, his soul. They were both in pain, both hurting, both still in shock.

She still had on her dress blues, having gone to Ross's sister's house straight from the graveyard. Nichols was probably still there, or maybe he had finally gone home like him. The guilt he had been feeling hadn't gone away, even after learning of Ross's uncover operation with the FBI. Being there, surrounded by his captain's family and seeing his sons mourn their father, it had all been too much. He had shut down, and then he realized that he had been passed by and ignored the whole day. With no longer wanting to feel like a ghost in the corner, he had left.

He was surprised that she had come looking for him. He thought that she would ignore him too.

Alex regarded him as he paced around the kitchen while she took off her jacket.. Placing it over a chair, she asked, "Got anything good to drink?"

"Yeah, sure…Uh, how 'bout some bourbon?" he had asked as she eased into his personal space and shook the remainder of his control merely by her presence.

She had mistaken his offering as a stab at her past. He hadn't meant it that way; he had genuinely asked if she wanted to have a drink with him. Instead of accepting or declining, she attacked.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she had snapped sharply, viciously. "I'm not some drunk that has to drink every time someone I know dies. This isn't the same, this isn't--"

At hearing her anger, it sparked his all over again. He slammed the bottle down on the counter before smacking the cabinet door close. The vibration of the smack still tingled his hand. "Damn it, Eames! That wasn't…I hadn't been insinuating anything!" He had been so pissed off that he couldn't even talk or think straight.

She had stared at him for a long moment, both of them not knowing what to do or say as their mutual anger at the person responsible for the death of their friend, their captain, was still out there somewhere breathing.

Rubbing at her head, she sighed. Shaking her head, she told him, "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm not angry with you and I know that you didn't mean it like that." She eyed the bottle. "Give me a glass, a tall glass."

After giving a nod, he had pulled down two tall glasses and filled them both. Handing one to her, they didn't bother making a toast to the dead, they just drank. The silence in his house was pulsing with their unspoken words of anguish, and disbelief, as he led her into the living room where they sat. He had put the bottle on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch. It seemed like hours had gone by when it occurred to him that they hadn't spoken. Looking at his watch, it had only been about ten minutes.

Closing his eyes against the onset of regret that his last moments with his captain was spent questioning his integrity. The thoughts that had entered his head while he had a short and brief conversation with the man he called his boss, his friend, was that of a liar, of a crooked cop, of a criminal…and, of a lost and desperate man. It had torn him apart seeing Ross only a few hours later un-breathing…lifeless. To learn that his captain wasn't any of those things reassured him only long enough for the pain to creep in that he could have been responsible for his death.

"O captain…my captain…" his soft voice whispered in the silence, "…the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck, my captain lies, fallen cold…and dead." He went to take a drink from the glass and realized it was empty. Looking over at Alex, he explained, "Walt Whitman."

"You skipped about…four lines?"

"Five. I can't remember the rest…my mind keeps, um, repeating those, over and over," he mumbled as he looked away, back to the empty glass and wishing it would magically get full.

"It's not your fault, Bobby."

He had looked over at her then; staring into her eyes that were desperately trying to convince him that those words were true, he slightly smiled. "I know, I know…but, knowing doesn't make the pain go away, nor the guilt."

As he was reaching for the bottle, her hand grabbed his, stopping him. Looking at her, he had seen the understanding, compassion, and hurt in her eyes.

Leaning toward him, she told him, "Stop beating yourself up. You're not at fault."

With that attempt at consoling him, she had succeeded in making him angry. He hadn't wanted, or needed, her reassurances. It wasn't going to make him feel better, happier, calmer…or saner. "Eames…You can't," he stopped and took a deep breath. "You can't make me suddenly okay. I'm not okay. I don't know when I'm ever going to be okay."

"Don't you think I'm hurting too? Don't you think I'm not feeling some guilt? I keep thinking about the last time I saw him, what I said. Did he realize that he was more than just my captain, but my friend? I was the one that found that e-mail; I was the one that couldn't stop the investigation while you were doing the paperwork--"

She had started crying as her voice pitched with the sorrow that overtook her. There wasn't anything he could do except watch her, put his hand on her shoulder, and pull her into a hug. Her tears had soaked through his t-shirt as she finally let go. For the past week, she had held all the strength and all the control as he spiraled out of it. She had been his rock so many times that he had stopped counting. The image of her, helpless and confused, angry and wrecked with grief, it had shaken him.

Holding her so close at first felt awkward. They had been partners, and friends, for nine years and this was the first time he had held her so close. It was close enough to smell her, to feel her heart beating against his chest, to feel her breath on his neck as she exhaled, and to be warmed by her body as it rested against his.

Then, suddenly, it had felt normal…familiar, like they had been doing it for years. Her trust in him and her level of comfort with him was what drove him to do it at first. It was so innocent, just a reaction to a horrible situation. A counter-reaction to all the pain and sorrow they had been feeling for a week. He wanted her to feel good, happy…It was just a simple gesture. A kiss.

He had placed it on top of her head, much like he had seen parents doing to comfort their children. He was sure he had said something meaningless, like…"Shh,…it's okay. It'll be okay."

There was no real memory of the words he said, no memory of how many kisses exactly he placed on her head before she stopped. Her breath caught in her chest, her trembling stilled, and the beating of her heart sped up as it pounded into him.

What had he done?

When she stopped breathing, he stopped. He froze with her in his arms as he felt her shift into him, turning her head up. Not wanting to see the anger or lost of trust in her eyes, he stared across the room at the blank television screen and wished to be a ghost again, hidden in a corner.

He had expected a hand to his face, a knee to his groin, or a sharp, unforgiving, "go to hell". Instead, he had felt her lips. They caressed lightly over his jaw and his chin. His eyes slid closed at the sensational shiver that shook his entire body. It was a miracle.

When her soft lips covered his, he lost all control. Pulling her to him, they deepened the kiss as they forgot all about the rules, not only the departments' but their own. The images of Ross's death faded from their passion driven minds as they responded to each others need to feel alive. To feel tears burning in their eyes from pleasure and love instead of sorrow and grief.

Everything had happened so quickly. They didn't even make it off the couch. She had pushed him down, straddled him, and rode him fast and hard until she collapsed, breathless and spent…and very much alive, on top of him.

That was where he was now. He was lying on his back, staring at his ceiling, with Alex resting on top of him. His hand rubbed the length of her spine as he tried to coax her back down to earth, to reality. There was fear that she would suddenly realize what she, they, had done and regret it. She could very easily hate him for the rest of her life, accuse him of taking advantage despite the fact that she was the one that literally jumped him.

All those thoughts vanished as she lifted her head to be staring into his eyes. She watched him with a small smile on her face, and tears in her eyes. Pulling her to him, he kissed her lazily over her lips. She breathed out against him and gave him one more kiss before resting her head on his clothed chest. They were both still pretty much clothed as neither one had given any considerable time to become familiar with the other's body. They had just reacted, and responded, to their equally desperate desire to feel something good.

It should have felt weird, and wrong, but somehow, it didn't. Bobby considered the possibility of why that was. Why he wasn't freaking out more than he was. Why she wasn't hitting him or leaving him already. Why he wanted to do it again, and again, and hopefully again. Maybe that was because he knew that it wasn't wrong. Maybe because he already knew what was going to happen, and he was prepared for it. It didn't bother him anymore. He no longer cared. The moment he found his captain dead, and learned the reason for it, he knew what he had to do. His mind was already made up.

"What'd we do now?"

At her question, he shook his head. "Find his killer."

Alex lifted her head and stared at him in perplexed confusion.

"Oh, you meant about us." He searched her eyes for any hint of what she wanted to hear. In the end, he sadly answered the truth, "I…I don't know, but…my bed is a much better place to contempt the answer to that."

Alex chuckled and went to get up. "I'll leave you to it. I should be going."

For the moment, that was all that was said, all that needed to be said, as he let her go.

The silence that lingered after she was gone was worse than the silence before she came. It always worked that way when the love of your life walks away. With him, there was no exception. He didn't want to get up off the couch after she left. There was no point, none…except to find Ross's killer. To get justice for their captain and his family.

He got up, put the bottle away, left the glasses in the sink, and went to get some sleep.

TBC…