A/N: When I started, I had no idea I'd be at it for so long. Go figure. I am writing to exorcise some persistent demons. This is fiction. Any resemblance to characters other than Goren and Eames is strictly coincidental. Any resemblance to other fanfiction is purely accidental. Perhaps, consider it a compliment?

There is an order to this in my head … maybe it'll make sense in time, and maybe it'll just come off as random and whatever.

Clearly not my characters. No infringement intended.

For all the shippers, old and new. Nothing wrong with wanting to believe in true love.


He was rubbing her feet. They were in his lap right here in the diner booth - shoes off - and he was rubbing them.

Eyes slipping closed and head lolling back, she was trying not to groan, or purr, and managing not think too much about either her lack of ankle bones, or the bizarre intimacy located somewhere in the center of this act.

He used his quietest voice, kept talking about the case and the job while his gentle fingers dug into tender arches, loosening rounded knots and ribbed bands of sinew, tendon, muscle all bound tight and running shards of dull grey pain up her legs, into her hips and lower back.

He'd seen it as soon as he'd nudged into the small spot beside her, there where she'd said she'd be - in the last pew in the back - slipping in on her right side, startlingly handsome in his blues.

You okay? His raised eyebrow asked.

Fine. The twitch at the corners of her lips answered.

His ever-so-slight frown let her know he didn't believe her for a second, just before Bishop shoved herself in to the non-existent space on his other side, leaning over and into him in order to give her a greeting nod, winning a true frown from him for her effort.

So she had to work not to smile, biting hard on the inside of her cheek, sliding further to the left along the smooth wood to make room, and suddenly finding herself snug up against Captain Deakins' right shoulder and thigh. Looking up, she saw his eyes meet Goren's over her head, realized with a rush of warmth that she was caught in a very caring pincer movement.

Now sandwiched between Detective Robert Goren and Captain James Deakins, conspicuously pregnant, conspicuously single, Detective Alexandra Eames was going to be able to get through the funeral with her dignity intact.

And Bobby had insisted on feeding her afterward, rudely ignoring Bishop's hints for an invitation to join them.

He'd received her mild chastisement to be nice to Bishop without comment, just his finest inscrutable look, and an assessment, a sizing her up.

"Give me your feet." he'd said after a time, holding out his left hand to her.

And here she was with her fat feet in his lap, eyelids drooping and a little drool gathering in the slackened corners of her smiling mouth.

"Mmmmmmm," she sighed, stretching her calves. "I could get used to this."

"Sorry, I'm not Derek Jeter." he teased.

"Oh, I know who you are."