Eames was on her way toward Manhattan the next morning when her cell phone rang. She was surprised to see her partner's name on the caller ID screen. Flipping the phone open, she said, "Good morning."

"If you say so...uh, were you here...last night?"

"I stopped by to check on you. You were out of it."

"Sorry. You, um, you didn't have to clean up."

"Yes, I did. I couldn't bear seeing the place out of order. I know you've been preoccupied. It was the least I could do."

"You've already done more than enough. Alex, you're my partner, but your responsibility doesn't involve washing my dishes or straightening my apartment."

"It wasn't your partner that did those things. It was your friend."

He was silent for a moment. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome. I'll come by the funeral home after work...and don't tell me I don't have to. I'll be there."

Another silence followed before he said, "I'll see you later, then."

"Yes, you will. Bye."

She smiled to herself. He had not argued with her; he was no longer pushing her away so hard. Maybe this was the chink in his armor she had been searching for. She would have to tread lightly, give gentle but consistent pressure. Too much, and she knew he would shatter. Not enough, and she would lose every inch of headway she had gained. This was a lesson he was resistant to learning, but she was pleased to realize that he was indeed learning it.

When she took her lunch break, Eames drove to the funeral home. The room where the wake was taking place was just off the large main entry foyer. Entering the room, she was pleased to see a respectable crowd gathered to pay their respects. Her eyes searched the room until she spotted her partner, standing near the casket in a dark suit, looking tired. She recognized the two men he was talking to: his friend Lewis and Fin Tutuola from Manhattan's Special Victims Unit. Fin, she knew, had worked with Goren in Narcotics and she was pleased to see him there.

She knew the moment he spotted her. His entire demeanor changed, though she could not explain how. She wasn't even sure anyone in the room, except perhaps Lewis, knew him well enough to notice. He excused himself from the conversation and approached her. Not saying a word, he gently grasped her elbow, looked around the room and led her out into the foyer. Guiding her off to the side, he tipped his head to look into her eyes. "Y-you did this," he said softly.

She looked confused. "Did what?"

"You...made some phone calls."

"Only to people I thought might want to know."

"Th-they didn't know her."

"It's not about her, Bobby. She's beyond caring now. This is about you. A funeral is more than just saying good-bye to the one we've lost. It's more about supporting the ones left behind. Those people know you, and they're here to support you...just like I am."

He stared at her as her words rattled about in his mind. She thought that she had never seen him so solemn. "I-I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything. I have no expectations, Bobby. I did what I thought was right, what I thought was best for you. I just want to get you through this in one piece, physically, mentally and emotionally. I know you think you're alone in the world now, but I am here to tell you that you're not."

He was overwhelmed by this woman on so many levels. His fingers brushed lightly over her cheek. "Th-thank you," was all he could think of to say.

With a small, sad smile, she returned his caress, letting her fingers smooth over the stubble on his cheek. "You're welcome."

His eyes slid closed at her touch and he hesitated a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing and returning to the room where his mother lay awaiting burial. She wanted to follow him, wanted to say more, but she suddenly felt so overwhelmed the only thing she could think of to do was leave. So she returned to the streets, warmed by the summer sun, leaving behind the cool, dim quiet of the funeral home and the partner she felt she would never understand.

Eames returned to the funeral home that night, as soon as she was done for the day at the squad room. Ross would be there later, she knew, and so would Mike Logan. But she wanted to get there first, to assess Bobby's state of mind.

She arrived at four-thirty, knowing the room would not be open for viewing for another half hour yet, but also knowing without doubting that he had not left all day. The mousy Mr. Holbrook recognized her and silently motioned her toward the closed door of the viewing room behind the sign that displayed his mother's name. She mouthed 'thank you' and went into the room.

The empty room was neat and a few degrees below cool. She shivered for a moment. There was no missing the big man who sat in a chair near the casket, looking at the floor. Silently, she approached him, drawing a chair to rest alongside his. She sat down.

He didn't move for a moment. Finally lifting his head, he turned it so that he could see her. She was not surprised to see the misery on his face, but she was taken aback by the hollowness in his eyes. She had long known this time would come and that it would be interminably difficult for him. Choosing to remain silent, she reached out a hand. Cool fingers touched warm hand and he allowed her to interweave her fingers with his.

Once again, he had no idea what to say, so he said nothing. But he continued to look at her, hoping to convey his gratitude without words. For all his impressive skill with vocabulary, he could not find the right combination of syllables to say thank you to this woman for her support and for her unwavering devotion to his well-being. He moistened his lips. "Eames..."

His voice was hoarse, and she silenced him by placing the fingers of her other hand against lips that had not remained moist. "When the last visitor leaves," she said softly. "You are coming with me. Do you understand me?"

He was tired and he didn't have it in him to protest. Mutely, he nodded. The gentle pressure of her fingers against his lips eased and those same fingers drew lightly across his cheek in a solid gesture of support and affection. She spoke again. "I will be here all evening. I'll mingle with the people who come to pay their respects and offer you support, and I will thank them for coming. And when they leave, we are going to get something to eat, and then you are going to sleep tonight, without alcohol and without being alone. I have a spare bedroom, and you are going to use it. I'll drop you off back here in the morning on my way to work. And if you even think about arguing with me, I'll show you that the fury of a woman scorned can't hold a candle to me."

The ghost of a smile touched his face and he spoke the only words that would come to him. "Thank you, Eames."

Remaining true to her word, Eames stayed and played host to the people who came to pay their respects to Frances Goren and the devoted son she left behind. Quiet and mostly withdrawn, Goren made small talk with the visitors. He was surprised when the Chief of Detectives and his wife made an appearance but he was utterly shocked when Deputy Commissioner Dockerty and his wife came into the room. He had made no points with Dockerty during the investigation into his daughter's disappearance last Thanksgiving. In their own way they were repaying in kind his own efforts, acknowledging that he had taken time to leave his ailing mother's bedside and attend their daughter's funeral. Now they were taking part in the ritualism designed to assuage his grief. His eyes, accompanied by his thoughts and a heart filled with gratitude, sought out his partner, who was across the room, talking with Ross and Logan. She must have sensed his gaze because she looked up and met his eyes, She smiled briefly before turning back to her conversation. She had to have called the Dockertys, reminding them of what was, in her mind, an obligation., knowing he himself would never see it as such. He knew from experience how formidable his partner could be when her mind was made up.

Anyone who knew Goren, or knew of him, was not surprised to see Eames there, his right hand, keeping him firmly grounded in the living world to which he still belonged. Among the minds of those cops present, she was the epitome of what a partner should be, and they wondered if called upon to do for their own partners what Eames had always done for Goren whether they would be up to that task. Periodically, Eames would cross the span of the room to his side to speak softly with him, and the brief conversation always ended with a nod from him and a sad, reassuring smile from her. Some still wondered if the partners were lovers, but there was no indication of that sort of familiarity between them, and the question remained unanswered.

Jimmy and Angie Deakins came by and stayed for a good portion of the evening, and so did John Eames, whose wife was not up to a trip to Brooklyn. But as the night wore on, there was one person Goren watched for who never showed up: his brother.

It was ten o'clock by the time Goren and Eames left the funeral home, heading for her car. The Holbrook brothers told him it was fine to leave his car there for the night. Eames debated whether to stop at a diner or cook for him at her place. His apparent fatigue was her deciding factor. She wanted him to eat so she stopped at a diner.

There was no doubt in Eames' mind that her partner was now functioning purely as a matter of routine. His body knew what to do because it had gone through those actions so many times before. She ordered for them both, pancakes and eggs, juice instead of coffee, toast for him and an English muffin for her. He gave her no argument about eating, and she sadly reflected that there was no passion at all in him at the moment. For once, though, there was no question in her mind what he was feeling or why he had withdrawn from her, and she left him alone.

Once they arrived at her house, she parked and opened the back door, pulling out an overnight bag and a brown garment bag. He took the garment bag from her and eyed the familiar overnight bag she carried. "Eames?"

"I stopped at your place after I left the funeral home this afternoon. You need clean clothes and I have nothing for you to shave with unless you really want to use a Lady Bic and floral scented shaving gel. Personally, I prefer your aftershave."

Once more, she saw the fleeting ghost of a smile flitter across his face. "Thank you...again."

She glanced at him as she slid her door key in the lock and turned it. "Thank you, Bobby."

"For what?"

"For letting me do this for you."

She noticed the light flush that accompanied his shy smile as she pushed the door open. She handed the overnight bag to him and pointed deeper into the house. "You know where everything is. Go shower and relax. I'll just be out here ."

He met her eyes for a fleeting moment before he headed in the direction she had indicated. She watched him go, reading fatigue and defeat in every movement he made. She went into the kitchen and pulled a small pill bottle from her pocket, setting it on the refrigerator. She hoped he would sleep, but if not, she'd convinced Rogers write her a prescription for him. If it went unused, so much the better, but she had it if he needed it.

Pouring milk into a mug, she warmed it in the microwave for thirty-five seconds and added a little bit of Quik. Stepping out onto the back deck that overlooked the small yard, she looked up at the sky. Only the brightest stars were able to penetrate the city's lights. "Just like I promised," she said softly to the sky, addressing Frances Goren. "I'm taking care of him."

Overhead, bright but fleeting, a shooting star streaked across the sky, a meteor fragment, burning to a fiery, spectacular death. She chose to take it as a sign that his mother had heard her, and she smiled. "You're welcome."