Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected to Law & Order: Criminal Intent but if Dick Wolf is feeling generous I'm always willing to take delivery. No financial gain involved in writing this story, so please don't sue.

Summary: Definitely B/A - but if you've read any of my other stuff you could have guessed that ;o) I've been rewatching my Season 1 DVDs and this is what happened in my head after some of the episodes. Hope you enjoy.

A/N: Back to the alternating perspectives for each of the next few chapters – I'll be posting them in pairs so you won't be kept waiting :o)

Alex's POV

We went to Jake's, grabbed a burger and the margarita he'd offered to buy me. Well actually I had a couple of margaritas and he had a beer. Now we're back at his apartment and I could cut the tension in the air between us with a knife. Strangely it's not a bad tension really, more a sense of expectancy, as if we both know that something important is going to happen tonight. We talked very little at the bar and what we did talk about was unimportant, simply filling silence once in a while.

Now we're in the hall of his apartment, he's locking the door and I've dropped my purse on the hall table. This was a familiar scene from about a month into our partnership up until two months ago. Over the three months in between I had found myself unusually comfortable in my partner's personal space. I slide my jacket off my shoulders and hang it on what had, during that time, become 'my' hook by his door. I can't help noticing that, even though I haven't been here since before the night we became lovers, the hook remains empty, as though he's been hoping I will once again make use of it. He hangs his own jacket up beside mine and our hands brush against each other, barely touching, sparks skitter along my nerves, a tingle running up my arm. I think for a second that I've managed to stifle the slight gasp that the contact causes, until I feel his fingers wrap around mine.

"You okay?" He sounds so worried that I can't seem to stop myself from turning to him and leaning against him.

He's turned towards me so I find my face buried in his chest and just the smell of him is enough to make my body shiver with suppressed desire. He drops my hand and wraps his arms around me, his hands slide up and down my spine in a gesture of comfort. Most men in this situation, especially having been kept at arms length for two months, would at least try to cop a feel, not my Bobby. There's nothing sexual about the way he's touching me, even if his touch is causing all kinds of sexual responses to flood my body.

I nod against his chest, drinking in his scent and trying to calm my body and my mind, both of which are rapidly approaching overload. I find myself wondering what on earth I was thinking, telling him we shouldn't even try to make a personal relationship work, when it's so obvious to me at this moment that I've never wanted, or needed, any man the way I do him. I feel his lips brush gently against my hair.

"How about you go get comfortable in the lounge and I'll get us something to drink?"

I nod again but I can't seem to step away from him. My hands are resting on his waist, under his suit jacket, and I can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. He unwraps one arm from around my back and gently raises my chin so that I'm looking up into those gorgeous eyes of his. His emotions are written so clearly in his eyes that I actually tremble at their intensity. How has he managed to disguise the way he's been feeling for the past two months, I wonder. I know the answer; the same way I have, with great difficulty.

For a moment I think he's going to kiss me, the way he did that night in my kitchen, and my eyes close in anticipation. Then I feel is his lips against my forehead. He amazes me sometimes. I can feel the tremors running through his body and the way his breathing has quickened, yet still he's holding tight to his self-control, giving me the reassurance and comfort he senses I need whilst denying himself the opportunity to relieve his own desire. I know he can sense my arousal yet I also know he won't make any move to take advantage of this situation until he's sure I'm back to being comfortable in my own skin, something I haven't truly been throughout our last investigation. His lips trail softly across my brows, then down my temple until they're next to my ear.

"Alex, I don't want to rush this and we do need to talk this time. I'm going to the kitchen to get us some coffee and you are going to go and sit down. Okay?"

He punctuates his question with a gentle kiss on my cheek and I'm tempted, very tempted indeed, to turn my head slightly so that his lips brush against mine. That's all it would take, a slight adjustment to the angle of my head and I could undo all of his carefully held restraint. Instead I nod and kiss his cheek in return before I finally find my voice.

"Okay." It occurs to me that this is the first word I've spoken since we arrived at his place and my lips curve into a soft smile against his cheek.

I take a half step back from him, keeping my hands on his waist for a moment longer as I look up into his face. There's no doubt there, as his eyes scan my face, he knows that I want him as badly as he wants me, that I need his support just like he needs mine, that I am as deeply effected by his proximity as he is by my touch. There is a hint of concern in his eyes and by that I know he won't allow me to divert him away from the discussion we need to have. There's no hiding the desire in his eyes and I know that my own eyes are burning with the same fire.

What almost overwhelms me is the love I see so clearly, no one ever looked at me with so much unconditional love as he does. Whilst I know on some level this should scare me; partly because what we are about to do would be considered wrong by so many people but also because this man is capable of such intensity that being loved by him and loving him in return could so easily consume me; yet I feel no fear at all because I know he would rather die than hurt me. I don't need him to tell me that, it's there for me to see in his eyes.

I feel his fingers gently caress their way from my chin down to the pulse point at the base of my throat and he smiles softly as he registers my racing heartbeat. Then as he removes his hand from my skin, I let my hands slip from his waist and the physical contact is broken. So why is it I can still feel his touch? Why can I still feel the heat of his skin on the palms of my hands? I take a deep breath and step back, trying to regain control of my senses.

We both slip off our shoes and I head into the lounge, for once doing as he tells me, as he goes into the kitchen. I sit on his couch, listening to him making coffee and wondering how, exactly, I am supposed to broach the subject, or subjects as it will probably turn out to be knowing Bobby, that we need to discuss.

After a few minutes he appears bearing two steaming mugs of coffee, which he sets on the table in front of me.

"Is it okay if I sit here or would you rather I take the chair?" He waves a hand to indicate either the space next to me on the couch or the armchair nearest me.

There he goes again, being all considerate and, well, Bobby-ish. I mean, most men would have by-passed the lounge and the coffee, and been trying to get me into the bedroom if they were even half as sure of my physical response as I know he is.

"Here." I pat the empty space beside me. The last thing I need between us right now is space.

He sits down leaving just a small gap between us, turning so that he's facing me. He waits a moment, just looking at me before he begins to speak, his voice gentle and his tone concerned.

"Alex, this case, I know it got to you. It's not like you to personalise a case. I don't mean that you didn't do your …"

I cut him off. "I know you don't mean to say I didn't do my job or pull my weight. What you want to know is why it got to me so badly."

I can hear the pain in my voice and, somehow, it surprises me. I thought I was over this, I thought I'd left it behind years ago. Nobody in my family knows about it, I never mentioned it to Joe. The only people who are aware of this particular episode in my life are the doctor I saw at the time and my college roommate, Karen, who I haven't seen in years.

He nods and gently takes one of my hands between the both of his. "Only if you feel you can tell me, Alex. I can make a guess, I think I know you well enough that I've got a good idea of the basics …"

"I figured you might have guessed that at some point I'd been pregnant." The hitch in my voice and the sharp sting of tears in my eyes is unexpected to say the least. I take a deep breath and force the tears to remain behind my now closed eyelids.

He gently squeezes my hand. "Did you …?"

The rest of his question remains unspoken, as I shake my head and open my eyes so that I can see his reaction. I know he's not going to like the story I'm about to tell him but I can't be certain of how he will react. Knowing Bobby there will certainly be sympathy and understanding but I'm betting on a degree of anger, although probably not aimed at me, what I'm fearful of is the possibility of disgust or disappointment.

I place the tips of my fingers against his lips to ensure his silence. I need to get through this without interruptions. I take another deep breath, swallow the lump in my throat and begin.

"It really was dumb, thinking about it. A college party, everyone drinking, having a good time. Just the kind of thing my father spent months warning me about every chance he got before he agreed to let me live on campus. I woke up the next morning in one of the bedrooms of the house the party was held in. The guy I'd gone to the party with was next to me in the bed. We'd been seeing each other for a few weeks but we weren't serious and I'd made it clear to him that I wasn't ready to take the 'next step' in the relationship, if you could even call it that."

I take my hand away from his mouth to grab my coffee, my mouth suddenly parched, even as I'm having trouble keeping my eyes from being anything but dry. After a couple of sips I set the mug back down on the table and place my hand on top if his, which are still wrapped around my other hand.

"Anyway, I went ballistic. It wasn't difficult to figure out what had happened. I'd had enough to drink that he'd managed to get me upstairs and take things 'to the next level' despite what I'd said to him before then. He actually laughed. Can you believe that? He laughed and said that … that maybe if I hadn't been such an ice-queen he wouldn't have needed to get me passed out drunk before he could fuck me."

There's no stopping the tears now as they start to run down my cheeks. There's no stopping the words either, as they continue to roll out of my mouth. Bobby sits silent and still, taking in my words, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Needless to say I didn't see him again after that. A couple of weeks later I realised I was late. The bastard hadn't even bothered to use a condom it seems. I went to the campus medical surgery and got a pregnancy test done. It was positive. The doctor discussed the options when she gave me the results. Adoption, abortion, keep the baby. Would the father take responsibility? She actually asked me that. I laughed in her face when she asked me."

I raise my free hand to swipe at the tears on my cheeks. Bobby raises one hand, cupping my face tenderly as he brushes away tears from one cheek. He remains silent and I continue what I considered to be my sordid tale.

"You know I was raised Catholic. If I'd gone home and told my folks they'd have expected me to marry the jerk and have the baby. That's if the jerk would have even considered it. Not that I would have. I saw it as I had two options. Give up the baby for adoption or terminate the pregnancy. Adoption would have meant trying to hide the pregnancy from my family. I knew I wouldn't be able to do that. Abortion was the only way I could see out of the mess. I went back to see the doctor and make the arrangements."

I stop for a moment, another deep breath, another swallow of coffee and I continue.

"Three days before I was due to go to the clinic I woke up bleeding. I rushed to the campus surgery in a panic. I knew I'd miscarried. It wasn't until that moment, when I woke up and knew that something was wrong that I realised I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't kill a child, my child. It didn't matter who the father was, how it had happened."

I'm really crying now, eyes shut tight, and my words are coming in broken gasps between sobs. I feel Bobby's arms go around me and pull me to him. I bury my face in his chest.

"Of course, by then it didn't make any difference. I'd killed her anyway. I dreamed the night before the miscarriage that I had a little girl, all blonde curls and eyes just like mine. So that's how I think of the baby, as her, not it. I killed her. I was willing to go to a clinic and dispose of her like some sort of minor inconvenience. So she died inside me instead. I never got the chance to change my mind. I never got the chance to tell her I was sorry I ever even thought of doing that to her."

"I know it doesn't make sense to feel that way. Just like it doesn't make sense that I still feel so strongly that abortion should be an option. If I'd still been pregnant the day I was due to go to the clinic I wouldn't have been able to go through with it anyway. But that would have been my choice. As it was, I didn't have any choice at all. I didn't choose to sleep with him. I didn't choose who I lost my virginity to. I didn't choose to kill my baby but I still did."

More than ten years of anger, guilt and grief wash over me, as my partner holds me in his arms, rocking me gently and never saying a word. I can feel the tension in his body and I wonder for a moment if he will push me away as I slip my arms around him. Instead he holds me tighter, one hand going to the back of my head. My eyes are still closed tight as I feel his lips on my forehead, then down, kissing tears from my cheeks as he did once before on 'that' night. Those were tears brought on by joy the like of which I'd never known before, these are tears of pain and rage, long suppressed. It makes no difference to him, it seems, as his lips softly work their way over the planes of my face.

A/N: Just for clarification purposes – 'my' Eames was born in 1969 – she has to be young enough to have lots of little Goren-Eames babies in the future. I figure the 'unfortunate incident' that occurred while she was at college would have been when she was around 19 – so that would be 1988ish – roughly 13 years ago in line with the 'date' of this story.