Author's Note: Thank you for your support on this story.
This story is bittersweet. It's an examination of several key moments between Eames & Goren set to the backdrop of a sporadic intimate relationship (and the many reasons for that).
It's steamier than I am accustomed to writing. I want to thank my beta, Lady_Lore, for her assistance.
This story has references to a number of key moments in the series including the events of Blind Spot, Brother's Keeper, Endgame, Amends, Purgatory, and Lady's Man.
We know from Blind Spot that Eames's home is located in Rockaway Beach, Queens. Brady also mentions being in the Rockaways during Endgame (implied with Frances). Later, in Ladies Man, we learn that Eames has moved at some point to the Corona neighbourhood at the opposite end of Queens.
That move is briefly addressed in this story.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Sexual assault, trauma, and violence
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex
Ross stood in front of the board in the conference room. Eames was hovering just out of reach—close enough for support but at a safe distance where Bobby didn't feel suffocated.
Goren was sitting at the table, focused on everything and nothing all at once.
His eyes skimmed across all the media on display. A mix of photographs, notes, crime scene reports, diagrams, and old news clippings littered every available inch of space, a wall of women. It was impossible to know who was a victim and who was lucky enough to have had their interaction limited to a photograph.
Robert Goren allowed himself to slip into it.
He was too deep now to pull back, chasing a spectre. Goren was like a child running toward no particular place, twisting and turning, darting just out of reach and down a different path all because he didn't want the chase to end.
Because if it did, he would be forced to confront the disturbing truth about his mother and Mark Ford Brady.
The truth about himself.
"He's toying with you," said Captain Ross. "Now you're personally invested."
Goren ignored him.
"He's got you exactly where he can control you," Ross continued.
Goren scoffed, smirking as he shifted in his chair. He was projecting confidence, but the assurance in his voice belied just how terrified he truly felt.
Robert Goren stammered and fidgeted when he was onto something, when he felt good about an idea, or excited for a theory. He couldn't help it. His brain worked faster than the rest of him and that boundless energy had to come out somewhere.
He was cool and collected when he was afraid. Intimidated.
Alone.
"No. No. He's not in control of me," Goren asserted. "I can handle him."
He needed this. He needed to feel like he was in control of something.
His mother was dying. And it didn't matter how many scientific journals he read or phone calls he made, appeals, or requests he submitted.
"I can handle him," Goren echoed.
A sympathetic look crossed Captain Ross's face.
"You don't need this in your life right now, Detective," Ross said.
The room fell silent.
Goren's posture stiffened. Eames could feel the cold fury that radiated off of him. Captain Ross felt like he'd just put his foot on a landmine and, no matter what direction he moved, the pressure would set it off.
"You don't know what I need," Goren spat.
His face grew warm. Goren rocked in his seat as he addressed the Captain. Eames wanted to step in, but she knew it was best to let him blow off some steam first. His life had been a pressure cooker for weeks.
And if there was one thing Robert Goren did above else, that was compartmentalising his stress and trauma into neat little boxes in the recesses of his big, beautiful brain.
"You don't know," Goren went on. "You don't know who I am. You don't tell me how to think."
He didn't raise his voice like he did during interrogations. That was all an act designed to set people on edge. And it worked. Because most of their suspects (and many of the staff) found the Goren tap-dance routine unsettling.
Look at my hands, not my feet. Keep your eyes on the birdie and…
WHAM.
That's when Goren would drop whatever observational or evidentiary left hook he'd managed to sneak past the suspect's defences.
Goren's 'performances' were legend.
But as he spoke now to Captain Ross, Bobby didn't yell or stalk the shadows of the room.
Somehow, Eames thought this was worse.
Ross had already given Goren as much leeway as he could. He pitied the man. But the clock was running out to get answers from Mark Ford Brady and Danny Ross simply couldn't give Goren any more time to chase ghosts.
"You're off this case, Detective," Ross announced.
Goren sat there in silence as Eames followed Captain Ross out into the bullpen. Goren could hear her just beyond the glass, pleading on his behalf for reinstatement.
He's exhausted. His mother is dying.
He's the only person that can get answers from Brady before his execution.
In another life, she'd have made an excellent media relations coordinator for crisis situations.
Goren knew that behind that closed glass door, Eames was putting her own reputation on the line to protect him—and not for the first time.
Eames had been cleaning up the mess of Hurricane Bobby for the better part of six years.
Though Goren always had her back, he could not recall the last time that he'd had to stake his own reputation and career to justify her erratic behaviour.
Eames had never put him in that position.
She didn't need handling. There was no destruction left in her wake. Alexandra Eames could handle herself just fine.
Hell, even the one time—the one fucking time—when she needed Bobby most it had still fallen on Eames to rescue herself.
Sure, Goren had been there for the aftermath.
He sat by her hospital bed. When she was released, Goren invited Eames to stay at his place until the CSU team finished at her house and the doors could be replaced.
And when Eames needed to remind herself that there was a difference between sex and rape, that she was in control, and that she could take pleasure in it—that she was something more than meat on a hook—he'd been there for that too.
Goren was still lost in his own thoughts when Eames returned.
She quietly closed the door and sat down on the edge of the table.
"The Captain agreed not to pull you from the case."
She paused.
"But maybe it would be a good idea if I went to see Brady alone? You know, shake him up a little?" Eames suggested.
Goren sat back in his seat, staring up at the halogen light above as he shook his head in disgust. He knew what she was doing.
"Don't," he said.
"We might be able to use—"
"Don't," Goren warned, dropping his voice.
Eames fell silent. She turned to Goren. Her lips went thin.
"Do not come in here and pretend that Ross's orders are fresh ideas. It demeans you, Eames. And you are far more compelling than that," Goren said.
He took a heavy breath.
"Do you know what I first came to appreciate about you, Eames?"
"Bobby—"
"You were straightforward. Honest with me. You didn't treat me with kid gloves or gossip behind my back. You gave me respect and you pushed back on my bullshit when I needed it."
A beat passed.
When Alex spoke, her voice was distinct from her usual dry, biting wit.
"It's not your fault that your mother is dying," she said.
She reached for Goren's hand, gently laying her own atop his. It was a risk while on the job, but a calculated one. Eames was banking that no one would bat an eye given the circumstances.
Goren glanced down at her hand atop his own. His hand slipped out from under hers as he retracted it. Goren leaned back in his seat and locked eyes with Eames.
They stared at one another for a cool minute.
They were standing at the edge of a precipice, debating whether to step over the edge or pull back.
She knew he was in a fragile place. The situation with his mother had slowly eaten away at Bobby for years. Now that she was at the end, a lifetime of emotion came to a head.
Love was not linear.
There simply wasn't time for Bobby to work through all of the grief, anger, trauma, and regret. Goren had collected each of those moments, every memory and strain, like a series of individual twigs all neatly collected in a little pile, ready and assembled.
And Mark Ford Brady was as good as a lit match casually tossed on the tinderbox of Bobby Goren's soul.
Bobby was awaiting the moment when it would all go up in smoke. He didn't know if the experience would be freeing, cleansing in a way like when a wildfire purged the deadfall of a forest or if it would leave him a hollow shell of his former self.
That was the problem with fire—it was difficult to control.
"Thank you," Bobby said.
Eames tensed. She could tell from his tone that he wasn't sincere.
"I mean it. Thanks. Just like that I'm better," he said, snapping his fingers.
Bobby chuckled and shrugged his shoulders, exaggerating the gesture to rub it in.
"Gee, I wonder why I didn't think of that sooner?" he added.
Eames simply got up from the table.
"I'll be at my desk."
She left without another word, giving Bobby his space.
In the end, Eames did go to Brady alone.
Bobby was in Carmel Ridge at his mother's bedside when she passed.
He should have known what it would be like. Bobby had trained as a profiler. He should have been able to predict that those last few moments together would have been as pain-riddled and uncertain as his volatile childhood.
Instability was the hallmark of the Goren household, the one constant that Bobby could rely on.
Bobby reached for his mother's hand. She'd always been lithe. Now she seemed frail, more drawn than he could ever recall.
"I want to tell you something," Frances said.
She didn't have the strength to squeeze his hand.
"Your father wasn't around much. He was away a lot. A lot."
She paused to take a ragged breath.
"And Mark was on leave. I… I asked him to put up some shelves. He would come out… out and help around the house," Frances continued.
Bobby sat perfectly still as he listened to his mother spell out the horror Goren had tried to avoid since it popped on his radar twelve days earlier.
"Mum? Are you saying that when he visited that…"
Bobby couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. He was watching his whole world collapse around him—helpless to stop it.
Even in skipping the visit to Pennsylvania, Mark Ford Brady still found a path to tear away Bobby's very sense of self.
Bobby wasn't sure if he was genuinely curious or just torturing himself.
He had to know.
"Mum. This is very important. The… the Autumn before I was born… um—"
Bobby's voice sounded foreign. Pleading.
Frances's head flopped back and forth on her pillow. Her eyes were half open as she gazed at the bright hospital light overhead.
"I don't understand why it's so important," she said in a hazy voice.
"Mum? Mum."
Bobby could tell he was losing her. She was slipping away. And he feared that it wasn't to sleep. Ten days earlier, she'd had a burst of energy. It faded as quickly as it came on. Since that time, Bobby had watched her drift in and out between agonising pain and sleep.
There were rare moments of lucidity. Bobby had a sinking feeling this would be the last one.
"I need to know," he said.
His mother's eyes flew open and went wide with rage. She gripped Bobby's hand with strength he didn't think she was capable of still possessing. In an instant, he was eight years old again—taking the blame for something Frank did, protecting his brother, bracing himself for the belt.
Frances's drawn face soured. Anger flashed.
"You do not need to know," she spat through clenched teeth.
She collapsed back against the bed, breathing hard from the exertion. Bobby couldn't bring himself to push her any further. She wasn't a perp. She was his mother.
As complicated and problematic as their relationship was, Bobby still loved her. He felt responsible for her.
Someone had to be.
And Frank wasn't going to do that. Their father certainly never had.
Goren surmised it was probably a good thing Mark Ford Brady never had the chance to take care of his mother, or she might very well have been nothing more than memory and a picture in his scrapbook.
"Let's talk about something else," Bobby suggested as he patted her small hand.
Now he felt guilty. He'd chastised Eames earlier—now here he was using the very same approach.
"I never knew," Frances murmured. "I just never knew for sure."
She blinked slowly, rasping for each breath.
"Bobby, listen to me. I couldn't be certain."
Her wrinkled brow was deeply furrowed. She looked tormented. Bobby didn't want her final moments to be painful.
"I love you, you know? I love you, mum," he said.
"Why do we have to have to talk about him?" Frances demanded.
"We don't have to—"
"Why do you always do this?" Frances hissed. "Why, why, why do you have to be like this?"
Her breath stuttered. Her grip on Bobby's hand went slack.
"Mum?" Bobby asked softly.
He forced a wan smile as he stroked her hand. She did not respond.
"Mum?"
This time, his voice cracked. Bobby scanned his mother, waiting for any sign of life. He counted each second as he watched for her chest to rise and fall with her next breath. Each second was more agonising than the last. Bobby grew increasingly agitated, rocking back and forth in his seat as he convinced himself to buy into the delusion that she wasn't gone.
Any moment now. C'mon mum.
Instead, there was only stillness.
Goren sat in the darkness of her hospice room until the staff ordered him to leave.
For years, Bobby wondered what it would be like to be free of the time and financial obligations of caring for his mother (not to mention the mental toll).
Now that he was finally free, all he felt was a sense of emptiness.
And regret.
No matter what he did, no matter how hard he worked, or how many hours he spent on the phone or driving up to spend his limited time off with his mother, Bobby had never been good enough.
And in her final moments, that was what Frances Goren fixated on. Her final, biting words haunted Bobby.
Why do you have to be like this?
Bobby could bury his mother. He would never be able to bury the scars she left on his soul.
Bobby loved his mother—he was also terrified of her. He'd dedicated his entire life trying to be enough, trying to show her that he was a good son.
If he truly was Mark Ford Brady's son, it would explain why she considered Frank her 'golden boy.' It made sense why she could never find it in herself to give Bobby the same attention and affection.
He was a reminder of the man that hurt her.
Sure, his 'father' (and Bobby used that term loosely)—good old Billy Goren—had hurt her too. He drank and gambled, disappearing for weeks at a time. He stepped out on their marriage time and time (and time) again.
Billy Goren was a bastard.
But Mark Ford Brady was a monster.
And Bobby wasn't sure which of those unsavoury prospects was truly dear old dad.
It seemed a sick, cruel twist of fate that she left him no answer—teasing him only to succumb to death just shy of the grand reveal.
It left Bobby with an impossible choice.
There were ways to find the answer. He could obtain Brady's DNA. That's probably what the old bastard was hoping for. Bobby just wasn't sure if he wanted to know.
Perhaps it was what he deserved for not believing in fate?
Goren didn't remember the drive home.
He arrived shortly before midnight and sat in his car for fifteen minutes before he worked up the nerve to walk into his building. He climbed the stairs slowly. He was in no particular hurry to get there.
All he had waiting for him was a dark flat.
Bobby slipped his key into the lock. He was still out of it as the tumblers clicked. He didn't bother to check the mail downstairs or to turn on the light.
He couldn't even bother to take his shoes off.
There was a bottle of whisky and a carton of smokes waiting for him on the counter. Eames hated his smoking, but she didn't begrudge him this comfort.
Not tonight. Eames thought.
"How is she?"
The smooth tenor of her voice was not out of place in the darkness. Eames had a key. She picked up the whisky and smokes, some meals for him, and a few other things she suspected he would need. She took the liberty to let herself in and to wait.
When he didn't answer, she tried again.
"How is she?"
Bobby remained silent. He gestured vaguely. He was not ready to have that conservation.
Bobby should have known that he couldn't fool her. Eames knew when is lying. She was perceptive like that. It was one of the many qualities Goren admired in his partner.
Alex got up from the sofa and padded across the floor into the kitchen. She was still dressed from work and Goren realised that she must have come straight from her interview with Brady, driving back from Pennsylvania—likely to ensure she was there for him.
She could not tell Bobby that she'd white-knuckled it back from Pennsylvania. She could not tell him about her experience alone with Brady and how it hit every raw nerve of her trauma.
Eames wanted to be there for Bobby—she also needed to be there because she couldn't be alone after her afternoon with Brady.
Bobby rummaged through the cupboards for a clean glass.
"You finished with Brady and came here."
It wasn't a question.
"Was it bad? Did he rattle you? That's why I didn't want you to go alone. He wanted to get you alone, to get under your skin, Eames."
They both knew Bobby was projecting.
"What happened?" Eames inquired.
Bobby did not turn around.
"You're his type, you know? Gave him everything he wanted in going up there on your own," Bobby spat as he thrust his arms out in frustration. "One last thrill. One more chance to terrorise another victim before the stroke of midnight."
Eames didn't spook.
"Why are you avoiding my question?" she asked.
Goren wheeled around, towering over his partner. He liked to use his size to set people on edge, to intimidate them into talking. Unlike the suspects in their interrogation room, Eames had seen this act enough times not to fall for the bluster.
"Bobby?" she prompted.
"Did he talk about how he liked to lure them in?" Bobby asked.
Eames was familiar with Brady's cases. She knew the details. Bobby understood this, but it didn't stop him.
"Person after unsuspecting person fell for that disarming handyman charm," Goren scoffed. "And… and he got you, too? Huh?"
Eames remained silent. He was bitter about his mother, and she was his chosen target. It wasn't exactly healthy—but he needed to get it out.
Eames could take it.
"Sometimes two at a time. One victim listening while he raped, brutalised, and murdered the other," Goren went on.
It was a trait that Mark Ford Brady and Jo Gage had in common.
Eames's body stiffened. Bile collected in the back of her throat.
"And the other one just had to lay there waiting. Like a preview of what was to come," Bobby said with disgust.
When his partner remained steely, Bobby decided to come in with the haymaker.
"He knew about Jo Gage. He told me when I was in with him. Alone. He knew you were taken. He pieced it together from the trial coverage."
Eames stood there, staring back at Bobby with her kind, soulful eyes. She wasn't mad.
She pitied him.
"He USED you, Eames!" Goren roared.
Goren didn't need to protect her—not that such information absolved him of feeling that responsibility. Eames was the better detective. She could handle herself.
She was the better shot.
But the thought of her alone with Brady and knowing that he'd intentionally used that interview to retraumatise her made him sick.
"But of course, you didn't think about that. You couldn't have seen that coming. You're not a profiler. You're just a cop," Bobby spat.
Goren knew he could go on. There were vile things he could say. But he didn't want to. He just wanted Eames to leave.
She didn't move. And it took all of Bobby's self-control not to break down sobbing at her feet.
Mark Ford Brady told Bobby that if he'd met Eames before his incarceration, that he would have 'snapped her like a twig.'
Jo Gage had certainly tried.
Nichole Wallace called Eames 'pedestrian.'
Is that what you like, Bobby? Her simple mind? Her sensible shoes?
Don't you find the conversation a little… stale?
She's no match for you.
I mean… compared to you… compared to me? She could never be your equal.
I suppose, there is a little thrill in slumming it from time to time.
Eames had been standing on the opposite side of the two-way mirror at the time—and Wallace knew that. She was counting on it. She wanted to drive a wedge between Bobby and the one person he could count on. Nichole needed to isolate her victims first before she could break them.
Eames had stood there and listened to every hurtful word as Wallace taunted Detective Goren, not knowing whether Bobby had sat in silence because he was playing with Wallace or because he'd been reflecting on her observation.
Eames did not allow it to come between them. She couldn't—because that was what Nichole Wallace wanted and Alex Eames refused to give her the satisfaction.
After all they had been through together, most other people would have run for the hills.
Not Eames.
Jo Gage was locked up in a prison psychiatric facility. Brady had been executed at midnight. Nichole Wallace was still in the wind—but she wasn't in the room with them.
No, just Eames.
His unbreakable, indomitable, un-snappable little twig of a partner. The one person that didn't flinch when Goren snapped in interrogation or flung the papers from his desk in the bullpen.
"What happened?" Eames asked.
Goren moved past her to the island counter. He shrugged as he reached for the carton of cigarettes. Eames turned, watching him as he packed them against the butt of his hand. Goren could feel her eyes on his back. It was enough to make his skin crawl.
"It was uh… well, you know how it is," he said.
Goren flipped open his switchblade to remove the foil at the top of the whisky. After ripping out the cork, he began to pour.
He didn't stop.
"Bobby," Eames pressed.
He slammed the bottle down on the counter and whipped around, glaring down at Eames.
"She's dead, Eames. She's dead. Happy?"
"I'm sorry."
"Well, don't be," Goren muttered as he turned back to his drink.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" Eames asked.
Her voice was soft, steady, the kind of stabilising force he needed in his life.
But not right now.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"You shouldn't be alone," Eames shot back.
Goren didn't have a response.
"Let me take your coat," she said.
Eames didn't wait for permission as she moved forward and tried to help Goren out of his jacket. Goren shrugged her off and removed the garment himself. Bobby didn't want her hands anywhere near him.
He sneered as he dropped it on the floor. He was being an arse on purpose in the hope that she would throw up her hands and go.
And it was probably for the best. Eames should have washed her hands of him long ago.
She knew it.
Goren knew it.
Hell, the whole damn team at 1PP whispered about how sad it was that Alexendra Eames, the darling of Major Case, would let her career stall out because she couldn't let go of the dead weight that was Robert Goren.
And they shuddered to imagine the unthinkable reason why.
Goren lit a cigarette. Maybe if really leaned into it he could smoke himself to an early grave in time for Eames to salvage her reputation.
"You wanna sit down or you gonna just ash all over the floor?" Eames asked, cutting right back through the barrier Bobby tried to build between them.
He tensed as Alex snaked her short arms around his frame. She clutched the front of his shirt and laid her head between Bobby's shoulders.
It worked to ground him, to bring him back to the kitchen and out of his mind.
Bobby was working through his grief. Eames knew that. She didn't take the hurtful things he spewed to heart.
Bobby needed his anger, he needed to hang onto that. Because if he let that go, he would be left with emptiness and fear.
"I'm sorry," Eames whispered.
Goren remained silent and unmoving as Eames reached up, working her fingers into the back of his hair.
"I'll notify the Captain. You should sleep," she said, stroking his hair. "Unless you want to sit up and talk? Or we could take a walk and talk about nothing at all?"
When Bobby didn't answer, Eames tried again.
"When was the last time you ate, huh? I'll call for pizza."
Goren shook Eames off.
"Okay. Thai."
"I don't want to talk about my mother," he said.
Bobby took a drag from his cigarette.
"How did it go with Brady?" he asked as if they weren't standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night after he'd dropped the news that his mother just died.
Eames nodded. She put her hands on her hips, hooking her fingers through the belt loops on her jeans as she rebooted.
"Alright. If you want to work, why don't we go through those files the two-nine sent over?" Eames suggested.
It was an active case—but far removed from the likes of Mark Ford Brady.
"Logan mentioned that he…"
Goren put up a hand to stop her.
"Tell me what happened with Brady."
Eames made a face. Goren began to fidget, falling back on that same interrogation technique he used in the office.
"It's a simple question, Eames. What happened with Brady?"
Goren started to pace, his cigarette forgotten on the edge of the ashtray as he stammered through his line of questioning.
He was going into his dance—his tap-dancing routine—the same one that dazzled and confused suspects.
"Did… did he ask to see scrapbooks? Or the crime scene photos from the new bodies? What about you? Did he ask about you? Your family?"
Eames said nothing.
Goren threw up his hands in agitation.
"Of course he did. He was going to be executed in what… ten hours? You were his last chance to torment someone."
It was said in such a casual tone that Goren may as well have been asking if the bus was running late.
"How does it feel being his final victim?" Goren asked, his voice dripping with disdain.
He cut left, clenching and unclenching his fists as he lumbered about the kitchen.
"He chose you. It's not bad enough that he chose my mother. He had to choose you, drag you into his sick little fantasy too!"
Goren slammed his fist down on the counter—smashing the ashtray and sending the cigarette flying into the carpet.
Eames was quick to douse it out.
Goren was barely fazed by the shattered glass in his hand. Eames reached for him.
"Come on. To the sink," she said.
"No. What happened, Eames?"
"What do you want me to say? He's a serial killer. A snake that gets off on hurting women. I knew that walking in," she explained.
Eames took a step back. If Bobby wouldn't go to the sink, she would bring it to him. She found a fresh towel.
"They're all the same when they're in that position. The clock running down," she said, running the towel under the tap.
Eames returned and began to clean his hand.
"He was exactly what I expected," she concluded.
Goren stared. His dark eyes bore right through into her soul. Eames was lying to protect him.
"Why are you here?" Goren demanded.
"We need to clean your hand," Eames said.
"Why are you here?"
He didn't flinch as she picked a large piece of the glass from his palm.
"I asked you a fucking question," Goren barked.
"You really should talk to me like that," Eames said.
Bobby pushed past her and moved to the sink. He didn't want her fussing over his hand. He didn't want her… mothering him.
Goren flung the tap on so hard that he thought he might break the handle.
"You show up. You buy me smokes. You wait for me to get home," he muttered. "You didn't know my mother died. So, I have to assume that Brady said or did something to you and that's why you're here."
Damn him. Eames thought. Goren could see right through her.
"I understand, Eames. You didn't want to be alone. But… but I can't do this right now. I can't be there to take care of you. Not tonight."
Eames baulked.
"Take care of me?" she asked in disbelief.
"You chose to go see Brady on your own. I warned you. I warned you. You know what he's like. This was bound to happen," Goren went on, chastising her.
He was speaking too fast. His emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Bobby could barely finish one sentence before he was bursting with the next thought. His words came out one on top of the other, a jumble of grief and anger.
"You put yourself in danger, Eames. God, what if he would have gotten that reprieve, huh? What if… what if Brady did have contacts on the outside or he called in a favour or some sycophant follower—and you know he's got them—decided it was time to do something to impress old Brady, eh? What then?" Goren ranted.
He shook his finger at Alex and clucked his tongue.
"I can't be there to protect you around the clock."
As if she needed it.
Robert Goren wanted to hurt her.
No, not hurt. Harm.
He knew all the right things to say, every button to push. Goren was dumping salt like a city truck.
He wasn't trying to sow the seeds of friendship, he was hoping to salt the earth to kill any and all hope of ever growing anything there again.
It was an act of mercy.
He was cutting the weight, trying to free Eames of the burden of Robert Goren.
"I lost my mother tonight!" Goren shouted. "I lost my mother. And you have the nerve to show up here—"
Eames yanked on his sleeve, forcing Goren to meet her eyes.
"You want to know why I am here? Look around, Detective. Who else is going to be here?" Eames asked.
She was right.
"Should we call Frank? See if he wants to come over?" Eames asked knowingly.
She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
"Was he even there today?" Eames inquired.
Goren's silence was confirmation that 'Frank the Flake' had bailed again. Bobby didn't have many people in his life. The few he did were not the kind of people he could count on.
His relationship with Declan Gage had soured since Eames's abduction. He had no close friends. His coworkers kept their distance. And the woman that fixated on him was a sociopath that had left just as many bodies in her wake as Mark Ford Brady.
"I'm the last fucking person you have left," Eames declared.
She stepped back and took a breath to compose herself.
She glanced to her right, surveying the main room of his flat. Every available inch of space was lined with bookshelves. It was dark, musty, cluttered.
And empty.
There were no personal photos or souvenirs to remind him of holiday trips or personal accomplishments. He had no fond childhood experience to memorialise on the walls.
Goren's work was his life.
"I will let the Captain know that you're on bereavement leave. When you're ready to return to work, give me a call," Eames said.
She sighed.
"If you want to, that is."
Bobby bit his lip to stop it from shaking.
"If you'd rather stay here in the dark and drink alone, knock yourself out. But if you want to torture yourself, you can do it alone."
She gestured to the room beyond like a maître d.
"Enjoy your table for one, Detective."
Fuck.
Sure, he'd said awful things to her. But Alex knew how to cut him. She'd taken a pipe straight to his kneecap with that one.
"I'll just get my things," Eames said.
She turned to head into the flat proper and stopped, wheeling for the door.
"They're not important," she said, talking to herself as she made a beeline for the exit.
Eames turned the knob and moved to go.
Goren planted his hand above her head on the edge of the door and forced it shut. His shadow hovered over her, illuminated only by the light that came in through the window from the street below.
Eames squared her shoulders and turned back to her partner.
He didn't apologise. He didn't ask her to stay. In fact, he said nothing at all.
"Maybe you should take tonight and get some rest. You can call me tomorrow when you want to—"
Bobby cupped her face. His lips captured her own.
He pressed his body against her. Alex first tensed and then relaxed.
Bobby yearned to pin her arms above to give himself better access to the rest of her body. It was the same move she had pulled on Goren before to render him helpless.
(Not that she needed to do much for Bobby to be completely at her mercy.)
But Bobby knew that was a hard limit—and he understood why.
Eames could barely pull a shirt overhead without triggering the memory of her ordeal. Any time Alex had to extend her arms or reach overhead (which was often given her size), Eames had to stop to remind herself that she was not back in Jo Gage's labyrinth of horror.
When they broke apart, Goren lingered close. He studied her face for a moment, his nose moved across her cheek.
Then he kissed her again. This time, it was not the same heated, desperate desire for physical distraction as the one before. The second time their lips met was languid and easy.
Bobby stroked his thumb across her cheek. His other hand delicately hovered just shy of her waist.
A soft noise of pleasure escaped from Bobby's throat as his tongue skimmed along Alex's mouth. The smell of whisky and tobacco was heavy on his breath.
His face was rough from three days without a shave. It was wholly out of character for Robert Goren.
Sure, his mind was disorderly. His methods were unconventional.
But Robert Goren wore nice suits and high-end cologne. He carried his notes in a fine leather case and could put the sommelier at the Chanterelle to shame.
Robert Goren's clean-shaven G-man look was a naturally built defence mechanism. No one would ever have put up with his attitude and bizarre antics if he dressed like a nutty professor. They'd have written him off as another crackpot protégé of Declan Gage.
This new unkempt look was a testament to just how wrecked Bobby felt—not that Alex was complaining.
It felt like something dark and dangerous had possessed him. This new, shadowy side of Bobby hit all the right notes.
By contrast, Alex tasted sweet. Bobby detected coffee and cinnamon chewing gum—likely from the long drive. He also recognised the sugary scent of the vanilla and amber body scrub that clung to her skin.
Fresh linen. Laundry softener. Lavender shampoo.
It was all there—and it overwhelmed him.
Bobby's good hand, the one that wasn't wrapped in a towel, fell away from her face. It slipped under the hem of her jacket so his fingers could caress the soft skin at her side.
His touch was not hungry. It was hesitant, like reaching out to touch something that might break or flee if approached.
Alex wasn't skittish. Bobby was afraid.
She keened. The tenor of her voice made Bobby's skin prickle.
He wanted more.
Bobby gently squeezed the side of Alex's torso, wordlessly urging her to give him more.
Alex cupped his face with both hands.
"Bobby," she husked, nuzzling against him.
Her fingers worked their way into his hair to hold him in place.
Bobby's lips dropped—first to her chin and then to the pulse point on her neck. The minute he shifted, she twisted his hair.
Warning him.
If you pull away now, I will walk out that door and never return.
Bobby closed the distance between them, pressing Alex against the door. She was trapped between his body and her only way out.
He was sending a message of his own.
Please don't leave me.
Alex's hands roamed over his body. She grasped at the seam of his sweater and Bobby now regretted wrecking his hand on the ashtray.
He couldn't pick her up and take her against the door. The counter was out too. It was still covered in shattered glass.
They broke apart. Bobby gasped for air. Alex's chest heaved as she caught her breath and came down from the emotional swing of this sudden shift.
Bobby stepped back from the door and moved aside, giving her a choice. Alex could walk away if she wanted. Or she could stay.
The queen can move in any direction.
Bobby dropped his gaze to the floor—occasionally sneaking a sheepish glance in her direction. He looked like a child ashamed by his outburst.
Eames moved away from the door. She glanced back over her shoulder into the kitchen. Bobby was trembling, but relieved.
Alex slipped off her boots at the edge of the carpet and then disappeared into the shadows.
Bobby stopped on the way to his bedroom to grab a wrap from the medicine cabinet. He needed to bandage his hand before things went any further.
Once in the bedroom, Bobby kept the light off. What they were about to do was best kept in the dark.
He struggled to get his sweater up and over. It was stuck on his head when Alex slipped out of the darkness to help. Bobby froze as he felt her hands on the back of his arms.
His button-up went next followed by the plain white tee he wore underneath. She had already discarded her own leather jacket before he arrived.
Bobby tried and failed to respond in kind. His left hand was out of commission—and he was useless with his right. His big, clumsy hand fumbled with the buttons of her oxford shirt.
Eames put a hand on his bare chest to stop him. She gently pushed him away. Hell, in that moment she could have simply blown him over like a candle.
Bobby slumped onto the bed as he watched her, utterly mesmerised.
Alex took a step back, slowly popping the buttons on her shirt open one by one. For the first time all day, Bobby wasn't thinking about Mark Ford Brady. He didn't have to dwell on his mother or their disappointing final moments together.
And by the time she was moving on top of him, Bobby had forgotten the world altogether save for the way she rolled her hips and the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
The sound of her breathing.
The warm, safe feeling of the way she held him, knowing that someone so small and sweet could take all of him.
Her half-lidded eyes observed him in kind, raking over Bobby's body as she watched him react to every element.
Bobby felt vulnerable—but not negatively so. When he was underneath her, he didn't need to be the big gun in the room. Alex liked to drive, and Bobby preferred when she did.
The slow, steady pace that was the hallmark of his partner gave way to a faster tempo.
Alex smirked. She traced a hand across her collarbone to taunt him.
He wanted to touch.
Bobby reached for her. Alex smacked away his hand. When he tried again, she caught his wrist and pinned it down.
He whimpered as she started to move faster. The sheet that had sat comfortably at her waist fell away. He couldn't help himself as he moved with her, his hips rising off the bed to chase every stroke. A delicious friction began to pool at his core and Bobby was desperate to twist that metaphorical coil tighter in anticipation of the snap.
A throaty noise fell from Alex's lips.
It was followed by a second, soft sound that could not be more different than the first.
It was barely imperceptible. Alex leaned in close. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, squeezing Bobby's hand tight.
She was sinking like a stone, and he was dangling below her, dragging her down to the depths of his darkness.
Bobby had done everything he could to cut the weight.
It infuriated him to no end that his tenacious little partner hung on with everything she had.
Once again, Bobby was on the verge of breaking down. No one loved him like that. Not Frank. Not Declan.
Not his mother.
Bobby shuddered—a low, guttural groan coming from deep within him as he spilled himself.
Alex sat back and slowed her pace, moving leisurely as she rode out his orgasm.
Then she stilled.
She leaned forward again, this time unmoving. Alex laid her head on his chest, taking solace as she listened to his heartbeat.
Bobby made a move to roll them together. His right hand wasn't nearly as deft as the agile fingers of his left, but he wanted her to find pleasure in this too.
"Stay," Alex said as she clutched his arms in warning.
Bobby sighed. She buried her head against his chest.
"Just stay," Alex whispered.
Bobby lost track of the hour. The clock out in the main room chimed four times. He couldn't remember it hitting three (or two for that matter).
He was lying on his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Alex was lying on top of him.
They were tangled in his sheets and the warm afterglow of sex.
It wasn't the first time she'd come to his bed.
No, Alex was pregnant the first time they'd had sex. They'd just wrapped up their case tracking down an insecure, resentful doctor and his sleazy friend, the spray-tanned vet. The whole case reaffirmed the many reasons why Alex Eames didn't like the dating scene.
It had also been a stark reminder just how lonely her bed was.
Hormones were a bitch.
Alex had made the first move that night and Bobby obliged.
The next morning, they went back to work like nothing happened.
A month later, Eames shared that she was pregnant. They'd been sitting together, nine hours into a stakeout.
Bobby was floored.
Eames wasted no time in assuring her partner that she was carrying a surrogate pregnancy for her sister and that she had, in fact, already been twelve weeks along that fateful night. She'd even brought the documentation from her IVF appointments in case Goren needed to see proof (he didn't).
Of course.
Bobby was smart enough to know better. He should have pieced together that there was no possible way Alex would already be starting to show from a tryst four weeks earlier. That wasn't possible—even for someone with her petite frame.
I'm sorry. I just… I needed to—
You don't have to explain. It's brain chemistry. Bobby had assured her. I'm… I'm glad I could help.
He played it cool like he always did. Bobby couldn't tell Alex that there was a part of him that felt a tiny flutter of… something at the thought that they might share something more than just work.
But Eames? She didn't look excited at all. Eames apologised.
I'm sorry I put you in that position. And I'm sorry for scaring you.
Bobby laughed that off too—insisting it was fine and that he was glad they could move forward without it impacting their work.
Yes. That had been the first time they had sex.
The first time they made love was when Alex came to him after they'd uncovered the hidden prisoners being held at Brooklyn Fed.
Robert Goren was a righteous man. He wanted to believe that there was good and evil in the world. He knew law enforcement was full of shades of grey. He'd been sceptical about the 'War on Terror' and what he saw as reactionary, Orwellian-style crackdowns on personal liberties at the expense of privacy.
But that case had shaken Bobby to his core—and Eames had been there to sweep up the shattered pieces of his soul.
She drove him home from the prison, showed him a tenderness he'd never imagined possible, and then held Bobby together until he felt whole again.
That was the night he lost himself to Alex.
Whatever they were or weren't, whatever metaphorical line in the sand they had tiptoed around for years was gone after that night.
Bobby had fucked up.
He wasn't dipping his toe into the water. He'd fallen headfirst into the East River—pulling Eames along with him.
He should have ended things there. Instead, he let himself be swept away by the current when he took hold of Eames's hand and gave her that look the week later.
By the time Bobby had shown up at her door in the wee small hours of the morning after the Harold Garrett trial, they were both carried out to sea.
Eames stirred. The movement was enough to bring Bobby back from the recesses of his mind, reflecting on what they were (and weren't).
Schoedinger's situationship.
What struck Bobby most was that he felt both vulnerable and so very safe with Alex. She kissed his chest. His fingers ghosted along the length of her spine.
"Go to sleep," Alex said in a gentle voice.
"I can't," Bobby replied.
He would have to. Eventually. He couldn't stay awake forever—though lord knew he'd tried.
"When Joe died, I couldn't sleep. I just could stop thinking that when I did, that would be the end. Our last day together would be over. And every day after would be a day without him."
"Eames?"
Eames.
It was back to 'Eames.'
Bobby's voice wasn't angry—but it was a warning.
"Hmmm?" she replied in a lazy voice.
"With all due respect, I don't want to…"
Bobby paused. He didn't want to hurt her—not now. But he also couldn't handle it. He slipped back into his role as Goren. Goren had no problem speaking his mind.
"I don't want to hear about your dead husband right now."
Goren wasn't great at subtlety.
He sat up just far enough to brush the top of her hair with a kiss, his way to assure Alex that he wasn't angry. Bobby was just emotionally overwhelmed and vulnerable—which was hardly the space to listen to his partner bring up Joe.
Again.
Bobby didn't fault her.
Alex loved Joe. She always would. And there was part of her that would forever mourn the life they never got to share.
Most of the time, Bobby listened. He understood that grief wasn't linear.
He could not admit that there was a small part of him that felt as if Joe's ghost was hanging over their partnership.
It was ridiculous to think he might be jealous of a dead man.
And yet…
Bobby knew that there were things she shared with Joe that would never be in the cards for Bobby.
They weren't meant to share Saturday morning strolls in the sun or double-date nights with the couple next door. Bobby wasn't coming to Eames family Thanksgiving anytime soon.
No, their relationship was straightforward and unadorned. There were no frills and certainly no public acknowledgement of what they chased together in the dark.
"Brady asked how long we'd been sleeping together," Alex said out of nowhere.
Goren stiffened.
"He asked you that?"
"I didn't take the bait," Eames assured him.
She chalked his knee-jerk reaction up to the grief over his mother's death.
Brady was hardly the first perp to ask that question.
The same accusation had been hurled enough times that it no longer rattled her.
They'd faced it from any number of suspects before, usually when they were closing in. And it wasn't limited to the two of them—any pair was liable to be on the receiving end of that particular line.
It wasn't new or clever. Nor did it have anything to do with the details of their actual relationship.
During one of his favourite interrogations, a homophobic suspect had tried to rattle Goren that way. Mike Logan had been only too happy to step in as the pair of them leaned into the act to throw the perp off his game.
Suspects asked questions like that all the time and that was why Eames couldn't understand Bobby's reaction.
"He asked you that," Goren repeated. This time it wasn't a question.
Eames shrugged it off.
"He was a perp in prison trying to get his jollies off one last time."
Goren was in disbelief. He stammered, struggling to find the words to adequately express his rage over this… this intrusion into his life.
Eames began to regret sharing that tidbit. Bobby had asked earlier. She figured he would want to know and thought it was safe now that he'd come down from the ledge.
"We've been partners a long time. You know that perps say those things just to get under our skin," she reminded him.
"What else did he ask?"
Goren was singularly focused now. His mother's confession (if you could call it that) was still fresh in his mind.
"Bobby, I don't—"
"What else did he ask?" Goren demanded.
He gripped her bicep, compelling her to spill the details from her afternoon with Brady.
"He tried to fluster me. You know how he is. Bobby, I'm fine," Eames insisted.
Goren dropped his voice low.
"What else did he ask you?"
Eames let out a small, irritated sigh in response. She'd hoped to avoid the analytical spiral. She should have known better.
"He asked what Nathan was like. If he was a good boy," Eames confessed.
She hissed and yelped in pain as Goren inadvertently tightened his grip on her arm. Bobby immediately released it and apologised.
"You told him about Nathan?" he asked, massaging the spot.
He was furious and shocked that Eames would even consider discussing that information with a man like Brady.
Eames sat up and made a face. For a moment, Bobby thought she might pop him square on the nose.
"No," she said, stunned that Goren could even think that.
Nathan was her nephew, the child Eames had given birth to three years earlier as a surrogate for her sister.
There was no way in hell she would ever give that information to a man like Brady.
Brady already knew—and Eames had done her due diligence after leaving the interview to find out just how and why Brady had those details.
"He came across a photo of us in the paper. You and me. It was from that Hankel Holdings case when I was pregnant."
The Times had done a spread on the trial that included a photo of Goren and a heavily pregnant Eames. That was the nature of Major Case—they covered high profile crimes and that came with an element of publicity.
"Search history from the computer prison system showed that Brady did his homework on us."
Brady had been savvy enough to use public news clippings to sleuth out an article about Officer Johnny Eames's retirement and the obituary of his wife from the 80s.
"It didn't take all that many steps to find my sister's name and from there, Nathan's birth announcement," Alex said.
She was shockingly calm about the whole thing.
Alex hadn't been hours earlier when she'd frantically phoned her sister to check on their wellbeing.
But Nathan was fine (even if he was too busy playing with his fire engine to come to the phone).
"Brady did his homework and so did I," Eames explained. "He's got no contacts. No finances. No allies. And he was executed at midnight. I got the text from the warden while I was waiting for you."
He was no threat. He was a lonely old man.
"Bobby, he's gone. Just let him go. We never have to think about Mark Ford Brady again," Alex said.
If only it were that simple.
Alex grumbled. Her shoulders slumped as she sighed heavily. She could practically hear Bobby thinking.
She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his furrowed brow.
"Stop thinking about him," Alex pleaded.
"Did you tell him anything about Nathan? What did he want to know? Did he ask to give him anything or to—"
"Why are you like this?" Alex asked.
Why are you like this?
It was the same thing his mother wanted to know in her final moments.
And Bobby didn't have an answer.
Hot tears flooded his eyes. His breath hitched.
"I… I don't know," he managed to choke out before he broke down.
He regretted that he never brought Eames to meet his mother. Frances had asked—several times and ever more pleadingly in her final days.
Bobby had never told her about Alex.
It was a shame.
His mother would have liked Eames. A lot.
She probably would have tried to set Alex up with Frank and told Bobby to steer clear, to 'leave that nice girl alone' because Bobby wasn't good for her.
Alex held Bobby until he cried himself to sleep. She stroked his hair and murmured sweet things against his ear.
In the final moments before sleep took over, Bobby considered that his mother was right about one thing.
He wasn't good for her.
It snowed the morning of the funeral.
Eames picked Goren up. They rode in silence the whole way out to Most Holy Trinity Cemetery.
Though the Church had lifted its ban on cremation in 1963, Frances Goren still wanted to be buried.
And she wanted to be buried in Brooklyn.
Bobby made sure that happened.
It was warm enough that the snow didn't stick to the ground. Though still cold, most of what had accumulated over the last few weeks was now gone. And patches of brown, dormant grass lay bare.
It felt oddly fitting. The greenery waiting to emerge once spring arrived felt symbolic of the life Bobby could now have free of the role of caretaker to his mother while the snow that fell reminded him this was a sombre day.
The chill of winter still clung in the air and made the back of his throat hurt—just like the grip that Brady still held over Bobby from beyond the grave.
It was a small, graveside service.
There were only a handful of people that came.
Ross was there along with Detective Logan. ADA Ron Carver came to pay his respects along with his wife.
Their former Captain, Jimmy Deakins, had come too. He was good like that.
Rodgers was there as well. She didn't bring flowers. Instead, she brought him a bottle of bourbon. She gave him a big hug as she whispered in his ear.
Don't drink it alone, big guy.
Frank was noticeably absent.
There wasn't much to be said. The whole thing was done and over with all too quickly for Bobby's liking.
It felt so callous to reduce a lifetime to a few words and the same recycled sentiments that had already spoken three times that week in the same cemetery.
Bobby should have resented his mother. He could easily fault her for the instability of his childhood, her refusal to seek help until it was forced upon her, for constantly demeaning his own accomplishments in favour of overlooking Frank's medical, legal, and emotional failings.
But he didn't.
Bobby didn't see his mother as a burden. He saw her as a person, someone deserving of love and respect and time—even as she lashed out at him and put him down.
And as the priest concluded his service, Bobby felt guilty.
He couldn't shake the notion that he had disappointed his mother right up to the end of her days.
One by one those few that had shown to support Goren bid him farewell. Deakins was the last to go, bidding Eames and Bobby a fond farewell and extending an invitation to catch up in the future.
And when they were gone and Eames and Goren found themselves alone, Alex slipped her hand into his.
They stood together in silence until Bobby finally took a heavy breath.
"It's time," he announced.
Eames turned the ignition.
"Do you want to stop somewhere? Get something to eat?" Eames asked. "Or we could grab a coffee and go watch the harbour for a while?"
They did that sometimes after a tough case. Eames would park by the harbour, and they would sit for hours saying nothing at all.
Goren shook his head.
"No. Not today," he said in a strange, faraway voice.
Eames walked him up to his flat and stayed. The temperature outside dropped and the snow that had been falling steadily since the morning began to accumulate.
Eames made a pot of coffee and then they made love slowly. When they finished, Bobby curled up in her lap and wept.
Alex said nothing. She simply held Bobby as he finally allowed the sorrow to pass over him.
When there were no more tears to shed, they made love again.
The second time it was frantic. There was no sound save for the obscene noise of his hips smacking against her body, Bobby grunting and growling as he worked out his anger.
And when he was done, he kissed every spot he'd made sore.
He poured them both a glass of the bourbon from Rodgers. Alex climbed into his lap and put her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence together watching the snow fall on the street below.
It was a good bottle. Rodgers knew her bourbon.
Don't drink it alone, big guy.
Coming from anyone else, Goren would have suspected it was a dig.
But not her.
Rodgers was, in many ways, like Eames. She gave it to ya straight, her blunt style and biting wit enough to charm even the brooding Detective Goren. And she was one of the only people at NYPD that treated Goren with respect.
Goren had once overheard her defending him in the canteen when some of the uniform officers thought he was out of earshot.
Rodgers had put them in their place with her sharp tongue.
She didn't know Goren was listening just around the corner. And he'd never told her he knew—she would probably give him a verbal lashing for eavesdropping.
As Alex and Bobby sat together on the sofa, Bobby's mind began to wander.
Rodgers was a good person. And she would understand the need to be discreet without pressing back on the reasons why.
Yes, he could trust Rodgers.
"Mark Ford Brady?" Rodgers asked. "Didn't the state of Pennsylvania just eighty-six his caboose?"
Goren dug his hands into his pockets and nodded. He couldn't afford to irk Rodgers by fiddling with anything in her lab, not when he had come to beg a favour.
"I need you to pull his DNA files from the database," Goren said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Rodgers crossed her arms and eyed Goren with heavy suspicion.
"You can pull the files from the database," she said knowingly.
Goren dropped his gaze to the floor.
"Yeah… but I can't check them against another sample."
"Is this for a case?" Rodgers inquired hesitantly.
"No."
If nothing else, Goren was honest.
Rodgers knew they were still trying to piece together the clues left in Brady's scrapbook and she hoped against all odds that this was all Goren was asking.
She wouldn't put it past Goren to bring in an illegally obtained DNA sample just to prove a theory.
"Was this sample obtained legally?" Rodgers asked.
"It's mine," Goren announced.
Rodgers didn't have to ask. There was only one reason why Goren would want to check his DNA against Brady's. So, instead of prying into his personal life—she jumped right past that.
"Are you sure you want to? What does it change?" she asked. "He's dead, Goren. And unless I'm mistaken, you met him what… once?"
Goren reached up and scratched the back of his neck.
"It might have been more than that. He uh… well, I didn't piece it together that it was Brady—"
Rodgers stopped him right there.
"I will run the test. And you have my word this stays between us. I assume that's why you came to me," she said. "But Goren—"
Rodgers paused.
"There isn't a shred of evidence that genetic makeup influences violent behaviour. I can show you study after study on the subject."
Bobby appreciated what Rodgers was trying to do.
"You're right. There's a lot of factors at play. Genetic makeup doesn't determine that, but it can play a role right along with environment, early exposure to violence, instability in the home, absent parental figures, substance use, low income, trauma, gender," Goren rattled off.
He laughed bitterly.
"I… I mean… I'm a cocktail of predictive behaviour just waiting for the right match to light me up," Goren said.
Rodgers felt for him. It couldn't be easy.
"Look, I know you," Rodgers said. "You might be a surly bastard. You brood. You come down here and meddle with all my instruments and it drives me batty. But you're not violent."
Goren annoyed Rodgers—but she didn't think he was a killer.
"And I would stake my medical licence that regardless of what those results show, you're not gonna go out and start a crime spree just because you got you twenty-three pairs of chromosomes from that scumbag."
Goren lifted his head to meet her eyes.
"I need to know," he said softly.
He couldn't live with the uncertainty.
Rodgers nodded in understanding.
"Give me a day and I'll run the samples," she agreed.
"Thank you," said.
He meant it.
"I have a soft spot for misfits. But don't let it get around," Rodgers remarked.