Author's Note: In this story, I'm fast-forwarding to next season (or at least next year in the lives of Goren and Eames) when Alex's niece/nephew turns one year old. Spoilers for "F.P.S." (You'll notice in this story that I do not make reference as to the sex of the baby. I leave that to your imagination.) And, since I haven't disclaimed in a while, here goes: I don't own any of these characters and don't pretend to. They belong to Rene Balcer, Kathryn Erbe, Vincent D'Onofrio (a very large and potentially scary man), and Dick Wolf (a man with very large and potentially scary lawyers).

ALEX

It usually doesn't work this way. It usually isn't her that makes the call in the late evening hours looking for a connection, for a friend. Usually it's the other way around – he calls her and she answers, fully prepared to hear his anxious voice on the other end. He's always eager to share an insight, ask a question that just couldn't wait until morning, or reaffirm that no matter what else is happening, someone is there for him.

But tonight the tables have turned. Tonight it's his phone that rings as he takes the first sip of his second beer at O'Malley's Tavern, this action performed in the midst of a good-natured ribbing from his friend Lewis for the attention he's receiving from a curvy brunette seated in the corner.

Alex obviously doesn't know where he is or what he's doing (though, well acquainted with his routines, she could probably offer an accurate guess if she were to be asked). Nor does she know exactly what she's doing – or what she's calling to say for that matter. She doesn't even remember dialing his number when she went into the kitchen to boil water for tea. All she knows is that the voice on the other end of the line, a voice that has, over the years, become almost as familiar to her as her own, knows the sharp pang of loss. This voice knows the frustration that accompanies stifling one's true emotions in order to spare the pain of another and the world of pain and confusion that accompanies said suppression. This voice also knows the fear of being unable to move past the present state of being into a future that is predicted to be brighter but comes with no guarantees.

He answers characteristically and from habit, though she knows the caller ID on his phone display has already revealed her identity to him.

"Goren."

"Bobby?" The word is out before she thinks it in her mind, her lips forming it reflexively as a plea and usurping any chance she had at beginning a casual conversation. To add, "Hey it's me. Have you…?" now would be fruitless because he has already recognized that something is amiss. Perception is Bobby's middle name.

"Eames, what's wrong?" he demands, his own tone switching automatically from one of jovial greeting to one of concern and also of fear – for her and for himself. He relies on her to be the lightning rod in their relationship, the one with the power to ground them both. He doesn't like to be the strong one - the one picking up the pieces - for fear that he might miss one, that he might fail and lose them both in the process. She has never let him down and his ultimate fear is being unable to return the favor. But she has called him tonight because she knows that he can – and that he will. Though he will never acknowledge the responsibility aloud, Bobby is her touchstone in the same way that she is his. She doesn't want answers from him – she can't even verbalize the questions anyway – but rather she seeks whatever absolution he can give her, even if it's only a few words spoken with beer-soured breath.

When she opens her mouth to respond to him, the self-protective part of her mind won't let her speak the truth, so she instead settles for an empty phrase: "I don't know." She gives a short, affected laugh and adds, "I don't even remember calling you – but here I am."

Even without seeing him, she knows the wheels have begun to turn in his head – she can almost hear the grinding creak through the phone and see his dark brows knit in deep thought. After a moment, he asks, "How was the party?"

She inhales sharply at his unfailing ability to uncover the very heart of a person's motivation in a mere four words. He doesn't beat around the bush -and what's more, though she once accused him of assuming that she didn't pay attention when he talked, she now sees that the same is true in reverse. He listens better than she gives him credit for – he listens and he understands on a higher level than anyone she's ever met.

"It was okay," she replies when she recovers her ability to speak.

He sighs and she can hear his nod on the other end, a nod of understanding. "Birthday cake and the whole nine yards?"

He knows the reason she's struggling tonight but he's giving her a chance to talk around it, to pretend for a moment that they're having a normal conversation and that she isn't grappling with feelings that she's managed to hide from him and from herself for an entire year. Whether he's avoiding the truth to shield himself from any request she might make of him or to help her focus her thoughts and words, she isn't sure. All she knows is that it's an out that she takes gratefully, her voice growing lighter for a moment as she takes on her characteristic dry tone of delivery.

"Yep – complete with the prerequisite first birthday 'fist in the cake' photo op. I'll have to get you a copy."

"Sounds like fun."

"Yeah."

"Bet your parents loved it."

"Of course they did – they're born grandparents."

"And your sister too."

"She hasn't come down from cloud nine in a year. Today I think she might have even made it to cloud ten."

He pauses. "Sounds like a big day."

"Yeah," she says softly. She sighs. "Look, Bobby, I'm sorry I bothered you. Go back to whatever – or whoever - you and Lewis were talking about."

"Okay," he doesn't press for more information about the party or how she's doing and seems – as always – briefly astounded at how well she knows him. Tonight, however, that feeling is mutual.

"Oh, and Bobby?" she adds as an afterthought. She knows it will sound weak here, but she means what she's about to say. Just hearing his voice has helped her to rebalance.

"Huh?"

"Thanks."

She can hear him nod again. "You're welcome. Good night."