Don't ask, don't tell.

The unofficial yellow underbelly of the no-fraternization policy. And Deakins wasn't going to ask. No way in hell. He was pretty sure nothing was going on between the members of his best team. But he was equally aware, as his dear wife was want to point out, that it could.

Easily.

For crap's sake, he knew that actual wagers had been placed on the matter within certain neanderthal quarters.

From whence Alex spoke her words to David Drew. From what level of consciousness, he couldn't say. That they did come from within her, as opposed to the chameleon-like artifice Bobby could pick up and drop like a pair of old gloves, was also crystal.

He knew it. Carver knew it. And Bobby...

Frankly, he had no clue what Bobby knew.

Goren was a complex man, but his desires were simple. He wanted, he needed, the work. Like air. And Deakins had never seen a being better-tuned for the job. The stories dropped here and there about his life through the years, as well as his own observations, gave him enough to know all this about Robert Goren.

But what Goren might feel about anything was anyone's guess.

The only one who ever had a clue about that was, ironically, Alex. And she'd never betray him by letting on what those mysteries might be.

That they had chemistry was no secret. Intellectual, intuitive, and, yes, even physical. All this was what made them great partners. And as a man from a very happy marriage, Deakins well knew that these were also the necessary components of life-long bonding.

And he'd heard the deep breath Bobby had taken before Eames spoke those words to Drew.

And he'd heard the breath let go after.

He felt pretty certain, in that in-the-gut way, that change had been marked by this simple passage of air. That, within Goren, as this air left him, a dawning had stolen in to fill the vacated space.

And he pitied the guy.

The treasure that was Alexandra Eames weighed against the worth of validation. Of work.

He absolutely pitied the guy.

So, Deakins looked up from his desk then, and watched through the window as the pantomime unfolded.

First Bobby came out of observation at last, distracted and rumpled, mumbling.

"I'm going down to check on Arano," he told him.

Deakins saw the furtive glancing toward interrogation one before he left.

And then finally Alex emerged with Drew.

She smiled and patted his shoulder comfortingly and walked him to the elevator. Upon returning she glanced around the office, looking for Goren.

With a disappointed slump to her shoulders, she came to the office and poked her head in.

"I'm going to take off, if that's okay. I have a check-up thing—since the accident," she told him.

He looked at his watch.

"So late?"

"Problem? I can stay..."

"No, no, go."

She turned to leave, then turned back, "Captain..."

"Yes?"

She sighed and changed her mind, "Nothing."

He watched then as she crossed to her desk, scribbled Goren a note, and collected her things before leaving.

And his heart went out to her too.

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He came to her door late at night, his body restless in that way which means, 'I am struggling.'

She stood patiently and waited for him in their usual way. The way of a thousand times before. His pacing in her small entryway was farcical. The small space too big for his feelings, his energy.

At last he stopped before her, staring at the floor, his body finally still but his eyes dancing. She did not look down herself. She would only see her own pale feet, the red polished toes peeking out from under the navy silk of her pajama bottoms.

What he saw was anyone's guess. She'd fancied once, after two gin and tonics and some awful rumaki, that it might well be the movement of atoms.

But for now his body was still, eyes moving, brain whirling. He smelled like Bobby at the end of the day; his cologne still lightly clinging, the snow on his shoulders, the wool of his coat.

And she could hear him breathe.

He looked up at her and captured her eyes with his own then.

She thrilled and felt warm and so smiled.

As did he.

He reached his hand out then and picked up hers from her side, stretching her white arm between them.

She felt the tips of her breasts pucker in this simple action, and blushed knowing he could see them rise under her camisole.

He lay her hand flat over his heart and she felt its rhythmic beating.

And his smile grew.

"Eames," he said softly, "I've... I've always wanted to do this..."

He reached out his index finger then and placed it lightly on her shoulder then traced ever so slowly down her bare arm. Outlining its curves, where it was soft, where it dipped into angles, and along its most tender places...

She shivered.

When he reached her hand on his chest, they both laughed a little.

Their heartbeats had synchronized now and accelerated.

"Why didn't you tell me how I felt?" he asked her then.

"I didn't think you'd choose me," she replied.

He nodded and moved closer, lifting her arm around his neck, wrapping his about her waist.

She stretched up on her toes, leaning against him as they took their time, eyes open, and kissed softly.

And then her phone rang.

She frowned. But she's wearing her pajamas. Where's her phone?

And, wait a minute... where's Bobby gone?

Ah, hell.

She opened her eyes, or tried to. Eighteen hours in the same mascara has roughly the bonding properties of Super Glue.

Yeah, she's still in the Emergency Waiting Room, and, yeah, she's been asleep. She must be tired if she can have a dream like that in public, she decides.

"Hey, honey!..." she hears.

She turns to an elderly woman sitting next to her, and is momentarily puzzled by the bloody towel wrapped around her hand.

"Are you going to answer that?" asks this bloody towel woman in irritation.

She snaps fully awake then, "Oh! Sorry!" and pulls her phone out of her pocket.

"Eames," she answers wearily and gets up slowly to move away for privacy.

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The note read: B, I'm going over for an x-ray now. A deal's a deal. Do not eat that danish left in the break room, I just saw Turner pick it up off the floor. Go get some sleep–A

He looks quickly up to where her coat usually hangs. Yes, she really has gone. He sighs then and leans back in his chair.

He's forty-six years old. Still on the young side for a man. He doesn't get enough sleep, eats poorly, and drinks too much coffee. He even, now and then, sneaks a smoke. Still, his mind has never been sharper, his emotions never more even, and he walks on his treadmill daily.

Women still give him their numbers in bars. And he takes them. But none has caught him, has so fascinated and challenged him, or inspired his loyalty, to the point of change. Of accommodation. And they are never happy when the meaning of his work becomes clear.

He doesn't let himself think about that other sort of potential life. The one Deakins has, the one Alex probably had. That he isn't sitting in the room next to his mother's at Carmel Ridge right now must be enough for him...

But then words she said in Drew's interview creep back to haunt him, and whisper questions he does not want to answer.

He picked up the phone then and dialed her cell.

It rings several times before she answers.

"Eames..."

He knows how she feels, how she looks, with this single utterance.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You're at the hospital?"

"Still in the waiting room. You'd love what the city's done with the place."

"You shouldn't have gone alone."

"My lady's maid had the day off."

"I could be there in fifteen minutes."

"There's no need. You've done enough."

He wonders for a moment if that's true.

"Bobby? You still there?"

And then... and then, inexplicably,he wonders if there might just be more for him.

This is a new thought for Bobby Goren.

More for him? And more for her too. Not to be found in bars or dance clubs, but within the daily going about of life, of work. With each other. For each other.

The simplicity and complication of this new thought stalls his ever-spinning mind for a moment, before a thousand more unanswerable questions wash over him like a wave.

So he drops it, doubt-ridden silliness that it is, and kicks it under the proverbial rug.

This is, after all, the real world.

He needs a drink. He needs sleep. He'd really like to get laid.

"Bobby?"

"Uh... yeah, sorry..."

He notices then that he's picked up a paperclip at some point and bent it into a spiraling corkscrew sort of shape.

"You make me say, 'Can you hear me now?' and you'll regret it."

"So, you're okay?"

"Dandy. Go home."

"Right."

"See you in the morning, Bobby."

And the familiarity, the sure promise, of this statement makes them feel better.

They both click off then determined that tomorrow will be normal again.

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It was later than she would have liked when she walked into the office the next morning. She'd awakened late to the radio, surprised to learn that it was Christmas eve.

She spied Bobby at his desk already bent over the newspaper.

She hung up her coat and quietly walked up behind him. Dangling her hand over his shoulder, she dropped something down with a plop onto the paper before him.

He startled a bit in a satisfying way.

"Merry Christmas!" she whispered into his ear.

"What's this?" he asked as he retrieved the object before him.

"That is my hospital id bracelet from last night," she told him as she crossed around to her own desk and pulled out the chair. "Three hours of my life I'll never get back, by the way. But a deal's a deal."

He played with the plastic bracelet for a moment. A.E. Eames, it read. DOB May 1, 1965.

"I told you I'd go with you," he reminded her.

"Then that would have been three hours gone out of your life too." She pointed to the bracelet in his hand, "Now don't say I never gave you anything."

"What did the doctors say?"

"Now, Detective Goren, I only promised to go. I didn't promise to make a report," she informed him saucily as she opened up her laptop.

He smiled but figured the fact that she was in the office, and not in surgery for internal bleeding or a punctured lung was probably a good sign, and decided to let it go for the time being.

"Hey, Eames," he looked around the office quickly, "Have you seen the paper this morning?"

She shook her head and followed his gaze, "I barely made it to work clothed." Her fellow squad members did seem unusually literate this morning, "What's up? Big lottery winner?"

Bobby got up and walked to her side of the desk with the newspaper in hand.

He spread the front page before her.

She peered down at the well-placed article proclaiming that the murderer of beautiful, slain opera singer Christine Larkins had been apprehended. She scanned the article quickly and looked up at Bobby in disgust.

"Did Carver write it for them?" she hissed.

Bobby shrugged, "He seems to be digging in against the Feds. Larkins is an attractive victim. This is a very desirable solve."

"Yeah, nothing like pulling on the public heartstrings at Christmastime."

He pulled a chair out from an unoccupied nearby desk and pulled it over to sit close to her. He leaned his head onto his hand and bent close to her.

"Does it seem fishy to you?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, "Like Charlie Tuna's in the house."

"Why'd he do it?" Bobby asked, more to himself than anything.

She looked carefully about before responding.

"We need a look at their files," Alex decided. "I can try Carmen again, but I think I've tapped her out," she frowned thoughtfully, before looking up at Bobby with a sly smile, "Are you willing to take her to Atlantic City for a weekend in exchange for information?"

He only stared at her.

"Right," she laughed. "That cuts that out. You got any contacts over there? Some surprise friend in deep that I don't know about?"

He rubbed his chin, "Maybe," he allowed.

She nodded.

"Hey, you two!" Deakins was walking toward them with a smile on his face, a mug of coffee in his hand.

They looked up at the Captain then and stopped him cold with their thunder.

"I do not want to hear it," he commanded, as he resumed his pace toward them. "We've got the guy. The video confirmed Drew's story. Arano was there at the time of the murder. That's all we need for now."

"A motive would be nice,"observed Bobby.

"Or a murder weapon," added Alex.

Bobby nodded at her, "Yeah, either one of those would be good."

She nodded reflectively in return, "Evidence can help with prosecution, or so I've found."

"All right, cut the Bobby and Alex shtick. It's a done deal and it's Christmas. Until Carver asks for more, that's it. On a lighter note, did you guys see Features? They printed the three top poems by the city's finest today," Deakins told him as he sipped his coffee.

"Oh, right," said Bobby, picking up the paper again, "I did see that."

"We put those firefighters to shame," laughed the Captain. "Did you read the winner?"

"It was a wonderful piece," agreed Bobby thoughtfully.

"It kicked some serious firefighter rhyming ass!"

Bobby laughed a little, "The Water Spurted Cool, As it Drained from the Pool."

Alex rolled her eyes.

"Oh, come on, Eames, it's fun," cajoled Bobby.

"Not to mention good PR. Puts a human face on the department. That never hurts," added Deakins.

Bobby found the page then and handed it to Alex.

"There you go. It's a little dark."

"Elegy," she read the title. "Well, that's original."

"Read it," encouraged Bobby. "I'm interested in what you think."

She took a moment to do so as he watched her.

She looked up when she was finished, "Nice."

"Nice? You don't find it moving?" he demanded.

"I think that there's a very lonely cop out there who should learn to bowl."

"It is interesting that the writer remained anonymous, though, don't you think?" frowned Bobby, as he took the paper back from her. "The second and third place winners signed their pieces. Too bad. He'll miss out on that thousand dollar first prize."

"They'll just put it in the Widow's Fund," shrugged Alex.

"Yes, a good cause. True."

Bobby began silently reading the piece again.

"Personally, I'm disappointed that Carrie and Sandra's limerick didn't place," snarked Alex. "I'm going for coffee. Want some?"

He didn't look up, "Yeah."

She shook her head at him and looked up at Deakins, "Captain?"

"I'm good."

She nodded and moved to go to the break room.

Deakins looked down at Bobby then, "Is she okay?" he asked.

Bobby looked up at him, "Yeah, she's fine."

"Captain!" someone yelled then, "Carver's on two!"

"Coming!"

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"Goren wrote it," said Turner, carefully avoiding last night's fallen danish for another,"No doubt about it."

"What makes you so sure?" asked Lampley as he poured creamer into his coffee and three sugars on top.

"Who else would write something like that?" chimed in Valdez, as he bit into a powdered sugar, "Hey, Alex," he turned to her as she poured two cups of coffee, "You think the big guy did it?"

"Did what?"

"Wrote that winning poem?"

"You're detectives, figure it out," she told them and turned to leave, "but do finish your tea party first, Gentlemen," she tossed over her shoulder as she went.

The three grinned and watched her walk out of the room.

"Hardass, that Eames," observed Lampley.

"That's for damn sure," leered Turner still watching her walk away.

"Does make for a pleasant work environment," agreed Valdez.

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Her mind bounced from the case to the fact that it was Christmas the next day as she made her way back to the her desk. She'd done all her shopping at online close-out sales in August, so that was no problem. But there were one or two other things she wished she'd picked up. And she did not want to go to her sister's tonight, she really didn't.

"I think I'm going to email Carmen," she told Bobby as she set his coffee before him at his desk.

"It couldn't hurt, anyway."

"Thanks," said Bobby and took a sip as he flipped through his filofax, "You're right, it couldn't hurt."

She nodded and moved around to her desk then stopped suddenly, looking down in surprise.

"What's this?" she asked.

Bobby looked up, his expression veiled.

"My guess is long-stemmed roses, but you'd have to open the box to be sure," he replied. "They were just delivered."

She furrowed her brow and set her coffee down next to the long white cardboard box.

She untied the fine pink satin ribbon (No one she knew went to florists like this) and lifted the lid. And couldn't hold back the small gasp that erupted.

Glorious loose long stemmed white roses, mixed with white lilies, stems of red berries, with fern and evergreen. It looked to be dozens of each, and the smell rising from them staggered her a little.

Goren watched her.

She looked up at him wide-eyed, "Are you sure this was meant for me?"

"Is there a card?" he asked.

She looked back down into the box and retrieved a small linen envelope. Sure it enough, Alex was written there in concise writing.

She withdrew the card and perused it.

"Eames!" she heard Deakins bark from behind her then, causing her to jump a little, "You gonna explain this to me?"

She turned and looked at him, "Sir?"

"I've just received one of the many daily reports I get. This particular one is from Belleview."

Oh shit.

"They keep we clueless Captains in the loop when any of our detectives happen to show up at Emergency."

"Captain..." began Bobby.

"Can it, Bobby. How hurt are you, Alex? I see you've got flowers there. Any news you want to break to me?"

She lifted her chin, "I'm fine, Captain. I got bumped on the Arano collar, that's all. Just took some precautions. Got my ribs x-rayed again. I was only there for three hours."

"Report, Detective!" he snapped.

She swallowed, "Deep tissue bruising. The earlier fracture slightly worsened. All evidence of the concussion, gone."

He nodded, "That's it. Go home, Eames."

"But..."

Deakins stared her down.

"Yes, sir."

"And by the way, Lincoln Center wants to thank us for nabbing Arano. We're invited to the Opera Gala on the twenty-eighth."

Alex bit back her moan, as Bobby lifted his brows.

"You two are going, and that's an order. You go home and rest, Eames. And when you feel better you crack open that purse of yours, let a few moths see the light of day, and get a new dress."

"What's wrong with my blue one!" she outraged as Goren snorted behind her.

"It's perfectly lovely, Eames. And fits you well. But, you wore it to the last Policeman's Ball and that mayor's thing, that's what," he ripped back. "We're going to be sitting at Cynthia Gillum-Carver's table, Alex. You really want to be seen in the same old dress?"

She thought for a moment about the well-known fashion victim married to the DA. She stood up straight and looked Deakins in the eye.

"With all due respect, Sir, the effects of raising three daughters has worn on you."

"You should see me French Braid. Go home, Eames. Bobby can do the paperwork today. We still don't know the fallout of his little stunt."

She looked over at her partner apologetically. He shrugged microscopically in return.

She sighed and began to gather her things.

Damn, damn, damn, damn...