Author's Note – Just when I think the muse has starved to death, Rene Balcer and team provide great sustenance. Post ep (and spoilers!) for "Proud Flesh." Don't own them, just borrowing for a sec.

Do you suffer from long-term memory loss?
I don't remember...
You sing the same old verse
Stick like glue for better or worse
"Amesia" - Chumbawamba

Sometimes she forgets that he lives for his job. Sometimes she forgets that his overworked and detail-oriented mind doesn't always leave room for the subtle nuances of emotion, of matters unexplainable by the standards of logic. Sometimes she even forgets that he's the most competitive person she's ever met – which is quite an admission considering that she grew up as the tomboy in an Irish-Catholic police family, always in the thick of it with her siblings.

But every time she forgets, every time she lets her guard down far enough to begin feeling as though maybe – just maybe – he's beginning to relax and let the truth come to him without beating it out of the bushes, he reminds her that he isn't that way. He reminds her that he's Bobby Goren and he lets nothing get in his way.

Nothing. Not even her.

And as she lowers her weapon, silently surrendering it to the uniformed officer who has materialized out of nowhere by her side, she thinks one singular thought: Damn him. She has just killed a man and even the knowledge that she did it in order to protect others (the task of every good police officer) doesn't assuage the shock and guilt that have begun to flood her stomach, weakening her knees and causing every part of her to tremble uncontrollably. But part of the trembling is from anger, she knows – anger at her partner. He was with her when she fired but he has since left her side to chase after Jonas Slaughter. He never even asked if she was okay before he left.

She almost wants to laugh when she realizes that she isn't angry at him for leaving, though. She almost laughs because it suddenly occurs to her that she's angry at him for making her forget that he's like this, for making her forget that when he's in the throes of a cat and mouse game, he only has eyes for the mouse and she fades into the background.

It's the little things that trigger her unique form of amnesia – the way he'll bring her coffee without her asking him to (no cream, heavy sugar) or the way he smiles softly at her when she makes a wisecrack about the case they're working on, just a quick one to let her know that he's heard and he appreciates a brief lightening of the mood. It's the way he'll defer all technological queries to her with an embarrassed tilt of his head, then lean in close over her shoulder to view the computer screen – so close that she catches the faint whiff of cigarette smoke that clings to him, a subtle reminder of his sometime-vice. And it's the way he consults her with his eyes when he's seeking approval on a theory or wants to do some further investigating on his own but doesn't want to offend her by leaving her behind.

Bastard.

She's escaped the clutch of uniformed officers and the prying eyes of the media (who are currently being distracted by ADA Ron Carver) and is leaning against one of the courthouse pillars when he jogs back up the stairs to find her. Her head is tilted back so that the cold marble aches acutely against her skull and her eyes are closed but she'd recognize his footsteps anywhere, their heaviness belying his significant size and the sliding sound of shoe leather against cement hinting at his jerky and sometimes awkward gait.

She forgets his true nature but she can pick his footsteps out of a crowd – how ironic.

"Eames?" Bobby reaches out a tentative hand to cup her elbow. Her arms are folded squarely across her chest and she intends to keep them there at least until her heart rate slows a bit more.

His voice is apologetic enough that she almost wants to crack open an eye to see the worried expression she knows that he's wearing on his face, but she resists the temptation and merely replies by saying, "I'm fine, Bobby" in her driest tone.

He inhales slowly and she can tell he isn't buying her bluff. He's no doubt adopted his traditionally uncomfortable "I don't know what to do with my arms right now" stance in front of her as he finally tells her, "It… it was a variation on suicide-by-cop. Jonas Slaughter set you up – well, not you per se… It, uh, could have been anybody."

He pauses and she can feel his gaze drop to his feet even though she still isn't looking. He adds, "It could have been me."

That gets her to open her eyes and lift her head and she can tell that the suddenness of movement (and no doubt her facial expression) has alarmed him. She meets his gaze: "It wasn't you."

His eyes drop low, a submissive gesture that shows guilt and remorse. "I know."

She's about to open her mouth again, about to call him on the carpet for abandoning her in order to pursue his mental sparring match with Jonas Slaughter, when Carver very obviously loses his grip on the media and a sea of flashbulbs and reporters is suddenly flooding towards her, questions echoing between the pillars as they rise and fall in waves.

"Detective Eames, may we have a word?"

"Detective, did you have any indication that this might occur?"

"Detective, how do you feel?"

"Detective Eames, what do you make of Chase Slaughter's dying declaration?"

She's frozen in place, watching the wave approach and waiting for it to overwhelm her, when the hand cupping her elbow tightens its grip and pulls her away from the pillar. The next thing Alex Eames knows, she is being shielded from the cameras and the questions by a very large – and very protective – Bobby Goren, who ushers her quickly down the stairs to the SUV they parked outside upon arrival. His legs are much longer than hers, but his momentum buoys her along so that she doesn't think her feet even touch the ground and, before she can even catch a breath, he's put her in the passenger seat of the Explorer, secured the door, and is making his way around the milling reporters to get to the driver's side.

And the moment he slides into the seat, slamming and locking the door behind him, she forgets to be angry with him, not only because he's just rescued her, but because in his haste to escape, he's folded himself into a very uncomfortable position, his knees wedged into the dashboard by the seat and steering wheel, which are adjusted for her own small stature. He couldn't shift the car into drive if he wanted to, let alone work the pedals.

Bobby's face is helpless for a few silent seconds as his brain sorts out his predicament and she doesn't dare laugh until his left hand finds the seat adjustment controls and he's able to slide it back into the correct position for his long-legged frame. Once he's done that and has begun to adjust the level of the steering column, she lets go, the laughter flooding out of her with such force that it frightens her – and it's only when the tears come and her guffaws become sobs that she realizes it's her body's way of releasing all of her pent-up emotions and fears.

As they drive back towards One Police Plaza, Bobby reaches out his right hand and places it on her shoulder while she blows her nose into a Kleenex she found in her jacket pocket. It's one of those gestures that makes her forget about his logical bent and his ultra-competitive streak. It makes her forget why she was angry with him in the first place and she knows that when they reach their office, he'll sit with her in the car as long as it takes for her to compose herself, then he'll ride up in the elevator with her and he'll help her pretend that nothing is amiss, that she is (as always) just one of the guys.

It's things like that that remind her of why he's her best friend. Call it selective amnesia, but Alex Eames figures that, as long as she remembers all of those good things, it isn't as important to remember the other stuff.

FIN