Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Please do not sue me, I'm not getting any money from this.

A.N. It's generally accepted that the funeral scene is a flash-forward, but a flashforward to when? You do not even want to know the ridiculous amount of time and energy I spent trying to figure out the rules of who's allowed to wear dress blues, and therefore whether the funeral took place while Goren was suspended, or after he was fired and Eames resigned. Final (for now) verdict? While he was suspended, right before they closed the case.

He has long known that she would give anything to him, anything for him. He has long known but never been quite able to believe, so he pushes her, tests her. Needles her like a suspect in the interrogation room. Picks at his doubt like an itching scab, knowing it will only make both of them bleed.

All through the funeral he stares straight ahead but he can feel Eames beside and slightly in front of him, a silent electricity. The solidity of her stance as she snaps a crisp salute, white gloves touching the brim of her hat. It's an unseasonably cold morning but heat radiates out from her, a blazing winter stove crammed into her tiny strong body.

He knows, without looking, that her mouth will be a thin line, her eyes bright but steady. She won't waver.

He knows, but he part of him believes that if he looks, she won't be there at all.

After the service the crowd disperses, but neither one of them feels like going back to the funeral home or the synagogue just yet, and so by unspoken agreement they take a walk through the graveyard. He sneaks a glance at her, and then another. She's beautiful in dress blues, but more than that…she's put together. Crisp and clean and perfect, not a hair out of place, not a seam out of line. It makes him ache with needing to memorize and preserve her in this moment—and at the same time he can't help but itch to pick it away, poke at her flaws and weak spots until he can unwind and unravel her and just mess her, just a little.

She catches him staring and he quickly looks away.

It's neither of "their" cemeteries—Joe is buried next to the church where he was baptized, and Frank rests next to Ma in the Goren family plot that Bobby himself will probably end up in, simply because it's already been paid for. This is a nice enough cemetery, as such places go. It's well-maintained, the gently sloping hills with close-cut grass and sculpted shrubbery.

"It looks like some macabre golf course," Eames says, and he smiles, caught off guard.

They've come full circle, almost; they're just behind the stand of pines and slight swell of a hill next to Ross' grave. From the sound of it there are still a few people lingering by the graveside, so the two of them just stand there for awhile, looking at nothing in particular and definitely not each other.

"You could've worn your blues," Eames says suddenly. Doesn't know why she says it, just wants to, just wants to hear him say something back.

He shoots a look at her and then back at his feet. "I…didn't feel like risking it. I'm on suspension, and if someone wanted to, uh, make a big deal about it…"

"Yeah." Her voice hitches slightly. "I guess it's not about us today."

Bobby nods. "He was a good guy." Looks off at the furthest row of gravestones. "Gave him a lot of crap, I guess, but…he was a good captain."

"Good cop."

"Yeah."

She has to tell him. She knows that but (not yet, not this moment, not just yet please) the words are all coiled and knotted and gnarled up in a tight tangled ball in the pit of her stomach, and the words are gnawing her up from inside. She can taste them, poisonous and sickly, climbing up her throat. She's trying to catch his eye but he won't look at her, and ohGod what if he already figured it out? "Bobby, I have to tell you something." She takes a breath, clenches her jaw even though she knows it'll give her a headache later. "I met with Maas and Moran and they—"

"It's my fault," he interrupts, turns to her and—

"I have to tell you—"

"I can't leave anything alone, it was just fine and I had to—"

"Bobby, listen to me—"

And then he pulls her towards him, flush against his hips, her lips muffled against his coat, and he's squeezing her tight against him (and he's so warm) and she can't tell whether he's trying to break her or make sure she's strong enough not to, he's breathing like he's run a marathon (is he crying) and squeezing her to him over and over.

"Eames." He is crying. "Eames." He bends, and presses a kiss to her cheek, hard lips and rough stubble, then one a little lower, then another, and another. "Eames, Eames."

"Bobby," she says a little breathlessly, and her hand finds its way to his cheek, which is down to her collarbone by now, and she has to tell him (that she's a traitor), she forces him back up to his normal height and she is flushed and breathing fast and she is going to crack in two between his hands and his body, "Bobby, you know I would never hurt you…I would never do anything to…"

He lets go like she burned him and backs away, which is so not what she intended and goddamnit, it used to be so easy to talk to him, she used to not even need to talk to him for him to know—

She steps towards him and reaches up to grip the back of his neck with her left hand, seizes a fistful of coat with her right— "You idiot," she says and it comes out like a sob but it's not—stands on her tiptoes and mashes her mouth against his.

He responds immediately, backing her into the pines until her back is forced against the tree trunk, her hair catching in the bark. He's burrowing his head into the crook of her neck, biting and licking the skin there as he breathes in the scent of her shampoo, his hands undoing just enough buttons to roam around under her shirt and this is ten kinds of dangerous and wrong and—

Their respective heights are making things tricky so he pulls her down to the ground and settles himself on top of her, and she parts her legs automatically to let him settle snug between her thighs. He unbuttons both their pants, checking to make sure she's ready, and she tries to take her gloves off before she guides him in but he pins her hands to the ground by her head (she can smell the earth and the bright green growing grass and the hint of nicotine in his breath as he kisses her) and pushes forward, buries himself as deeply in her as he can and she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out as she wraps herself around him—

It's fast and desperate and relentless and for fuck's sake there are people right on the other side of the fucking hill, it's all she can do to keep from making enough noise to wake the dead and then the voices are closer and its so wrong that that's when she comes, her body tensing like a piano string until it snaps, and then relaxing back limp into the grass, still wet with morning dew, Bobby collapsing on top of her heavy and solid and for a moment, it's perfect.

Then the words remind her that they're still there, waiting to be said, and she tastes them like ashes and ipecac on her tongue. There's dirty work yet to be done.

Her cell phone rings, and she's glad for an excuse to pull away, listens only just-enough to the words to ground herself, to keep her stomach from twisting and roiling in circles as she refastens her pants and shirt. She snaps the cell shut. "That was Nichols," she says. "We should head back to 1PP."

She starts to stand but Bobby catches her wrist, tugs her back down into a sitting position. "You have…" He reaches out and plucks some grass clippings out of her hair, tucks the stray strands behind her ears before setting her hat back on. Brushes more grass off her shoulders, and as she stands, a little off her butt. Tweaks her collar straight. "Sorry. This was—you were all dressed up nice, and now…"

"We should get back to the squadroom." She turns away, takes a step, then changes her mind and turns right back. "Bobby, if I did—if I ever did anything to hurt you, it would be to protect you. It would be because—"

He meets her eyes. "I know."

She doesn't know if she believes him.