The phone roused Goren from a good sleep, and he softly swore, making up his mind to buy Logan a watch when this was over. He grabbed the phone before the ringing woke Eames. Flipping it open as he eased himself away from her and got out of the bed, he growled, "What the hell do you want, Logan?"

"Hey, uh, the captain wants to talk to you."

He slipped out of the room. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Yeah, well, that's not a real option here. Hold on."

Goren was tempted to hang up and return to bed, but something in Logan's tone made him wait. "Goren?"

"What is it, captain?"

"First, tell me Eames is safe."

He frowned. "Of course she's safe. That's why I did what I did."

"Who tipped you off?"

"An old friend."

"Bureau?"

"Yes."

"Did he give you any details?"

"No, but I trust him."

"I'm glad you do. He saved your life."

"What do you know, captain?"

Ross let out a noise between a growl and a groan. "I'm going to let Logan and Barek explain that. I have no idea where you are, detective, but wherever you are, stay put. As long as the Bureau can't find you, we have a chance to avert a tragedy. I need time. Do you understand me?"

"I understand. We'll stay right where we are."

The next voice he heard was Logan's. "I'll call you later. We have some idea what's going on but no idea how to fix it. That's going to fall to Ross."

"My life is in Ross' hands? That doesn't reassure me, Logan. And I'm up now; you might as well fill me in."

Twenty minutes later, he returned to the bed. Instinctively, Eames sought him out in her sleep. Absently, he curled his arm around her and stared into the dark toward the ceiling. The bottom line was that he did his job too well, solved too many cases, crossed too many lines. Of course, if he'd said yes to the Bureau's offer when he was on suspension, he wouldn't be in this fix. He'd be in a whole different hell. He...

His thoughts stumbled when Eames rubbed the flat of her hand over his bare chest. He tipped his head and looked at her face, but it was too dark for him to tell if she was asleep. She shifted herself closer and nuzzled her cheek against him, then she rubbed her hand across his chest, grazing his nipple. Oh, God...

Releasing her, he gently shifted away from her. She slid along with him. Damn. He moved her hand off his chest, setting it on her hip. She drew in a sudden, deep breath and turned from him, to his relief. Rolling onto her back, she stretched both hands over her head and curled her toes, yawning. That does not help matters. She remained on the other side of the bed. "Is it morning?"

"N-No," he stammered. "I-I..."

She turned back toward him and again rested her hand on his chest. Her mind was groggy with sleep, and she rubbed his chest and stomach in a familiar, intimate way. Settling her head on his chest, she could feel his quickened breath, the rapid thudding of his heart...

She became alarmed, sensing his anxiety but unaware of the cause. "Bobby, what's the matter?"

He shook his head. "I-It's nothing. I...I need to get up for a few minutes."

"What happened?"

He slid out of the bed. "Uh, Logan called."

She looked at the illuminated face of the alarm clock on the nightstand. "Does that man own a watch?"

"It wasn't his fault," he replied as he pulled on a shirt, grateful she hadn't switched on the light. "I'll be back."

He went into the living room, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pocket and stepped out of the house. The storm had passed and a full moon lit the night sky. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it. The circumstances he found himself in were difficult, and he didn't know what to do. I haven't felt it since I lost Joe. He should have pressed the issue, found out what she was feeling, how and why he made her think of Joe. He knew she was lonely; he was, too. But for him it was different. He didn't really know any other way to be. No one he'd ever dated really understood him; none of them had been able to chase away his loneliness. They enjoyed him in bed; they liked what he could do to them. Sometimes it was the sex that kept them around. Some of them actually enjoyed the museums and the art galleries, quiet evenings reading, strolls in the park. Others wanted more adventure, and he tried to accommodate them, but he got plenty of excitement in his job. At home, he craved peace. He enjoyed cuddling without sex, but he had his needs, too. Some of them came close to meeting those needs. He became alarmed, however, the day he came to realize that the women he missed the most after they were gone were the ones who had treated him the worst. The cheaters, the harpies, the bitches. They never lasted long, but when they were gone, he missed them. The good women...they lasted longer and he enjoyed the time he spent with them, but once they left, most of them faded in his memory.

He put out his cigarette and leaned against a tree, looking toward the west where the moon had begun its descent toward the horizon, toward the States, toward home. He felt homesick. Back in New York, he understood the game, the way life was played. But here...he had been thrust into a situation where all the rules had changed and he didn't know what to do.

Eames stepped up beside him, surprising him. He'd been too distracted to hear her come out of the house. She was still wearing her sleep clothes, a sleeveless top and shorts. Like him, she was barefoot. She rested her head against his arm. "What did Logan want?"

"Not Logan. Ross."

"Have they figured anything out?"

He nodded, turning the cigarette pack over in his hands. He shook out another one and lit it. Taking a deep drag, he let it out slowly. "It's all me, Eames. Just like I told you."

He moved his arm, slipping it around her back and allowing her head to rest against his chest. Now that he knew how it felt to have her touch him, he craved it. He rested his hand on her side, above her hip, and she let him. Tentatively, she slid her arms along his waist so she could hug him. They stood silently in the moonlight, enjoying the close contact until she broke the silence, asking, "What did they find out?"

"They're sore losers," he answered vaguely.

"Who are?"

"The Bureau."

"I don't understand. What did they lose?"

"Me."

Slowly, she pulled away so she could look at him. Reluctantly, he released her. She frowned. "You? Something else you didn't tell me?"

He cringed inwardly at the accusation in her tone, but defended himself, "At the time, it was of no consequence. How was I to know it would turn into this?"

She stepped away from him, wrapping her arms around her stomach, fighting the all-too-familiar feeling of betrayal that was slowly creeping up her spine. "Tell me what happened."

He looked at the burning ember on the end of his cigarette and took another drag. Her voice was tight, but at least she was offering him a chance to explain. "I swear, Eames, it was nothing. While I was on suspension, the Bureau offered me a job. I turned them down. That's it. There was nothing to tell because nothing came of it."

"And now?"

He shrugged. "I guess Barek put it best. This is an FBI temper tantrum. They didn't get their way so they're throwing a hissy fit. They like to think they're the best, and when some local cop gets one up on them—over and over—they don't like it. So they're seeking to level the playing field by eliminating the competition."

"That's dirty pool."

He nodded. "But who ever said the Bureau plays fair?"

She watched him finish his cigarette and put it out. "Why did you say no? What do you owe the department, Bobby?"

"Not the department, Eames. Face it, my life is defined by my job. Without it, what am I?"

"If you'd taken the Bureau job, you would have a new definition, but you would still have a focus for your life."

He shook his head and studied the pack in his hands. "It's not the job that gives me my focus," he murmured. He raised his eyes to look at her. "It's you."

She looked back at him, surprised to hear him admit what they had both accepted in silence for years. "Can it be fixed?"

"I don't know. Ross is trying."

"And if he fails?"

"In all reality, Eames..." He stopped himself before he said something that would set her off, and he knew that what he was thinking would earn him a tongue lashing, at the very least. He looked at the ground and finished lamely, "I really don't know."

She knew what he had been thinking, and she was glad he hadn't said it. She stepped in close and turned her face up toward his, but she remained silent.

He studied her face, illuminated by the full moon, and the only thought in his head was how beautiful she was just then. He swung his arm forward and brought his hand to rest on her hip, once more seeking physical contact with her. Once, being his partner was all he needed from her, and he hadn't anticipated a time would come when he would need more, but that time had arrived. It was something he struggled with daily.

When he rested his hand on her hip, she stepped even closer to him, bringing her torso up against his. She watched him swallow, but he didn't move away. His eyes roamed over her face, briefly darting down to her shirt and then back. She didn't have to wonder what he was thinking. She brought her hips forward, pressing them against his leg, and his eyes widened. Sliding her hand along his waist, she leaned up unexpectedly and pressed her lips softly against his.

He closed his eyes and instinctively leaned into her kiss. She gave him no time to recover his senses before she pulled away, having lingered just long enough to confuse him. His eyes remained closed as he recovered from the unexpected intimacy. When he finally opened his eyes, she was watching him. After a moment, he recovered his voice. "Why...Why did you do that?"

She caressed his side. "Because I want you to know that I care about you. I have always cared about you, even when you didn't want me to."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to care about me?" he whispered.

"That doesn't matter. Listen to me: Ten years ago, I made a promise to myself. I swore I would never love another cop. You made me break that promise, dammit, and I am mad at you for that. But sometimes, our hearts rebel against our reason and it's the heart that dictates who we love." She shivered. "Now—I am getting cold and I am tired, so I'm going inside, back to bed. Do you want me to go to my own room?"

He did...but he didn't, and before he could stop himself, he was shaking his head 'no'. She leaned up and lightly brushed her lips over his again. She did not move away, keeping her body in contact with his. "Please don't stay out here. I promise, I'm not going to attack you."

"You aren't the one I am worried about."

She laughed lightly before she stepped away from him. "That's a chance I'm willing to take."

Turning, she trotted across the small garden, up the steps to the even smaller porch and into the house. He watched every movement she made in the moonlight and considered the wisdom of returning to the house. After a tortuous debate with himself, he finally went back into the house, hoping she was asleep. He stopped in the kitchen and poured himself a drink, which he downed while looking out the window toward the moonlit channel. After finishing his second drink, he left the kitchen.

Entering the bedroom silently, he pulled off his shirt and slipped into the bed, wondering again why he'd told her he didn't want her to go to her own room. In her sleep, she sensed his return to the bed, and she turned toward him, snuggling into his side. She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder and draped her arm over his stomach. When she settled her leg on top of his, he almost got out of the bed. But then she wiggled her hips a little and made a small sound that sent his mind reeling, and he had no more thoughts about leaving her. He wrapped one arm around her and held her tenderly, resting his cheek against her head. Softly, he sighed, and he willed his body to calm down. It was a gradual process, and he did calm down, but nothing helped the ache he felt inside. Silently, he cursed Logan for waking him, and yet, he hoped he would someday see his friend again.

His mind strayed again, this time wandering down a dangerous path. As he felt her breath feather across his chest, he thought of Joe, and he wondered if it was Joe who was on her subconscious as she snuggled against him. Her actions were too intimate, too familiar, too...loving...for him to believe they were meant for him. And yet, each soft noise she made, each shift of her hips and stroke of her hand, brought her closer to his heart, making him less inclined to leave the bed. The warmth and comfort that enveloped him did not come from the bed. It came from her.