DISCLAIMER: Still not mine, but I'll trade you the Brooklyn Bridge for them?

So, you peekers (and previous readers) know what's coming! And if you didn't peek, good for you - here's a nice surprise! No beta, mistakes are all on me. Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome, as well as any suggests for where you think this story should go - I've only got that last chapter of Exacerbation and then we're back to using just my little ole' brain again. And do we really want that?

It didn't take long for Bobby to realize just how miserable his weekend was going to be. Sometime during the early morning hours of Saturday, he'd heeded Eames' advice and dragged himself off to bed. After tossing and turning for some time, Bobby decided that not only was his couch was definitely more comfortable, but sleep was an elusive being. He wasn't an insomniac, he'd done extensive reading on the subject long ago and since discredited that possibility himself, he just couldn't get his brain to shut down.

When there was the possibility of a case looming just around the corner, Bobby could usually force himself into a light slumber for at least a couple hours – enough time to recoup some energy necessary to continue functioning. With that prospect firmly off the table, Bobby couldn't find the internal motivation to shut his eyes and slow his mind. He spent the night constantly in motion – changing position from lying on his stomach, to lying on his back, to lying on either side – going so far as to completely change position so that his feet were resting on the headboard and his head was on the end of the bed. He passed the time rattling off reasons why he hated vacation days.

The first lights of dawn gave Bobby the much-needed excuse to finally get out of bed – even when she wasn't around, he couldn't help but take her suggestion whole-heartedly and comply to the best of his abilities. He'd tried sleeping in the bed through the night like she'd suggested. Tried and failed, but tried nonetheless. Soon he found himself back on the couch, sprawled out more comfortably than he'd been all night. Turning on the television, he flipped through all of the news channels. It didn't take him long to lose interest in the information being displayed through the screen and the television became more background noise than anything else.

Around ten, Bobby found himself with a beer in his hand. Without the chance of being called out to a case, he drank without apprehension. During his second beer, he caught himself dialing Eames' cell phone number and had to consciously force himself to stop dialing. He reluctantly hit the 'end' button and firmly reminded himself that she had told him she was turning her phone off – it would go straight to voicemail. And for that matter, what had he been planning on saying? His booze-fogged mind lulled him into a booze-fueled slumber, taking his mind to places it didn't belong. Even his dreams seemed to be taxing him this weekend, flooding his brain with unwanted (but not entirely unpleasant) scenes. He woke up hours later, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. Blinking to clear his mind, he found himself precariously positioned on the couch, with a bad taste in his mouth, a coffee table littered with empty beer bottles and her name on the tip of his tongue. He felt no more rested.

By the time Sunday came, Bobby was mentally counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until Monday morning came. It never occurred to him how dependant he'd become over the years. Even during Eames' surrogacy, she'd never completely alienated him from the different aspects of her life. Thinking back to the earliest days of their partnership, he wasn't even sure that she'd been so estranged then. Eames seemed to have always been an open book to Bobby – he knew about the different aspects of her life, even the trivial things that she happened to share from time to time he filed away just in case. It'd always been him who was the mysterious one and over the years, she'd forced him to change that. No, she hadn't even really forced him. Gradually, Bobby began to accept her into his life as a constant and now that she was waffling, he was floundering. Recalling their last conversation, Bobby could find no clues, no indication of what she might be doing – or where.

Sunday afternoon Bobby had reached his wit's end and finally caved to the thoughts his brain had been pelting him with all day. He drove by her house. To his dismay, he found that she still was not home from wherever she had gone. Ignoring his thoughts of staking out her house, Bobby forced himself to respect her privacy and grudgingly drove home. When he got home, he paced his apartment like a caged animal for a few hours before settling down and turning the television on. Finding himself in the same position he had been in just yesterday morning, Bobby turned his phone in his hands and contemplated one last time about calling his partner. In the end, he managed to talk himself into a semi-sense of security with the reminder that if she'd needed him, she would have told him all about it. And tomorrow morning at work, she would definitely clue him in – he was sure of it.

A late dinner consisted of two beers, three cigarettes and deep, meaningful contemplation about his sudden loss of control over his own life. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he would have seen that there really was nothing sudden about it – it had taken years and years to get to the point, it had just been a slow ride. He couldn't help but wonder, did he really need Eames this much? So much that he was lost when she wasn't around? So much that he didn't know what to do with himself otherwise? Did he need her direction? These questions were intimidating and troubling, but not as troubling as the only answers he could think to provide. No, he didn't need Eames this much. He needed Alex this much.

Bobby fell into another uneasy sleep in a string of uneasy sleeps as of late just past two in the morning Sunday night. He promised himself that he would stop by and see Eames before work tomorrow. He wanted to touch base with her and quell his own insecurities about their time apart – and he wanted to get to the bottom of her reasons for leaving so suddenly and efficiently. His excuse would be simple, he'd bring her coffee; it would serve as a 'welcome back' as well as a 'sorry' for barging in on her morning routine. And maybe, just maybe, he'd have the courage to ask about her 'family emergency.'

Monday morning had Bobby's internal alarm clock going off much earlier than necessary in anticipation of seeing Eames. With that motivation laid out before him, it didn't take him long to get dressed and head out the door – surprisingly, still looking as impeccable as ever. He left his apartment early, picking up coffee and making sure to fix Eames' to her liking, and headed in the direction of her house. Arriving sooner than he'd planned, Bobby was relieved to see her car in the driveway. At least he now knew she had made it home safely last night and that she was coming into work today, just liked she'd promised. For a single, shameful second, he'd doubted her word about making it back in time for Monday morning work.

A quick check of his car clock showed Bobby that he was undeniably earlier than he'd anticipated being, he doubted Eames would be ready for work at this time. Finding that he couldn't busy himself in his car for longer than a few moments, he decided that it would be best to go knock on her door. Making the strategic decision to leave the coffee in his car until their departure, Bobby was suddenly struck with anxiety as he reached her porch. She'd been purposefully vague on the phone Friday night, she hadn't wanted him to know any of the details – maybe she wouldn't appreciate his unannounced morning visit. Maybe she'd see right through his cheap coffee-bringing façade and be angry at his snooping into her life. If she'd wanted him to know, she would have told him. She had been the one to cut contact over the weekend; it had not been his choice. The thoughts that once chased away his fears now brought so many flooding back to him.

His insecurities almost succeeded in talking himself out of his current actions, but by the time he stopped thinking and started paying attention to what he was actually doing, it was too late. He'd already knocked on her door just seconds before – it was too late to back out now. Trying not to seem overly eager, Bobby turned his back to the door and listened as the tumblers and locks receded behind the wood. When he heard the familiar squeak of her door swinging open, he was intent on playing it smooth. Rather than turn around to greet her, he studied the sky with great interest, giving her the chance to say the first words.

When a long silence persisted, he caved. Bobby made a move to turn around and greet his, probably angry, partner when –

"Can I help you, man?" A young male's voice, sleep-laced and slightly perturbed, greeted Bobby instead.

Whirling around fast enough to get whiplash, a panic-stricken Bobby could only stare at the scene laid out in front of him. The young man was tall and gangly, he couldn't have been over twenty, and he seemed almost vaguely familiar. And he was answering Eames' door – in his boxers no less. The boy had just that touch of civility that allowed him to answer the door with his hair disheveled and unkempt, wearing Batman boxer shorts and standing with a posture that seemed to read like he owned the place.

A usually rational-minded Bobby forwent rational thought for instincts and he immediately charged the figure, assuming the worst. The two knocked over a coat rack as they locked arms through the doorway, Bobby forcing the young man back into the house as they battled for the upper hand. For the time being, they seemed evenly matched – until Bobby gave a hard shove and the young man stumbled backwards. The back of his knees connected with a coffee table and his elbow knocked over a lamp, smashing it to bits. He held Bobby's upper arms and shoulders through this ordeal and once he had his balance back, he was able to shove Bobby with almost equal force. Bobby found himself propelled into the back of the couch, moving it a solid foot off of its original marks. He didn't let go of the assumed intruder and they both almost tumbled over the back of the couch.

The scuffled continued, with many loud bangs, in a stalemate – no clear winner, no one could gain (or keep) the upper hand for long. The young man nearly lost his footing (and did lose his balance) on a rug in the hallway and Bobby seized his opportunity. With a hard shove, the intruder found himself pinned to the wall. His head knocked down a picture when it slammed into the frame, shattering glass and adding to the mess in Eames' living room. Almost immediately, Bobby had his forearm covering the younger man's throat and shoulders. He was pinned in a position so that his toes were barely touching the ground, giving the intruder little leverage to fight back. Bobby was searching for his handcuffs with his other hand, breathing heavy with the adrenaline coursing through his system.

"What the hell – "

"What the hell are you doing?" A familiar voice took the words right out of Bobby's mouth.

"Eames," He was out of breath and her name came out as more of a pant than an actual word. Glancing towards her, he'd meant to explain the situation – but once he caught sight of her, all coherent thought died in his throat.

A puddle of water was beginning to form on Eames' floor, but it wasn't so much the water that caught his attention as it was the source of the water. Alex was standing in her hallway where the fight had ultimately ended, half of her face plastered with soapy blonde hair. She stood with great intimidation, despite the fact that she was wearing little more than a green towel. Her left hand held the towel in place, while her right had held her service weapon – pointed squarely at Bobby's head. She actually looked quite comical and, had Bobby been able to make any sounds come through the lump in his throat, he might have laughed.

Her stance was laughable; her feet were set too far apart. She could have easily slipped in the water forming around her feet. Aiming would be impossible using only one hand to steady the gun. There was hair in her face obstructing her view. And the kick-back alone would send her reeling, giving anyone a potential look at just about everything Eames had to offer. There was almost no chance of being harmed in this situation and, had he found his voice just then, he might have informed her of all of this information. Instead, he was much more interested in tracing the lines of water falling from her hair down her face, down to the edge of the towel where they disappeared into it before he followed new paths down her upper thighs to her toes with just as much interest.

He was acutely aware of how she visibly relaxed when she finally realized that this was him – this was her partner, not some home invader. She hadn't expected to shoot anyone at this moment in time anyways, she knew she was in no position (stance, dress, or otherwise) to do so. She'd come out of the bathroom with the intent of scaring whoever had broken in away and nothing more. As she set her gun down on a nearby end table, she surveyed the damage laid out before her. There was broken ceramic, broken glass, everything must have been moved at least a few inches from where it normally was, some of the pictures on her wall where crooked. It looked like a tornado had blasted through her home.

Barely registering that the gun was gone and Eames' attention was elsewhere, Bobby continued to enjoy the view without consciously realizing he was doing so. The threat of getting shot was the furthest thing from his mind when he partner was standing so close wearing so little. She must have jumped out of the shower when she'd heard the commotion and had nothing else to throw on but the towel that left so little to the imagination – and oh what an imagination Bobby had. He didn't even stop to think about who she was out to defend herself against. Him or this intruder? This young punk who –

"Bobby! Let him go!" Her concerned voice pierced through his thoughts and shook him from his revelry. He turned to look at the younger man, the intruder; he was turning blue before Bobby's eyes. But before he could let go, the young man wretched himself from Bobby's grasp and dropped to the floor – landing heavily on his knees and curling into a half-hearted fetal position as he tried to catch his breath. Taking a step back, Bobby seemed shocked at his own actions.

"Are you okay?" Eames shocked Bobby further by directing her question to the younger man, rather than to him – granted, he did look like he was in a much better state than the young man. She even took a few quick strides across the room and ended up standing next to Bobby as she looked down at the young man with a face full of concern. Bobby was struck with a sudden feeling of envy for the boy, when was the last time Eames looked at him with such concern? And was that love he saw behind her eyes? He hoped it was just shampoo. The young man coughed and attempted to take a few deep breaths as he sat himself up. Eames made a move to bend down and inspect him, but he held up a hand and stopped her.

"I'm fine." His voice was a little shaky, but the disdain in it was easily detected by anyone with ears. He gingerly touched the back of his head and held his hand up in front of his face – bright red spots of blood were visible on his fingers. Pulling himself up off the ground with his own strength, the young man was able to stand and head towards the kitchen on unsteady legs.

Before Bobby had a chance to say anything to either person, the young man was headed towards the kitchen and Eames was turning back down the hallway, headed back to the bathroom. He looked from one to the other, his mind unable to add everything up with its usual ease. As if it was an afterthought, Eames stuck her head out of the bathroom door and yelled to both men.

"Goren, Sam. Sam, Goren. Try not to kill each other before I get out of the shower?"

He heard the sound of her bathroom door shutting and just like that Bobby was left standing in Eames' hallway, perplexed – and not in a good way.

Who the hell IS this guy?! Do you love him? Hate him? Are you ready for more of him? Have you peeked at Exacerbation yet? Stay tuned for more!