Bobby Goren chose to walk. The evening was cool, but not as cold as it had been. His breath steamed the air, and he left his coat unbuttoned. In parts of Manhattan, it doesn't matter who you are, you'll still feel small. Goren liked this, as it didn't make him feel small so much as anonymous. A girl laughed as she talked loudly on her cell phone. She clacked up the steps from the subway and hailed a cab. She wore her hair loose, and had on a tight short skirt. Her shoes had impossibly thin high heels.

"Hey man, you got a cigarette?" A black man in a knit hat nudged his arm, and held out his hands.

"What brand you smoke?" Goren looked down at the man.

"Newports."

"Hold on." He turned, walked over to a newsstand, and pulled out his wallet. "Pack of Newports, hundreds and a lighter."

He tapped the pack, and pulled a cigarette out, lighting it with the lighter. He handed the rest of the pack and lighter to the man.

"Keep it."

"Wh.. hey, thank you, man! God Bless you!" The man shouted after him as he kept walking.

"She'll trust you, more, you're a woman."

"She might trust me, she might even confide in me," Eames had sighed, and glanced at him. "But she needs to talk to a real man. Not a rapist, and not a weak failure, like her father, who was incapable of protecting her. She needs to talk to you. She needs you to be her ally and defender, and then she won't just confide, she'll fight."

He flicked the ash, and sighed.

Alex Eames sat at her desk, a shot glass in front of her. Her chin trembled slightly, but no tears fell, and no sobs shook her body. She swallowed, and looked at the clear liquid in front of her. She took a deep breath, and down went the shot. The glass hit the surface of her desk again, and left a thin ring of liquid beneath it. She was blasting White Room by Cream, amongst various other songs on her mix. Her cat purred, and stretched, poking his claws into her thigh as he rubbed his head against her elbow.

"As long as you're here, I guess I'm not drinking alone," She lifted the cat into her lap, and he began to purr loudly, nuzzling into her shoulder.

It was then that the tears came, quick and silent.

He wasn't too surprised when he found he'd walked to her building. He'd finished his cigarette a few blocks ago, and shrugged to himself as he walked inside. When she opened her door, she saw him standing there, looking for all the world like a lost child, despite his stature.

"Hey." The wicked taste of liquor lingered in her mouth, though the tears had vanished.

"Hey yourself." He stepped towards her slowly.

"You smell like cigarettes."

"You smell like booze."

"Touché." She turned and let him follow her in, shutting the door behind him.

Please R&R!