A/N – Turns out there was more there than I thought – this coda kind of wrote itself and I had no control over it (but I'm still up for reviews if you're willing). Bobby's verion of events.

Sometimes he forgets that she isn't Superwoman. Sometimes he forgets that it isn't in her nature to threaten or bully – and certainly not to harm or kill. Sometimes he even forgets that she feels things deeply within her soul, so masked are her true feelings beneath a façade of bravado, sarcasm, and dry wit.

But whenever he forgets this about her, whenever he finds that he is treating her like "one of the guys" with an air of unconscious carelessness, something always happens to remind him and he finds himself bolted awake as though suddenly roused from a deep sleep. In the stark light of revelation and reminder, she always looks smaller and more delicate to him, as though she is made of glass rather than iron, and his heart plummets to the bottom of his gut as though the cable suspending it has snapped.

It happens in a split second. A melee. Shouts. Screams too. Then the pop, pop, pop of bullets being fired. And when the silence shrouds them, Chase Slaughter is dead on the courthouse steps and Bobby Goren's partner, Alex Eames, is holding the weapon that killed him.

Yet his amnesia is so set – he has so solidly forgotten that she isn't the brash "balls to the wall" cop that everyone sees on the surface – that he doesn't hesitate, doesn't stop to see that the reality of what she has just done is registering on her taut face. Instead, he plunges forward and chases down Jonas Slaughter, not wanting the case to slip through his fingers.

It's minutes later that he remembers her – sees her stark expression from moments before in his mind's eye - and realizes: I'm a bastard.

She makes it so easy for him to forget that there is a living, breathing, feeling woman behind the badge with the way that she takes the lead in the interrogation room, not afraid to dive into the "bad cop" role with relish so that he can sit back and make observations unnoticed. She surveys crime scenes with a grim but not squeamish expression and cuffs prisoners with the force of a person three times her size. She's coldly efficient with suspects and never afraid to disagree with anyone – especially her own partner when he's off on a tangent.

And so he forgets that there is a soft side to her – or maybe he has selective amnesia when it comes to that.

At any rate, he remembers now as his long legs take him up the courthouse steps two and three at a time, eyes seeking her out amongst the crowd of reporters, uniformed officers, and lawyers and not finding her. He spots her weapon in the hands of another officer, who has secured it pending the obligatory investigation, but her petite form is nowhere to be found. Panic sets in momentarily and his stomach drops with a sickening lurch as he scans above the crowd for any signs that she has been escorted away by some of their fellow officers or by ADA Ron Carver – but then he sights Carver in the midst of the chaos and the attorney's eyes quickly tell him that he too has lost sight of Eames.

Pushing through the wall of people and into the clear, Bobby shifts his gaze to the side and inhales sharply with relief as he spots his partner leaning up against one of the pillars, her head tilted back against the cold stone and eyes closed. She looks tiny and pale and the guilt sets in again as he approaches her. How could he forget that she's a living, breathing, feeling woman? How could he forget the side of her he saw on the day that she was forced to read her own letter requesting a new partner in open court and in front of him? How could he forget her shaking, apologetic voice when she tried to explain that she didn't mean it, that she liked being his partner?

How could he forget that partnership meant that what hurt her hurt him too?

He stands before her and, though her eyes don't open, he can tell that she has registered his presence. Still, so shaken is he by his frantic search effort, he reaches out to make contact, to prove with total assurance that she is real and standing before him, his large hand engulfing her elbow.

"Eames?" He makes her name a question and feels her blood racing beneath his palm.

"I'm fine, Bobby," is her toneless response and she doesn't even crack an eye open.

He forgets that she's quick to close herself off when something hurts her – a character flaw they both share – and that in the time it took him to get back to her, the door has closed in his face. His hand falls away from her and he suddenly feels acutely aware of his significant size, his body suddenly awkward as his mind races to find a way to reach her, to apologize for his amnesia and his poor behavior. He feels like a novice actor who doesn't know what to do with his hands or how to stand and ultimately he settles on what Eames would most likely have labeled "a cheesy Joe Friday approach," going with "Just the facts, ma'am."

"It… it was a variation on suicide-by-cop," he tells her, fumbling. Facts are all he has at this point and facts have never let him down. Facts are easier to remember than emotions. Still, he feels like he's rambling as he continues, "Jonas Slaughter set you up – well, not you per se… It, uh, could have been anybody."

"It could have been me," he concludes, gaze falling to their feet.

Her reaction is swift and pointed: "It wasn't you."

He wants to register a thousand apologies and fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness, but he knows that she'll only accept validation at this point and so he acquiesces: "I know."

He feels helpless, but it's a short-lived state of being because suddenly the herd of reporters is converging on them and he can see an opportunity before him. Bobby Goren may not have been able to react quickly enough to help his partner when Chase Slaughter was shot, but his reflexes are razor-sharp now and he instantly moves his bulk between them and her, becoming a human shield to protect her from the questions they hurl like barbs as he moves her quickly down the stairs to their waiting SUV. If he could pick her up and carry her, he would, but she manages to stay with him somehow, her body curved into the shelter of his shoulder firmly enough that he knows she trusts him to help her this time. She trusts him to remember how fragile she is at this moment and he slams the car door soundly once she's inside, then makes his way to the driver's side, still shoving reporters out of his path.

As he assumes his position in the driver's seat, however, he realizes his error, for in his haste to pull Eames to safety, he forgot that she always drives. He also forgot that she is a good foot shorter than he is and that particular omission from his memory has placed him in a very uncomfortable place – literally. His knees are jammed into the dashboard, the steering wheel practically cutting off his wind and there is no way that he can possibly operate the vehicle. And once this information has sorted itself out in his mind, he realizes that he must look like an awkward cartoon character – all limbs and jutting angles gone askew.

It's too much to hope that Eames hasn't noticed, however, and he can feel her eyes on him while he fumbles for the seat control and feels the circulation return to his legs as the seat slides back to a comfortable distance. He doesn't dare look at her, though – the guilt for his earlier neglect of her is still too fresh and he doesn't dare meet her eyes for fear that the coldness she unleashed earlier is still there.

He is adjusting the steering column and starting the engine when he remembers that she doesn't hold grudges where he's concerned, a memory triggered by the sound of her laughter coming from his right side. He glances sideways at her as he pulls smoothly into traffic, noting from the corner of his eye the exact moment that the tears cease to be those of amusement and begin to show the fear and anger she experienced at the moment she fired her weapon.

Sometimes he forgets that she can cry.

He reaches across the seat and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling her shake beneath him and kicking himself one more time for not staying with her as Chase Slaughter fell. But he can't beat himself up over it forever, he knows – especially because he'll no doubt forget again (after some time has passed) that she isn't a superhero, that she bleeds like everyone else.

She makes it easy, after all – she's strong and vibrant and never backs down from a fight – and he supposes that if he didn't have amnesia where she's concerned, he'd probably spend the majority of his time worrying about her and not concentrating on the work that he does so well. So maybe his being forgetful is a good thing for both of them. Maybe his being forgetful is what keeps their partnership – and their friendship – strong, because as long as he forgets that there is a real woman underneath the solid veneer that Eames wears with such confidence, he is free to be the type of detective and person that he needs to be – for both of their sakes.

For now he'll keep his hand on her shoulder and sit with her while she cries, waiting until she indicates that she's ready to face the world again. It doesn't matter how long, because once they set foot back inside One Police Plaza, this tender moment will become just a memory. And if Bobby Goren is going to continue to be successful in his career, he'll need to forget; amnesia is what keeps him going.

There's always that small part of him, however, that would really like to forget to forget, just this once.

FIN (For real this time.)