He'd been glad of the call.

He'd been ignoring the phone, ignoring everything. In the days following the funeral, he'd become an automaton. Hours had passed as he'd sit, inert and numb, until his body reminded him of the basic acts needed to sustain life. Daily rituals performed by rote then back to nothingness... But this was Eames calling, asking, needing him and he now had a reason to re enter the world.

Not the easiest case to come back to. He would have preferred an intricate puzzle, opportunities for research, something to lose himself in. Instead he is tangled in a web made of his partner's grief, officer's loyalty and defence of one of their own, power and politics. Too many conflicts of interest, too many needs and he does not possess the capacity, the depth of understanding to accommodate them all.

She is his priority.

The case gets his skill, his intellect but nothing more; he doesn't even bother to deploy his mental censor in the presence of his bosses. She gets his attention, his clumsy and inadequate attempts at care. He hangs back at the funeral to give her space, drives her home, struggles to say something of meaning and is astonished when she responds with honesty, with openness, sharing a piece of herself.

Connection made!

He holds this small victory tight inside himself, concealing his triumph, aware that his delight would be seen as inappropriate. He finds himself gallantly defending her status at the property office and later, at the morgue, even dares to use her first name. The anger he feels at the hospital when they finally confront Joe's killer is not because of his pain, his hurt but because of hers. He takes a back seat, letting her draw the case to its conclusion and marvels at his discovery.

This new feeling flutters within him, not deep in his belly where darker feelings lie, but in his chest, his heart; a butterfly, fresh from its cocoon, wings tentatively flexing, beautiful and fragile. He is terrified of scaring it away or worse still crushing it with his ineptitude. Carefully, tentatively he attempts to nurture it. During the investigation of the death of an FDA agent, he talks of books and learning, of finding peace in this chair. He is gladdened to see her glance of recognition; she knows he is revealing a glimpse of his private self just for her.

But Leslie LeZard's diatribe bothers him. He has no illusions about his own reputation. If anything, it was even more obvious these days what people thought of him and he didn't care. But he had never considered the impact it had on her. Remembering the success of his previous attempt at honest communication, he dares to ask:

"You worried about what she said? That your career is tainted by me?"

"I used to." A cautious, unsatisfactory response. He pushes a little more.

"And now?"

She sighs deeply, and gives him a long hard look. Her voice is heavy with defeat and resignation.

"It's too late"

Her answer is a crushing blow. The knowledge that he has damaged her, the guilt, enrages the beast within; small fluttering wings consumed as he turns his fury inward, on himself.

A cop killing, and selfishly all she could think of was that she needed him on the case with her. As the case took a more personal turn, she realised it had been a mixed blessing. He had been relentless, callous; cutting a swathe through the Blue Wall, the brass, her life. But he had also shown an unusual level of consideration toward her feelings, prompting a rare moment of candour between them.

But later she'd blown it, had been a little too honest with him. He'd shut down and the aura of danger she remembers from their earlier days was back; sharper, more palpable. It was present when he tossed Harper in the sea, in the way he'd taunted and baited that young author in the gym. Worse still was the cruel, cold way he had twisted the arm of the young man's mentor; his voice soft and gentle as he deliberately inflicted pain.

She curses Frank for turning up that morning, for setting in motion this latest devastating chain of events. She curses Ross for sending Bobby on sick leave. She curses herself for aiding and abetting in Bobby's undercover scheme, for not having learnt how to rein her partner in after all this time, for having defended him, covered for him yet again. But most of all, she curses Bobby.

The Chief of D's, the Captain, the gossip mongers, the spiteful and the envious all questioned his sanity. Hell, she had even done it herself, all those years ago. He was different, certainly. He seemed to operate under a rulebook all of his own and fuck, he always took things too far. Just like this time at Tates. Seeing him disorientated and dehydrated had shocked her, worried her that he had finally gone over the edge.

That is why she is here, now, outside his place. Two months into his suspension and she has not spoken to him. He is not answering her calls, her texts, her emails. She doesn't expect much; they don't socialise outside of work. Hell, they don't socialise much in work. But after eight years of partnership, eight weeks without him feels wrong. She'd even settle for a curt "Fuck off," she's that worried about him.

Raising her hand to rap on his door she realises it is already ajar. She pulls out her gun, takes a deep breath to steady herself and pushes the door further open with the toe of her boot. Moving quietly, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light she takes in the scene of devastation. The functional, orderly, almost monastic environment has been lost to chaos. Books are strewn around, carelessly abandoned. Every surface is covered with the remnants of half eaten meals, drinks half drunk and ashtrays overflowing. The floor is littered with rubbish and discarded clothing and the air is thick with cigarette smoke.

Fear deepens to dread as she picks her way carefully towards the bedroom where she can just make out his bulk in the gloom. She pauses on the threshold, holding her breath; only exhaling when she sees him taking a breath of his own. He is curled up, facing away from her. The grey cotton t- shirt is stretched across his broad back, matching shorts revealing pale legs marred by cuts and scars.

"Oh, Bobby!"

She places her gun on the nightstand, lies down next to him, her hand on his shoulder pulling him over to face her. He buries his head in the crook of her neck, clinging on to her; a life raft for a drowning man. She cradles him gently, stroking his back, his soft curls. He stirs, moves against her. She feels him harden as his hips rub against hers, the rhythm building; can hear his soft quick pants, the quiet groan. A groan that develops into gulping sobs as sexual release brings on emotional release; as hot tears soak the thin cotton of her shirt and warm semen seeps through the denim of her jeans. She holds him tightly as his massive shoulders heave; shocked that such a huge man could seem so small. The sobs gradually subside, his grip loosens and his breathing deepens.

He sleeps; a deep dreamless sleep.