Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Intent or Oz, and am making no money from writing this. The angst is its own reward.

She had a cousin.
She never told him about the cousin. And yeah, it stings even now, to think that even after what she knew about Brady, even after she knew how he was hurting, staring down at his mangled fingerprints and wondering how far DNA could go—even then she never told him.
And how should I have brought that up, Bobby? he can hear her say. Hey, sorry about your real dad turning out to be a serial killer, I've got a cousin who could make Nicole Wallace piss her pants?
Yes, he tells her. That would have been perfect.
It's not even the imagined exasperated smirk that undoes him, that rueful Oh, Bobby-twist of her lips as she shakes her head.
It's the way she tucks her hair behind her ear.
"Oh, sweetie, don't cry. Hush now." She's kissing him, but it's not her, but it's her, and it's her and not her and up down inside out and he doesn't even fucking know—
He doesn't know how this turned from an interview to a condolence call to this because he doesn't know what this is, and he can't stop, hands fingers lips tongues, dueling pushing grabbing holding—he rips open her shirt and tastes her skin the ivory salty with sweat and he is hurtling plunging careening into the void and he licks kisses bites her breasts, marking her staking her—
Keeping her—
You left me, Eames, you left me, you weren't supposed to you can't leave me you can't leave me, you CAN'T—
And he shoves his fingers into her, feels her wet and ready tight, hears her keen, "Oh, oh oh oh—" her impatient hands on him through his pants, delicate fiery fingers measuring the breadth and length of him, a breathless but amused South-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line lilting, "Ooooh, Detective Goren, did you bring this all for me?"
Lilt, it's the wrong voice, tilt, and the world is falling, hilt, and her hands are, are are are are—
Her eyes are sparkling. They're the right eyes. They're topaz and honey and soft and if he just keeps looking at them, if he--
"All set there, pumpkin?"
Wrong voice.
He shoves his other hand into her hair, tangles it in the locks that are too short and too dark he crushes his lips with hers, crushes the voice with the wrong accent and inflection and breathing patterns into nothing but moans and purrs that vibrate up into his throat, and her lips her sounds taste like heaven and hell and coming home and having nowhere to go—
And he thrusts in, and she's hot and wet and tight and she bites his tongue and he thrusts and her nails are raking down his back, scoring down his arms, and he thrusts and oh God it's so goodbadgoodcan'tstop and he's starving for her—thrust—the way she moves touches flexes clenches soft hard wet warm don't stop don't stop can't and he—and she—and—
She's so tiny, tiny tiny beneath him and he clutches her and presses her down so she can't leave—
Eames can't leave—
The world is red and white and black explosions behind his eyelids and it's made up of only the sounds they're making, animals, grunts groans growls, rutting fucking mating and her heartbeat is strong and there and pounding in her veins, against his mouth, against his skin—
Her hips crash up against his, faster and faster and—thrust—and he collapses against her, sticky with need and desperation and shame, breathing heavily through his nose because he is still kissing her, because if he stops kissing her then—
She wrenches her mouth away, tosses her head back and laughs in sheer delight, and he can't remember whether it's the right laugh because he can't remember how Eames laughs, because all he can remember of Eames is the way her fingertips slid down his arm as she fell. The way her golden hair fanned out against the pooling scarlet.
"Well, darlin', you certainly know how to show a girl a good time."
The angle of light glinting off the handle of the knife that Stoat, out on bail, planted in her back.