Sorry for the delay. I've been travelling for the last couple of weeks. It was like an olympic sport of flights and organizing and packing and unpacking. So busy. I thought I'd never get this chapter up.

PRAVDA

Bobby sat in front of a vanilla mini cake, roped with a ruffle of royal blue icing. The sides were encrusted with sprinkles, miniscule ball bearings in a rainbow of primary and secondary colours. Hundreds of them, thousands even. It was hard for a savant not to go cross-eyed staring into that sea of confectioners baubles, spheres of edible joy. And there were 43 candles on that cake. Forty-three pastel sticks corkscrewed with white thread. He watched each candle doing it's best to hold it's ground on the spongy diminutive surface, thinking that each one represented a full 365 days in his life. Inevitably some sloped and others tilted precariously, and a few barely clung to the cake at all, so at least these candles were honest.

He looked up at Alex. "Wow."

"Wow?" She scoffed. "It's a cake."

"But you made it."

"Sure, me and Betty Crocker." She said, embarrassed by her own sentimentality.

But Bobby was unphased by his own. He turned and snatched up her hands and kissed each one. "Thank you." He said "It's been a lifetime since I had a real cake."

She smiled down on him. "You deserve good things."

Under her gaze he felt special, though he was pretty ambivalent about what he deserved. Alex had made a real effort today, cooking and baking and buying a bunch of balloons. It all put him in mind of his best birthday ever. The one where he'd turned 6. Mind you, time may have immortalized that day in ways that made it shinier than it deserved. And he knew his memories were infantile, a meringue - fluffy and glossy and sweet, but August 20, 1967 was still a gold standard in the mind of Robert Goren...

That day had dawned perfectly and by 8am the sky was a broad cotton candy blue. The sun grinned down on Canarsie. They'd all thrown on shorts and tank tops - the kind pulled out of a colourful heap on the floor - because who cared what you wore, it was summer vacation. Then just before lunch they hopped into the Chevy Impala (him and Frank and mom and dad) and the engine turned over and purred on the first flip of the key. And as they reversed down the driveway, his mother had let one fine hand reach across the top of the baby blue bench seat, to ruffle his father's hair. And her eyes had danced impishly.

Then they swung that boat around onto Herb Lawn Avenue and collected his friend Charlie. His best buddy in the neighbourhood. Charlie Blay lived in the house with the neon green lawn, and the metal garden art - a smiling sunflower that danced on the breeze. Charlie tore out of the bungalow like it was on fire the second they rolled into view. And Mrs. Blay waved goodbye from the front window. Then his mother leaned languidly toward them and said, "Hang on to Charlie." And the boys had locked arms and thighs, sweetly ignorant of things like momentum and velocity. And the quintet headed down to Mighty Moe's.

The kids vanished through glass double doors, into a sea of bobbing crew cuts and pale arms, never to be seen again (until mealtime). Every boy and girl was there to do the same thing: stand slack jawed in front of enormous pinball machines and token games, and worship them like false idols. Bobby could still remember the ping of the machines and the ascending electronic chime of a win and the robotic siren call of the lady inside the speakers. He remembered a diminishing roll of quarters, and hours spent trying to fish tweety bird out of a glass cube with a mechanical claw. He remembered that the adults had sat on the patio sunning themselves and slowly sipping something frothy and amber from tall glasses (the way adults were wont to do). Bobby still remembered tears of laughter, and he still remembered the paddywacks, and he still remembered happy birthday sung in 12 part harmony by a choir of waitresses, hostesses, bus boys (and even a manager). He remembered a mountain of presents (though it was likely only 3). And he remembered a big white cake rolled in a rainbow.

When Alex lit up his 43 candles they merged into one giant angry tapering flame, unstable and blazing. He zoned in on the cake top bonfire, and decided he'd better muster a breath or call the fire department.

"Blow them out already!" She read his mind. And he pulled back, just like that little boy and gusted his momentum and dioxide and a fine mist of saliva all over that thing. And it worked. The flames were extinguished and thin black tendrils curled and hula'd up into the ether. "I thought we were going to burn the building down." She muttered. "What'd you wish for?"

"I'm never telling." He leaned back and crossed his arms, because just like that 6 year old he'd wished his family - the one he'd chosen, Alex - could stay this way forever.

"Oh okay." She quirked a brow, then very earnestly said, "Happy Birthday Bobby." And planted a heavy smooch right in the clearing between his brows.

Alex had wanted to throw him a real to do. Complete with friends, co-workers and a smattering of family but he had talked her down. It wasn't a milestone after all, just another notch carved into some invisible wooden score board. Besides he didn't much feel like celebrating. They were sitting squarely in the eye of the hurricane. There were babies dancing around their subconscious. The promise strange new professional bedfellows lurking in his future. And there was conflict everywhere. Except for now, in this golden moment of peace and goodwill. His birthday.

"Can I cut you a piece? It's your favourite." She cajoled.

"Uh, okay."

Alex gave him a million dollar grin and picked up the dessert. "You're distracted." She said over her shoulder from the kitchen, as she sunk the cake slicer deep.

"No I'm not."

"You are." She clanked a scalloped-edge plate with a man-sized slice down in front of him.

"How do you know?" He asked after a heaping mouthful, and good broad lick of the fork.

"Because you're quiet and spacey."

"I meant how do you know this is my favourite cake?" To his recollection they'd never eaten cake together and all his recollections came from the eternal barometre of an eidetic mind.

"Halliwell."

"Jesus." He cawed, "Remind me never to cross you. You know everything."

"Not everything. Not yet." She smiled using one of his lines. And he looked at his Alex. Really looked at her, sitting on a dark wood chair with her fuller cheeks and her chunky waving bob. She knew him. She was right, she didn't know everything, but one day she would glean the A to Z of him. The Halliwell case came rushing back. The smell came first - paper and citrus air freshener - all of his memories were rooted in the olfactory. Bobby knew then that he had eaten cake, but only once, and only in the office of some forgettable pharmaceuticals peddler in Brooklyn 13 months ago. And he'd only dug into Doug's office birthday cake, to kill time while they plumbed the man for information.

But now he saw it, he saw himself leaning against the low wall of an anonymous cubicle, holding a paper plate, and licking a plastic fork, and confessing candidly to Eames, "This is my favourite, outta the box vanilla, with mass market frosting and rainbow sprinkles.' And she'd stood there and glowered at him (he was fairly sure she'd hated his guts back then). But she had quirked one mysterious brow.

So that's the move. A peaked eyebrow meant you'd been scanned and added to her database of quirks. He stared, a little in awe of the monument they were building.

"What?" She said at last.

"Nothing. It's just.. I like you."

"I like you too."

And because it seemed the thing to do, after being read like a 2 dollar novel, he reached over and smeared a good dollop of white frosting on her nose. Her screech tickled his pleasure centres.

"That's how you repay me?" She wedged her thumb up against her nostril wiping. "In my day thanks used to be a nice card or a…" He tucked forward at the waist as if to kiss her, but changed course and fixed his lips completely over her nose, sucking gently. The rough of his tongue swept up her bridge, then he laved the sweet filmy tip, then bumped over her cupid's bow.

"That was a first." She said drenched and dreamy, and he nibbled her punch-drunk lips and dragged his chair up against hers.

"What? No one's ever given you a nose job?" He murmured against her mouth.

"No. Never."

"Good." And somehow he managed to make that sound like a strategic gain. She frowned, but quickly forgot as he rolled back her t-shirt and spread both big hands around the curve of her abdomen. He wasn't shy about feeling her up, cupping her bulging conflicted body.

"Cut it out." She murmured but thrust closer.

"I can't help it, you're sexy like this. All swollen with my baby."

"Bobby." She cautioned weakly.

"My baby." He whispered a sweet something.

"Bobby." She crooned in protest.

"My baby." He said again erotically brainwashing her, associating that dirty word with pleasure. "I know what would make this the best birthday ever." His lips slid all over. She released her head, baring her neck to him.

"Presents?"

"Sort of." His hands slid down her back and breached the stretchy waistband of her pants.

Alex strained past his shoulder and grasped a small box before she lost all sense. "Here." She forced it at him.

"Eames." He sounded annoyed.

"Goren." She mock growled.

"After." He tried again nuzzling her, black-eyed with need.

"No, now."

He sighed and took the gift "You've done enou…"

She stopped him cold with a look. "It's small. Really." It wasn't. She'd actually broken the bank on 18 carats of pure white gold with a small inset diamond and an inscription. He tore at the ribbon and lid and cotton and pulled out a tie clip. "Open the card." She demanded tersely because she'd written things down that were so naked that they terrified her. Things about love, and safety, and devotion, and about clipping a piece of her over his heart. She watched his eyes scan her cursive. She watched rigidly for acceptance or rejection. Alex knew, like her, that Bobby was circumspect, and like her he was sullen, and like her he was a river, a churning white water rapid of emotion under a calm presentation. Relief came when he squeezed her to him, and rocked her on his muscular knees and kissed the life right into her.

"Thank you Alex." And they sat like that for a good long while.

"What do you want to do with the rest of your night Mr. 43?" She murmured eventually.

"Cuddle." He spoke into the hollow behind her ear.

"Ha!" She laughed cupping his face. "If only the guys on the squad knew."

"What?"

"That you have more estrogen than me. How about a movie? Jason Bourne or a foreign war flick?" She enticed snatching up a DVD called No Man's Land. "It's in Bosnian, with subtitles."

"You just can't go wrong tonight can you?"

"I want you to be happy." There was a malaise about him. Alex (deep in denial about her complicity) chalked it up to professional anxiety. Any day now he was going to catch one without her. And now they had a name for his new partner G. Lynn Bishop. Deakins had broke protocol to share her stats. Alex had liked the look on her captain's face while he'd done it. Weighty, she'd call it weighty. If she hadn't known better, she'd think Deakins understood all of it. He assured her that Detective Bishop was the best possible choice and that she would have Bobby's back.

And so Alex came to know that Lynn Bishop was a 3 year veteran of O.C.C.B. Organized Crime Control Bureau. And that could only mean one thing, she was going to be one cool customer. Alex had met other OC vets, they had ice in their veins and a limited range of human emotion. And of course they did. They were dealing with the mob: the Russians, the Italians, the Chinese you name it. Flinching wasn't an option. And of course Bishop had been tapped for this MCS detail. So she must be made of good stuff. Bobby would run circles around some untried newb.

"You want to talk about her?" Alex tread lightly, sometime later, cleaning up their celebration.

"No." He didn't even ask who, instead he stood grabbed his sweaty half drunk beer and plopped down on her sofa. Eventually she sat in opposition (spatially speaking) lifting her calves onto the ottoman. She flexed her tired toes and rubbed her distended belly. He was brooding.

"C'mon, it'll do you some good."

His stony look begged to differ.

"Take what I've taught you young grasshopper and use it in the real world."

He let his legs a fall even more deeply away from the centre, and he took a swig of his beer.

"You were totally un-partnerable before you met me. Now look at you." She smiled "You can test your new personality on someone impartial. Think of it as an experiment. You like experiments.

"An experiment in being nice to a stranger?" His sneer said it all.

"In being professional. In seeing if you can work with someone else."

"I don't wanna work with someone else." And the petulance. The downcast eyes, well it was all she could do not to break into a long drawn out 'awwwww,' like the studio audience of a 90's sitcom.

"It's just until this is over." She tapped her tummy.

Raw rage filled him. "This will never be over! We'll always be parents."

Alex sighed. "Let's not go there."

"No let's." With his belly full and his future uncertain, the prospect of a rumble felt good. "I don't want you to give away my baby. And I don't want a new partner. I want you in life and in work. I want blanket Eames coverage."

"Like an insurance policy?" She smirked.

"Don't laugh!" He was serious as cancer, "Joe screwed you up."

She clenched, he had no idea. "I think the happy part of this birthday is over."

"Who fuckin' gives away their kid to keep their job." He shook his head in wonder. "Don't do this. Let us be happy."

"We aren't normal!" She yelled thrusting up out of the chair so quickly that she got vertigo. "I am not the happy housewife. I need the action and so do you. 2.5 kiddies and a picket fence is not my dream Bobby! I already miss it. I'm still technically your partner, the leave hasn't even started and I already dream about getting my gun back."

"Well grow up. You can't have it all." He muttered feeling trapped and edgy.

"If I'm not grown up I don't know who is."

"We'll figure something out."

But Alexandra Eames would never take another IOU to the bank. She didn't believe in promises anymore. "How are we going to both take 3 am calls with a kid? How will we keep our heads in the game? How are we going to explain it to the brass? Other cops get parental allowances, they get leave and modified hours, you think we can have a secret kid? No special dispensations? Just stay partners, and work around the clock, and miraculously not be shitty parents? Keep dreaming."

"We'll hire help."

"Oh oh." Her hand flew up "I vote for a Park Avenue nanny. Do you have an off-shore account I don't know about? A full time live-in nanny? You're a regular fucking Trump."

"You sure that's not Satan's spawn in there?" He gestured with the butt of the bottle, "Because you have been a total lunatic since I knocked you up."

"If this is Satan's spawn what does that make you?"

And this was how it went, over and over. From ecstasy to agony because this was a puzzle they couldn't solve together. There was no perfection in untying this knot, only ropes coated in the slimy sludge of life.

"Well do what you want." He said finally. "This is my last case."

"What do you mean?"

"This will ruin us. You think we can just soldier on? There'll be too much baggage. You do this and I'm leaving." His word stank of bravado.

And Alex clung to the lip of the countertop because the pain of that almost stopped her heart. "Those are words of love? That's how committed you are?" Her face was etched, deep ugly caverns of sadness. "Yeah, this is definitely the way I remember it." Love was heartache, misery, desertion. "Fine resign. I'll get over it."

For dramatic effect she clomped off down the hall. And then the bedroom door almost popped off it's hinges.

Teeth brushed, pyjamas on, eyes wide. Alex lay there in the dark straining for the slam of the front door. But the condo was quiet, too quiet. And somewhere in her belly, beneath the baby, the stress of wanting played neatly against the fear of having, and wracked her with pain.

And then the door squawked wide. To her dilated pupils he was a sore, man mountain. Then she heard his pants come off and his shirt and she smelled that he'd added a few more beers to that first one. There must be fermented hoppy ocean in that stomach now. And he lay beside her, on his back, in the dark, radiating alcoholic heat.

"I want to talk to Liz." He said at last. "And I want a lawyer, and I want a contract."

Her head is on fire.

Not the most generous first impression, but nonetheless it was the one he made. And it was closely followed by, she smells like peppermint which was followed by, she's stiff as a board and finally (and little wonder really) She doesn't like me. Maybe Lynn Bishop's thin lips and depressive glare where a holdover from those insolent teenage years. But something made Bobby quite sure that this woman was fun and flirty with friends. This disaffected grimace was for him and him alone. After all he did have seniority. Without Eames power had been thrust upon him. The mantle weighed heavy around his shoulders.

Goren knew his default position was to assume people didn't like him. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Hence his spectacularly disastrous partner record. But so many people were counting on him not to mess this one up. God, he missed Alex already. 10 minutes into his temporary partnership on the dirty side of Flatbush and he wanted to eat a bullet, or maybe start pulling his hair and banging his skull in a Hollywood facsimile of crazy. Either way he would put an end to this thing.

"You two don't take notes?" Asked the hawkish Detective Giles

"Uh we haven't worked that out yet." We prefer to circle and sneer.

Bobby stared down at the prone bloody body of Katya Jelenak. This job was ridiculous. The moniker 'partner' wasn't effortlessly transposed from one to another. It had to be earned, it had to be won. He and Bishop hadn't made a game plan, they hadn't decided who would be the functional alpha, or even if anyone wanted the role, he hadn't even ridden in a car with her. They'd just kind of showed up and began this clumsy waltz, tripping over each others feet. Goren liked to whirl Eames around a crime scene at an even 90 beats per minute. But this woman, Bishop (she sure was as stuffy as church hierarchy) just wouldn't yield. So Bobby danced solo from the spattered floor, to the tea tree coated bed, to the hinky desktop while the new girl with the orange hair just stood and stared.

Oh give her a chance. Even if she's got it all wrong. So he did, but only so he could school her on human nature.

"My theory is Ms. Jelenak, she heard the assailant, she was sleeping in the bed and he was at the desk. Detective Bishop's theory is that um she woke up to a burglary. What do you think?"

"I like hers."Carl Hines didn't hesitate "And as I already said the poor kid was dead when I came home."

"Can you check your desk to see if there's anything missing? It's for Detective Bishop's burglary theory."

Hines gave the clutter a cursory glance. "Not to knock your theory but it's just the way I left it."

Gotcha!

If only everyone were as obvious as Carl Hines. Sure-footed through a blood bath, cavalier nicknames, and a willingness to play fast and loose with the truth. A missing thesaurus was hardly an indictable offence, but what it did was speak to this man's reliability. In an instant Bobby had him pegged as an aggressive, malcontent, whose every breath wafted with entitlement. It was racial, Hines had shot his load prematurely on the bugabear of skin colour. "Given she was killed here, given my race I knew I would be your first suspect." But it was more than race. This guy had secrets.

Goren felt the thrill of the coming hunt boiling in his blood.

There was something about an Eames'less' professional universe that turned Robert Goren into free range masculine energy. Something about being constantly tracked by Bishop's unsympathetic eyes, that made his hand punctuate the air with more force, that made his speech a little more Brooklyn hoodlum, that made his ticks less pronounced.

He was working two cases. Jelenak and Bishop. The latter, he told himself, was because a basic understanding of this 'partner' was paramount - her tells, her stressors, her non-negotiables. But around quitting time, in the gloom of the underground parking lot, he got jumped. Alex pulled him behind a thick concrete pillar and got him by the earlobe.

"Cut it out." She demand, wrenching his soft flesh.

"What? Ow ow…" He curled 76 inches into a short grimacing ball.

"See what you missed not working vice?" She mocked his earlier words.

"What? I can't be proud?"

"So proud you forgot to tell me for 3 years." She twisted that lobe harder.

"Ow! okay okay." He surrendered.

"Just be nice." She let her hand drop.

"You're violent." He said rubbing the side of his head.

"I heard about your little stunt with Carver."

"You've been talking to Carver!" The man's name could still send him into orbit.

"No." She said quickly. "Stephanie" Carver's paralegal. "She told me you torpedoed their case on Elkins."

"Come on, it wasn't a case. Bishop thought he was good for it, she ran with it, I just pointed out the inconsistencies."

"You have to get there together. You know that. You want to be the first cop that can't even keep a temporary partner?"

"Why?" His brow furrowed "What has she said?"

"Nothing but there's a grapevine. And some Major Knuckleheads have started a pool. The pot is up to $500. How long will this one stick around? Bennito has a calendar in his desk people are buying dates."

He looked pleased. "I'd like in on that."

She slapped his arm. "Be nice. Just ride this out. Do your Sherlock thing and come back to me." He forgot himself and put his hands on her hips. "Uh uh. Not here." She took a quick step back.

And Bobby realized in that concrete tomb, that she was his crack. His addiction. His fingers were itchy, reaching for her constantly. He'd like to fuck her. He'd like to murder her. He'd like to marry her. It scared him a little to have all that emotions coursing through him. He had the shakes. Withdrawal. He wanted so badly to mind meld with her on this case, every case. But when he got her back her tummy would be flat, her holster would fit flush to her new neat hips. His progeny would be gone. So he wanted her and yet he didn't.

He held those thoughts uncomfortably in opposition. Wasn't that the definition of genius after all?

"I'll behave." He said at last and crossed his fingers behind his back.