Eames took a long hot shower when they returned to her house, washing away some of the tension and emotion from the morning. When she came out, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Frying onions...soy sauce...green peppers...She heard sizzling from the kitchen as she crossed the living room. He looked at her from the stove and gave her a small smile. "You haven't had lunch. I figured you would be hungry. You have a lot to work with in the refrigerator."

She smiled at him. "That's what refrigerators are for, Bobby. Food."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "I haven't had much...initiative to stock my cupboards."

"I noticed. Fast food on the fly, little sleep and too much stress is bad for you. We need to get you straightened out; you're a heart attack waiting to happen."

"I...I suppose," he muttered, stirring the vegetables in the frying pan in front of him.

She stepped up to his side. "What are you making?"

"Stir fry."

"If it tastes as good as it smells, you can cook for me any time."

He looked at her for a moment. "Whenever you want, Eames. I don't mind cooking."

"A man who can manage more than peanut butter and jelly and hot dogs. I'm duly impressed."

He turned back to the stove, checking the rice on the back burner. "Don't be," he murmured.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I didn't learn to cook for fun. If I didn't want to live on ham sandwiches and cold cereal, I had to learn to cook. Besides, my mother needed to eat right, and Frank still can't boil water. So it fell into my lap. But it's not always a plus on the dating scene."

"When was the last time you had a date?" she asked, suddenly curious.

He raised an eyebrow. She had never showed an interest in his love life before, beyond an occasional offhand comment or teasing remark. "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not. I was just wondering."

"Why?"

She gave it some thought. "Because I care."

"About my love life?"

"About your life, period."

He turned his attention back to the stove, and lost himself in thought for a few minutes. "It's been about a year, maybe a little longer," he finally replied. "After my mother was diagnosed...I...I didn't have time for anything else. And I didn't have...the, uh, the desire."

"And now?"

"And now what?"

"Got your desire back?"

He looked at her, confused. He didn't understand what she was getting at. "Uh...no. Not yet."

She didn't debate him; she could tell that much was true. A lot of his passion and his energy had been missing since his mother's diagnosis, and he had been unpredictable. But he was finally regaining his stability, his bearings. His desire would return in time, along with his energy and his enthusiasm for life in general. Recalling the early years of their partnership, she found herself missing that energy, as exhausting as it had always been for her to try keeping up with him. Then, she'd silently wished he would slow the hell down. Now, she found herself hoping it would not be long in returning.

Stepping up to his side, she leaned over the pan to inhale the aroma of their lunch, resting a hand comfortably at the small of his back. "How much longer do I have to wait?"

"Ten minutes," he promised.

With a smile she said, "I'll set the table."

After lunch, she sat back and looked at him. "You can seriously cook me dinner any time, Bobby. That was excellent."

He looked uncomfortable at the compliment, but the small smile that touched his mouth told her he was pleased that she liked it. "Stir fry is easy to make," he insisted. "The trick is not to leave it unattended. The 'stir' part is very important."

In spite of her objections, he cleaned up and washed the dishes, which took all of ten minutes. Then he told her that he was going to head for home. She couldn't explain the disappointment she felt, but she also was not surprised. She hadn't expected him to stay forever. "You don't have to leave," she insisted.

"Yes, I do. I have taken advantage of you enough, Eames. And I need some time alone now. The most difficult part is behind me, and I handled it well, thanks to you."

"Do you really think that was more difficult than what's to come?"

He gave it some thought. "I guess I'll find out."

He gathered his clothes and shaving supplies, and he headed for the door. She walked with him. "How often have I said thank you over the past couple of days?" he murmured. "It sounds trite, but I really mean it. I am grateful for everything you did to help me. I-I'll call you later."

She nodded. "You'd better. Don't make me come looking for you."

He smiled, amused by the fact that he had no doubt she would. Leaning over, he softly kissed her cheek as his thumb lightly stroked her arm. Then he turned, stepped off the porch and walked to his car. She watched him leave, then turned and went into her now-lonely house.

By lunchtime the next day, she'd had enough of her lonely house, so she called Goren and asked if he minded her dropping by for a little while if she brought lunch. He didn't mind and they agreed on pizza for lunch.

An hour later, she was sitting on his couch, her pizza sitting on the coffee table. She noticed the two photo albums sitting on the coffee table and she pointed at them. "Do you mind, Bobby?"

He shook his head. "Go ahead. I'll be back in a minute."

She watched him leave the room, heading into the kitchen. She pulled one of the familiar albums into her lap. She remembered them from her visit to Carmel Ridge. Slowly leafing through it, she looked at the pictures with a soft smile. He had been an adorable little boy, and so had his brother. Frances had not been exaggerating when she told her that he would have beautiful children.

She stopped suddenly and she felt her body turn cold. She found a picture that was very familiar...the dress...the pose...it was the same picture from Mark Ford Brady's 1960s album. "Bambi..." She gasped. "Bambi" was Frances Goren.

He returned with a cup of coffee for her and a drink for himself, handing her the coffee. He noticed her tension and the pale cast to her face. "What's wrong?"

She closed the album, accepted the coffee and said, "I'd like to discuss something with you."

Lowering himself to the couch beside her, he nodded. "All right. What do you want to discuss?"

"Mark Ford Brady."

"B-Brady? Why? He's dead, Eames. Can't we just leave him there?"

"No. There are one or two things that have been bothering me, and I'd like to clear them up."

"Does it really matter now?"

"It does to me."

"Why? Why now?"

"Because I need to know. He took a particular interest in you, and that has always bothered me. Can you explain that to me?"

Of course he could, but he saw no way that the information he had to offer would not destroy them. So he shrugged. "His was a warped and twisted mind, Eames."

"That's your specialty, partner. Warped and twisted minds fascinate you. Come on, Bobby. Talk to me."

Talk to me... If he did it would be the end of their friendship, their partnership, everything. That was not a risk he was willing to take. Slowly, he got up from the couch and began to pace. On his fourth circuit, he turned to find her standing in his path; he almost ran her over. "Eames..."

It was time to take a harder line with him. "I'm not going to be shut out any more, dammit. I am tired of having to jump through hoops to get the simplest answer from you."

She planted her hands in the center of his chest and pushed him into the wall. He grunted, and he understood what she was trying to do. He studied her face, close to his, eyes blazing, hair slipped down over one eye. His eyes continued down to look at her hands, still planted firmly in the center of his chest, pressing him against the wall. "I-I'm not trying to be difficult," he said softly.

"I know that. You never have to try. It comes naturally to you."

He leaned his head back and looked over her head, at the far wall. "I'm...protecting..."

"If you say you're protecting me, you'd better be prepared for the response."

He shook his head. "Not you. Myself. Us."

"Us? What do you mean by that?"

He wrapped his hands around her wrists and gently moved her from in front of him. "From...a real monster..."

It was all he intended to say. In silence, he carefully moved away from her. He sat down on the couch, bracing his arms on his knees. He shook his head when she sat beside him. "Eames..."

"Tell me what you're talking about. Please."

"Dammit," he growled. "You don't understand! If I tell you...it's over, Eames."

"What is over?"

"Everything! Our partnership, our friendship..."

"Bullshit! Stop pushing me away! There is nothing you can tell me that would make me abandon you, Bobby. What do I have to do to get that through to you?"

"Nothing? Are you so certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Not even..." he stopped, nearly choking on the words. He closed his eyes. "Suppose I told you that I'm not the man you think I am?"

"I would ask you what you're talking about. After more than 6 years as your partner, I think I know you pretty well."

He opened his eyes again, studying her. "I thought I knew myself, too. Until...the day before my mother died...He knew, Eames. Damn him, he knew."

She frowned, confused. "Knew what?"

"The woman he called Bambi...Remember?"

She nodded, certain now that he knew what she had just figured out. "Yes. Bambi was your mother."

His eyes widened in horror as he stared at her. "H-How did you know?"

"I wondered why you took such an interest in that particular picture, and why Brady took such an interest in you." She pulled the album back into her lap and opened it, pointing at the picture in question. "I recognized it. Then, I just...connected the dots."

He didn't smile at her use of his own phrase. He was too distraught. His entire future, the rest of his life, hinged on this one conversation and her reaction to it. If she had any idea...and she was still there, still talking to him in spite of the sins that resulted in his conception...maybe there was a small chance... "He-he had an ongoing affair with her..." He closed his eyes again."When he went into the service, she didn't wait for him. Sh-she married another man, had a child with him. But that didn't keep her from..." He swallowed hard. "She conceived a second child, and she went to her grave never knowing who his father was...her husband, or her lover."

Eames remained silent and he leaned back, opening his eyes to look at the ceiling, not wanting to see what was in her face. He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed bitterly. "She sure could pick 'em, Eames. A womanizing alcoholic addicted to gambling and a serial rapist and killer. What a fucking choice..."

Eames watched him evade her, and she finally understood. What a horrible deathbed revelation to make. She found herself bitter and angry, but not at him...at the woman who had tormented him all his life when he gave her only love. Even in death, she couldn't leave him in peace. And now...he expected her to retreat, to go the way of everyone else who had ever mattered in his life. He expected her to leave. He knew the pain of abandonment only too well. And she wasn't certain what she could do to reassure him.

Tentatively, she reached out to him, fingering the gray hair that curled at his temple in front of his ear. He shuddered at her touch. Leaning closer, she said softly, "You were wrong about me, Bobby. You thought I'd leave if I knew, and I won't. You said you could never ask me to accept the burden of being close to you. I am telling you that is something you will never have to ask, because it's something I am willing to do." She kissed his temple. "I don't need your permission to love you, dammit, and I refuse to ask for it. Just stop being a stubborn ass and accept what I have to offer."

He turned his head to look at her. "And what is that, Eames? What do you have to offer?"

She met his eyes and accepted the challenge she saw there. What she had to offer was something he had been searching for his whole life: someone who would love him unconditionally, accept him in spite of his flaws and remain by his side, steadfast, asking for nothing in return except his love. Words, however, were meaningless to him. He'd heard the words, hollow and meaningless, all his life. He needed more than that. His mother, his life's biggest responsibility, was gone. It was time for him to start living for himself, though he wasn't quite certain how to do that after so many years of living for his mother and for his job. So he was embarking on a journey of discovery, one she was willing to take with him.

Leaning closer, she gently brushed her lips over his. It was all the prompting he needed. Turning fully toward her, he slid his hand into her hair, drawing her closer as his mouth claimed hers. Passion rose to meet passion, crashing over them both and driving them deeper into each other's arms. They had set themselves on a path from which there was no turning, lost in the onslaught of emotion that engulfed them both.

As reason returned, she nestled against him, resting on top of his body on the couch. Her fingers gently stroked his side and he let out a heavy breath. "That...might have been more comfortable in the bed," he whispered.

"Maybe, but I have no complaints. Do you?"

"Uh, no...no complaints."

"Regrets?"

That was a more difficult question to answer. "Um...do you?"

"I asked first."

Quietly, he considered his answer, taking stock of what they'd done and how he felt about it. "No," he finally answered. "No regrets."

With a smile, she settled her head on his chest. "Me, neither."

Holding her, he had just started to doze when she lifted her head. He opened his eyes to look at her as she asked, "What do you think about giving it a try?"

Confused, he frowned. "Giving what a try?"

She smiled. "The bed."

fin.