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GOREN & EAMES

They sat on the couch and explained to the parents of Erin Copland what happened to their daughter. Goren and Eames answered questions, clarified explanations, and reminded them that this was just the beginning. There would be hearings and eventually a trial—it could take years for this to end. But, they reassured them that eventually it would end; this was just the first step.

Over the years, they had become just as good at this part of the job as they had become in the interrogation room. They knew what order to lay out events, who would say what, and how to use the tone of their voices as both comfort and confidence. They could even predict the family's questions and comments that would surface through tears. Most importantly, though, they knew when to leave.

In the MCS issued SUV, they sat motionless before Goren started the car. Sometimes they would leave situations like this and happily get lunch without a second thought, but there were other times where the silence lasted for days.

"I still hate that part," Eames said as she looked straight ahead, down the dark street.

"Me, too," Goren said, "but it beats the alternative."

He was right. Not finding the killer was a worse conversation; they have had those conversations too.

Eames looked at her watch; it was six at night. "Can you drive me to my parents' house?" Eames asked.

"I'd be happy to."

The drive was long, but Eames filled the time by talking about Grace. It was the first time she had truly opened up to him in these past few days. He listened and only interjected with nods and questions. He knew she was relieved to be done and to go home—to see her girl. He was relieved just to hear Eames' voice.

Eames found comfort with the soft hum of the car, the warmth of the car heater, and smell of Goren's aftershave. It made her wonderfully drowsy.

The car rolled to a stop in front of her parents' home and pulled Eames out of her sleepy conversation. There were cars stacked along the curb, and the lights on both the inside and outside of the house burned brightly. She was home. He turned the car off and she stared out the window.

"My family has problems," she said, focused on some point off in the distance, "but they mean the world to me."

He had never heard her say anything like that before. If she did talk about her family, it was usually tagged with disappointment or distance, but not this time. He looked at the home and could make out lively shadows through the glow of the front windows.

She turned to him: "Come on, I'm starving."

"Ah," Goren stammered, "I've been awake for well over twenty-four hours. I'm going to go home."

She shook her head, "Don't do this, Bobby. I want you to come in—please—let's get something to eat."

He rubbed his eyes and pulled the keys from the ignition before sliding out of the car.

When Eames opened the front door, they were immediately surrounded by the sounds of talking and laughter. Goren followed closely behind as she led him into the living room.

"Hey," nearly everyone said in unison when she entered the room. The adults were drinking. That was followed by gasps and comments of "she really got shot?" Then more laughter.

"Happy Thanksgiving," she said softly—nearly childlike.

Standing behind her, Goren gave a small wave. There were people he recognized, but most he did not.

"You're late," her father said as he approached her.

"I know, Dad. But I'm here now." She gave him a hug.

"Are you okay? How's the arm?" he asked.

"I'm okay."

"You should get something to drink."

"Yeah, thanks, Dad."

Her father turned to Goren. "Bobby?"

Goren extended his hand.

"It's been a while."

"Yes, too long," Goren replied.

"Okay," her father shouted, "we're eating now. Everyone go sit down. Hurry up."

Goren and Eames said hello to her mother and found Grace before sitting down. The small house was bursting at the seams: kids were running and yelling, adults were drinking and yelling, and there was a never ending supply of laughter.

Just as Goren suggested, over dinner Eames told the story of being shot by John Wayne. Despite everyone's concern, the story was a hit. Even Eames was laughing at her story.

Eames' brother interjected, "Let me get this straight. The two of you are standing next to each other, and she's the one who gets hit?"

Goren nodded.

"Wow, what are the odds of that?" Her brother pointed to Goren, "You're like three times bigger than her."

Everyone burst into laughter and Goren nodded, "you're right. It should've been me."

Eames began again, "I still need to finish the story." She looked to her brother, "thanks for interrupting."

"Sorry. Keep going."

She finished her story for the captive audience. Eames seemed different. She had transformed into an Eames he had never known: boisterous and uninhibited, yet small, soft, and nearly fragile. It was a shocking contrast to the quiet, confident, in-charge, attitude she normally presented. He could only rationalize it as the safety of being home—she could let her guard down.

They ate. They drank.

After dinner Eames sat on the couch with Grace in her lap surrounded by nieces, nephews and other family and friends as Goren went to clear the dining room table.

Eames' mother put a hand on Goren's shoulder, "Leave the food."

The table had been cleared of dishes, but the turkey and all the food still sat out in the center of the large table.

"Oh," Goren said.

"People will be coming and going and eating until well past midnight, so we just leave everything out." She smiled just the way Eames did—with a hint of sarcasm.

"Well," Goren said, "let me help with the dishes."

"Okay, if you insist."

He cleaned the kitchen with only the help of Eames' sister, Elizabeth. They made small talk and worked quickly. The content and commotion from the living room spilled into the kitchen.

"Hey, Alex," a voice came piercing through from the living room, "is that the crazy guy?"

There was laughter and some, "shhhhs."

Elizabeth glanced at Goren, but he continued to scrub dishes.

Eames' faint voice carried into the kitchen: "stop."

There was still laughter, but it quickly died.

Eames walked into the kitchen with Grace close behind. Goren had his sleeves rolled up, tie loose and a towel draped over his shoulder.

"Bobby, you don't have to clean up," she said. "That's what Liz is for."

"Thanks," her sister said.

"It's fine," he said.

Eames draped her un-shot arm over Grace's shoulder. "We're going for a walk down to the park. Do either of you want to come?"

"It's late," Liz shook her head.

"I know, but the kids begged me."

"You're a pushover."

Eames smiled. "Come on," she said directly to Goren. "It's a nice night."

He rubbed his eyes, "I was thinking of going home."

"Oh," Eames nodded. She looked down to Grace, "go put your jacket on, kid."

Goren looked to Elizabeth briefly then back to Eames who was following Grace out of the kitchen. "Yeah," he said.

Eames looked back.

"Let me just get my coat."

They meandered down the sidewalk side by side as six or seven kids, including Grace, bounced along in route to the park. Eames pointed to each kid and told Goren whose child they were. He hadn't realized what a big family she had.

The park was well lit and not nearly as empty as he thought it would be. They found a cold bench to sit on.

"Is that him?" Goren nodded to one of the older kids.

"That's him," she said, "the boy-wonder. I don't think he remembers you, though."

"Well, the last time I saw him he was just starting to walk."

"Really? It was that long ago?"

"Yeah. How old is he now?"

"Twelve."

"It's hard to believe."

Grace came running over to them with chattering teeth.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Where's your scarf?" Eames asked.

"I don't know."

"Is it at the house?"

Grace shrugged.

Eames' nephew joined in and explained: "Grace lost her scarf today."

Grace glared at him. "No."

"Yeah," the nephew continued, "we were looking all over the place for it. We can't find her gloves either."

"Grace?" Eames asked.

Grace smiled.

"I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart. Just run around some more—you'll warm up."

Goren asked, "what?"

"She'll warm up," Eames said. "She's fine. She's wearing a jacket."

"Here Grace," Goren said as he took off his own scarf and draped it around Grace's neck. "This will keep you warm." He took off his gloves as well and pulled them over her small hands.

She stood rigidly as he secured the gloves and scarf. The slight scowl on her face was disappearing under the scarf as he wrapped it around her neck and pulled the hood of her jacket over her head.

"There," he said once he was done.

She didn't move.

"You can play now," he said.

Except for moving her eyes to look at her mother, Grace still did not move.

Goren, confused, also looked to Eames.

Laughing, Eames said, "Now you'll be warm."

Grace slowly turned around and walked back to the playground.

"Is she mad at me?" Goren asked.

"No."

"She looked angry."

Eames smiled and patted Goren on the knee.

On their way back to the house, the kids ran ahead and Goren and Eames walked slowly in the still, cold air. The street was quiet and all they could hear were the kids laughing and the sounds of their own steps crunching against the leaves on the pavement.

The air filled her lungs in a bitter and familiar way. It was New York. It was the New York she grew up with and the New York she would grow old with. It was as familiar to her as anything could be. As they walked, she looped her uninjured arm through Goren's.

He slowed his gate just enough to accommodate her stride. Goren was also part of her New York. He was by her side when they witnessed the worst aspects of the city, and sometimes the best. He was her working week, her tour guide, her historian, her restaurant critic, her leisure, her inside joke, her trivia, her map, her direction, her north, her south, her east, her west—he was her New York: familiar and sturdy. He was the New York she always thought she'd grow old with.

As they slowly walked, she looked up at him and said softly, "I heard you the other night—every word you said."

He continued to look straight ahead. "What are you talking about?"

"Everything, I guess—our fight. Sometimes you make me angrier than I can describe, but I hear you when you speak and I think about it."

"I said a lot of things I wish I hadn't."

"I know, me too." She tried to find the words that would make everything the way it should be, but she was at a loss. "You said that I am the only person who's ever loved you—that's not true. You are more loved than you know. You've done so much for so many people."

He shook his head, "My mother loved me, my brother loved me, and maybe Declan and a few girlfriends loved me, but they never showed me any love. You're the only person who did that."

"It's because you're everything to me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the deep rise and fall of his chest.

They approached the house and watched the cold children run inside.

"Grace," Eames called.

Grace turned around just before running inside.

"Give Bobby back his scarf and gloves."

She tried to pull everything off but was having trouble with the giant gloves.

"Here," Goren said as he knelt in front of her, "let me help you."

She held out her hands and he pulled off the gloves.

"You can keep the scarf," he said. "It's a good one."

"Thanks," she said. Then she darted into the house after her cousins.

Eames sat on the steps leading up to the front door and Goren sat next to her.

"Do you remember when. . ." Goren started and Eames filled in the gaps. They talked about old cases—the more memorable ones—the lighter ones. There were moments from the past that neither would forget, and things they had long forgotten about their Major Case days were dug up and remembered fondly. They laughed and wondered and felt the pins of nostalgia.

"I should go," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"It's late," she agreed.

Neither of them moved or had any real intention of moving. They had exhausted small talk long ago, and conversation was becoming noticeably jagged and strained, yet this did not deter them in the least. Saying nothing, they sat freezing on the front steps. It was getting colder by the second. They both stared straight ahead.

Without moving, Goren said in a whisper, "I find it hard being without you."

Eames took a deep breath. "I've missed you too, Bobby." She placed her hand on top of his. She did not squeeze his hand or pat it; she just let her hand sit on top of his. The warmth of their hands radiated between them. "You know," she said finally, "I was right."

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. "What were you right about?" he asked.

"I was right about you."

He waited.

She said, "You are the best, and that hasn't changed a bit."

He smiled to himself, then, much in the same way he did years ago, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. The warmth and softness of her skin was just as he remembered. He let his lips linger against her before he pulled away.

She turned to him and smiled. "Are you going to do that every time I complement you?"

As if he were hit in the stomach, he let out a huff of air. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

The smile on her face stretched and her eyes sparkled. "I'm joking."

Goren defensively held up his hands. "No, it's okay. Never again."

His eyes shined the way she hadn't seen in a long time.

"Can we try to be friends?" she said abruptly.

He squinted and tipped his head to the left.

"I mean," she began, "the last time we stopped working together—that was it. I want us to make the effort this time."

"Yes, we will stay in touch. I'll do my part," he said. "Or, in another five years we'll have a big fight over it."

She smiled, "let's not do that again."

"No, I didn't like that."

A swift thrust of wind swept down the long and linier street. Leaves were brushed off the trees and pushed down the sidewalk. The resonance of crisp leaves landing on the cold cement created a sound that was not loud, but all encompassing—for a few moments, it was all they could hear. It was comforting; it was reassurance.

He pointed to her with his long index finger, "You're the best."

"Sure," she whispered.

In the darkness, with only the moon and soft houselights to see by, she could almost see Goren as a young man again. The poor lighting hid the deep lines in his face and blurred the color of his gray hair. The longer she looked, the more she remembered him as the youthful, ambitious man who annoyed and fascinated her; the man who had yet to face deep tragedy; the man who was still funny and occasionally smiled.

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. She stayed only long enough to memorize the feeling.

He did not move.

They stared at each other for a moment and felt exactly what they had feared and expected.

"Sorry," she said, "I just wanted to know."

He nodded. "I wanted to know, too."

"At 90 years old, I would have regretted never kissing you," she said.

He smiled: "the 90-year-old question. It's a good thing to live by."

"It's worked out so far."

The front steps were cold and hard, but they never noticed. He tucked some lose hair behind her ears and moved closer. With a pounding pulse, he wrapped his arms around her, careful of her arm, and held her. She nuzzled the side of his face with her own.

There was relief in their physical closeness. Despite the bulk of their clothing, it was a closeness they both had long desired.

He brushed his lips against hers tentatively until she kissed him again—a little longer, a little deeper.

He knew what she was thinking. He knew she was thinking the same thing he felt.

"It was nice," she said.

"Only nice?" he asked, knowing.

"Yeah, only nice."

He nodded and pulled her into a closer hug.

"If I were smarter—" he whispered directly into her ear. There was a pause, he didn't know what to say, but he started again: "I wish I was the kind of man who could love you—who could be good for you."

"Me, too," she said sincerely. "I wish we had it in us."

He inhaled and pressed his check against hers. "I imagine it's the most wonderful feeling in the world to fall in love with you, Alex."

She felt her heart ache. There was deep desire. She wished more than anything that she was in love with him. For fleeting moments in the past few days she thought it might be there, that there was a chance. She thought that maybe their time apart had changed things just enough so that she could feel something passionate toward him. The love she had for him was not the love she wanted for him.

"It's strange," she confessed, still enveloped in his embrace.

"I would do anything for this to feel right," he said.

They found each other's lips. There was desperation and yearning inside each of them. This was their one last chance to see if their lives could change together. They took their time and both made a noble effort.

After slowly parting, Goren said regretfully, "It's a little awkward."

Eames grinned, "Yeah, it is a little awkward. I don't want it to be, but it is."

He smiled devilishly and shook his head. Despite his disappointment, it was a relief to know for sure.

"You know," Goren said in a moment without inhibition, "despite it being awkward, if you ever need me, I'll drop everything to come make love to you."

"What?" she asked.

He rubbed his forehead in embarrassment. "I know, the just words left my mouth."

She smiled.

He tilted his head, "well, since I've already made a fool of myself—and since we're not partners anymore—I'm going to be honest, these past few days, I've thought about it."

"About us?"

"Yes, about us—and about what it could feel like." He lowered his voice, "and what it would be like to share myself with you—emotionally, physically."

"I've had similar thoughts," she said. "Maybe we can work through the awkwardness?"

"Maybe all we need is one night together?"

"I wish my dad hadn't turned my old bedroom into an office."

He rolled his eyes, "I didn't mean it had to be tonight."

"You know I don't like to procrastinate."

He covered his face with his hands. "Ah, Eames."

She brushed his cheek with her thumb. "I wish we were normal, and then maybe this would work between us."

"We're not normal?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow, "look at us."

"Right."

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "You were always my best quality. You still are."

She intertwined her fingers with his. "We were good detectives when we were together," she said.

"The best."

"I'm proud of what we accomplished."

"We did good," he whispered.

She said with a smile, "Goren and Eames."

"Goren and Eames," he repeated. With his forehead still against hers, he felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria. There was resolution.

"How's your arm?"

"It aches."

He tenderly kissed her wounded arm.

There was a long silence between them until Goren stood and said, "It is late."

They walked into the nearly empty house, and saw Grace sleeping on the living room floor. Her mother and father were finally putting away the rest of the food. "Are you leaving?" asked her mother.

"Yes. Thank you for dinner."

"Well, I'm glad you came. You are welcome back anytime—Oh," she grabbed a large Tupperware container filled with food, "take this."

"Thank you."

He shook hands with her father and walked out the door.

Eames followed him to the car and watched as he placed the container inside. He looked at her briefly, then away, and simply said, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Eames said with her hands buried deep in her coat pockets.

He stared at his shoes. "Is this it?"

Her eyes were getting heavy and the cool air burned the skin on her face. "I guess so," she said softly.

"I guess so," he repeated then kicked a small rock and watched it roll down the sidewalk. Without completely looking up, he gave a slight wave and began his slow walk to the driver's side door.

In the din of small gusts of cold air, leaves bouncing on the pavement, children laughing in the distance, dogs baking next door, and a passing car, Goren heard her voice. He turned back to Eames and asked, "did you say something?"

She gave a shallow nod. She said something that had been lost in the bitter New York air.

He took two large steps toward her then raised his eyebrows and let the corners of his lips curl up only slightly into a smile.

"I love you, Bobby," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he said without hesitation.

With labored steps, he walked around the car and opened the driver's door.

"Bobby," she said, "one of my detectives is moving out of state. If you want the job—"

"Yes."

She smiled, "you don't want to think about it?"

He shook his head. "I want the job."

"It's not as exciting as Major Case…"

"That's okay." For the first time in years, he felt a deep sense of relief and maybe even happiness. There was something for him to look forward to.

"Okay—the job is yours," she shrugged, "I'll see you around."

"Everyday," he said. "I'll see you every day."

"Every day." She repeated.

In the end, everyday was all they ever needed.