A/N 1: I just can't stop thinking about them.

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CHAPTER TWO: SPECULATIVE FRICTION

He'd been contemplating returning to the FBI – would she let him court her if they didn't work together? Or maybe she just didn't want him.

It was a Friday, two weeks after their dust-up at 1PP. He was at home on the couch, with a beer and a bag of potato chips. To make the FBI fitness exam, he'd restricted his junk food consumption to one night a week. Tonight was that night.

He realised too late that he'd planned himself into a corner – the wrong corner, apparently. A friend in IAB told him last year that a major shake-up was going to happen in the upper Brass, and not to stray too far afield. He'd arranged to get Eames an offer from the Academy just so that she wouldn't go and take a job across the country or something.

And he'd waited.

Every time they'd talked on the phone, he'd wanted to tell her – everything. But he just couldn't get the words out. Heck, he couldn't even get the words out now. But if she didn't want him, and she wasn't happy, what was the point of being here? And if she wanted him, but couldn't face taking the step when they worked together, then he was better off elsewhere. Maybe he could get a placement at the NY field office; he hadn't burnt any bridges when he left the FBI.

And he couldn't read Eames.

She didn't seem particularly mad at him. If anything, she seemed to be trying extra-hard to get along. But in the strictest possible professional sense. Since their blow-up in the ladies' room, he'd not called her at home again, and she'd made no effort to reach out.

Did what he'd said to her before constitute a proposition? Should he try one more time to make himself clear to her?

His doorbell rang.

o.o.o.o.o

Bobby stood with his hand on the door handle after her knock. When her voice had come over the intercom, he'd been excited, then irritated, then flustered. Wondering if it was worth it to rush around tidying and brush his teeth, then deciding it was, by the time he'd heard her at the door the chips had been stashed away out of sight, the beer had been quickly guzzled, and all traces of his illicit snack gone from his mouth, his face, and the front of his shirt.

When he opened the door, she marched through and in without looking at him. She'd changed since work, into jeans, runners and a hoodie that made her look about 20 years old. She kept walking, paused at his sofa, then circled back like a big cat pacing its cage. When she finally tilted her face up to his, she looked defiant and… something else. When she pulled her hands out of her pockets and tugged her hood down, he saw that she'd put her hair up. It made him feel hopeful, for some reason.

She looked around again. "Everything looks the same," she said, a little hoarsely.

He nodded, feeling tired all of a sudden. "Yup. Everything's back the way it was." He ignored the scowl she sent his way as he gestured for her to sit. "Wanna beer? Coffee?" He shuffled the few steps to his open kitchen.

"Water, please," she said, clearing her throat. She tucked her handbag between the sofa and his armchair and unzipped her hoodie, revealing the fuchsia satin of her camisole. In the kitchen, Bobby ran the water until it was cold, filling two large tumblers and trying not to stare. He found his hope joined by a tiny whisper of anticipation.

When he switched off the kitchen light and joined her, he found his little lounge area cosy and inviting with her in it. Heading for the lazyboy, he turned and instead seated himself next to her on the sofa. He was pleased to see, when she made eye contact with him, that she wasn't looking stormy, only piqued. He doubted she was mustering for a fight.

After a few moments of them both sitting, staring at the glasses in their hands, he spoke up. "So?"

She sighed and smiled ruefully, sucking on her lips. "I came to… talk… about what happened in the, uh, bathroom."

"Great. I've been wanting to do that for two weeks."

He'd snapped at her, and regretted it instantly, but surprisingly, she only nodded. "I wasn't ready to discuss it before."

"But you are now?"

This time she did react, rolling her eyes. "Bobby, did I wreck something permanently that day?" She looked at him like a perp in the interview room.

"No, no of course not." He shook his head.

"Then quit being such a grouch!" He nodded and grinned at her.

"Bobby…" She looked down and away, pursing her lips as she did when she was choosing her words carefully. "I didn't realise right away what you'd done." She didn't have to say what – he knew she meant roughing up Van Dekker. He nodded. "But when I did," she sighed heavily, "I was furious. And so, so hurt. I felt… abandoned." He began twitching and shifting restlessly. "I wish you would have talked to me about it."

He opened his mouth to answer her, but she held up a hand. "I know. You had your reasons why, and I realise that now. But I – didn't at first – and it took me a while to figure that out too." He felt an urgent need to jump up and run away; she seemed to sense it, and stilled him with a quelling glance. Then her expression softened. "I just didn't know… how you felt. About me. And then you – just left." Alex looked at him expectantly. Now it was his turn.

"Alex, I didn't know… that you would be the one to – and then…"

She shook her head and waved. "Don't worry about that, Bobby. But I don't understand why you couldn't have…" She paused, looking for the words. "If you didn't want to work at Major Case any more…" Her face said what her words couldn't. Was it me?

"Alex…" He took a chance and reached out to gently take her hand in his. She inhaled sharply, but didn't pull away. He was too shy to risk looking at her. "I've felt… I've wanted…" – This – "For a, a while now." He saw her bow her head out of the corner of his eye. "But at work, I just felt like we were in a holding pattern. I couldn't see how to make anything – happen – and even trying as hard as I could to behave, I was never going to redeem myself with Moran." She looked up at him and began to shake her head, no no no, but he held her off. "I know it doesn't matter to you, but it mattered to me, your reputation, what people – your family, your colleagues – would think of you."

She made a sound of exasperation and turned abruptly towards him, but didn't withdraw her hand. "And you thought, what? That you'd just run away, save the day somewhere, ride back into town and throw me over the back of your horse?"

He couldn't help but smile at the image, and when he looked at her, she was smiling too.

"You never needed to prove yourself to me," she said quietly, "But I understood that you felt you needed to. It just…" She trailed off, looking doubtful and hesitant all of a sudden.

"If you're afraid – that I can't – do it…"

"Do what?" She looked up in surprise.

He squeezed her hand and smiled what he hoped was his most charming smile. "Be… in a relationship." He could understand why she'd wonder.

Hesitancy gone, she caressed the hand that held hers. "You have been. For ten years. With me." She held his gaze, and the whisper of anticipation grew into a rush. "I mean… it wouldn't really be that different from what we had before – trust, misunderstandings, loyalty, fights, respect, love, circling the wagons, spending all our time together…"

"Well… and," he smiled hopefully.

"And?" She grinned back at him.

He pulled her to him. "Are you attracted to me, Eames?"

"Are you?" She didn't seem the least bit surprised or offended when he slipped his hands beneath her hoodie to feel the smooth satin covering her warm skin.

"I'm very attracted to you, Eames."

"Me too."

Feeling shy about kissing her, he leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. "So how do you want to do this?"

She smirked and ran her hands up and down his arms. "It's been that long, huh Detective?"

"It's been a, uh, long time."

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A/N 2: Two other CI bad girls on The Good Wife: Amy Acker, who played Leslie LeZard, ansd the chick (too lazy to look her up) who murdered the architect's son.

WORDS: 1572 UPLOADED Thursday, October 21, 2010

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