A/N 1: Chapter spoilers for: Amends, Season 7, Purgatory, Season 7, My Good Name, Season 4.

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CHAPTER EIGHT: STRICKEN

Las Vegas
9:30AM Monday morning

Alex sat in the squad car trying to figure out why her stomach hurt. "Miss, are you OK? Miss, uh, Eames?"

Detective. Alex realised she'd been unconsciously waiting for Goren to correct him. Suddenly she missed her partner so very much.

She was riding to Homicide in the presence of a full (if somewhat ignominious) honour guard; a uniform drove, with the ADA riding shotgun and another uniform in the back with her. She tried to feel either flattered or irritated by the treatment, but all she could muster was despair.

She cleared her throat. "I, uh…" she said hoarsely. From long habit, she balked at admitting that she was feeling poorly. Unfortunately, her seatmate was apparently a budding profiler with more empathy than decorum.

"If you're feeling sick, let me know, OK? We'll pull over, get EMT if necessary, whatever you need. Just don't barf in the squad car," he declared helpfully. The ADA – whose name Alex was ashamed to admit she couldn't recall – turned in the seat and looked at her as if feeling nauseated was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

What was wrong with her? Nina was dead, murdered. Most likely by someone they both knew, someone at the conference. She had been killed shortly before Alex returned to their room. When Alex clawed away at the numbness, she felt the horror and terror of that act. Was that it? No.

She herself was clearly a suspect. She had been treated disrespectfully and even scornfully by her fellow officers and detectives. She was on the receiving end of suspicion and indignity. The fact that she knew she was innocent was of small comfort. Well, was it that? Nope.

Alex realised why her stomach hurt. This wasn't the worst she'd ever felt, and it certainly wasn't the most perilous situation she'd ever been in, but she'd never felt so alienated, so wrong, in the midst of so much blue. She'd never felt so as if she didn't belong, among these brothers and sisters with whom she shared so much.

Except no.

That wasn't it.

Not entirely.

The uniform was looking at her nervously. Actually, they both were, the driver courtesy of the rear-view mirror. She was clutching her knees and breathing deeply but raggedly, trying to prevent the ache that bloomed in her heart from crawling up her throat and out her stinging eyes. Of all the times to have a life-changing revelation.

She scrunched her face up, trying to force the tears back, if not through sheer will, then through pure muscle power.

Oh god, no. No. She didn't belong along the thin blue line, not anymore. She knew that. She'd known it during the Beltran case, maybe even as early as Adair. Certainly by Testarossa. She belonged with Bobby, to Bobby. He was home to her, and even when she hung on the hook in Jo's monstrous basement, she'd felt like someone's partner, Bobby's partner. Not alone.

What smacked her in the gut, what made her gag on her own tears, wasn't that in ten years, she'd never had to worry or even think about being disrespected, because Bobby wouldn't allow it. Hadn't had to worry about an uncouth uniform grabbing her arm, because it never happened. Hadn't had to remind anyone that she was a detective. She wasn't fragile or girly; she didn't need her partner to be her champion.

But he was. Oh god, he was. For a brief time after Jo Gage, she'd resented Bobby for focusing on Declan, for not rescuing her. But then she realised. Even though they were apart, they were solving the problem together; while she was working on getting free, he was working on finding her by understanding the perp. And they did it. Together.

Suddenly she was afraid she was going to throw up. She was such an idiot!

Back at her ho– at the crime scene – she'd been fine with the uniforms who'd been the first to arrive, calmly and professionally relating all the relevant details. She'd been fine with the event organisers and the hotel executives, and even with the homicide detectives, who'd picked over her initial statement with familiar but nonetheless disconcerting zeal.

But when the ADA had arrived, teeth bared, in a cloud of perfume and scepticism, she'd fallen apart. Alex cringed in embarrassment, thinking of how she'd practically begged the woman not to call Ross at Major Case. How stupid could she be? It was as if all her reason, all her understanding of police procedure, all her detachment had flown out the window. She was better than that. Wasn't she?

The woman had merely pursed her lips and said something bland about balancing the privacy of witnesses against the pursuit of justice, but Alex had seen the glint in her eye. That said there was blood in the water, and Ross most certainly would be called, and probably pursued with more thoroughness than if Alex had kept her stupid mouth shut.

For a moment, standing there at the crime scene almost dizzy with helplessness, Alex had reflexively wished for Goren's presence. She'd looked up at the ADA and wondered which way Goren would clean the floor with her, if he were here. Unless he was attracted to her, the devil on her shoulder whispered, then he'd forget up from down, right from wrong… he'd forget about you.

And she'd actually believed it. Ridiculous. Ridiculous! Bobby would never, ever, ever let her come to harm, no matter how he felt or about whom. Bobby was blind sometimes, maybe even a poor judge of character despite his eerie profiling abilities, but to her he was unflaggingly loyal.

Which made it even so much worse that she could never ask him for help.

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A/N 2: I hope this is OK. I have struggled for literally months over the exposition that I had to get out in this scene, and after tripping over the hanks of hair all over the floor, I started over and re-wrote the scene in a different setting with a slightly different tone. I'm really happy with it, but I wrote it in about an hour, and I'm posting it right away.

WORDS: 1071 UPLOADED Friday, July 2, 2010