He woke during the night. It was quiet in the cubicle. The monitor above his bed beeped with his heart. That was annoying. He shifted his position, groaning when pain flared everywhere. That was annoying, too. Beside his bed, his partner slept in a chair. Now what was she doing that for? Why didn't she go home, to sleep in her bed, where it was comfortable? He moved again, trying to find a position that would give him relief from the pain. He couldn't find one. Damn.

A nurse came into the room, alerted by his movements. She smiled at him. "How are you feeling, detective?" she asked.

He shrugged. More pain. "I've been better," he managed around the pain.

She set down the syringe she held in her hand and pulled an alcohol pad from the pocket of her shirt. She cleaned the medicine port of his IV and injected the medicine. "That will help. Try to go back to sleep."

"Thanks. Uh, my partner there…has she…?"

The nurse nodded. "She's been here for almost two weeks, talking to you, reading to you…just being here with you. She usually goes home at night, but she wanted to stay nearby tonight, and the doctor said to let her."

"Her…injuries?"

"She has healed well, and quickly."

"Do you know where…she was hit?"

She nodded. "In the chest. But the damage was minimal. She got very lucky."

'No,' he thought. 'I'm the lucky one.' To the nurse, he simply said "Thanks."

He carefully turned onto his side as the medicine began to work and the pain retreated. It was still there…just not so overwhelming. Resting his head against the pillow, he watched his partner sleep until he drifted off again.

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Eames came back to the ICU after eating a late lunch, pleasantly surprised to find him awake. They were planning to move him after dinner, just 36 hours after he'd woken. He was doing very well, they told her. He still slept much of the time, but they assured her it was normal. He was healing, and sleep was the best way to give the body the time and the rest it needed to heal. She had been pointedly avoiding any discussion of the event that had brought him here. Wasn't it bad enough that she returned to the park every time she closed her eyes to sleep?

She slid lightly into her chair beside his bed, but she was troubled. He studied her with those intense, penetrating eyes. Why did he have to be so damn good at reading her? She could tell he was interpreting her face—him and his damn micro-expressions—her movements, even her breathing pattern…She frowned at him. "What?"

"Something's bothering you."

She averted her eyes, picking up her magazine from the bed. "Go back to sleep, Bobby."

"Look at me." She looked at him through her hair. He reached toward her and gently brushed her hair out of her face. As endearing as it was to see her watching him through her hair, he wanted to see her face right now…her entire face. "What is it, Eames?" He continued to study her. "Alex?"

That did it. He'd used her first name. Damn him! She turned away again, fighting the tears that choked her and threatened to overwhelm her. Too late. He'd seen her eyes well up. He could read a face as readily as a printed page. Sometimes she hated that about him, especially when it was her face he was reading and she didn't want him to. "You're…upset, Alex. Why?"

Why? Had he just asked her why? She felt her tenuous hold on her emotions snap. She turned back toward him, her face now telling him she couldn't believe what he had just said. "Why?" she repeated. "What's wrong with you, Bobby? Where the hell are we?"

He looked honestly puzzled. "You're upset over me?"

The incredulity had not left her face. Her voice, though quiet because of their surroundings, was nevertheless angry and intense. "Damn you, Bobby! This is the intensive care unit, not Disneyland! You can't be serious…"

But he was, and she knew it. He was the one who worried about her. He never got it that she worried about him, too. It just didn't occur to him that anyone really worried about him. She shook with the effort to not lash out at him. She didn't want to be mad at him, not here, not now. She had to leave for awhile, before she started screaming. So she left the cubicle without saying another word for fear of what she might say, leaving him to wonder just what he'd done wrong and why she was so upset.

He leaned back in the bed, folding his arms behind his head, a deep frown on his face. His fiery little partner often sent him reeling. Now what had he done to upset her? He let his mind replay the conversation. All he'd done was ask what was wrong. Was that the wrong thing to do? And if so, why was it wrong? He went through the exercise of trading places with her, of putting her in this bed, and him in the chair beside it…and the horror and fear that accompanied that image hit him like a ton of bricks, knocking the breath out of him. Was he really that insensitive…or was he hiding again, denying what he knew and what he saw to protect himself from…from what? From his partner? No…not from her…from…loving her. To love was to risk pain, to risk loss…and that was a risk he didn't want to take. But did he have a choice? Did she leave him any choice? He always thought that people chose to fall in love, and that was never a choice he would make. He had never chosen to love anyone. Of course he loved his mother, but the pain that came tied in with that love was enough to scare him off loving anyone else. Was it possible to come to love someone and not even realize it? It had to be, he admitted, because like it or not, he did love his partner. That was his last conscious thought as he drifted off.

He woke briefly when they transferred him from Intensive Care but he retreated quickly back into sleep. Eames was not there. What had he done?