Bobby POV

It was a conscious, deliberate decision to tell Eames about Frank.

I mean, obviously I had to say something since she was right there, but the fact that I opened up and really shared…that took some effort.

And mostly only because I don't want her to have to deal with that part of my life. I don't want Frank's addiction and neediness and selfishness to touch her.

She doesn't need that.

I don't need it either, but I don't have a choice.

She does.

But as much as I don't want her exposed to him, I also can't disappoint her and shutting her out would disappoint her.

So I talked.

I gave her the fifteen minute version of a complete and ugly rundown of Frank Goren.

And then I asked her to pull over the car because I needed to look her in the eyes to…well, I just needed to.

I had to see if maybe she was going to look at me differently now that she knows I don't just come with the genes of a crazy mother and a philandering absentee father, but also a homeless addict brother.

So she stopped the car and turned to look at me, with her hand still covering mine as it's been for the past ten minutes.

And her expression makes my heart pound in my chest because there's no pity or condemnation or blame…there's just caring and understanding.

"Thank you," I said, talking around the lump in my throat. "For listening, for not judging…it helps, having someone to talk to."

"I've been trying to tell you that for years," she said with a smile, and I've known for a while now that I'm in love with her, but her gentle, teasing response makes me love her even more, and then she cupped my cheek with her hand, and the soft, comforting touch nearly brings tears to my eyes.

I'm so in love with her.

So much more than I ever thought possible.

I took a deep breath, debating the merit of just telling her. Just putting the sentiment out there and seeing what happens, but I can't say it now because I just opened up to her, and she knows I'm emotional, and if I say it now, she might not believe that it's the God's honest truth.

So instead of saying anything, I kissed her.

Probably not the wisest move, considering we're only a couple of blocks from 1PP, but I can't make myself care.

All I can think about is how her lips feel against mine and how I don't ever want to be without her.

We spent a few minutes in the parked car, long enough for me to get my feet back underneath me, but not long enough to fog up the windows – much – and then we decided it was time to get back to work.

"Oh, and he asked if you're my wife," I said as we pulled into the parking garage.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, and I said you're my partner, and then he asked me what I'm waiting for."

I didn't have to tell her about his misconception, but I wanted to see her response.

That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.

Or…

What are you waiting for?

I like the latter.

And I also kind of like the idea of it, of a person thinking someone like Eames would marry a guy like me.

She chuckled, dropping her gaze as she turned off the engine, and then she said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What'd you say?"

"Oh, I said that you're not that kind of partner," I answered, and I suddenly felt self-conscious.

Should I have told him about her? Is that insulting to her, the fact that I didn't come clean to my brother?

She nodded, but didn't say anything, and I quickly added, "I mean, you are, but I didn't want him knowing about you. About how I feel about you. About…"

"Bobby, it's fine," she interrupted, and I can't be sure but I think it really is fine.

But still, I hate that I have to walk through this minefield. I hate that my family is so messed up.

"If he knew the truth, then you'd be one more person he'd try to manipulate," I explained sadly. "Maybe not right away, but eventually…"

"It's okay," she assured me again, this time glancing around the garage before reaching out to touch my hand. "Are you okay?"

I looked at her, taking in the turtleneck she's wearing to hide the marks I left on her neck, and the black coat that I buttoned up for her this morning just before we left my apartment, and the way her hair frames her face and how her eyes really see me and how she's patiently waiting for my response because she truly wants to know the answer…

I can't imagine ever not being okay as long as I have her in my life.

"Yeah, I think I am."

We spent the rest of the day working on the case, and that night, we went to my place.

I love how quickly we found a routine, going to either her place or mine but always going somewhere together.

I never thought it would be so easy to be with someone. I like my privacy too much.

But with Eames, it's just exactly right.

I guess I should've suspected it might be like this, considering how well we've assimilated to each other's rhythms at work, but still…this added facet to our relationship is just unbelievable.

"I'm supposed to pick him up on Sunday. At noon," I told her as we lay in the darkness.

We came to bed an hour ago, but of course, now that Eames is with me, sleep isn't my first priority, so we spent that hour in the most pleasurable of ways.

And I'd planned to call her Alex while we were making love. I did at first, when I was placing kisses all over her body and telling her how beautiful she is and basically paying homage to every inch of her.

But once I was inside of her, my conscious thought process was lost, and even though I've never been a vocal lover, I found myself once again calling out her name as I reached that wonderful release.

Eames.

But I don't think she minds.

She might not have even heard me, considering she was offering a steady stream of oh my God oh my God of my God.

I might be wrong but I think she enjoys our love-making as much as I do.

Anyway, we finished a few minutes ago, and then she snuggled up against me and sighed heavily. I love that Eames is a cuddler. I've never been much of one myself, but it must be because typically, for me, once the sex is over, my interest wanes.

But that's definitely not the case with Eames.

"Frank?" she said in response to my statement. "To see your mom?"

"Uh huh."

I don't have to tell Eames that Sunday is my mom's birthday.

She knows that.

She knows everything about me.

And she's still here.

It blows my mind.

"He won't show," I continued as I stroked my fingers over her hair.

"Predictably unpredictable," she remarked with understanding, and I hummed my agreement.

I can't bring myself to care too much about him when I'm this happy.

I feel a little guilty about that, though.

"Well, if he doesn't, and you want some company, I'll go," she offered.

"Oh, you don't have…"

"I know," she interrupted quietly. "And I don't mean I expect an introduction. I'm just saying I'll go along for the ride. No pressure or anything, just let me know."

Over the next few days, our case started heating up.

We couldn't get a warrant to look through the reverend's home or office, in search of that DVD, but we went to talk to the other person who saw Marjorie just after she died.

Dr. Corliss.

He remembered seeing the reverend clutching an envelope and that was enough to get us our warrant.

It was Friday when we went to conduct the search, and the reverend was there, admitting to his transgressions with Diego, but he was in the dark about the DVD, and I believe him. One look at Eames said she and I were on the same page, so we gently tag-teamed him about what he knew, and that's when Elder Roberts arrived.

He essentially confessed to taking the DVD, so we took him back to the squad room for an official sit-down.

But even though we initially suspected that our killer was whoever stole the damning video, we were wrong. Roberts wouldn't have the strength to kill Marjorie in the manner she was murdered, so it wasn't him.

Instead, he tossed suspicion back onto Diego.

"And here we go, round and round," Eames remarked as we left the interrogation room.

"Are you sure you're up for taking another go at Diego?"

"Sure, I might learn something," she joked, and her comment sparked off a whole round of memories from last night that had me smiling broadly.

"I'm not sure my heart can take you adding anything to your arsenal," I said under my breath.

"Really? Because I'm just getting started," she fired back suggestively, and I leaned closer to her than I probably should when we're at work, but I suddenly desperately needed that proximity, to maybe catch a whiff of her scent, and then I heard Ross call out from across the room, causing me to quickly sidestep away from her.

"Diego's lawyer says Monday," he told us. "I guess that means you get a weekend."

I wasn't about to argue.

I mean, I want to wrap up this case but I have a life, too, and if our latest lead takes us to a suspect who can't talk until Monday, well…then I guess we get a break.

So Friday night, we went out.

Dinner, dancing…it was like something out of those movies Eames likes so much, only without the angst.

On Saturday, we did laundry. And grocery shopping. For my place, not hers.

We've decided that my apartment is a little more conveniently located, so she picked up a few days' worth of clothes from her place, and we stashed them at mine.

We didn't actually talk about how much time we're spending together, or what it all means in the grand scheme of things, but it's working.

Really, really working.

And Saturday night, I almost told her that I love her.

We were sitting on the couch, watching and mocking FBI Files on the Discovery Channel, and her feet were in my lap so I was rubbing them, and I guess I hit a ticklish spot.

That's one of those fascinating new facts I've learned about Eames.

She's ticklish.

Anyway, I hit the spot by accident, but after she reacted, wiggling slightly to move her foot, I exploited the knowledge mercilessly, holding her foot firmly in one hand while tickling with the other, and the more she laughed, the more I did it, and then that turned into an all-out wrestling match as she squirmed to get away. I covered her body with mine, pinning her down while moving my point of attack to her waist, which only increased both her laughter and her threats of retribution, and when I finally let up, deciding that she probably needed to breathe, I looked down at her and her face was flushed and she was smiling beatifically and it hit me that I'm just so happy that I'm suddenly scared to death that at any second I might wake up.

But this is real, I reminded myself.

And I don't ever want to be without her.

So I almost told her the truth.

I love you.

But then the doorbell and her cell phone both rang at the same time, and she smirked at me as I let go of her so that she could wriggle out from underneath me.

"Saved by the bell," she said.

"Yeah, you got lucky," I replied, and maybe she did get lucky.

Maybe I don't have any business sucking her into a life like mine. Telling her I love her. Because won't that make her feel like she has to say it back? Or what if I tell her, and that pushes her away because she's not there, and not interested in being there?

It's too much.

"You got lucky," she corrected as she gave me a little shove, serving to push me towards the door and partially bring me out of my unexpected funk. "I was about to kick your ass."

"Ha," I retorted, walking along beside her as I went for the door and she was after her still-ringing phone, which was on the table next to the door. "Keep dreaming."

She paused, putting a hand on my arm as she looked up at me with a soft expression.

"I kind of feel like I am. Don't you?"

The person at the door was my elderly neighbor, who wanted my assistance resetting the clock on her VCR, so I slipped next door to help her out while Eames took a call from her mother.

"She wants to have lunch tomorrow," she told me once we were in bed.

"That sounds nice."

"I know, but if Frank doesn't show…"

"I don't mind going by myself," I promised. "Really. Go have lunch with your mom."

She nodded and then rested her cheek against my chest.

"I didn't tell her about us," she said.

"Okay," I answered cautiously, although I'm not sure how I feel about it. I mean, I didn't tell Frank, but that's because he's a life-sucking parasite.

Although I haven't told my mom, either, but would she even understand?

I don't know.

And if I tell her, then she'll insist on meeting Eames, and I don't know if I can handle that.

But her mom isn't crazy or a drug addict.

"You're quiet," she stated. "So does that mean you've decided that since I didn't tell my mother, then I'm embarrassed of you or about to break up with you or some other equally ridiculous conclusion?"

I love how well she knows me, even in a situation like this.

It makes my apprehension almost disappear.

"Ridiculous?" I questioned.

"If you're thinking along those lines, then yes," she said firmly. "I didn't tell her because as soon as I do, she'll tell the rest of the family and there'll be dinner invitations and more phone calls and…it'll just turn into a circus."

I hummed my understanding, and then she shifted so that she could look me in the eyes, and she added, "And I'm not ready to share you yet. I like having you all to myself."

The next day, she ended up canceling on her mother because Ross called to say that Diego's lawyer bumped up the meeting to this afternoon.

"I can postpone the visit to my mom," I offered.

"Don't be silly," she said. "I can handle him. And since we're getting close to solving this thing, I'm sure Ross will want to jump in on it, too."

So we parted ways, with her going to work and me waiting for Frank for half an hour before giving up on him and going to see my mom for her birthday.

Of course, she only wanted to talk about Frank, where he is and what he's doing, and how hard his life has been. How I'm the one who caught all the breaks.

I hate when she gets like that, but I guess she's right in one sense. I caught a hell of a break when I got partnered with Eames.

Where would I be if I'd never met her?

I can't even think about it.

I met up with Eames at 1PP later in the evening, and my mood was deteriorating.

My mother had been especially difficult, and after discussing treatment options with her doctor, I realized that I have no idea how to go forward. I can't afford experimental treatments, and what she's getting isn't helping. She's not getting better.

And of course, I don't know what's going on with Frank, either. He was supposedly clean five days ago, so why didn't he show up today?

As I sat in the AV room with Eames and Ross, watching the clip from the last debate between Corliss and Riggins, I found it hard to concentrate. I could feel Eames looking at me, probably seeking out that connection between us, but I couldn't give it to her.

This is my life.

Schizophrenia and hospital bills and drug addiction…

It's not fair for me to drag her into it.

But I love her.

That night, we went home together, and I know she knows I'm off, but she didn't make me talk.

And we didn't make love.

Instead, she got into bed and held open her arms to me, and I laid down next to her, putting my cheek against her chest while she ran her fingers through my hair.

It's hard not to feel like I take more than I give, and I almost felt guilty for accepting comfort from her.

What do I offer her in return?

The next day, Monday, we were back on the case.

Eames found payments Corliss has been making to a woman named Alminia Perez, in the amount of six thousand a month, which was worth checking out, but as we left the building, I got a call from my mom's doctor.

"Go. You can get up and back while I talk to the Perez woman, and we'll meet back here," she encouraged.

"Are you sure?"

"Bobby. Go," she insisted with understanding.

So I went.

The doctor had researched more treatment options that he wanted to discuss with me, but nothing that's covered by insurance, and I'm practically bankrupt as it is, so I'm still no closer to having a solution, although I appreciate his effort.

I met Eames back at 1PP.

"How is she?" she asked me as we walked in.

"Same," I said vaguely, and then I made a point to add, "I'm not sure what I'm going to do. There aren't any feasible options that offer a positive outcome."

She nodded, looking grateful at my attempt to share.

"We can look at it together, if you want. Tonight, I mean."

"Okay," I agreed. "Tell me what you found out."

She brought me up to speed on her interview, and then we went inside to go over it again with Ross.

"Interesting theory. No proof, no witnesses. Corliss finds out you met his son, tough getting him to talk."

"Not if he thinks we're going after his arch enemy, the reverend," I offered.

"Don't bring him in. Visit his lab, tell him we need him to testify against Riggins," Ross stated, and then he looked at the clock and said, "Tomorrow. You show up after five o'clock and he's going to take it more seriously."

Eames and I spent another evening not talking.

About anything of any importance, I mean, but I guess the progress is that we talked about the fact that I'm not talking.

"I'm trying to sort it out in my head," I reasoned. "I don't mean to shut you out, I promise, it's just that I don't know yet what I want to do."

"Maybe talking it through with me will help you make that decision."

"Maybe," I agreed. "But…I'm just so tired of thinking about it. I just want to not think for a while."

So she helped me forget about everything but her.

And it hit me that our relationship is always going to be unbalanced like this.

I need her more than she needs me.

She'll never admit it, I know, but it's true.

I laid awake thinking about that, as she slept snuggled up against my side.

The next day, we went to see Corliss, and after a lengthy discussion, we finally got him to break.

He confessed to killing Marjorie.

We arrested him and took him in for processing, and an hour later, we watched the media coverage, not of the arrest but of Reverend Riggins' sexual exploits. It never ceases to amaze me, the things the press deem newsworthy.

I was about to ask Eames what she wanted for dinner when Ross popped his head in the room.

"Detective, the ME just called. You should get down there."

"Why?"

"Just…"

He trailed off, not saying anything more and I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Without a word, Eames snagged her jacket and together we went to the morgue, and the entire time, I kept thinking this is it. It's going to be Frank.

And I felt bad that I didn't feel worse.

"Detective," Rodgers said sadly. "He had your card in his coat."

She handed me the coat that I'd put on Frank's shoulders last week, and I took a deep breath before walking to the head of the table and pulling back the sheet.

It wasn't him.

And I can't describe how I feel.

Relief, of course, but also something else, like a nagging sense of clairvoyance because just because it isn't him this time, doesn't mean I won't be right back here doing this same thing next week or next month or next year and then it will be him and I'll be going through this whole thing all over again.

"Well, it's not my brother. I mean, it's my coat, but it's not my…my brother," I said, and then I couldn't stop myself from rambling. "I guess he sold it to somebody. That's okay, I gave it to him so he can sell it if he wants, it's just…uh…everybody needs money, right?"

I finally chanced a look at Eames, and she nodded at me encouragingly, and her expression is one of such sympathy that I can't keep looking at her, and my emotions keep changing, running the whole gamut of grief and regret and anger and sadness and reprieve, and I feel like if I don't get out of this room in the next five seconds, I'm going to have a complete breakdown.

I can't be sure, but I think I thanked Rodgers on my way out and then I pushed through the doors, hoping that Eames was behind me because I don't want to be alone right now.

"Bobby," she began as she caught up to me.

"Don't say anything," I begged. "Just…can we just go home?"

So she drove us back to my place, and the whole time, I just sat there like a stone with that damn coat in my lap, wondering what the hell is wrong with Frank and then hating myself for being mad at him when it really could be him in the morgue right now.

"You want something to drink?" she asked once we were inside my still-dark apartment.

"Maybe," I answered as I followed her into the kitchen.

And I'm so out of sorts. This is completely new territory for me, feeling moody and dangerous and yet not being alone.

I watched as she pulled out two glasses and then filled each of them to the brim with Scotch. She put the cap back on the bottle, and then picked up the glasses, turning around and offering one to me.

I glanced at it, and then looked at her again, and I don't know why, but something in me just snapped.

My desperation to escape my life and be a part of hers instead.

I took both glasses from her hand and set them down on the counter, roughly so that liquid sloshed from them, but I barely took notice as instead I grabbed onto her and kissed her aggressively.

My desire went from raging to off the charts in a matter of seconds, and I started tugging urgently at her clothes, unable to think about anything but having her, right here, right now, as hard and fast as possible.

I had the brief flash that I was overwhelming her, not giving her the chance to say no, but then she deftly and swiftly undid my belt buckle and shoved both my pants and my boxers to the floor, so then I picked her up and spun us around so that her back was against the refrigerator and without hesitation, I drove into her forcefully, and then I did it again and again and again because I can't get enough of her and I can't get away from me fast enough.

Afterwards, I couldn't let her go.

I just held her tightly in my arms, with her back still pressed against the fridge.

"I'm sorry," I managed to say.

"For what?"

"This. I…I was out of control."

"I know," she said with a smile. "I loved it."

"But..."

"You used to push me away, remember? Now I'm part of your life. Of everything you're feeling. And if it's frustration or passion or anger or a combination of all kinds of emotions, then that's fine because it's you, allowing yourself to feel and to share those feelings with me."

I took a moment to let her words sink in and then I carefully put her back on her feet and I took a step back from her.

"Are you hearing me?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said with a nod, but then I looked at her as she reached for my shirt, and her skin is red, on her hip bones and on her wrists, and I'm scared to even look at her back because I was pounding into her so hard, just trying to get lost inside of her, and I hate thinking that I may have actually hurt her…

She stood up and pulled the t-shirt over her head and then reached for the glasses of Scotch again, and as she turned back, she must have read the expression on my face.

"You didn't hurt me."

"But I could have."

"Yeah, well, I could've hurt you, too, but I didn't."

"Eames," I said on a sigh. "You know what I'm saying. And I promised myself I'd never hurt you again."

I took a glass from her hand and killed it in one gulp, letting the burn of the amber liquid ease the way for what I was about to say.

"You deserve to be happy, Alex. And as much as I want to, I'm not so sure it's going to be me who can do that."

"So…what?" she asked sharply. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…maybe you should take a step back from me. We got caught up in this pretty quickly, and I don't want you to feel obligated or beholden or…"

"Obligated?" she repeated, and now she's mad.

But maybe that's for the best.

"You think I feel obligated to sleep with you?" she continued. "To spend all of my free time with you? Are you kidding me, Bobby?"

"I'm just saying that I've got a lot of baggage, and it seems that every time something goes wrong in my life, it causes you hurt, too, and I don't want to do that. That's not fair to you."

"Not fair? It's called love, Bobby," she snapped. "We're here for each other. Or at least, I thought we were."

Her love comment was unexpected, and it occurred to me that maybe I'm being a colossal idiot. A martyr again. Refusing to allow myself the happiness I get from being with Eames.

"We are," I said quietly as I took a step towards her. "I just…you've gotten a better glimpse of my life this past week, and then tonight I practically attacked you, and I…I want to give you an out."

"What if I don't want an out?"

She stood there staring at me indignantly, her eyes sparked with anger, and I felt like caving, like pulling her into my arms and letting her make the mistake of loving me, but I can't do it because I love her too much.

I'm a tragedy waiting to happen.

So instead, I said, "Then maybe I need to do the right thing and give you one anyway."

TBC...