A/N: Yeah, so if you hadn't noticed, I haven't been doing much writing lately. I have a huge-ass pile of homework due Monday, and I've been trying to get working on it so that come Sunday night I don't find myself tempted to run away to Timbuktu. Therefore, fic's been set on the back burner for the moment. This is probably the only update (of this story or of White Hat) you'll see from me before next Wednesday-ish. Sorry! Believe me, I'd rather be ficcing than programming finite state transducers!

Bobby and his mother had barely exchanged hellos that evening before she gave him a hard look and said, "Something's wrong."

She was using that tone of voice - the one he'd come to recognize as the tone that immediately preceded either an attempt at meddling or the asking of a question he wouldn't want to answer. That tone could mean nothing good for his state of mind, he thought with a sigh. "What?" he replied as he lowered himself into the chair in the corner of her room.

"Did something happen to you today? You look . . . shell-shocked."

"I . . . uh . . ." He'd forgotten over the years how perceptive his mother could be, and for a second, he almost wished that she weren't quite as lucid as she was at the moment. "No, nothing happened. I'm fine, Mom."

Frances closed the book she'd been reading with a snap and set it down next to her on the bed. "Don't lie to your mother, Robert. It's written all over your face that something shook you up, so you may as well tell me what it was."

"Nothing shook me up," he insisted, not quite meeting her eyes. "I'm just . . . tired."

He could deny it all he wanted, but she was going to get to the bottom of this. "You talked to someone from home," she guessed. "Lewis? Is he ok?"

He blinked. "Lewis is just fine, or at least he was the last time I checked."

"Ok, not Lewis," Frances mused. "Someone else, then. Your partner? The one who you're 'not on good terms' with, maybe?"

"Mom -"

His face had tightened - just a little - in response to her question, and that told her, almost better than words could have, that she'd scored a direct hit. "Her name is Alex, right? I still . . . names aren't the easiest things to remember, you know. But it is Alex? I remembered this one right?"

"Her name is Alex, yes." And with that he shut his mouth, resolving to not let his mother squeeze any more information out of him.

"I take it the conversation didn't go well, then, if you're so unwilling to talk about it," she sighed. "I wish you would tell me what it is that stopped the two of you speaking to each other in the first place."

"I told you, Mom we're not 'not speaking' . . . it's just that we don't have anything in common anymore. Would you please just leave it alone?"

With a shrug, she looked down at her book, tracing the lettering on the cover. "I missed most of the past thirty-five years of your life, Bobby. I'd prefer not to miss any more of it."

That shot hit him right between the eyes, as he was sure she'd known it would. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It's not anything important, ok? I promise."

Frances snorted derisively. "Look at you, sitting there and lying through your teeth. Making a 'promise.' I would have thought you're too honest a person to do that sort of thing."

"I . . ." He sighed, tacitly admitting defeat. "Alex and I had an argument over my coming out here with you, and we still haven't resolved it." As hedging the truth went, he thought it was pretty good. After all, the argument - well, arguments - had ostensibly been about his moving. That they had also been about his boorish behavior toward Alex, his mother didn't need to know.

She studied his face, searching for evidence of deception. "What was it exactly that you fought about? She didn't want you to go?"

He thought about that. She'd never asked him not to go - in fact, she'd wished his mother well and told him to "enjoy California" . . . so why had it made him feel so rotten when he actually went?

"Bobby."

"Huh?" he asked, returning his attention to Frances.

"I'm not telepathic, even if you are," she told him teasingly. "You're going to have to actually speak your answer."

He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "I, uh . . . didn't actually tell her about it until a week before we went. She was . . . annoyed."

Frances raised her eyebrows. "You only gave her a week's notice? I would have been 'annoyed' too, if you'd pulled the rug out from under me like that!"

"Leave it alone, Mom. You don't need to be concerned with Alex."

"Of course I do, if she's got my son so wound up," she said. "You can't stop me from worrying."

Bobby groaned. "I'm not trying to stop you from worrying - although that would be nice," he added quickly. "You can worry all you have to; just . . . leave this topic alone."

She returned her attention to her book, this time flipping it open to the page she'd been reading before he came in and running a finger down the center of the spine as she said quietly, "She wasn't just your partner."

He let that statement hang in the air for a full minute before sighing and moving to sit next to her on the bed. "No, she wasn't."

"You love her."

He swallowed. "Yes."

Without warning, Frances jumped to her feet and aimed an accusing finger at her son's face. "Then what are you doing here with me, instead of there with her?"

Bobby flinched away from her hand, his eyes widening. "What?"

"You heard me! I want to know why you're in California with me, instead of in New York with the woman you just admitted you love!"

"Mom, calm down," he attempted, covering her hand with his and forcing it back down to her side as he stood up. "I wasn't going to send you out here on your own, and -"

"And what?" she challenged, moving to stand nearly nose-to-nose with him. "I'm your mother, Bobby. I'm old news; I know you love me whether you're here or there. I am not the one who needs reassurance that you care. She . . . well, I imagine your Alex did. Or does. So now I'm asking you - why did you choose to move yourself out here, with your mother, rather than stay there with the girl you love?"

"Mom," he said resignedly, "you couldn't travel here alone, and -"

"But once I was out here, you didn't need to stay!" she exclaimed. "I enjoy having you here, Bobby, you know that, but . . . the truth is, I'm stable enough to ride out the rest of my time here on my own."

"Well . . . well . . . I just think that you don't deserve to be stuck here alone if you don't have to be," Bobby replied defensively. "You've been forced to spend too much of your life alone as it is."

"Sweetheart . . . I'm not alone." She took a step toward the door of her room and gestured to the hallway it opened onto. "There are a hundred other people in this study, and I see them every day. We have group therapy. We eat meals together. I don't . . ." She paused, trying to think of a way to phrase her next statement that wouldn't sound hurtful. "I don't need or want you to give up your life so that I can have mine."

Exhaling slowly in an attempt to regain his self-control, Bobby turned away from her. "I'm not giving up my life. I have a job; I don't spend all my time here. And whether I'm giving anything up or not, I don't mind doing this!"

"Why not?"

He looked at her in confusion. "'Why not' what?"

"You had to abandon someone you love to come out here with me. Why doesn't that seem to bother you? Why aren't you resentful of it?"

"Mom, I love you, and -"

"Didn't you just tell me you love her, too?" she interrupted. "So why did you opt to hide out here with me instead of stay with her? There's something going on here that you're not telling me."

Bobby closed his eyes and sighed, realizing that she wasn't going to let the topic go until he gave her an answer. "I can't resent something I did to myself," he finally said quietly. "I burned my bridges with her. I couldn't have stayed there anyway."

"How did you burn your bridges?" Frances said sharply, sound very much like a mother demanding to know how her freshly painted kitchen wall had gotten covered in crayon marks. "What did you do?"

"Mom . . ."

She waved a hand, dismissing his protest. "You've told me this much of it. You may as well finish the story."

With a groan, Bobby dropped his arms back to his sides and began pacing the room. "The truth is, we didn't argue just about me moving. I . . . I didn't treat her well, even before the move became an issue between us."

She looked at him blankly. "What are you talking about? You're always nice to your girlfriends. Half the time you let them walk all over you because you're too nice."

He halted his pacing long enough to shake his head in disgust at himself. She was right; Alex was probably the only woman he'd ever dated who had cause to complain about his treatment of her. "I . . ." He shook his head again and sighed. "I was preoccupied with what I was going to do about getting you out here. I . . . didn't give her much attention."

"How much is 'not much'?" Frances asked suspiciously.

"I'm not going into that, Mom. Just suffice it to say that she was right to be angry with me."

"Hmm," she murmured noncommittally. "So you figured the answer was to just give up on her and run away from the problem? You're smarter than that, Robert Goren. Did you apologize to her?"

"I . . . I tried. I don't think she believed me."

"Why not?"

He cleared his throat nervously. "She threw me out of her apartment a few minutes later. Like I said," he went on before his mother could say anything, "I burned my bridges, whether I meant to or not. She didn't want me around."

Frances crossed her arms, then leaned one of her shoulders against the wall next to her bed. "If you really didn't treat her well, then it shouldn't surprise you that one little apology didn't cut it. Have you tried again, or have you just been hiding behind me? Have you talked to her since we've been out here?"

"I . . . no," he admitted reluctantly. "She doesn't want to talk to me."

"You apologized to her when she was angry. It didn't occur to you that after she'd had time to cool off, she might handle things differently?"

"Damn it, Mom, I don't need to listen to this!" he blurted, whirling around to glare at her. "I've already got my partner riding me about her, and -"

"Oh, really?" she broke in, arching one eyebrow. "What does he have to say about this?"

"That I should apologize again," he muttered sullenly. "It's not like he's an expert at this, though."

Frances just gave him a slight smile. "You're outnumbered two-to-one on this, Bobby. Why don't you, just this once, try listening to what other people think you should do?"

"Mom . . ."

She glanced down at her watch, then looked back up at him. "I have a group session in ten minutes, honey. You should get going."

Bobby blinked, caught by surprise at the sudden dismissal. "Uh, ok. Look, Mom," he said gently, leaning down to kiss her cheek, "don't keep worrying about this, ok? It's not important, and you don't need any unnecessary stress."

Rolling her eyes, Frances patted his cheek lovingly. "Ok, dear. I won't worry about it."

"Thank you. I'll see you in the morning, ok?"

"Of course." She gave him another smile and waited patiently as he made his way out of the room and down the hallway, but when he was out of earshot, she shook her head in amusement and allowed her smile to widen into a grin. "Of course I won't worry," she murmured to his retreating back. "I'll be too busy doing something about it."