Three months later; one year after Bobby left

Goren stepped out of the taxi and shouldered his duffel bag as he stared at the building that had once been home to him. Eleven floors up, his dream would be sitting across the room from his nightmare. He'd thought he was prepared, but now, looking at the gray brick, he no longer felt so sure.

"What the . . . Goren?" a voice said from off to the right. "Bobby?"

He turned toward the voice and found his old boss staring back at him. "Captain Deakins . . ." he managed with a weak smile. "Hi."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Deakins asked with cheerful astonishment. "Haven't you been working at Quantico?"

He shrugged. "I was. I'm . . . uh, I decided I missed the city; I'm being transferred up here as a profiling coordinator for New York Metro."

Deakins looked like he was debating how to react to that statement. "That's great, Goren. We've missed you. Think we'll be able to work with you sometime soon, then?"

"Hopefully, sir. So, uh . . . how are things upstairs?" Goren asked, nodding toward the building they were standing in front of.

"To hell with the 'sir,'" Deakins said with a grin. "You don't work under me anymore; call me what you want. As for things upstairs . . ." He paused. "Mostly the same, I suppose. Were you going to go up?" he asked, trying not to let his nervousness over that prospect show. Things were largely the same in Major Case, but the things that had changed . . . well, those things had changed a lot.

Goren cocked his head to the side, studying the building as if it could provide him with more information for his decision. "I was thinking about it. If you're heading back in, I think I'll go with you."

"Sure, of course." He held the door for the younger man, watching as Goren tried to wrestle his large duffel through the not-so-large doorway. "So, uh, have you kept in touch with anyone?" As far as Deakins knew, Goren hadn't spoken to Eames since the day he decided to make his leave permanent; he had no idea if the guy had spoken to anyone else on the squad.

Goren shook his head. "Not, uh . . . not really. Long hours, you know?"

"Right, long hours," he said with an answering nod as they stepped into the elevator. "Listen, Bobby," he added as the numbers began to light up with the progress of the car, "when I said things are mostly the same . . . well, they are, but there's a few things that . . . that you probably don't know about and you might want to . . ."

"I don't expect everything to be the same," Goren interrupted. "It's been a year; things evolve."

Deakins inclined his head in a barely-there nod as the elevator jerked to a stop on the eleventh floor. "Right, evolution. Just, you know . . . don't be surprised."

The squad room was packed - so much so that from the entrance, the two men couldn't see more than a few feet in the direction of Deakins's office. "After-Christmas sale," Deakins joked weakly, noting the large group of uniformed officers in the middle of the room, a presence which usually indicated that a number of in-custody interviews were going on.

"Looks pretty much the same, at least from here," Goren said, scanning the chaos for familiar faces. "Is Eames still -"

"Same desk," Deakins said with a nod. "But Bobby . . ." He was talking to thin air; Bobby Goren, all seventy-six inches of him, had disappeared into the crush. "Christ," the captain muttered as he began to make his way toward his office, rubbing his forehead. "Please, let me be wrong about how this is going to end."

Alex was at her desk, bent low over a form that seemed to change its wording every time she moved her eyes, when he came up behind her, but she remained blissfully unaware of his presence until he dropped his duffel bag with a thump.

She jumped, startled by the noise, and turned in her chair to admonish the culprit. "Do you mind? Some of us are -" She stopped short when she realized who she was looking at, then closed her mouth and turned swiftly away from him, back to her form.

"No 'hello' for an old partner?" he asked lightly, circling to the side of her desk so he could see at least part of her face.

Without looking up, she snorted derisively. "Not for an old partner who didn't even care enough to say 'goodbye' in the first place."

"Oh, come on. Don't you want to know what I'm doing here?"

Keeping hold of the pen in her right hand, she sighed heavily and rested her chin in her left. "Look, Goren, I know its been a while for you, but some of us have got wo- What the hell are you doing?" she yelped as one of his hands shot out and grabbed one of hers. "Let me go!"

"What's this?" he demanded.

She followed his eyes down to her hand, and it took her a second to figure out what he was talking about. "It's a -"

"It's a ring," Logan said as he came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "I would have thought that'd be obvious to an FBI genius like you."

Alex tipped her head back and gave him a small, grateful smile before looking back at her ex-partner. "Like he said, it's a ring." Unable to completely smother her uneasiness, she raised one hand to her shoulder and laced her fingers through Logan's. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and she relaxed slightly.

"It's on your left hand," Goren said, feeling like the rug had just been pulled out from under him as he looked again at the modest diamond on her ring finger.

"You're goddamn brilliant," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"Why is it on your left hand?" he persisted. There had to be something he was missing, because the obvious explanation was completely unacceptable to him.

"Because that's the customary place to wear an engagement ring. Would you please leave me alone so I can get my paperwork finished on time?"

"You're engaged?"

Obviously his skull had gotten thicker in the year since she'd seen him. "Yes. Now, if you feel the need to discuss it farther, can you not do it in the middle of the squad room?"

"Where do you want to do it, then?"

She slammed the pen down on her desk and shot to her feet, almost knocking Logan over as he tried to get out from behind her chair. "Apparently all that FBI discipline still didn't teach you to keep your mouth shut. Go in the conference room; I'll be in there in a minute."

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, suspicious of her last statement, then just scowled and turned away, picking up his duffel with a grunt. "One minute, Alex. Or I'm coming back out."

She just glared at him until he retreated. "I'll be fine," she told Logan a second later as he moved to stand next to her. "He'll leave me alone once I beat it into his head."

"You want me to come in with you?"

She shook her head. "No. He won't get really angry with me, but he might with you; it's probably better if you stay out here."

"Ok, if you say so." He was reluctant to send her into the room, partly out of possessiveness and partly out of concern for her, but she had a point. "I'll be out here if you need me."

"I know." She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a quick hug. "Thanks."

Logan watched her turn and walk toward the conference room, and tried not to wonder exactly how "over" Bobby Goren his fiance was.

She shut the conference room door quietly behind her and moved toward the table where Goren sat with his head in his hands. "You wanted to discuss," she said coolly, "so discuss."

He raised his head slowly and pinned her with his gaze. "You're engaged."

"Yes." She dropped into a chair across the table from him and crossed her arms.

"To Mike Logan?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She blinked. "Because he loves me and he asked me to marry him."

He didn't miss her subtle evasion. "Do you love him?"

She almost panicked for a second before she caught herself. "If you're just going to ask stupid questions like that, then I'm done here," she told him, standing up forcefully.

"Ok, ok. I'm sorry." He held out a hand to stop her from moving. "What can I ask?"

"I don't know, Bobby," she sighed as she sat back down. "Why did you come back?"

"I . . . I missed you," he said tentatively. "It was . . . it was stupid of me to leave the way I did."

"You're right, it was, but it's a little late to decide that now."

"Why is it too late?" he protested. "You're not married yet."

She raised her eyebrows. "What does that have to do with anything?"

It was his turn to look confused. "Well I assumed . . . why is it too late, then?"

She dropped her head into her hands, burying her fingers in her hair. "Because it's been a year. You left for a year, Bobby, and I didn't know where you were going, or why, or how you were doing, or whether it was my fault, or whether you even remembered I was alive. You can't just come waltzing in now, mouth an apology that's not even an apology, and expect things to go back to the way they were."

His mouth worked for a second as he tried to absorb her words. "I'm sorry, Alex. I really, honestly am."

"Don't call me 'Alex.' I told you that the last time I talked to you."

"Why not?" he asked. "You used to tell me to call you that."

"I only let friends call me that." She didn't need to add that he no longer fit into that category; the implication was obvious without being spoken. "Bobby," she said on a sigh, "I don't know what you want from me. You can't turn back the clock and make everything the way it used to be."

"Just . . . give me another chance."

"At what?" she said, laughing incredulously. "You don't even work here anymore; what do you want another chance at?"

"At . . . I want . . ." He took a deep breath. "I want another chance with you."

"No." She said it softly, almost inaudibly, but the sound of her chair scraping back as she shot to her feet communicated her answer just as well. She kept her eyes down, focusing on the floor as she walked toward the door. Then, when her hand was on the doorknob, she paused and looked back at his stricken face. "You were one of my best friends, and there are a lot of things I'd give you a second chance at. But I'm sorry - I'm just not one of them." With that, she opened the door and disappeared through it.

Bobby stared at the spot she had been standing in for a good minute, trying to assimilate the fact that she'd just turned him down flat. It hadn't really occurred to him that he might not be able to talk her around; he'd made all his plans based on the assumption that she'd at least let him in again as a friend.

Could she really be in love with Mike Logan? he wondered as he slowly began to make his way back to the elevators.

Logan kept his peace on the topic of Bobby Goren until they stepped out of the building at the end of the day and he asked her where she wanted to go for dinner.

"Huh?" She looked at him blankly, as though "dinner" was a foreign concept.

"Dinner, Alex. Where do you want to eat?"

"Oh." She looked away from him, watching the children playing in the park across the street. "Honestly, Mike, I don't really feel like eating. I'm just . . . tired. How about a raincheck?"

He studied what he could see of her face. "Look, you don't ever have to see him again. You told him what you thought; it's over now. Let's go out, blow off some steam."

"He's a friend," she replied automatically. "I can't not see him."

"You managed just fine for the past year. And when did he magically become a friend again?"

"Ok, maybe 'friend' isn't the right word. My point is that I can't pretend he's not back. Deakins said he's working with the FBI office up here now; I might have to work a case with him eventually. Hell, you might have to work a case with him." She shook her head. "I . . . there's a lot of thinking I need to do about what happened today."

He tried not to sound jealous as he said, "Yeah, thinking about him."

She looked vaguely surprised at his tone when she looked back at him. "Well, I've already done all my thinking about you. Do I need to remind you that I'm still wearing the ring?"

He glanced down at her hand, although he already knew that she was telling the truth. "That's not what I'm saying. It's just . . . Alex, he chewed you up and spit you out, and now you're going to just smile and accept his apology and let him back in?"

"I would hope you know me better than that," she said mildly. "You have to understand that he left a huge hole when he left. I'm not talking about love, or romance, or anything like that, either. He tore away something that was just . . . part of my thought process. I just . . . it would be nice if I could fill that hole in, once and for all."

"He's not a part of you!" Logan said, disgusted. "He never was. He just spent five years training you to think you were."

"Mike," she said tiredly, "please, leave it alone. I just want to go home, have a cup of tea, and curl up in bed."

"Fine." Running a hand through his hair irritably, he turned away from her. "Do you need a ride to work in the morning?"

"No." She wound her scarf around her neck, looked once more at his back, and sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Bobby wasn't sure what to do that evening. His first impulse was to call her and try to get her to talk to him, but the last time he'd done that, Logan had been sitting next to her. Then he thought that perhaps he should skip the phone call and just go to her apartment, but that presented the same problem - only, in the flesh. He could wait until morning and try to call her at work, but he was due at his own job at eight and that didn't leave much time for, well, anything.

Finally, he decided that the best of the bad lot was to go to her apartment. If he called and forewarned her, she might refuse to open the door, but he didn't think she'd be able to leave him standing in the hallway if he just showed up at her door. And if Logan was with her . . .

God, just the thought of them together made him want to break things. He thought briefly of the cell phone that had died an honorable death after he had first heard that she was seeing him. If Logan was with her, then he'd just have to take her somewhere else, somewhere where the other man wasn't.

"Coming," Alex mumbled as she shrugged on a robe and headed for the door of her apartment, which was shaking under the force of the knocks being delivered to it from the other side. "This better be good." Leaving the chain engaged, she opened the door a crack to see who'd interrupted her night of introspection.

She just stared at him for a second, a thousand things to say coming to the front of her mind and then being discarded, one by one.

"Uh, hi," he said quietly. "Are you . . . did I wake you up?"

"No," she sighed, "but you managed to fuck up my night, anyway. What do you want?"

He dropped his eyes, studying his shoes and trying not to think about how stupid he must look, both to her nosy neighbors and to her. "Could I maybe . . . come in? I mean . . . uh, if you're alone." Oh, that was smooth, Goren. Don't be surprised if her answer involves a large-caliber weapon.

She continued to look at him, her brows slightly furrowed. "Bobby, it's ten o'clock at night. I haven't seen you in a year. I'm engaged. I really don't think letting you in here would be a good idea."

He didn't have a viable counterargument for any of those points, so he just nodded slightly. "I know. But . . . can I come in anyway?"

She blinked, waffling in spite of herself. "Ok," she sighed after a second. "I'll let you in on one condition: that when I tell you to leave, you leave. Or else I'll call someone to come force you to leave."

"Someone like Mike Logan?"

"Yeah, maybe." She shut the door, deliberately unhooking the chain very slowly, leaving him to stew outside the door for as long as possible. She couldn't believe that she was actually about to let him into her apartment, after everything he'd done. After her conversation with Mike that afternoon. After eight months of a complete lack of personal communication.

On the other side of the door, Bobby was content to wait and listen to the sound of the door being unlocked. If she had to warn him about calling someone to get rid of him, that meant there wasn't already anyone in the apartment who could do it. And that meant no Logan.

His night was looking up.

She pulled the door open, then stepped back and tightened the tie of her robe, feeling his eyes on her as he moved into the apartment. "What are you staring at?" she snapped.

He immediately pulled his eyes away from her. "Sorry." And then he just stood there, at a complete loss for what to do now that he'd gained entrance.

At least she wasn't the only one who was uncomfortable with this, Alex mused as she reached past him to close and re-lock the door. "So . . . uh, you're really transferring to the New York field office?"

"On a . . . uh, a short term assignment for now; when that ends I . . . Alex - I mean Eames?" he broke off awkwardly as she seemed to deflate slightly at his words. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and turned away from him. "Why did you come over here? I thought we'd already said everything that needed to be said."

He swallowed and followed her movement, trying to keep her face in view. "I . . . thought you might have questions. About why I went and things like that."

She snorted. "You're about eight months too late for that. I stopped caring why you went a long time ago."

"You don't understand . . ."

"I don't need to," she shot back. "You went and you didn't include me in the decision, before or after. That's all that matters. What you have to understand is that when you refused to return my calls, you forced me to stop caring. So don't act like it's a big insult."

"I thought . . ." he managed weakly, not looking at her. "I thought it was better that way."

"Better than what, Bobby?" she demanded, then shook her head. "Never mind. Don't bother. It doesn't matter. Just say what you came here to say and then go."

Not giving himself time to consider the consequences, he reached out and grabbed her arm. "Listen to me!"

"Listen to you?" she repeated disbelievingly. "You want me listen to you now, when I spent months dying for something, anything from you to listen to?" She gave her arm a sharp jerk, pulling it out of his grasp. "Don't touch me."

He let her go, then sighed. "Would you . . . would you please just let me tell you why I left?"

She stopped once she had moved out of arm's reach and turned to face him. "Fine, if you feel like you have to. Knock yourself out. I'll be in the kitchen."

"Are you going to listen to me?" he asked her retreating back as she headed for her small kitchen. "Or are you just going to let me talk and ignore what I'm saying?"

A cabinet banged open. "Let's get one thing straight here, Bobby. I owe you nothing. Less than nothing. The only reason I even let you in here is because you used to be a friend; you should be glad you got this far." She jumped straight up to snatch a box of tea bags off the top shelf of her pantry, landing with a thump and nearly fumbling the box.

"Are you ok?" he called, reluctant to follow her into the kitchen in case that angered her more.

"I'm fine. Are you going to talk, or not?"

He listened as she ran water in the sink and then filled something metallic. She was making tea, he realized after a second. He wondered how many cups she'd be setting out. "I thought it . . . things . . ." He waited for her to laugh at his halting speech, but there was only silence from the other room. "I was beginning to become . . . difficult to work with. I didn't want to pull you down with me."

A burner clicked on; the metal of the teapot clanged against the metal of the burner. A second later, her head appeared in the kitchen doorway. "You didn't want to pull me down with you? What the hell kind of explanation is that? What do you think you did when you left, make my life into all sunshine and rainbows? Do I look better off?" She shut her mouth and retreated back to the kitchen then, realizing that the more she talked, the more things she said that she didn't actually want him to hear.

He stared at where she had been, surprised by her vehement speech. "I . . . no, I didn't think it would make you happy. But I did think it would be better for your career - and it was."

He jumped at the sound of a mug shattering against the wall that separated him from her. "Eames?" There was only silence from the other room, and after a second he cautiously moved toward the kitchen. "Alex? Are you ok?"

"My ca- . . . it was better for my career?" she repeated, the pitch of her voice steadily rising as she spoke. "You ran away because you thought it was good for my career?" By the time she stopped for a breath, she was nearly screaming. "You want to see the result of that brilliant move, Bobby?"

"Eames, I -"

"There," she said, still breathing hard as she pointed to the pile of ceramic shards where the remains of the broken mug had come to rest. "Take a look at that, then tell me you still think I'm better off."

Confused, he crouched down to get a closer look at the pieces. "Our . . . is this our Santa mug?" He was almost sure he recognized part of the beard that had once adorned the Santa's face, but he didn't understand why she'd broken it now or what she was trying to tell him.

"Take it," she said, shoving an empty freezer bag at him. "Get it out of here. I don't want to see it anymore."

He accepted the bag, but then straightened up to look at her instead of cleaning up the pieces. "I don't understand what you're . . ."

"I don't care what you don't understand anymore. I don't want to listen to whatever you have to say. I was . . . I almost had my life back together. And then you had to show up."

"Alex . . ." He reached down and began to gather the pieces of the mug, trying to keep one eye on her face at the same time.

She grunted disgustedly. "I don't know why I even kept that thing. God knows it doesn't bring back any good memories."

His hand tightened around the piece he had just picked up, but he was so focused on her that he only vaguely felt it cut into his skin. "Alex, please."

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly, to regain her composure. Whenever she'd pictured this confrontation during the past year - and that had been often, usually during daydreams involving revenge - she had never imagined herself losing her temper; she had always stayed cool and simply ignored his attempts to explain and apologize. Idiot. Screaming and throwing mugs is only going to make him think you're irrational, she admonished herself silently.

"You're bleeding," she told him dully a second later, watching a drop of bright red fall from his hand to the floor.

He looked down, surprised to find that she was right. "Sorry." He absentmindedly wiped the blood off on the leg of his pants. "What do you mean, you 'almost had your life back together'?"

"Christ," she muttered disgustedly, dampening a paper towel in the sink and then handing it to him. "Use this to wipe it off. Your pants probably cost more than my entire wardrobe."

He glanced at his leg, realizing that he'd automatically changed into work clothes before leaving the hotel room that he was currently calling home, then shrugged and looked back up. "What did you mean by it?" he pressed, mentally dismissing the pants.

She shook her head and said tiredly, "I can't explain it." Then, unconsciously reverting to the manner that had been habit to her for so long, she held out a hand to him. "Come here. Let me see your hand."

He blinked, but did as she asked. "It's just a little . . ."

She pushed his hand, palm-up, onto the counter and bent to look at it. "Keep it clean."

"What?" he asked, confused by her sudden lack of hostility.

"It's on your palm," she said as if he were an idiot. "A band-aid won't stay on it. So keep it clean, or else cover it with an actual bandage. Or both."

"Uh, ok."

She released his hand and, not realizing how close she'd moved to him, looked up. Alarmed by her unexpected proximity to his chest, she tried to take a step back, but found herself restrained by his hand on her wrist. "Bobby, let go."

He stared down at her, wondering what she'd do if he tried to leapfrog over all the explanations and just kiss her now. Without realizing he was doing it, he pulled her closer until their bodies were almost touching.

"Don't," she said weakly. "This isn't . . . you don't belong here."

"Oh, and he does?" he shot back, forgetting his resolution to bury his jealousy for the night.

She gave up on trying to pull his hand off her, and just looked away. "At least he's been here for the past year, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

"And that's why you're marrying him?" he asked with a snort. "Because he's 'been here'?"

"Bobby . . ."

"I was here with you for five years and you never had any interest in marrying me. So what's his secret?"

"Stop it!" Noticing that he'd let down his guard, she yanked her arm free and backed away. "How I feel about Mike isn't any of your business."

His eyes narrowed as he countered her movement. "Oh, it's not?"

"No, it's not. Whatever right you had to comment on my love life was shot to hell when you walked out on me. I - stop it!" she said again as he snaked an arm around her waist before she could move away. "I'm serious, Bobby. You don't get to do this to me." As soon as she finished saying it, she saw the conversational opening she'd left him, and tried not to groan.

"Who does get to do it to you, Alex? Mike Logan?" He tried to pull her closer, but instead released her with a yelp when she kicked him hard in the shin.

"Yes, he does," she snapped, stepping back. "Because he cares about making me happy. I can't believe you'd actually come here and expect me to fall into your arms like you're some kind of prodigal partner. We're done, Goren. You made sure of it, so don't try to make me feel guilty about it."

"Alex . . ."

"I told you to stop calling me that. If you can't even follow that one simple rule, then you just need to leave, now," she told him, pointing toward the door.

"Ok," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. 'Eames.' There, happy?"

"I'd be a hell of a lot happier if you weren't in my face," she growled. "Clean up the damn mug. I want it off my floor." With that, she turned away and strode out of the room. Dropping down on the couch in the living room, she re-tightened her robe and sighed. "I think you should go, Bobby."

He swept up the last few pieces of the mug, then turned off the burner under the teapot as he passed it, figuring that tea wasn't in the cards tonight for either of them. "Please let me explain," he said, closing the bag as he made his way to the living room.

She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands into them. "I think you've done enough explaining. You're only making things worse. Look," she added, dropping her hands and opening her eyes to meet his, "you have a new job, a new office. A new life. You're not going to have any trouble finding a new partner or a new conquest, so why are you clinging to me?"

"I . . ." He tossed the bag onto the couch and dropped to his knees in front of her. "You're not a conquest. And you're not just a partner."

"You're right." She stood up, edging around his kneeling form, and walked to the door. "I'm not either of them. I'm not anything to you anymore. So go live your new life. Get out of here." She pulled the door open and looked at him pointedly. "Goodnight, Bobby."

"Eames," he managed as he grabbed the bag containing the mug and stood up. "Please, let me -"

"No more 'let me's," she snapped. "Get out."

He walked over to where she stood, but made no move to cross the threshold. "Alex . . ."

She planted a hand in the middle of his chest and shoved as hard as she could. "Go home," she said quietly, watching as he stumbled forward into the hallway. As soon as he was clear of the threshold, and before he could turn and try to get back in, she slammed the door. He stayed, pounding on the door, until she'd engaged all three bolts on the door, and she struggled to keep her resolve . . .

Bobby Goren was not part of her life now, no matter how much he wanted to be. He'd been too much of her life for too long, with the result that she'd lost part of herself when she lost him.

She simply couldn't allow him to take any more of her.