Detective Robert Goren was unhappy, very unhappy. He looked through his binoculars for the hundredth time in the last hour, focusing on one scantily clad woman, ill-clothed against the freezing night air. She walked back and forth, as naturally as one could in a faux fur and thermal tights in 30 degree weather. She was petite, friendly with the other women on her corner, and the source of his unhappiness.

Eames had been eager to take the assignment, but she hadn't appeared anxious to take it. She had simply reasoned everyone else into a corner, so that sending her undercover had been their only sensible alternative.

Since Goren's return to duty, Ross had behaved as if Goren had actually needed all of those drugs that he had been given at Tate's. He half expected to come in one morning to find one of the interrogation rooms tastefully padded. Ross had been reluctant to start them off on cases of their own, so when the opportunity to work with Brooklyn Vice had arisen, he had given them the case – a series of attacks on prostitutes in a deserted part of Red Hook – with a look of relief that Goren might have found offensive 6 months ago.

Goren had gone in with no expectations, but had felt his rhythm returning as he developed a profile, which worryingly revealed a pattern of escalation in the attacks. Brazzo and Thorne, the Brooklyn Vice team, had been impressed with his work. The suggestion of escalation increased their zeal to make an arrest soon, but the scenes had contained little forensic evidence. When they had heard about Eames' background, they had enthusiastically suggested an undercover operation.

Eames had decided to run with it, Bobby knew, right when they had suggested it. Bobby had been reluctant, especially since his gut told him the next attack would be an attempted murder. Eames had calmly pointed out why each of the alternatives for breaking the case simply wouldn't work. Brazzo and Thorne had happily gone to requisition an array of "cool electronic stuff" and a couple of cars. Goren could have sworn that the baby-faced Brazzo was actually skipping down to the motor pool. Eames had turned to him,

"A little ironic, Bobby, you objecting to me going undercover."

"Eames, I –," Goren stopped. She was right. It was ironic.

He knew that Eames' reasoning had been sound. The operation was their best option, but Goren knew that this wasn't her only reason for wanting to do it. Perhaps she needed to be in the thick of things, to prove she could still handle it after Jo Gage, after Ray Wizneski, after, he thought ruefully, the last year or so of Robert Goren. There was also probably a hint of regret at no longer doing "real police work" since leaving Vice for the i's dotted, t's crossed world of Major Case.

Maybe too, she had wondered fleetingly whether she could still pass for a woman who earned her living by attracting men. They were both getting older. Eames seemed the same to him, but he knew that the world as a whole was tough on women as they aged. He knew he was getting fewer admiring glances at the local watering holes that he occasionally frequented. He didn't really care anymore, but he noticed it in the same way that he noticed odd burn patterns on corpses or a Princeton Theological Seminary ring on the finger of a victim's brother. He knew he looked older, and hadn't been exercising. The part of his brain that always found the pattern, though, knew that the glances had stopped because more days than not, he had the beaten down air of a man who had given up. His conscious mind, however, wasn't quite ready to acknowledge this.

He glanced through his binoculars again. So far, so good. He checked his watch, noting with relief that it had been 15 minutes since he last checked in, so he could safely contact her again without sounding as if he were micromanaging.

"10:45, Eames. Any sign?" He could see Eames moving away from the other women to reply.

"S-so far, s-so good. The other women haven't s-seen anyone matching the deshcription."

"I think we should pack it in."

"Let's hold out a little longer," Thorne's voice chimed in over the radio. He and Brazzo were stationed two block's from Goren, on the other side of Eames' position. "I think Eames can give us a little more time."

"But he's never struck after 10," Goren objected, "We're moving outside the parameters of his m.o."

"We really need to crack this," chimed in Brazzo.

"I'm freezing my ash off out here," mumbled Eames. "I guess I can give you guysh 15 more minutes."

"Thanks, kid. You're a trooper." Goren snorted. Thorne had called her "kid". Eames was going to love that. Of course, he was the one who was going to get an earful on the ride home. "Kid" notwithstanding, something nagged at Goren. Something Eames had said hadn't been quite right. It wasn't like her to complain, be even beyond that… Goren's eyes widened. He grabbed his radio.

"Eames, you need to come in. You're getting hypothermia." Eames' voice came over the radio.

"Okay, I -," she faltered. "I feel kind of tired. I'll…" Her voice was lost. Now Goren was petrified. Not only had Eames been slurring her speech, a symptom of hypothermia, but she was slowing down. She didn't sound like herself. No smart remarks about his attempt to diagnose medical conditions over a 15 year old police radio. Goren started the car, glancing guiltily at the heavy down overcoat she had worn to the operation and had had to leave in the car. "Way too little showing for a vice op.," she had said in her usual tone. He hoped she could make it the two blocks to the rendezvous point. He willed himself to drive slowly, instead of burning rubber to get to her, and drawing unnecessary attention to all of them

With relief , he saw that she was slowly approaching the designated meeting place, the doorway of a deserted storefront a couple of blocs from the strip. She had her arms wrapped around herself. He leaped out of the car with her coat, and quickly helped her into it.

"Thanksh, Bobby. Thanksh for sh-shaying something." Thorne and Brazzo pulled up in their SUV. Thorne got out, looking upset.

"We had a deal, Goren." Goren turned to him eyes, flashing.

"She's developing hypothermia. You can hear the way her speech is slurred. She said she was cold. The undercover calls the shots since they are the ones on the line. You know that." Goren's voice rose. Thorn put his hands up defensively.

"Bobby," said Eames quietly. Goren turned to look at her. With that one word, she managed to convey to him that Thorne and Brazzo were just doing their jobs, that they couldn't be expected to be omniscient, and that she was still freezing. He turned back to the Vice team.

"I'm sorry - It was just as much my fault as - I should have noticed…" He turned and literally swept Eames into the passenger seat of their SUV. Jumping into the driver's seat, he started the engine and turned on the heat. "It'll warm up in a minute," he said. "Are you okay?"

"Just cold." She wrapped her arms around herself again.

"Eames, I'm sorry. I should have called you in earlier – "

"I'll be okay, Bobby. It's just so cold." She leaned back against the seat. Goren looked at her for a minute. He then removed his large wool overcoat and draped it over her.

"Bobby, you don't have to –"

"No it's okay. I'm feeling kind of warm." It was true. The interior of the SUV grew warmer as they approached Rockaway Beach, but Eames still shivered as she dozed. When they pulled up to her house, she was asleep. She looked so small, buried underneath his coat. As he opened the passenger door, it was all he could do not to pick her up and carry her into the house.

"Eames, we're here." She stirred and looked up.

"Oh, okay. Thanks, Bobby." I'm not sure I'll be in tomorrow." She eased herself out of the car. Goren put out a hand to steady her.

"I'll just come in with you for a few minutes," he said quietly. As they approached the door, she fumbled with her keys, and ultimately had to give them to him to undo both locks. As they went inside, he steered her toward the sofa. He placed a throw over her.

"Thanks, Bobby," she said, again shivering involuntarily. Goren felt his panic begin to rise again. Maybe he should have taken her to the hospital. He didn't think that would have gone over well.

"Eames, I think you might need to see a doctor…"

"Don' be an idiot, Bobby," she said sleepily. Goren sighed and found the thermostat, turning it up. He wandered into her hallway. He had no idea which was the linen closet, but after trying two doors, he hit the flannel payload. He brought out two more blankets and placed them over her. "What're you doing now," she murmured, as he rummaged through her kitchen cabinets.

"Making tea," he said.

"You always did remind me of Miss Marple. Do I have tea?"

"Lipton." Goren tried to hide the disdain in his voice. He was starting to feel rather warm himself, so he left his jacket and tie on a chair in the kitchen. He brought a mug into the living room. She was slumped on the sofa, and he sat next to her to help her hold the cup. She drank it slowly. He set the mug down, and she shivered again. He hesitated for a minute.

"Eames, move up a little." He slid behind her, and pulled her back against him, putting an arm around her, and pulling up the blankets to cover her. She stiffened.

"Bobby, I - "

"Let me do this, Eames." He just sat for a minute, slowly breathing in and out. He felt her relax against him. "In the army, they taught us that body heat was great first aid for hypothermia. One guy in my outfit, Peter Robbins, had this elaborate plan to be a fashion photographer specializing in shoots in places like Alaska. He thought this would be the best way to be first man on the scene when the models got frostbite."

Eames wouldn't have believed his story, but this guy sounded like all of Bobby's other friends: gifted in some area, emotionally immature, and well-intentioned. She felt herself grow warmer. She finally started to relax, but her sense of relief wasn't just physical. Something else was different. For the first time in over a year, she had finished a day of work without an overwhelming sense of self-pity. The intensity of that emotion was gone, but it had been replaced with something else. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Eames turned slightly to the side and held onto Goren's arm.

Goren was surprised by Eames' movement toward him. He reached his other arm up, his hand hovering over her for a moment. He placed it on her forehead.

"You don't seem too cold." He tentatively stroked her hair.

"No, I'm warming up," she said. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Eames, it's high time I – I stepped up. You've had my back for years."

As she fell asleep, it occurred to Eames that this new thing that she felt was a sense of significance.

Goren felt her breathing slow down. For half an hour, he sat holding her, enjoying the sensation, almost unable to believe that she felt comfortable enough with him to be this close. It occurred to him that she would be more comfortable in her own bed. He carefully leaned her against the sofa cushions and stood. He picked her up and carried her down the hall into the bedroom. Since Eames wasn't the bed making type, it was easy enough to settle her into bed under her comforter. He stood and paced for a minute. He wasn't sure that it was safe to leave her. He stopped. His instincts had been good that night, so he would just keep following them. He took off his shoes and belt and slid under the comforter. If she grew cold during the night, she would gravitate toward him, he knew, out of instinct. He reached out a hand and placed it on her neck gently.

In the morning, he awoke to find her holding onto his arm again. She looked up at him

"Thorne. He called me 'kid'"