Author's Note: Thank you so much for your support on this story! There's a long A/N here in the first chapter. Future A/Ns will not be this lengthy.
The title for this story is taken from the S5 episode In the Wee Small Hours.
The crux of this story relies on the premise that Alex Eames's pregnancy in S3 is not a surrogacy on behalf of her sister. Instead, Alex has chosen to have a child.
I want to show how the relationship between Goren/Eames unfolds, the process of them both healing from their trauma, and how they reclaim their lives.
Major themes include found family, processing/coping/healing re: trauma, and some good old Detective procedural drama.
Goren/Eames are the primary focus, but this story will include expanded ensemble roles for the supporting characters like Deakins, Ross, Logan, Rogers, Frank Goren, Johnny Eames, and more.
This will be a long, multi-chapter fic. Slow burn.
By the end, I think the conversations Bobby has with Paula Gyson will carry much more weight in the context of this story.
It's my goal to weave this fic into canon by blending missing scenes and narratives that were left open to interpretation in the original series. You'll notice some changes where I've had to finesse the timeline and some details. For example, I've expanded the timeline to allow proper space to explore storylines like Eames's pregnancy, Goren's suspension after Untethered, and the time between Loyalty and their return in S10.
In spite of those tweaks, I've really tried to preserve the essence of the show.
This story begins with a brief scene set in the future before jumping back to 2002 (the end of S2). It will carry on from there through the remainder of the series and beyond.
The bulk of the Criminal Intent timeline occurred in the early 2000s. Bear in mind that there have been significant changes in technology, criminal justice, world events, etc. since that time.
For example, the NYPD did not have a policy prohibiting fraternisation between employees in the same chain of command until 2022.
Please keep that in mind as this story unfolds.
Content/Trigger Warnings
This story is a deeper exploration of the characters and relationships in Criminal Intent. That means some moments will include stronger language and content than typically seen in canon for the Law and Order franchise. However, the majority of this story includes content at or near the level seen in canon in relation to the field of law enforcement.
I will include additional chapter-specific content warnings for any chapter that includes direct scenes/portrayal of that content or for any situations involving anything beyond 'general discussion' of that topic.
AKA: Goren and Eames investigating a hostage situation won't include a c/w. Whereas the chapters that deal with Eames's abduction during Blind Spot will.
Chapter Specific Notes
Hunts Point, Bronx does not have an apostrophe. Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan does. That's not a typo—just how they are.
Like whisky, Robert Goren was an acquired taste.
He knew it. She knew it.
But Alexandra Eames liked whisky.
There was a time in her life when she drank nothing but bourbon. On the rocks.
But those days were long since passed.
No, Alexandra had tasted bourbon and beer. Vodka. She'd sipped fruity little cocktails with umbrellas and could drink her weight in gin on a bad night.
She liked tequila—especially when she got the chance to kick back with her sister and sister-in-law for card games and gossip.
Alex enjoyed a good dirty martini and rum on the beach. Wine went down easy at family holidays. And she used to sip on cheap beer when she watched games with her dad.
When offered a choice, it was strictly whisky—except for those cold February nights when Alex would curl up and watch the snow fall out the window. Those nights, her whisky was accompanied by a shot of blackberry brandy.
Alex liked whisky because she enjoyed the way she could sip on it, the way it burned. She liked the way it made her feel, the way it helped her sleep.
Made her forget.
And remember.
The best whisky took time. It had to mature before it was ready to be enjoyed.
But there was more to good whisky than age. It required quality water, careful distilling, the right consistency, and a solid finish.
That complexity, that intricate balance of flavour, was why Alex adored whisky. It was why she reached for it time and again—to wash away an awful day and to celebrate success.
Alex rolled over in bed and spooned up behind Bobby. She buried her head between his shoulders.
Yes, the best whisky was aged.
The grey hair, wrinkles, and lumbar pain were a testament to the time Alex had put into aging this particular bottle—not that she regretted a moment of those seventeen years.
April 2017 | Brooklyn
Alexandra Eames was glad she'd worn a hat. It was a crisp Spring morning. The air temp hovered just above freezing. Cool air blew in off the East River as Alex ran along the Brooklyn Bridge Park Greenway.
Eames swung left after the Picnic Peninsula Playground at the point where Bridge Park Drive turned to Joralemon Street.
Lulu broke and rushed off in the opposite direction, straining against her lead as she yanked Alex along for the ride.
"No, no. This way, girl."
Alex gently tried to tug Lulu in the opposite direction.
Easier said than done.
Lulu was a rescue. Alex had been hoping for a smaller dog, but her boy had his eyes set on Lulu from the start. She was a Swissie (weighing a whopping eight stone). She'd captured the hearts of her newfound family.
"Come on," Alex said, attempting to coax Lulu away from a dropped ice cream.
There would be no time to give Lulu a bath.
"Home? Shall we go home, girl?"
Lulu perked up. Her tail wagged and jumped in place.
"Come on," Alex said as they turned and ran down Joralemon. They didn't have far to go. Alex and Lulu rounded the corner next to the deli where Bobby liked to pop in for the giardiniera.
Lulu strained against her lead—home was in sight.
Eames had never envisioned moving to a Brooklyn brownstone. Home was on the west side at the junction where Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, and the Columbia Street Waterfront district met.
It was a neighbourhood in flux, a mix of historical brownstones and neighbourhood favourites mixed in with buildings that had been gentrified and split into sleek, upscale flats that appealed to the high-income working professionals looking for a neighbourhood where they could raise a family.
Alex and Bobby occupied the end brownstone on a quiet side street. It was within walking distance of the Brooklyn Bridge Park Greenway and close to the Brooklyn-Queens expressway. Their home overlooked the Upper Bay, Lower Manhattan, and Governor's Island.
They had a backyard and a nice rooftop area. Their home wasn't a rental, nor was it divided between different tenants. Alex and Bobby owned their home—the entire Brownstone.
That was a rare thing in Brooklyn.
A little slice of heaven in the midst of the city.
Eames had been concerned about putting down the money to buy the house. She thought they were better off renting. The home was a large investment. Bobby was pushing sixty and was determined to live and retire in Brooklyn.
And the family had already been bursting at the seams in their Brooklyn Heights flat before Lulu came along.
Bobby had simply walked past it one day when he noticed the 'for sale' sign in the window. On a whim, he called to inquire.
The rest was history.
That had been two years prior. Now that they were settled in, Alex was glad they'd taken the leap.
In some ways, it reminded Alex of the rowhouse she'd grown up in—albeit this neighbourhood was no Inwood.
No one was running a little book out of the local dive. Television sets didn't come off the back of a truck. The pubs were a mix of old local staples and gentrified startups.
Nor was this neighbourhood working class.
Alex's neighbours were a mix of thirty- and forty-something couples. They were artists, attorneys, chefs, publishers—the kind of people that made their own cheese for fun and had the time to casually take up hobbies like canning and blacksmithing.
It was artsy. Cultured. Alex didn't get quite the same spark from debating editorials in the New Yorker with the couple next door as her partner. But it made Bobby happy and kept his mind occupied.
Alex had nothing against those pursuits—she just didn't understand how people had the time or energy.
Most days, Alex barely had the strength to call in for a takeaway Chinese at the end of the day. She had no idea how Bobby managed it all.
He never seemed to run out of energy.
In spite of their hectic lives, he had the time and wherewithal to tend a garden, dabble in beekeeping, and write. He was on his third best-selling book.
Somehow, someway he still managed to squeeze in time to lecture at Hudson University.
Bobby and Alex split their household responsibilities—but Bobby was the primary caretaker as Alex still worked full-time outside of the home.
As she approached the house, Alex spied a familiar figure in the front room. Bobby's shadow fidgeted about behind the curtain.
He called it 'dancing.'
Alex thought that term was generous.
Lulu raced up the stoop and pawed frantically at the door. Even before she entered, Alex could hear the music spill out from inside.
She was hit with a full blast the minute she opened the door.
Alex released Lulu from her lead. Lulu promptly scrambled off and began to howl along with the tune. Eames took off her knit hat and shook out her hair. Then she slipped off her trainers and stepped over to the arch that led to the front room.
Alex crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, smirking as she watched Bobby shuffle about. He was grinning like an idiot. Alex was hesitant to say he was dancing to the beat, because she was fairly certain there was no beat.
At least not one that was consistent.
Bobby turned and flashed her a wry grin, waving Alex in to join him.
"Are you having fun with your bebop?"
Bobby shook his head.
"This isn't bebop. It's avant-garde. Experimental jazz. There's no harmonic structure to the improvisation," Bobby shouted above the mix of horns and drums. "There's no rules! It's freeing! Unpredictable!"
He spun around in place, his socked feet giving him extra leverage on the wooden floor.
"It's… loud," Alex replied.
It was noisy. Messy. Chaotic.
Just like our lives. Alex mused.
"I figured we needed to unwind a little before we go into the city," Bobby explained.
Into the city.
Bobby had lived in Brooklyn his whole life (except for his military service). But now that he wasn't schlepping into Manhattan every day, his Brooklyn accent had become more pronounced.
Alex glanced at the clock on the wall.
"I'm going to take a shower. Will you be ready on time?" she asked.
"We'll be ready," Bobby promised.
Alex cast a sceptical eye around at the scene before her.
"We'll be ready," Bobby echoed.
Alex stepped forward and held out her hands to coax the youngest member of their clan from her father's arms.
"Do you want to come get ready with mummy?" Alex asked.
Little Frankie clutched dad tight and buried her head against her father's shoulder. She peeked out and offered mum a shy smile. There were no hard feelings. She was her father's girl through and through.
And as of late, a constant feature on his lap or his shoulder. She climbed up to sit with him as he worked and protested if papa didn't carry her to and from the park.
All of two, Frankie had already demonstrated that she had her mother's self-determination and her father's curiosity.
"We should get you cleaned up," Alex said, gently trying to move the family along.
She was worried they were going to be late.
Frankie scowled and gripped her father's shirt tight, clinging on for dear life.
"I'll take care of it after this song," Bobby said, failing to mention the song was seventeen and half minutes long.
He rubbed soothing circles on Frankie's back as he kissed her mop of hair. In no time at all, she was giggling again as Bobby spun them around.
"Don't be late," Alex said before turning to head upstairs.
As he watched her go, Bobby was struck by a memory.
2012 | 931 Broadway | Manhattan | Office of Paula Gyson, PsyD
Is it too late?
Bobby shifted in his seat. He leaned forward, resting his hands atop his knees as he watched Doctor Paula Gyson for any clue to decipher the underlying meaning of her shrink speak.
Bobby had great respect for Doctor Gyson.
But it was difficult for Bobby to unpack his own feelings—especially when he'd built up an emotional barrier to protect himself.
Everyone lies.
They were coming to the end of their session. They had gone round for round as Gyson slowly helped Bobby peel back another layer of his trauma.
Bobby had never been one for patience.
"You didn't answer my question," he said.
Doctor Gyson was unfazed.
"You're worried you missed the boat," she said in her signature, smooth tenor.
"It's okay. I can take it. Just tell me if you think I can have what other people have. You know—a home, a relationship. A… a family," Bobby pressed.
"If you want to make that a goal, we can—"
"Is it too late?" Bobby demanded, cutting her off.
He needed to know.
"For someone like me? Is it too late?"
"I'm not the one saying 'no' or that 'it's too late.' You are," Gyson shot back.
She turned toward her client and began to lay out her observation in the same informative, gently assertive tone that Goren had come to appreciate.
"You can have those things—but not when you put the job ahead of the man. And not when you deny yourself what you really want because you feel the need to submit to an emotional penance for the sins of your father," Gyson explained.
A knowing expression settled on her face.
"There's so much more to you than that," Paula concluded.
Present
Robert Goren glanced around the room and smiled.
"Watch out," he cautioned.
Lulu the dog and Jasper the cat zipped by as they chased a rambunctious, giggling little lad around the room.
At four and half, Aiden was a ball of energy.
In the corner, an older boy stopped playing his saxophone just long enough to ask a poignant question.
"Dad? Can I keep this on when we go? Can I wear it?" he asked.
He held up one arm, indicating to his current attire. At fourteen, he was already half a foot taller than his mother—but he was still swimming in Bobby's trench coat.
Bobby smiled as he reached for his boy's sunglasses.
"I'll take them off when we get there, dad. Promise. Please?"
"Just in the car, eh?" Bobby said, agreeing to the compromise.
"Just in the car."
He grinned as Bobby pushed the sunglasses back up his nose.
"Lay it on me, man," Bobby said.
"Bebop for life," the boy replied before he resumed playing his sax along with the music.
Frankie, concerned she wasn't getting enough attention, made a noise of protest.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Forgive me, my lady. Shall we dance?" Bobby replied.
Holding her firmly in one arm, Bobby laid his other hand flat, offering it to his daughter. She put her hand atop his and Bobby resumed shuffling around. Frankie threw her head back and laughed and laughed as papa spun her about the room.
There was a trail of Cheerio's that led out of the front room and all the way down the corridor to the kitchen in the back of the house. The remnants of a blanket fort were strewn about. Aiden ran headfirst into the sofa and dove for cover—tossing the pillows for good measure as he tussled with Lulu and Jasper.
"Lulu!" Aiden cried.
He tried in vain to stop the onslaught of wet, sloppy affection as Lulu licked at his face.
Bobby reached down with his free hand and scooped Aiden up over his shoulder.
"Naughty, Lulu," Aiden said as he hung there.
Bobby just shook his head.
"Awww, it's alright. She's just excited to see you," he said.
Aiden squirmed and Bobby gently set him back down on the floor—where he was promptly tackled by their enthusiastic and affectionate dog.
The music grew in intensity as it approached the climax of the song—horns and piano blaring, fervent drumming, and a long blast from a lone horn.
Lulu howled, joining the chorus. Aiden threw his head back and copied her. Frankie didn't quite understand, but she was afraid to be left out.
In the corner, their older brother blew on his sax.
Bobby smiled as he looked around.
He was glad that he didn't give into his worst instincts, that he was brave enough to confront his own greatest fear—failing as a father.
He was glad he didn't accept that it was too late or let people like Declan Gage or Harold Garrett or Kenny Moran get into his head.
Bobby refused to let the Mark Ford Bradys and Nichole Wallaces of the world win.
Yes, as he watched the chaos around him unfold, Robert Goren was a relieved that he went against his own instincts, that he chose to ignore the voice in his mind that said it was too late.
He took stock of all he'd gained by not listening to that part of himself.
From listening to his partner.
A voice from above brought Bobby back to the present.
Alex called down from upstairs. She had just climbed out of the shower and heard the music was still on and there was no sound of anyone getting ready.
"Bobby?"
Bobby immediately clicked the Victrola off. The music came to a grinding halt amidst a chorus of protests.
"C'mon gang," Bobby said, hustling the kids upstairs.
5 December | 2002
It was only 4:00 PM and the sky was already growing dark. The temperature hovered just above freezing. A light dusting of snow had fallen slow and steady throughout the afternoon.
Eames and Goren had driven out to investigate a suspect's home—one he shared with his elderly and overbearing father. They were hoping to turn up a new lead into their latest investigation.
The case started with two mysterious deaths tied to a storage locker and it led all the way to a scheme involving collector cars.
Eames and Goren weren't looking forward to the drive back to One Police Plaza. Even if Goren kept his questions short, they were bound to hit the worst of rush hour traffic.
Goren made a beeline for the closet in the suspect's bedroom. He was surprised at all to find it both empty and meticulously clean.
Almost. Goren thought as he knelt down and ran his hand along the carpet.
"There's dust on the floor where boxes used to be," Goren observed.
Eames turned back toward the suspect's father for an explanation.
"Your son move them recently? Maybe to a storage facility or somewhere else?"
Stan Coffman, their suspect's father, shook his head.
"No. No, there's no storage. I didn't see him move any boxes."
Before Eames could follow up, Goren rose to his feet. There was something small and shiny pinched between his fingers. His brow furrowed as he turned it over to study the item in question.
"It's a sideview mirror from a model car," Goren announced.
Eames was surprised that he didn't include the exact make and model with that information.
"Roger have kids?" Eames inquired.
"No," Coffman answered.
He seemed almost surprised by the question as if he wondered how these Detectives could have met his misfit adult son and ever thought dear Roger might have the wherewithal to produce children.
"He used to build them. Models. When he was a little boy," Coffman said with a hint of disapproval.
Coffman's face soured as the memories flooded back—the hours his boy wasted and all the subsequent arguments that stemmed from those toys.
"Roger used to blow all his paper route money on those damn toy cars," Coffman grumbled as he eyed the piece in Goren's hand with utter disdain.
"I need to get a cup of juice," Coffman fumed before stalking off.
He didn't want to waste another minute thinking about those toys. It would only serve to work up his blood pressure.
A knowing look passed between Eames and Goren.
"Well, you don't need telepathy to pick up on the resentment in that house," Eames said.
Goren was sitting in the passenger seat. His binder was folded open across his lap. He rested his chin in his hand as he studied his notes.
"Mr Coffman belittles his son, his hobbies. But to Roger, they aren't just hobbies. They're… they're more than that. It's who he is. Who he wants to be," Goren said without looking up. "He's probably felt insignificant his whole life."
"And dear old dad isn't much of a cheerleader," Eames remarked dryly.
Eames steered the SUV onto Hudson street. As soon as they turned, they hit traffic. She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she fell back against the seat.
"What time is your reservation?" Goren asked.
"What?" Eames asked in response.
"What time is your reservation?" Goren repeated as if she didn't hear the question properly.
He still hadn't bothered to look up from his binder.
"I don't have a reservation."
Goren smirked. He did that thing where he stammered, feigning uncertainty to put a suspect on edge even though Goren was perfectly confident in what he was saying.
"I… I… I'm not trying to pry into your personal life. I just meant that you could uh… get out at the cross street and catch the train downtown. I'll drive the car back to 1PP," Goren offered.
Eames scrunched up her face.
"I don't have a reservation," she reiterated.
She could practically feel Goren's grin.
"Of course, you do. You've checked your watch what… six, seven times this afternoon? You're watching the clock like you've got to be somewhere. And you're wearing—"
Goren paused and gestured vaguely.
"All you have to do is take off the jacket and the ensemble goes from day to night," he went on, still speaking with his hands.
Goren often did. The only time he didn't was when his hands were clasped behind his back. Even then, Eames could tell they were twitching to move.
"You're wearing your boots," he concluded as if that settled the matter.
"I wear boots all the time. It's December," Eames pointed out.
"Sure. You have the brown ones. And the black pair. They're sensible. Pragmatic," Goren went on. "But these…"
Goren chuckled softly as he shook his head.
Sure, Eames had worn them to work before. They weren't scandalous—but they were a far cry from her usual pragmatic footwear. These were stylish, tall black leather boots. And with their tall, wedged heel Alex Eames was able to increase her stature a whopping five inches—no small feat given her 5'3" frame.
Small but mighty. Goren mused.
"You… you only wear them when you're going out."
"The last guy that was that into my footwear…" Eames grumbled.
She trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. For the first time since they'd started the drive back, Goren glanced up from his notes to look at his partner. He quirked an eyebrow in her direction.
"Oh?"
"I wasn't his type," Eames said without elaboration.
"He wasn't into women?"
"No. Not that."
Goren paused, cocking his head to the side as he waited for Eames to go on. It was an interrogation trick, one designed to make the suspect uncomfortable by the silence and the stare.
"He had a fetish," Eames said.
Goren laughed. It was the kind of robust laughter that signified sincere interest in her predicament. He shifted in his seat, turning his weight toward the window as he resumed skimming through the case file.
"You know, depending on how one classifies 'fetish,' it's estimated that anywhere from ten to forty percent of the population as some sort of fetish or kink," Goren remarked. "People often conflate the terms. But in reality, fetishist disorder is rare. Something like uh… one percent of the population."
"Huh."
Eames nodded. It reminded Goren of the way parents politely nodded, offering an 'oh' or 'yes' as their children spewed useless facts about dinosaurs on a long car ride.
"So, you're into that? Or do you just like to watch?" Eames asked without missing a beat.
Once more, she'd found a way to make Goren laugh.
There weren't many people that could bring out a genuine smile or laugh from the surly Goren—fewer still that could put him on edge. Alex Eames could do both with nothing more than a well-time remark.
Bobby loved her mind. He adored her dry wit.
"Do you know how many germs are on human feet? Not to mention that there are over 250,000 sweat glands on the feet alone," Goren said. "Bacteria thrive in warm, damp places. And the inside of shoes… well—"
Goren tapped his pen a few times on the edge of his binder.
"It's erm… feet are the perfect breeding ground for any number of possible infections."
"My point exactly. You couldn't pay me to put a foot near my mouth," Eames said.
She'd seen enough of it during her time in Vice to know pleasure came in just about any form one could think of. She wasn't one to kink shame—but neither was Alex above 'kink ask why?'
"It's not entirely unpleasant," Goren remarked out of nowhere.
Anyone else and Eames would have thought they were making a joke. But with Goren, it was different. The timbre of his voice was just too inquisitive.
"Don't tell me, scientific experiment? What do you call it? Empirical research?"
Eames wouldn't put it past him to have been involved in some bizarre undergrad study or to have just finished reading a paper on the subject.
"No. She was a woman I knew in Japan. She flunked out of being a Geisha," Goren explained. "She had these dainty little toes, and she liked to… well, I wasn't into it. But she seemed to like it."
Eames just shook her head.
"No?" Goren prompted.
"No."
"What are you then? A socks in bed kind of woman?" Goren asked. "I wear socks in bed. I have a tendency to kick off the covers, you know? So, I… I wear socks to keep my feet warm. I like to keep my bedroom cold. Promotes good sleep."
It wasn't a line. Eames knew that Goren wasn't putting her on or trying to act smooth. No, he probably asked everyone he could that question simply to sample the population and store it away in that big brain of his.
"No. I don't wear socks to bed," Eames answered. "I like the cool feeling of my sheets just fine."
Goren nodded politely and turned back to his binder.
Despite their rocky start as partners, Goren had come to appreciate Eames's analytical mind and investigative skills. She had a strong stomach for police work. Goren and Eames could bounce theories off one another—sometimes butting heads—but never with the venomous competitive nature that dominated the politics of One Police Plaza.
They were like athletes, duellists meeting on the field, competing solely with the goal of playing the game. And, in turn, making one another better for it.
Three years earlier, Goren was transferred out of Narcotics and into Major Case. He was considered eccentric, unpredictable, and anti-social.
Grating.
At least, that was the word his former supervisor had used for it.
Goren had made a name for himself in Narcotics. He led three significant sting operations leading to nearly forty arrests. Goren himself was the man that investigated and brought down one of the primary distribution networks in New York City—and he'd made no shortage of enemies in doing so.
Goren wasn't satisfied simply pinching the low-end dealers and mules. No, he wanted to go after the people pulling the strings, the ones that were the real power.
Unfortunately, many of those people had ties to the business community.
Friends in high places.
And New York City officials were keen to take interest when their top donors started to complain. It was a running joke that he was the least-liked Detective in all of NYC.
Goren didn't mind one bit. He wasn't in it for the praise or politicking. Nor was Robert Goren keen to move up the NYPD ladder.
He'd taken the job only because he needed to move back to NYC to care for his mother and because he needed the chase.
Goren lived for the puzzle. Some days it was the only thing that kept him sane. In some ways, the job was also an excuse. It allowed him to erect barriers, to keep his friends at a distance.
And Bobby wasn't the only one.
Eames was coming off five years on the Vice Squad where her reputation was divisive.
Eames was a no-nonsense Detective. In her early years, she wasn't just fighting against the prejudice of the brass ceiling or the fact that most of her colleagues didn't think tiny Alex Eames could hold her own patrolling the likes of Hunts Point and Hell's Kitchen.
Widowed at thirty-two, Alex took tough assignments because she felt it was her duty.
She didn't have a spouse or children waiting at home. And she could never forgive herself if something happened to one of her colleagues that did have those things. She could put in long hours, work the dangerous cases, and take the risk because she didn't have a life outside of the job.
She also took on dangerous assignments to prove herself, to prove that she was capable of doing the job and that she deserved to wear her shield by her own merit.
Her father, Johnny Eames, was a popular officer. He was well-liked by his peers on the force and had a way with the public. For years, there were rumours that old Johnny Eames was on the take.
Nothing was ever proven. Johnny Eames retired to the humble rowhouse where he'd lived since 1964. He gave modestly to the Police Benevolent Fund and was active with the Emerald Society and AMVETS. There was nothing to indicate that he'd ever been on the take—even if the rumours persisted.
Alex had spent the first decade of her career trying to prove her own worth from under the shadow of her father's legacy. She didn't want anyone to think her career came at the hands of her father's influence or her husband's coattails.
Her colleagues weren't sure if that stemmed from growing up as the latest generation of a policing legacy or if it was from being widowed at such a young age.
Eames understood the politics of One Police Plaza. But she didn't let it stop her from carrying out her duties as an officer.
Her responsibility to uphold the law and protect the safety of the citizens of New York came first—above titles, above family names, and certainly ahead of politics.
She didn't care about the repercussions of arresting the child of a prominent judge for distribution or clocking a famous business magnet for assaulting a sex worker.
That fair application of the law earned Eames the begrudging respect of the sex workers in Manhattan and the brass at 1PP.
That attitude was the very reason that Eames found herself assigned to Major Case.
It was the reason Goren was moved to Major Case as well.
Captain Jimmy Deakins, who knew the game better than anyone, had convinced the brass at 1PP to give him a new squad. Deakins already had other Detectives at 1PP, and they were good people.
But he wanted a pair of Detectives that weren't interested in playing politics, officers that weren't trying to make some long-term career play for a chance at a cushy promotion or command of their own.
The nature of Major Case often involved dealing with high-profile cases. That meant unusual crimes, publicity, and politics.
Deakins wanted a team that wouldn't be afraid to poke around a corrupt city council member or dig into the details of a crooked cop.
Granted, he got more than he expected when it came to Eames and Goren. Deakins wouldn't put it past them to march right into city hall and arrest the mayor if it came right down to it.
"I take it he's not a shoe salesman then," Bobby said, eyeing her boots.
Eames snorted.
A beat passed before she answered.
"Actually, I'm meeting my sister and my brother's wife for dinner. Sorry, no hot date. Just family gossip and baby pictures."
That was the extent of Alex's life outside of work. She cared for her widowed father and was on-call to babysit whenever she had time off. Alex didn't mind. She adored her niece and nephews.
Goren turned to her and nodded. He knew Eames wasn't putting him on.
"Right. Have fun," he said.
Addendum Author's Note
I got this question on another site where I crosspost and figured I would add an update for clarification. (If one person has a question, I assume they aren't alone in asking!)
The 'preview' at the start of this story features three children but only names two. You didn't miss anything. That's not an error. I've intentionally held back on revealing the name of their oldest boy until we reach that point in the plot.
To clarify, the Eames-Goren clan includes:
- Oldest Son (14). Name withheld for now.
- Aiden (4)
- Frances "Frankie" (2)
- Lulu, the doggo
- Jasper, the cat