A/N. This here? This is my brain overloading after reading too much BA fanfic. And remember, kiddies: I own nothing. Well, nothing in reference to CI, anyway.
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Robert Goren
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So… I don't know what this is. Like, really and truly have no idea. And I know that for The Great Robert Goren to have nothing up his sleeve and not a clue in the world is unusual.
But I can't help it.
We're partners, sure. Parters, with a capital 'P', we investigate, dig around, and solve. We rock, shortly. We're an efficient, productive team. We work so well together that it's sometimes a little scary. But it's like… every time I think that we're just partners, she'll pull something on me, something that's protective and caring, and beyond partnership. It's what a friend would do. You know, in law enforcement, partnership doesn't necessarily mean friendship. There are partners who would die for each other and there are partners who would run each other over with their squad cars rather than swerve and have to exert a little effort. And I'll think, 'Yeah. That's what we are. We're friends.'
And that's fine. That's great. I mean, my friends are few and far between. I'm an amiable guy, and I have acquaintances who I like well enough, see from time to time and enjoy spending an afternoon with. But real friends? I can count those on one hand. Maybe I just have high standards, or maybe I think that friendship is something more than other people think.
A friend is more than someone who you like to hang with, more than a person with whom you share common interests. It's a person who cares deeply about your well-being. Someone who can talk, but who can also listen. Someone who understands you, and someone who you understand. And I understand Alexandra Eames. And I'm pretty sure that she understands me. And I can talk to her and she'll listen, and she can talk and I'll listen. In the dictionary of Robert Goren, friendship is about five foot five, 120 pounds, dark blonde, and carries a nine millimeter Glock. Eames defines friendship.
And then there are times when I look at her, really look at her, this incredibly woman who's sitting across from me. I'll study the soft sweep of her honey colored hair, tucked shyly behind an ear. I'll watch the keen intelligence flash across those eyes that aren't quite brown but more of a shade between chestnut and gold, and edged with smoky dark lashes. The way that she bites her bottom lip when she's thinkingis endearingly schoolgirl-esque. Her skin is the color of churned cream, soft and pale and delicate, and blush pink at the edges of her cheeks.
I like it when she smiles, really smiles. Not that little sardonic smile that she gives when she's making a prickly remark (although I like that one almost as much). It's wide, and it's sincere, and God, help me, it has dimples. I'm such a goner for that smile.
I'll watch the way that she moves. Even though she's small for her size, she exhibits a kind of grace that I had previously thought to come from tall stature. She has long legs, actually, it's just that most people don't realize it because of her height. It's like a model car: the size is smaller, but the proportions are the same. And maybe comparing my… whatever she is... to a model car isn't entirely romantic. But really, I'm too frustrated to think of a better simile.
Because these days I'm stuck thinking that I can't really tell what kind of a relationship we have. And maybe it's one of those things that can't be labeled, or maybe it's a mixture of so many different things that it's morphed into something different. Maybe it's completely new from anything that anyone's ever seen. Probably not. But I can't help but go a little crazy.
Because I don't quite know what this is. And I just can't stop thinking about her.
But there's something that I don't like to say for fear that I'd jinx it, and for fear that this perfect unknown thing will crumble around me. Something that I don't know if I'll ever be able to say, except to maybe whisper it in her ear. And I'm not so sure that that'll ever happen, either. But it's something that keeps me from imploding with aggravation at my ignorance of what the hell it is that Eames and I are stuck in.
I like it.