A/N 1: A whimsical drabble. No spoilers (for any stories told after 800BCE).

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She kept him by her for seven years.

They had a routine. She had things to do during the day, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't usually do anything to catch her attention, but he was always there, in the background. She knew that he'd had to amuse himself a lot as a child – so sad! – that poor little boy, taking care of his mother, hiding from his father! So much love and affection and acceptance he had to catch up on. If only he'd allow it. But he was too good for that, too ethical, too noble. Too insecure. Too contrary.

Dinner was when she tried out her keys. Sometimes, it was hard to keep his attention… he had this uncanny instinct for finding northeast. His eyes would grow soft and sorrowful, and he'd seem to be staring out into the distance, looking for something, even when what was there was just a blank wall. Well, not blank – filled with pictures of galaxies (the oldest in the universe, behind the Abell 2218 cluster, was her favourite), Venn diagrams, a example of The Rebus Principle using The Pledge of Allegiance written in emoticons, a clever interpretation of Rembrandt's The Night Watch with the faces of 20th century Latin American authors, and other things she thought might be of interest.

She always cooked healthy food. She had a policy of showing him, with every action, that he finally had someone who would love and accept him, take care of him the way he'd never had before. Part of this project was the keys. She read Smithsonian, forensics and profiling books and magazines, and of course the DSM (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, to the layperson) – not so much because of his mother, because she didn't want to remind him of his painful past – but to reassure him that someone knew enough to know he was sane.

Eventually, she'd find the right key. The one that would unlock everything he kept separate, everything he thought she couldn't understand.

In the meantime she had her writing. She liked to work out during the day what she was going to write each evening, because she liked to get it done. She sat at her desk in the corner of the living room, while he stayed at the dining table, frowning, trying to get his cell phone to work. He was so adorable when he was confused, concentrating cutely. Once she was finished a scene (Bobby knelt in front of the sofa and laid his head in her lap. "I'm too weak, Katriona – I, um – I can't fight, can't fight… what I feel for you."), she took it to him and they acted it out. Or tried to.

It might start with her telling him how sorry she was for all the pain and loss he'd felt, and how she just knew that it hadn't deadened his ability to love, then would continue with him asking her if she really thought he was good enough for her, then he would start to lean in to gently kiss her, but… he always managed to distract her. That boy and his big brain! He was too used to dealing with perps, he couldn't turn it off. She'd be gently parting her moistened lips and letting her eyes slide shut, shivering with anticipation of the most sensual, romantic experience of her life, when he'd distract her with a story! ("Did I tell you about the time we solved the murder of a geocacher? Did I tell you about the time we caught a cat burglar? Did I tell you about the time Eames didn't shoot me?)

She knew all the stories by heart, but somehow she kept getting caught up in them! Every night, he'd bounce around the room aping various characters, gesturing wildly and seducing her with his expressive face and voice, and before they knew it, it was time for bed.

Seven years, and they hadn't even kissed! How was that even possible? It almost seemed as if he didn't want her. But… she was exactly what he needed, she knew it!

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The end came suddenly, with another story.

Did I tell you about the time we left Major Case?

No, she hadn't heard that one.

She listened raptly as he told the story, not wanting to miss an instant of it. As he spoke, her mind swam with all the possibilities for stories she could write on future evenings, but then a knock came at the door. It was her landlord, he needed to get into the crawl space in her closet.

By the time she got back, he was gone. She must have left the door unlocked.

She ran to the window.

There they were, walking away, big and little, hand in hand. He'd finally returned to her.

For some reason she could hear them, even though they were a block away.

"I've been trying…" he said plaintively.

"I know," she replied. "It's OK, I've been waiting."

They continued walking.

"It was never going to end any other way."

Faithful Penelope.

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A/N 2: Sorry, but this might need some explanation. I was thinking of Homer's Odyssey, and in particular Circe the poisoner who took away his friends (Nicole), and then I thought about the possibility of Goren as Odysseus, and then I googled it and found out I'm not the first person to make the connection, and then I started thinking of Calypso, and how I have never read a LO:CI OC that could stand up to Eames, and then I started thinking of Faithful Penelope. BTW, Ithaca is northeast of Gozo, the island of Calypso. Coincidentally, Forest Hills is northeast of Manhattan.

WORDS: 977 UPLOADED Sunday, March 7, 2010