Author's Note: Thank you for sticking with this story.
The title for this chapter and then next are intended to flow together.
Please see the end of this chapter for additional notes.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Trauma, pregnancy, miscarriage/loss, abortion, death, and violence
Scene involving: PTSD trigger
Leslie raised the needle as a broad smile broke out across her face.
"Now smile."
Without warning, the door clicked open. Even on the floor with blurred vision, Bobby could see a shadow in the doorframe, silhouetted as the light streamed in from the corridor behind it.
"Aw jeez, Bobby! Gawd. I'm sorry."
Frank put up his arm to shield his eyes and apologised profusely for walking in during what appeared to be an intimate moment.
"Put a sock on the door or something?" Frank teased. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll erm… I'll walk over to that place up on the corner and erm… just have some coffee. You want me to bring you something back?"
When Bobby didn't respond, Frank assumed the worst.
He lifted his arm and stared down at his brother.
"I am really sorry, Bobby. Truly. I—"
Frank caught sight of the needle and stopped. His eyes narrowed as he finally took in the scene before him.
"Bobby?"
"Close the door," Leslie ordered.
"Whoa, easy. Why don't you just… just put the needle down," Frank said.
Needles had always made him uncomfortable. The fact Bobby looked like a stiff didn't help things.
Leslie gestured, threatening Bobby with the needle.
"Close the door," she repeated.
Frank put up his hand and turned on his charm. Leslie may not have been able to tell, but Bobby could sense his brother's panic.
"Just put the needle down, okay? Do I… do I owe you money? If somebody sent you, it's me you want," Frank insisted.
He assumed this was a shakedown over a gambling debt.
"Just let him go, okay? He doesn't have nothing to do with this. I'm Frank Goren. It's me you want, alright? Nobody needs to get hurt."
In a strange way, Bobby was touched. He never would have expected Frank to throw himself on the sword—even if he was miserably off the mark.
Without warning, Frank dove.
There was a scuffle as he wrestled with Leslie. Frank wasn't nearly as tall or big as Bobby. Nevertheless, he had a significant advantage over Leslie's small frame.
Or at least, Frank would have if he were not coming out of withdrawal.
Frank gripped Leslie's wrist as they struggled over the needle. Bobby was still lying on the floor, unable to render any assistance as they tussled.
There was a loud bang as Frank's head hit the cupboard. He hissed in pain and clutched his temple, stumbling toward the floor.
Frank managed to grip the counter and pull himself into a seated position. All too soon, Leslie swooped in to strike.
Frank froze when she cupped his face.
"Don't move."
Frank's breathing became rapid and shallow as he eyed the needle hovering near his neck.
"So, you're the derelict brother," she mused.
Bobby cringed. He'd told Leslie nothing about Frank—though it hadn't been difficult for her to piece it together when compiling her dossier on Goren.
Bobby wanted to scream that it wasn't true. That he didn't think of Frank as just a parasite. He loved his brother and now Frank would die because of him, the whole bloody Goren line extinct in one fell swoop.
"It's a pity, you both dying like this. Do you suppose they'll think Bobby here lost his temper after another one of Frank's mistakes set him off? A fight and then… BAM!"
She flinched, pretending to inject Frank just to frighten him. He shrank away in terror. Leslie cackled with laughter.
"Or perhaps Frank found his dear baby brother dead on the floor? His junkie's heart couldn't take the stress. Heart trouble does seem to run in families," she continued.
Frank trembled as Leslie used one hand to pop open the buttons on his shirt.
"Neither of you is particularly mindful of your own health," she said, chastising them. "At least it makes it plausible for the two of you to drop dead."
"Just… just take it easy," Frank pleaded.
Bobby could hear the fear in his brother's voice.
Bobby had spent most of his life resenting the fact he always had to step in and save Frank—from bullies, drugs, debts, and himself. He bemoaned the fact his own life had often been dictated by the needs of others. It was tiresome to always be the responsible one, the protector.
He'd take it all back if he could only do it one more time, the time Frank needed it most.
Five minutes earlier, Bobby didn't think anything could possibly be worse than dying alone on the floor.
Now he knew it could be.
Because Frank was going to die, and Bobby was helpless to stop it. Even if the team at Major Case did all they could to investigate, they would find nothing.
Eames could go over every inch of his flat. Rogers could work her witchcraft in the lab. There would be no trace of the potassium chloride.
A shadow descended over Bobby.
So, this is what it feels like to slip away.
Bobby couldn't even recall feeling the prick of the second needle. But the light that had streamed in from the corridor outside his flat grew dim. His mind slowed as Bobby made peace with his fate.
His final thought was that if there truly was an afterlife (and if lapsed altar boys stood a chance at going there), if he would be fortunate enough to ever be reunited with Alex Eames—he would owe her an apology.
She would probably just shrug and shake her head, giving him a line about how Bobby wouldn't be the first man to have his head turned by a grifter.
Yes, if there was an afterlife, Bobby imagined he and Eames could make themselves useful tracking down demons of a different sort.
Major Cherubim Squad.
He prayed there was coffee and cold Chinese takeaway in heaven. He laughed at the notion of going undercover, putting some demon on edge, and then whipping out their halos like badges.
The demon would splutter some excuse. Bobby could just hear Eames in his mind.
Whatever. Start talking.
While Bobby floated somewhere between panic-induced daydream and mortal peril, Frank kept his eyes peeled on the needle. His mouth went dry.
Leslie's hand closed around his throat.
"Just relax," she purred.
Frank squeezed his eyes shut. He grimaced. A long, high whine escaped his throat.
And then… nothing.
Frank cracked one eye open. Leslie's posture was stiff courtesy of the gun aimed squarely at the back of her skull.
"Put it down. Slowly."
The needle was kicked away. It slid across the linoleum and hit the baseboard by the fridge.
"Now put your hands behind your back. One at the time."
Eames tightened the grip on her gun. She'd had to turn over her service weapon—but she was licensed to carry. In light of the circumstances, she was glad she'd come packing.
She would have to speedcuff Leslie and was fully prepared for the struggle. Krystallyn Laprade of Booger Hole, West Virginia hadn't come that far to stumble at the finish line.
Sure enough, the moment Eames moved to slap on the first cuff, Leslie made a move of her own—elbowing Alex square in the stomach.
Leslie tried to flee and tripped over Bobby in her dash for the door. She hit the floor hard but didn't stop. Leslie scrambled to get to her feet.
Alex was slowed too having to step over Bobby. She caught Leslie in the doorframe. They struggled for a moment, Leslie giving as good as she got as she tried to break free.
Alex clung on to Leslie's arm to keep her from making a break for it.
"Aargh!"
Eames made a noise of pain as Leslie grabbed a fistful of hair and twisted her fingers there. Eames responded in kind with a swift knee to the gut.
Elbow to the chin.
Left uppercut.
Face to the wall.
Leslie blinked, dazed as she tried to get her bearings. Before she knew it, there was a sharp pain. She felt her arm yanked backward followed by the cold metal of the handcuffs.
"You're hurting me!" Leslie whined.
Alex took a breath to soothe her nerves before she launched into her rehearsed police cautions in a steady voice.
"Anything you do say can be given in evidence. If you cannot afford representation, an attorney will be provided to you," Eames rattled off.
Technically, she was only on personal leave.
Bobby was certain he really had reached the end because Eames was there. His salvation. He knew it had to be some kind of attempt by his mind to sort through grief and guilt in his final moments.
He was certain Eames couldn't really be there.
Alex left Leslie on the floor while she placed a call.
"This is Detective Eames. I need an ambulance and backup to 203 Willow Street. Flat 407. Officer down."
Bobby felt her hand on his neck.
"Yeah. I've got a pulse. It's rapid. Irregular… yeah. I don't know… no. Unresponsive."
Eames glanced over her shoulder at Leslie.
"What did you give him?"
"You're the Detective. Figure it out," Leslie snarled.
"Frank? Frank."
"Hmm?"
Frank was still crouched against the cupboards near the floor as Eames tried to get his attention.
"Frank, do you know what—"
"No, no. Jesus… I… she was on top of him and oh, God!"
Frank clutched his forehead. He hissed as his fingers made contact with the wound there from where he'd hit his head in the earlier scuffle.
Frank brought his fingers to eye level, studying the blood there. He did not have time to dwell.
"Is he… is he gonna be alright?" Frank asked, panicked.
Bobby was still unresponsive on the floor. His eyes were wide open. His body twitched, but he did not blink nor utter a word.
Before Eames could warn him off, Frank pulled Bobby's head into his lap.
"Oh please, Bobby," he wept, cradling him.
"Frank, I'm not sure we should move him," Eames said.
Frank was too consumed with prayer. He muttered a mantra of hushed, quick-fire words as he cradled Bobby's head.
"I can't lose you," Frank whispered.
You and me both. Eames thought as they waited for emergency services to arrive.
Suddenly, Bobby twitched as a muscle spasm rocked his body. Eames's heart leapt to her throat. She rounded on Leslie.
"What did you give him?"
Leslie just smirked.
"You could do yourself a lot of good if you tell me what you gave him," Eames warned. "I will tell the DA that you cooperated with—"
"Oh, I'm not going to prison," Leslie said.
Eames had to give her credit for sheer pluck.
"Do you really think anyone would convict me? An upstanding member of the community. No criminal record," Leslie said. "Arrested by a dirty cop that's supposed to be on suspension. One with a record of shooting first and asking questions later."
Eames's face darkened.
Questioning Eames's integrity struck a chord in a way none of Leslie's little digs ever had before.
"We have ample evidence of your long criminal record," Eames shot back.
"NYPD fiction. He threatened me, you know? I came to him as a whistleblower. And then Jim Schorr and Marty Palin paid Detective Goren to make it all go away," Leslie said as she glanced around Goren's dingy flat. "And who could blame him? He's drowning in debt, Detective."
Leslie Le Zard had drawn her line in the sand.
Frank looked to Eames, panicked.
"She… she can't just—"
"Don't worry, Frank. She's going away for a long time," Eames said.
"The press will have a field day with this case. I'll be out by Monday. And I will never be convicted," Leslie asserted. "No one is going to buy the word of a Detective with a tainted reputation like you, Detective Eames."
"Oh yeah?" Frank remarked.
Frank was fed up. He was rattled—and he wasn't about to let Leslie get away with it.
"Well, I s-s-saw things too. And I've heard p-p-plenty. I'm n-not afraid of you," Frank said.
Like Bobby, Frank's stutter was more prominent when he was emotionally charged.
Leslie snorted with laughter.
"Ah… yes. The junkie brother. I'm sure you'd be a reliable witness if you even bother to show up to trial," Leslie said, cutting right to heart of Frank's self-doubt. "One more checkmark on a long list of the ways you've let your brother down."
Leslie didn't stop there. She threatened to report Frank's whereabouts to his creditors, to place a call to Atlantic City.
"Don't listen to her, Frank. She doesn't know anything. She's just afraid of going to prison," Eames said.
"Think again, Detective. I won't spend a day in prison," Leslie said.
Her attitude shifted. In a flash, she put on the aura of a frightened, shrinking violet.
"Detective Goren took advantage of me. He abused his position as an officer. He forced himself on me and threatened to turn me over to Mr Schorr. He said I'd wind up just like Jim Kettle if I didn't go along with it."
A grin spread across her face.
"Well? What do you think, Detective? It won't win an Obie—but I only need to convince the right people at Internal Affairs. Let's face it, Detective Goren's already skating on thin ice," Leslie said.
The line of Eames's mouth went thin. It was all clear.
"So, that's why you chose him," Eames realised. "I couldn't understand compared to your other marks. But no one at IAB is going to buy this narrative. We have enough evidence to—"
"I have evidence too," Leslie interjected. "There's more than enough of Detective Goren's DNA in my penthouse to paint quite a pretty picture for Internal Affairs."
It made Eames's skin crawl.
"I mean, do you think anyone would believe that I would let that fat fuck flop around on top of me willingly?" Leslie scoffed.
"What was he then? Your insurance policy?" Eames asked.
"I handed you this case on a silver platter. All you had to do was arrest Marty Palin. This is your fault, Detective," Leslie said.
Alex kept her attention fixated on Bobby. Eames reached for his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"It's going to be alright. Ambulance is on the way."
"You're going down too, Detective. But you could get ahead of it all. We could be a benefit to each other. I would back up your testimony and you could support mine. Surely, he must have forced himself on you too. Took advantage of your… partnership."
Leslie was hoping to strike a bargain. Eames didn't bite.
"He's mad. But you? You would have to be certifiable to willingly spread your legs for that out of shape, washed up, middle-aged, mentally unstable—"
"Shut up," Eames barked.
Leslie's face soured.
"Oh my God. You really do care for him," she said, disgusted.
Where the hell is the ambulance? Eames thought.
Only a few minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity—especially with Leslie there.
"I've seen some pathetic things in my time, but you take the cake, Detective Eames. You must have been awfully desperate to tolerate him," Leslie continued. "Does he even pay attention to you? Or is it just about sex?"
The thought left a bitter taste in Eames's mouth.
"When did it start?" Leslie asked. "Did you let yourself go one night? Slip into those big arms because they were conveniently available? Or have you always had a weakness for the emotionally unavailable?"
Eames ignored the comment.
"He risked his whole career. Jeopardised your entire investigation all for a tumble with a practical stranger," Leslie went on. "He's tainted your career. Your reputation."
A simpering laugh followed.
"It only took me days to convince him to push you away. That has got to sting," Leslie boasted. "All I had to do was bat my eyelashes. I knew that first night that he was under my spell. He didn't even bother to put up a fight."
Bobby wanted to slip.
When that failed to garner a reaction, Leslie decided to strike from a different angle.
"You don't matter to him, Detective. You never will," Leslie said.
"Y-y-you should s-s-shut up," Frank said, stepping in.
"He's never going to love you. Not the way you want. He can't. He's too damaged," Leslie said. "But then again, so are you. That's the appeal for you, isn't it?"
She watched with smug satisfaction, knowing that she had hit her mark by the way Eames stiffened.
"As long as his failings are front and centre, you don't have to think about the fact that you're a forty-something widow with no lover and no children and no prospects."
"Don't listen to her," Frank urged.
Eames managed to flash Frank a wan smile. She assured Frank that everything was going to be okay.
Alex couldn't afford to let Leslie get under skin, she couldn't risk lashing out.
"I believe if Detective Goren could speak right now that he would tell you that you will come to know that feeling all too well," Eames said. "Because you're a sociopath, Miss Le Zard."
Alex turned and met Leslie's eye, looking at her for the first time since Leslie's cruel remarks. Eames wasn't afraid of her, and she wasn't going to give Leslie the satisfaction of knowing how close those remarks hit to home.
"And you will never know what love feels like. You're incapable of it," Alex said.
Leslie rolled onto her back. A dreamy sigh fell from her lips as she stared overhead at the ceiling fan.
"Ignorance. Must be pure bliss," she concluded wistfully.
Emergency services arrived along with an ambulance. Logan and Wheeler came to officially apprehend Leslie and had taken her into custody.
Leslie Le Zard did what all manipulators did best when cornered—she had a complete meltdown. Her sharp tongue had barbs for all.
Ross came as well along with more than a dozen uniformed officers and CSU techs. Rodgers was on scene too.
"I'll have to run it at the lab to be certain—but if this really is potassium chloride, I never would have found it," Rodgers commented as she bagged the needle for evidence.
"Detective, can I speak to you in the corridor?" Ross asked.
Eames followed him out into the corridor where Bobby's neighbours were already peeking out from behind cracked doors—none of them surprised in the least that police had finally been called to respond to something in that flat.
They were used to the big, brooding man with an explosive temper and his knack for shouting, slamming the doors, or tossing things about the place.
Across the room, Bobby was seated on the sofa. He involuntarily twitched as the muscle at his side spasmed. The paramedic paused and waited for the spasm to pass.
"You took quite a dose. Normally, this stuff is a local. You know? Just long enough for a few minutes," the paramedic explained. "You may experience some muscle twitches as your body processes the dose."
He clicked on a handheld torch and held up his finger.
"Alright, Detective. Can I have you follow my finger?"
Bobby wasn't listening. His attention was fixated on the scene just outside in the corridor where his partner was in hushed conversation with Captain Ross.
"Mr Goren? Detective?"
The paramedic gently put his hand on Bobby's shoulder to call his attention.
"Are you experiencing any head trauma? Did you hit your head, Mr Goren?"
Bobby blinked as he tried to reboot his brain.
"Do you have any pain?"
Bobby shook his head.
"I'm… I'm sorry. I erm—"
He stammered, fumbling for an answer. The paramedic offered a sympathetic smile.
"It's alright, Detective. Let's just try it again, eh?"
Bobby didn't fare much better on the second attempt. He was too fixated on the conversation in the corridor. Eames crossed her arms. Her brown furrowed. Bobby watched as she took a slow breath in an effort to keep her cool.
"Mr Goren? Erm… Detective?"
Once again, Bobby ignored the paramedic. Bobby's body still bore the bruises from Copa's beating weeks earlier. They had faded considerably, but the evidence was there. The paramedic had inquired after their cause and if there was any tenderness.
"When did you break your ribs?" the Paramedic asked.
Bobby brushed him off, politely declining his insistence that Goren seek medical care at a hospital.
"Excuse me," Bobby said as he got up from the sofa.
He wove his way past the uniformed officers and the CSU techs. He ignored Frank, who was by the door giving a statement to Logan.
Ross and Eames were just outside in the corridor. Ross quietly ended a phone call and then turned back to Detective Eames.
"That was the Chief of D's."
Ross shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was obvious he was uncomfortable.
"He's asked if you would willingly surrender your firearm for the time being," Ross said.
His eyes dropped to the gun holstered at Eames's side.
"I understand you're licensed to carry it. And I know it wasn't fired. But the Chief believes it will go a long way in showing Internal Affairs that you've been cooperative," Ross explained.
The Colt Detective Special had once been Johnny Eames's personal sidearm when he was on patrol. Upon retirement, he'd gifted it to his daughter.
Eames was reluctant to part with it—even for a few nights.
"It's only for a few days. I guarantee you'll have it back," Ross assured her.
Alex hesitated.
"Captain, is that really necessary?" Goren asked, inserting himself into the conversation.
Bobby was concerned. He was the only person that knew how difficult it had been for Eames to return home after Jo Gage.
Until an hour ago, Bobby didn't understand why Eames never moved after the experience.
Now, having suffered his own home invasion (of sorts), Bobby felt he had a far greater understanding of why she stayed. He could learn to live with it. He didn't have the capacity to think about moving.
That dingy flat was his home—no matter how pathetic it was.
In any case, the New York City real estate market wasn't doing much for him in the way of options.
"Detective Eames didn't violate any law. She didn't—"
"Detective, you should really be resting," Ross said in a gentle voice.
"No, what's going on here?" Bobby demanded.
"It's fine, Detective. You should be with your brother," Eames said.
She couldn't meet Bobby's eyes and Goren had too much respect for Eames to give her the 'look' while she was already facing pressure from the brass.
"Right."
Bobby slipped away and back into his flat. Frank was close enough to the door that Bobby could look like he was comforting his brother rather than hovering.
"It's about perception," Ross said. "Why did you drive out here after I called? You were off the case. You know why I kept you at arm's length."
"Erm… after you called, I… I just thought maybe Detective Goren was busy caring for his brother and—"
"And you decided it was time to play Annie Get Your Gun?" Ross asked.
Suddenly, his bluster faded. Ross's expression softened.
"Believe me, Detective, I'm glad you did—I don't want to think about the alternative," Ross acknowledged.
He wanted to think on it about as much as he wanted to dwell on the reason why Eames had risked her tentative position in the NYPD to check on Goren.
"Sir, it had nothing to do with the case—"
"From the outside, it looks very much like you two were working this case off the books," Ross said in a stern tone.
Then leaned in close and dropped his voice.
"And believe me, Eames. You might be better off trying to sell the review board on that excuse and not whatever else may have motivated you," Ross warned.
Ross couldn't tell if Eames was taken back by his inference or simply frightened that she and Goren weren't nearly as sneaky as they thought.
"Captain, I—"
"Detective," Ross said knowingly. "I know you have been covering for him a lot longer than this last case. Your loyalty is admirable, but—"
"Excuse me."
Frank pushed his way out into the corridor.
"Excuse me, Captain," Frank said. "I-I-I called Detective Eames."
Eames's eyebrows shot up.
Frank turned on his act—just bumbling enough to ensure he wasn't a threat and simultaneously charming enough to sell it.
"I guess it's erm… my fault," Frank lied. "I was worried about Bobby, ya see."
He scratched at the back of his neck and flashed the Captain a crooked smile.
"I've had a lot of problems lately and Bobby's helping me through it. Trying to get me clean. But he's been working so much lately and… and well," Frank went on. "Detective Eames she erm… she's been real kind. Dropping off food."
There was kernel truth in there. Eames had dropped by with a meal from the deli the weekend before.
"I was on my way home from church. I was feeling like I might erm… slip, you know? I just wanted to feel good again. And I didn't know Bobby was home. I thought he was out. I didn't know who to call so I phoned Eames and told her I was in trouble," Frank lied.
It was obvious to everyone that Frank was still in withdrawal. Ross could dispute that.
"I had no idea Bobby was gonna be here or that… that lady," Frank said. "Just got lucky I guess."
A crooked smile broke out on his face as Frank grinned at Eames.
"My guardian angel," he remarked.
For once, Robert Goren was grateful for his brother's knack to make even the most ridiculous lie sound so sincere.
Frank had read the room and put his talents to good use—sparing Eames a mountain of career-ending humiliation.
"And you didn't tell me this before because…?" Ross trailed off, giving Eames a chance to speak up.
"Erm—"
A look passed between Frank and Eames.
"Because I asked Detective Eames not to tell anyone at work about my brother, Captain," Bobby said.
He ran a shaking hand back through his hair. He couldn't stand still.
"It's no secret things haven't been easy. I didn't want anyone to know just how bad they'd gotten. And you know how rumours get started," Bobby said poignantly.
Ross wasn't the type to spread rumours or put stock in them—but he wasn't the only set of ears in the vicinity.
There was just enough truth in that cover story to give Ross plausible deniability. He reasoned that even if it was the truth, it barely scratched the true reason behind why Eames was so dedicated.
"Riiiight," Ross replied. "You know, there are resources to help, Detective? I hope you know you can come to me. We could hold a 10-13 benefit or—"
"No, Captain. Please," Bobby said, visibly embarrassed. "Bad enough I'm pushing fifty and well… we've all got bills."
Bobby cleared his throat. He was keen to change the subject. Ross ran his eyes over Goren's exhausted frame.
"You should go to the hospital," Ross said before quietly adding, "if you're worried about the cost—"
Bobby shook his head.
"I just need a good night's sleep, sir," Bobby said.
CSU finally completed evidence collection and photographs of the scene.
Ross offered to put Goren and his brother up in a hotel overnight, Bobby politely declined. He also suggested Goren take some time off.
Bobby needed the time off. Only he couldn't afford to go another day without a paycheck—especially after living large with Miss Le Zard for the last few weeks.
Shortly after midnight, the Goren brothers finally found themselves alone. Frank put the kettle on and urged Bobby to sit down.
"You nearly died, Bobby. Just sit," Frank said as he shuffled about the kitchen.
Bobby collapsed into his recliner and turned his attention out the window. His flat faced west toward Manhattan. Even in the dark, Bobby could tell there was a storm approaching. The western sky was dark and clouded, blotting out what few stars could be seen above the light pollution. He could smell the incoming rain.
Bobby caught a flash of lightning in the distance.
A knock at the door roused Bobby from his dissociation. His head whipped around. Bobby made no move to get out of the chair as he stared at the door. He was suddenly gripped by a newfound fear.
From the kitchen, Frank watched with concern.
"I'll get it," Frank offered.
Bobby closed his eyes and took a breath. He reminded himself that Leslie Le Zard was in custody. It was probably Mike Logan just stopping by to check or one of the techs may have left something behind. Captain Ross could have sent a uniform.
Or Mrs Whatsit from 411.
She'd come pounding on the door before to chew Bobby out for disturbing her peace.
"Naw, come in," Frank said, waving their guest inside.
"No. I should go. Goodnight."
Bobby was up out of his chair in a flash. He practically shoved Frank out of the way as he reached for the door, pulling it fully open.
"Eames."
For the first time since before the ambulance arrived, Eames lifted her chin and met Bobby's gaze.
"I'm sorry," she apologised.
Bobby was at a loss for words. He felt like he was the one that owed her an apology.
"Here," Eames said.
She pushed a large paper sack into his arms. Bobby recognised the savoury aroma of takeaway from the all-night Cantonese place round the corner.
"What's this?" Bobby asked, confused.
"I didn't quite feel right… well, if anyone asks then no one has to lie," Eames confessed.
Bobby nodded slowly.
"Right. You came to drop off some food," he said, catching on.
"I should go," Eames said, pointing over her shoulder toward the stairs.
"Yeah, well. Thanks."
Bobby felt like an idiot because that was all he could think to say.
"Yeah. Night," Eames replied.
She made no move to go. For a moment, neither of them spoke as they stood in the doorway to Bobby's flat.
So much had happened—to them, between them.
They had not truly spoken to one another in nearly three months, not since the days following Frances Goren's death. Bobby had gone radio silent during his compassionate leave.
The Quinn shooting thrust them back together (and further apart).
They'd existed under a cloud for weeks from the Beltran trial, the SnoMint case, Bobby's paternity bombshell, Frank's return, and Alex's slaughter in the press.
There were so many things that Bobby wanted to say—too many for his mind to prioritise where to begin.
Alex too felt like there were things she longed to get off her chest.
During their last semi-private moment, Goren informed her that he was planning to leave Major Case. Ross had received a call from a head-hunter conducting a preliminary reference check.
As far as she knew, Robert Goren was as good as gone from Major Case. Their final case was done. Their partnership was truly over.
Eames averted her gaze and blinked fast, willing herself not to break down. When she turned back to her partner, she forced herself to smile.
"Good luck. I mean it," Eames said.
Bobby was tongue-tied as she backed away.
"Goodbye," Eames said.
She took a heavy breath, offered him a tight, parting wave and then turned to go.
"You're just gonna walk away?" Bobby snapped.
Eames froze.
"You just… you're just gonna leave and drive home and… and—"
Bobby was so flustered he couldn't speak sense. His tone was angry. Outraged.
"DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME!" he roared.
Eames whipped around and stared in disbelief. She took a step forward then abruptly stopped.
"You don't get to talk to me like that," Eames hissed. "I—"
She stopped. Eames put up her hand as if to push away a bad thought.
"No... no. Goodbye," she said in a firm voice.
She was in no mood to get into it. She just wanted to go back to the way things were before, to forget all about everything. Eames knew that could never happen, so she was prepared to settle for a bottle and hot bath.
At least she could obliterate the memory of it for a few hours.
"Please don't go," Bobby called after her.
Eames paused, but did not turn around.
"Eames… Alex, please?"
It was so eerily quiet that the clock on the wall seemed to echo with each passing second. A gust of wind swept past outside and down the abandoned Brooklyn street, kicking up the dust and dried remnants of winter muck. Dead leaves swirled in the air.
Eames, Bobby, and Frank were seated around the table. No one spoke.
The calm before the storm.
Frank's appetite had returned. He dove into a paper box of noodles, devouring them like he hadn't seen food in the last year.
Bobby had opened a box himself, but he only poked at the contents.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
Goren had asked Alex to stay. He didn't explain why. She thought it might be because he was afraid. His home had been invaded, his personal sanctuary violated. It was a fear Eames knew well.
It could equally be because he wanted to clear the air.
Bobby had yet to utter more than two words.
Not that Alex expected anything different. She couldn't allow herself to entertain the idea of an open, frank conversation with Robert Goren. He was like some alchemist's desk full of secret compartments that led to locked chambers that held the keys to buried chests.
There were times that Eames felt like Alice in Wonderland. She had dropped down the rabbit hole and into the long hall full of locked doors that was Bobby Goren.
The quiet was unsettling.
Suddenly, Bobby dropped his chopsticks. He sighed, stretching and retracting his fists in an effort to work out some of the tension. Bobby rocked back and forth in his seat, overwhelmed by nervous energy.
Eames and Frank both braced for a blowup.
Instead, Bobby rolled his shoulders and then took a breath.
"Frank, why don't you erm… why don't you take my room tonight? You've been bunking out here and erm… you should get some rest."
"Oh, I don't mind, Bobby. I mean, it's your place. And you got a bad back and—"
"Just take the bed. Okay, Frank?" Bobby snapped.
He was doing his best to remain calm. Bobby desperately wanted to speak to Eames alone. He didn't want to send Frank away. He needed to keep Frank close and safe. That meant keeping Frank inside his one-bedroom flat.
Bobby didn't want to invite Eames to his bedroom. It was hardly the place for a proper chat. And he certainly didn't want her (or Frank) to get the wrong impression.
Worst of all, Bobby really didn't want to be two metres from the spot where he'd nearly died.
With the approaching storm, he couldn't even suggest a walk around the block.
It was suffocating.
Bobby was too overstimulated to risk speaking. He turned and stared at Frank until his brother got the hint.
Frank stuffed a thick wad of noodles into his mouth and chewed slowly. It took him a full fifteen seconds to realise Bobby was staring at him (and another twelve to work his way through his mouthful of noodles).
Frank swallowed hard.
"Bobby?" he asked.
Bobby's face soured.
"Oh!" Frank exclaimed.
He looked back and forth between his brother and Detective Eames.
"Oh! Aw geez… I'm sorry. I erm—"
Frank stood up. He froze, unsure of what to do or where to go.
"Why don't you go to bed, Frank?" Bobby suggested.
"Right. Right." Frank nodded.
His eyes fell on his half-finished dinner, longing to indulge his appetite now that it had finally returned.
Bobby stuffed everything into the sack and shoved it at Frank.
"Go."
Frank shuffled over to the small corridor that led to the bedroom in the back. He paused and turned, nodding to Eames.
"Thanks. Thank you for the food and the, well… thanks for saving my life," Frank said. "She's a good woman, Bobby."
Bobby shot his brother a look over his shoulder, wordlessly pleading for Frank to leave them be.
As soon as they were alone, silence descended on the table once again.
Eames waited, listening to the clock on the wall as the seconds ticked by. The rumble of thunder grew closer.
"Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?" Eames prompted.
"Not really," Bobby replied.
That was all he said. Eames remained silent. She wanted to give Bobby the space to speak whatever he needed to get off his chest.
But as the minutes went by, Goren kept his mouth clamped shut. It was not the comfortable silence the partners had shared in the past.
As she sat there, Eames discreetly surveyed the room. It was her first real look at Bobby's flat in weeks. The place was messier than she could recall (and not just because of Frank).
Bobby wasn't taking care of himself.
Eames's eyes narrowed as she caught sight of one of the files on the shelf.
Brady.
They never managed to close out all of the photographs in Mark Ford Brady's collection of horrific albums. There were simply too many women and not enough time. The remaining unidentified women had been turned over to the FBI.
Eames knew that Bobby took his work to heart. He often fixated on it outside of the office. Brady had been the final case before his mother's death—and Brady had dated Bobby's mother in the late 1950s.
"You're still looking into Brady's victims?" Eames asked, concerned it wasn't healthy. "Bobby, you need to let that go. He's dead."
"Can we not talk about that?" Bobby shot back louder than intended.
He slumped back in his chair and took a breath, rebooting at a lower volume.
"I'm sorry, that was—"
"It's alright. You've been through a lot tonight," Eames said in a soft voice.
And just like that she had a way of making Bobby feel small.
"What do you want to talk about?" Eames asked.
There she was across the table—patient, kind, still receptive and supportive in spite of everything.
Without a word, Bobby got up from his chair and padded across the room. He reached into the closet and pulled out a locked gun case.
"You should take this until they return your gun," Bobby said as he set the handgun down on the table.
Eames frowned.
"I don't—"
"Just take it, okay? Just… just—" Bobby paused. A nervous laugh escaped from his throat. "I know you're not gonna rob a bank or… or maybe you do."
Eames wasn't laughing.
"Just take it until you get your gun back," Bobby pressed.
Eames carefully slid the handgun back across the table.
"Captain Ross asked me to surrender my personal sidearm. He didn't ask about anything else, and I didn't offer," Eames explained.
Bobby chuckled. He should have known that Eames could take care of herself. She'd never told anyone that she slept with a stun gun within reach of her bed.
Alex had given Joe considerable grief when he presented it as an anniversary gift. She'd never been more grateful to have it than that first night back in her bed after the abduction.
In a strange way, it felt like Joe was watching over her.
A beat passed.
"You were right," Bobby said.
Alex visibly tensed.
"Look, we don't need to go into—"
"About Leslie being a sociopath. About her being incapable of love. You were right. I would have said that," Bobby said.
It wasn't quite an acknowledgement of everything—but Eames wasn't going to belabour the point. In true Eames fashion, she fell back on humour to deflect from her feelings.
"Well, we all have our type. I like to punish myself with detached men. You like sociopaths."
Bobby dropped his gaze to the table.
"She was right, you know?" he said suddenly.
Eames eyed her partner with scepticism.
"She was right about me. I'm… well, I'm me," he said. "I'm neglectful and angry. Aloof. Washed up. Overweight."
He snorted with laughter.
"I'm not good to you. I'm not good for you," he said.
Bobby lifted his head to look at Eames properly.
"And I haven't… I haven't been there for you. Not like I should have been. Some of the worst weeks of your life and I was fooling about like the same kind of men in midlife crisis that I taunt for… for making the same choices I did," Bobby confessed.
"Goren—"
"Leslie is right. I am damaged."
Eames saw red.
"You know that she was manipulating you because that's what she is. It's what they do," Eames insisted.
"You saved me tonight. And you've been saving me a lot longer than that," Bobby said.
At first, Eames didn't react. When she did find her voice, she brushed him off.
"Helluva last case, eh?" she teased.
Bobby blinked in surprise.
"L-last case?"
"You should take that job," Eames said. "I probably won't be back before you leave—if I'm allowed to come back at all."
She flashed him a smile to hide just how nervous she really was.
"It should be me on the chopping block," Bobby said.
"Yeah," Eames agreed.
She wasn't going to offer a false platitude, nor had Goren been fishing.
"I h-haven't applied to any positions," Bobby said.
"Ross got a call from a head-hunter," Eames said. "You… you should consider it. You're way too good to be stuck at 1PP. You could do a lot, you know? Help a lot of people with your skills in the right job."
Goren shrugged.
"I would bet it was Leslie or someone she knows. She erm… she was the one that outed you to Jack Reilly at The Ledger," he shared. "I didn't know about the press. That night. Eames, I didn't—"
She waved him off.
"It's fine," she said, feigning confidence she didn't feel.
Alex still hadn't been home. She couldn't go out in public without getting looks from strangers. When she'd taken Nathan for ice cream, Alex had overheard a table whispering.
That's that bad cop. Killed two men.
"Do you believe what she said?" Bobby asked.
Eames didn't follow.
"That I tainted your career? That you must be mad to put up with me?" Bobby pressed.
"Do you believe what they say?" Alex asked in response. "That maybe I should be fired? Or brought up on charges?"
Bobby's expression shifted as if he'd been struck with a sudden spark of understanding.
"When you shot Jonas Slaughter's son, when you were protecting Slaughter's wife… it wasn't just because you were reacting in the moment," Bobby realised. "You felt a connection to her."
He paused.
"The way the Slaughter family treated her. The backhanded compliments, the little digs about her roots. They never truly accepted her," Bobby continued. "You saw yourself in her. It was the same as the way the Dutton's treated you."
Eames opened her mouth to speak and then stopped, eyeing her partner carefully. When she spoke, her voice shook.
"I asked you not to read the letters. You gave me your word."
"I didn't read them. I spoke with the Dutton's," Bobby confessed.
He couldn't help himself. He laced up his dancing shoes and went into his routine.
"Did… did she always cut you out of photos? Ask you to step out of the picture in the hope that Joe would grow tired of his wife and her quaint, low-class manners. Articulate, but not good enough for her precious boy."
Eames was floored. She regretted not walking away sooner. The line of conversation had drifted. It only served to confirm Eames's expectations when she'd initially weighed staying. She didn't know why she bothered at all—it always ended in pain.
Should have run.
"I'm sorry for what I said to you in the squad room," Bobby said.
"What?" Eames asked, confused. "You said a lot of things, Bobby. Many of them in the squad room."
Bobby nodded sadly. He'd been awful to her, but there was one in particular that had stuck with him. It haunted him.
"When I said that the one redeeming quality you had to offer Mrs Dutton was the prospect of grandchildren and that you couldn't even do that right," Bobby acknowledged in a small voice.
"Ah… that."
"I'm sorry that she didn't support your choice," Bobby said. "I didn't know about your abortion when I said that and I'm sorry because you know that I respect your—"
He reached across the table for her. Eames retracted her hand.
"You know what?"
Fury flashed in her eyes. It vanished as quickly as it came.
"I can't do this," Eames breathed. She was exhausted.
Bobby wasn't ready to give up.
"I know it couldn't have been easy after Joe's death. I'm sorry that his family—"
Eames leapt up from the table as a second wind of fury hit.
"You have no idea what you're talking about!" Eames shouted.
Alex was outraged.
"You make these wild assumptions, you dissect people without an ounce of compassion for what it feels like!" Eames hissed as she stomped off for the door.
Eames stopped a metre from the table and whipped around.
A gust of wind whipped past. The thunder grew closer. Lightning streaked across the skyline, momentarily illuminating half of Eames's face as she stood there in the darkness.
"You don't get to dig around my life and turn over every rock just to satisfy your curiosity. My trauma doesn't exist for your entertainment!" Eames roared. "And when are we gonna talk about your trauma, Bobby? How would you feel about that? Wanna explain to me why you're still poking around Mark Ford Brady's scrapbooks? Why you've booked yourself a one-way ticket on the Declan Gage Express?"
Alex shook her head in dismay.
"I trusted you. I respected you. I only ever wanted the same in return," Alex said.
"I just want to understand," Bobby admitted. "I care about you, Eames. I—"
"Care?"
A bitter laugh followed.
"Care would have been returning my calls or at least having the decency to tell me to stop worrying about you—and not in the way you push people away. I mean an adult conversation."
Eames's chest heaved as she struggled to stop herself from giving in to anger. She owed him that (especially given her own appeal to set aside emotion).
"Care would have been respecting my boundaries. You don't care, Bobby. You chase whatever captures your attention with no regard for who you hurt in the process," Alex said.
He couldn't argue with that assessment.
"W-we should talk," Bobby said.
"I would have liked that," she remarked.
Bobby caught on to her choice of words.
"Would have? Y-you want to talk? Right?" he asked nervously.
Alex's face spoke volumes. Bobby's heart sank lower with each passing second as they started at one another.
"I used to."
Bobby summoned the courage to finally voice the question he didn't want answered. He dropped his gaze to his lap, unable to look at Eames in anticipation of the worst.
"And now?"
"It's too late," Eames replied honestly.
Bobby had seen it coming. That knowledge did not soften the blow.
Outside, the thunder drew closer. It was still low and slow. It would have been pleasing were it not symbolic of the mood in the room.
Bobby was desperate to cling to their conversation, to find a reason for Eames to stay.
"You called Friday. You were already on suspension then, so it wasn't about the SnoMint case. And you knew it was fruitless to try and talk me out of making a fool of myself," Bobby said, piecing it together.
They both knew Bobby wouldn't listen. He was too pig-headed.
"It was something else, wasn't it? Something about Beltran's case?" Bobby guessed. "C'mon, Eames. I want to be here for you."
Eames managed a sad smile.
"It doesn't matter now," Eames replied without elaboration.
There was no malice in her voice. It was simply a fact.
She wished she could have spoken to Bobby first before her meeting with Ron Carver. Her partner was the only person she could trust in that respect.
Only Bobby had never called her back. Eames knew there was no point in squabbling over it now. It wouldn't change anything aside from making Goren feel worse than he already did.
A part of Alex was desperate to unload, to spill her complicated feelings on the news that would break in a few days. There was no way to change course now. It was too late for Alex to have a change of heart.
And as the storm outside approached, she thought it was only fitting.
Alex turned her attention to the window as the first few drops of rain hit the glass. They were in for a downpour.
"First storm of spring. We need the rain. It should wash all that muck away," she commented.
Bobby knew she wasn't speaking of the dead leaves and dirt that had accumulated on the streets of New York City.
A boom of thunder echoed outside, the first big bang of the encroaching storm. The rain came hard and fast.
"I'm not leaving," Bobby said unprompted.
"Well, it's your flat. I figured you would stay put and I'd go," Eames said.
They both knew that wasn't what he meant.
"I don't want to leave Major Case," Bobby admitted.
It was cruel irony that he would finally come to accept that now that Eames was all but on her way out the door.
"Go easy on your next partner. Give 'em a little time to adapt, eh?" Alex asked.
"And you?" Bobby asked.
Eames shrugged.
"If I'm lucky maybe they'll offer me retirement?" Eames suggested. She put on her stiff upper lip. "And it's… it's a good thing, you know? Could be worse. Spoke to an attorney who thinks I have a good cause to get any civil suit dismissed."
"Stay?"
Bobby's question hung in the air.
"C'mon. Don't let these guys bully you out. You're a good cop. A better cop than I am. You're Alex Eames. Nobody pushes you around. You're the only person that can handle me," Bobby said with a wry smile.
He stuffed his hands in his pocket and leaned into the same sheepish look he used to tug at her heartstrings whenever he wanted more time to chase a wild theory or ask for leeway on an investigation.
"I know you hate when I'm right, but you know that I'm right about this," Bobby said. "They are not gonna throw away a good Detective like you. And I'm always right."
"Not always," Eames said.
For a moment, it looked like she was about to open up and share something with Bobby. She could physically feel the shift in the barometric pressure. The downpour outside left Eames's with a sense of relief—even if it wasn't exactly happy.
"Goodnight," Eames said.
"Wait," Bobby said.
He gently caught her wrist and turned Alex to face him.
"You were going to tell me something. Look, I'm a big boy. I can take it," Bobby said.
Eames pursed her lips.
"Not everything is about you," she reminded him.
"Y-you were going to share something about yourself. That's… that's grand. I want to be here for you, Alex," Bobby said.
Bobby reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind Eames's ear, his fingers lingered to trace along the line of her jaw.
"Tell me?" he asked.
Eames wasn't sure if it was the weather or the stress or simply the fact that she longed for someone to know that she was right, and her overbearing snob of a mother-in-law was dead wrong.
"I didn't have an abortion," Eames said softly. "I… I might have. I don't know. I never got to make that decision."
"You miscarried," Bobby realised.
Eames nodded.
"I found out I was pregnant ten days before Joe was murdered. I don't know how Joe's mother found out. We didn't tell anyone," Eames said.
There had been some confusion in the wake of the shooting and subsequent fallout. Kevin Quinn had sent two uniformed officers to pick up his wife Theresa. He thought it would help if she could be there for Alex and Joe.
"Somewhere wires got crossed. Intake thought Theresa Quinn was Joe's wife. She was thirty-six weeks along and they told her that her husband was shot—it's why she went into labour early," Eames explained.
Poor Kevin Quinn had juggled a partner in critical condition while his wife was in labour with their first child.
"I guess someone must have said something to Joe's mother and she inferred," Eames said.
She had no inkling about Joe's final plea to his parents.
"I was alone. Juggling student loans and a mortgage. There were hospital bills from Joe's death. Funeral expenses. I was in no position to provide for a child," Eames said.
She paused. Her face flushed as a fresh wave of tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.
"I told Theresa Quinn that I was pregnant and completely out of my depth. I didn't know what to do. I was just starting to show. I knew I was running out of time before people would start to notice and… and I told her I was thinking about an abortion," Eames said.
At that time, Theresa had been her best friend. She'd just given birth to a son. Eames was desperate for a distraction and found a sense of relief in helping out around the Quinn house.
It only reaffirmed Alex's instincts. She wasn't in a position to have a child, not when she was widowed, financially ruined, and the sole caretaker for her drunk father.
At the time, Eames's sister was living in Boston. Her brother had three young kids of his own. Her only circle of support started and ended with Kevin and Theresa Quinn—and they were already struggling on their own with a newborn.
"I didn't know what I wanted to do. I just wanted time. Breathing room," Alex said.
There was no way to press 'pause.'
Just thinking back to that time was enough to leave Eames feeling suffocated. She shook out her arms and rolled her shoulders to work out some of that tension.
"But a part of me wanted to… to—" Eames whimpered. "I knew that it was going to be our only chance."
It all felt so unfair.
"And just when I felt like I had finally come to terms with everything, when I accepted that I wanted to try and do it on my own… when I accepted that I could be happy—"
Alex squeezed her eyes shut.
"But before I could enjoy it, I miscarried," Alex confessed.
Alex was gutted.
She didn't think there was anything that could feel worse than losing Joe. That morning, she'd still had mixed feelings about the pregnancy she carried.
Alex had reached a point where she'd convinced herself they were normal first-time jitters, that she could go forward.
I can do this. I can handle anything. Eames recalled thinking.
Nothing had prepared her for what was to follow.
First, the panic when she realised something was terribly wrong, then the frustration at having to pick herself off the bathroom floor, drive herself to the emergency room, and wait all alone in that exam room.
Next came bitter helplessness when Alex learned that she was going to lose their child and there was nothing that anyone could do to stop it and the embarrassment that followed.
"Is there some we can call for you?" a nurse asked.
"No," Alex answered.
She was so angry—at Ray Delgado and the NYPD, the failed war on drugs, Joe's mother, her own father and his alcoholism.
The whole damned world.
Most of all, Alex was angry at Joe for leaving her alone (and at herself for blaming him).
It wasn't Joe's fault. Nevertheless, she was furious at Joe for not being there with her in the week that followed when Alex had been forced to navigate the emotional and physical toll of that loss without a single soul to turn to.
Without him.
Joe was the only person in the world that Alex had ever truly been able to count on.
They should have been picking out baby names together and planning for a nursery instead of Alex feeling guilty for cursing out her dead husband.
Alex felt robbed.
In some ways, she still did.
"I didn't have an abortion. I never got to make that decision. I wanted that child." Alex's expression softened. "And, who knows? Maybe I would have changed my mind with more time. But I just—"
Her face contorted in pain. The anger was back, threatening to overwhelm her.
"And that fucking woman—"
Eames couldn't bring herself to call her anything else.
"I had just lost my husband! Theresa Quinn disappeared because it was too p-painful. And then the only part of J-Joe that was left in this world, the… the only chance we had left to h-have that dream, the only one w-w-we would ever g-get—"
Eames's entire body shook as she sobbed.
"Was taken from me." Her voice broke.
It was so rare for Eames to allow herself to be vulnerable. When she opened up, her feelings were always masked by sarcastic barbs and a hefty dose of self-deprecating humour.
"And the letters?" Bobby asked.
Eames visibly shuddered.
"Every Christmas. Joe's birthday. Our anniversary. It's like clockwork," Eames said.
It was the reason why Alex had been so horrified when she saw all the letters to Ray Delgado. Eames knew precisely what it felt like to be taunted and manipulated, reminded time and again of a grievance for which she had been wrongly accused.
"I had no circle of support. And sometimes I just want to scream at her that… that m-maybe if I'd had support, maybe if I hadn't felt so a-a-alone that I wouldn't have lost our baby," Eames choked out.
Her physician had advised it was important that Alex not blame herself.
These things happen.
Only it wasn't that easy. Alex had been stressed. Her hormones were out of whack. She had failed to take care of herself in the wake of Joe's death. She didn't eat or sleep properly.
Alex knew it was entirely plausible that a foetal anomaly or any other factor on the long list of possible causes was responsible for the miscarriage—but she couldn't get past the fact that she had not done everything in her power to try and prevent it.
Joe had dreamed of a family.
Alex blamed herself most of all for the loss of that dream.
"I… I w-would have been a g-good mother," Alex wept.
She clutched her hand over her mouth and hiccupped.
She had never told anyone else about that loss. Joe's mother didn't believe Alex had miscarried. That argument was the last time they ever spoke.
Theresa Quinn went no contact. Until Kevin's death, they had not spoken in nearly a decade.
Though Kevin kept in touch, Alex had never felt right sharing that information with him.
Then the letters came from Mrs Dutton. Her first Christmas alone, Alex received a lovely card from her in-laws with a cute little family of snowmen on the front and a message condemning her to the fires of hell.
"Every time that woman opens her mouth to go on another stupid anti-abortion rant or on the days when my father just has to make another crack about how I'm not breeding fast enough for him—"
Alex snarled in frustration.
"Because it's such a fucking wheeze to remind me of the most painful experience of my life."
Johnny Eames lamented that his daughter had 'failed to do her bit.'
Loudly.
And often.
"There's days when I just want to sit them down and force them to listen and ask them where the hell were they when I was sitting in the ER by myself!"
Alex raised her arms, resting the heels of her hands on her forehead. She groaned.
"I just wish they understood, even for a second, what it feels like," Alex said.
Goren had never seen this side of Alex before.
Alex Eames took care of everyone. She was always the picture of poise, the one that shouldered the responsibility when her family or colleagues needed time off for their own problems.
Eames took on extra work for months without a single word of complaint or expectation of repayment all so Bobby could spend more time with his mother.
When Captain Ross's boys got sick while his ex-wife was on her honeymoon with her new husband, it was Eames that stepped up to cover for him, managing the squad room and assigning cases so Ross could care for his family.
She spent her time outside of work taking care of her father. She cleaned up after him. Alex was even managing his finances to ensure Johnny didn't drink himself to ruin.
She watched after her nieces and nephews so her brother and sister could spend time with their spouses, so they could live the life that she would never get to have.
Eames never complained. She didn't expect anything in return. She simply gave of herself to everyone and everything that she held dear.
Bobby knew what that felt like—he'd give all of himself to his mother and Frank.
But Bobby also recognised that he had Alex to get him through that.
She had no one.
Because I failed her. Bobby realised.
Bobby should have pulled her into his arms and held her as she wept. He should have offered her soothing words. He should have done something—anything—other than stand there paralysed by his own remorse.
He knew Eames well enough to understand that she had carried around the grief and misplaced guilt of that experience for too long, bottled up tight and tossed in the ocean of her mind where the waves occasionally churned it up to the surface.
Bobby was struck with a new depth of realisation and regret over his biting remarks in the squad room weeks earlier.
They had cut right to the rawest nerve. He couldn't even pretend that they had simply slipped off the tongue.
Robert Goren had known exactly what he was doing. He'd pieced together just enough information to know it was a sore spot and to deliberately use that knowledge to hurt Eames.
He'd treated her like a hostile suspect rather than his partner.
Alex sniffled and wiped her face the back of her sleeve. She stared up at her partner and waited in silence for him to speak, holding out hope that Bobby would know exactly what to say.
Because in spite of explosive temper, Robert Goren had another side that was all tenderness and compassion. Eames had seen it first-hand in the way Bobby comforted victims, their families, and children they encountered in their line of work.
"Bobby?" Alex asked softly.
He was still distracted by the puzzle. He had a pathological need to stick his fingers into the thick of it, to prod every soft spot until he was certain there was no more information to glean.
"It's why you kept the house, why you never moved after… after Jo Gage," Bobby theorised aloud. "Without Joe, without the children you thought you would have, you couldn't bring yourself to sell the last part of that dream."
Bobby paused and scratched his eyebrow.
"That house is the last part of him you have," Bobby continued, oblivious to the look of disbelief on Eames's face. "You think that selling it would be equivalent of saying goodbye, giving up on the last piece of your husband left in this world."
Alex recognised the clouded, pensive look in his eyes.
Robert Goren couldn't help himself as his thoughts drifted to the next logical conclusion.
"Your mother-in-law is wrong about you. She probably knows it too, but she feels threatened by it. Because you love your husband. You still love him. It's as deep, as… as profound as it ever was. Maybe even deeper."
Bobby chuckled sadly.
"Your devotion it's… it's commendable."
Bobby felt like he might crumble as he realised that he had been lucky enough to be graced with that same devotion—and foolish enough not to appreciate it.
As she studied her partner, Alex realised that Bobby was lost in his own thoughts, too consumed in his own mind to hold space for her.
Leslie's words from before echoed in Alex's mind.
He's never going to love you. Not the way you want.
Alex took a long look at her partner. A heavy sigh escaped from her throat.
"I should go. You should be resting," Eames said as she dried her tears.
She waited. When Bobby said nothing, Eames turned to go.
"Goodnight," she said on her way to the door.
"Eames? Eames wait," Bobby called after her.
She didn't stop.
"Eames? Eames just… just wait."
She was nearly to the door.
"Just stop. Please. Don't walk away," Bobby barked.
There was desperation in his voice.
"Alex."
It was so rare for her name to fall from his lips.
It was enough to give Alex pause, but not enough to stop her. Her hand reached for the door handle. Bobby was her in two paces.
His hand shot out and slammed the door shut. He pulled Eames flush against him, his breath was hot against her ear.
"Please don't go," Bobby whispered.
Eames froze.
Bobby buried his face in her hair and tightened his embrace. It was then that he realised something was terribly wrong. Alex had not uttered a sound. She didn't even breathe.
Bobby turned her in his arms. His dark brow furrowed as he studied her body language. Eames's heart was pounding. Damp perspiration clung to her hairline.
The look of terror in Alex's eyes was enough to leave Bobby in pieces.
Eames never flinched at his antics in the interrogation room. She didn't jump when he slammed his fists on tables or smacked his papers off his desk. His explosive temper barely registered.
But there was no mistaking it—Eames was afraid of him.
Bobby immediately retracted his hands as if he'd been burned. He had never meant to trigger memories of her abduction.
"Alex… I—"
He tentatively reached for her. She shrank back against the door.
"Don't."
Bobby took a step back. His mind spiralled as the darkest of Bobby's thoughts worked their way to the surface. He could just hear Mark Ford Brady laughing at him.
Chip off the old block.
In a fit of rage, Bobby smacked the closet door. Eames flinched, her arms instinctively went up to protect herself.
"FUCK!" Bobby roared.
He took a step into the kitchen and then whipped around. His arm shot out, knocking the phone and a stack of bills off the counter.
"All I do is hurt you. All I ever do is hurt you!"
He stopped and ran a trembling hand back through his unkempt hair.
"I love you," he said, resigned.
He let his hands drop. He looked more frightened than when Eames had first seen him waiting by her hospital bed after Jo Gage.
"I lie awake in bed at night. My mind races. I… oh, God. The whole time I… I was with her… I can't shut it off," Bobby said wildly. "I need you to know how much it hurt me, how much I miss you. I… I didn't want to push you away."
He launched into an unhinged soliloquy. Alex could barely follow. Bobby was all over the place, contradicting himself as he fumbled over his feelings.
"You're better off without me. But I just… I—"
He paused and growled, clenching his jaw like a feral animal.
"It… it hurts me t-t-to know that I do this to you," Bobby continued. "And I know I do it. It doesn't matter than I'm aware of it because… because—"
He threw his head back and laughed.
"I'm not a landmine. I'm a fucking no-man's land full of barbed wire and landmines and one emotional trench after the other and… and you'll never make it across because there's no telling when I'm gonna drop the next fucking shell," Bobby said, gesturing like he was putting on a show in interrogation.
He bit down on the back of his hand and willed himself not to cry.
"I don't want to be like this," Bobby said.
Bobby expected her wrath. Instead, Eames eyed him with pity—it only made Bobby feel worse.
He took a tentative step forward like he was approaching an armed suspect.
"I love you," he whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I should have. And when I thought that I was… when I thought I was finished—"
All he could think about was how sorry he was for everything.
"I have a lifetime of regret and… and there's so many things I've said and done to you," Bobby confessed. "But what I regret more than anything is what I didn't say, what I couldn't say before."
He assured Eames it wasn't because of anything she had done or failed to do. He made it clear that the fault was his, that it was rooted in a trauma that Bobby had yet to work through.
Bobby cupped her face.
"I love you, Alex. I love the way you challenge me," he murmured. "You make me feel safe. We fit together. I love the way your nose wrinkles when you're mad. I love the way you move. I love your mind."
He pressed his lips against her forehead, lingering there as he caught his breath. Eames didn't pull away and Bobby felt like they had stepped back from the ledge.
Alex longed to let go, to relax in the familiarity of his proximity.
Robert Goren was a rare kind. He made Alex feel small and safe and feminine in ways she couldn't in the world otherwise because the streets of New York City and the ranks of the NYPD could be deadly for women.
Bobby made her safe, safe enough to be open and vulnerable without feeling like it was a detriment to her career or sense of self.
He was enthralled by her. All of her.
Bobby loved the hardworking, no-nonsense Eames she presented to the world. He loved her dry wit and their banter. The looks she shot him, the ones from across their desks over a cup of coffee, were enough to make Bobby weak in the knees.
He loved the way her arse looked in jeans and respected her enough not to call attention to it when they were working a case.
Eames was his partner. He appreciated her experience and held great respect for her opinion—something Bobby rarely did with other colleagues.
He was always brash and broody, dismissive of input, and quick to shut down alternative theories.
Except when it came to Alex Eames.
Sure, they butted heads like any pair of detectives. Sometimes their disagreements were tense. Those disputes had always remained professional—until the SnoMint case.
Yes, Alex wanted to take a load off. To melt into Bobby's arms and forget about all the animosity and heartbreak that had characterised the last three months.
Only she couldn't.
Bobby became aware that he was the only one enjoying their closeness. Eames hadn't pulled away—but she hadn't returned the embrace either.
They broke apart. Bobby lingered close, hovering just shy of Eames's face as he observed every microexpression for any hint at what thoughts swirled behind those hazel eyes.
"I love you," Bobby echoed. "I need you to know that. I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you before. I was so afraid."
He was terrified that he would turn out like William Goren or Mark Ford Brady. He wasn't ready to confront that it was easier to blame his behaviour on that fear rather than address the reasons why Bobby didn't feel adequate enough to continue their relationship.
Bobby's brush with death had been scary too—frightening enough for him to realise that he was more afraid of going to his grave without telling Eames what she meant to him.
As they stood there, Bobby muttered a series of promises. He was ready to be present for her. He would love and respect her the way she deserved. He would go to therapy if that's what she wanted.
"I will never take you for granted again," Bobby vowed. "Just please… please don't leave."
For several long, agonising seconds, they stared at one another in silence.
Bobby didn't have to wonder where her heart lay.
It was obvious she loved him. And that she felt betrayed.
Eames's jaw began to quiver. Her eyes welled up.
She shook her head.
"Alex—"
"No."
Bobby made a sound that was somewhere between nervous laughter and outright panic.
"Look, I don't believe in things like providence or fate. Kismet. It's… it's bullshit. Love is hard. It's something you have to work at and fight for. And I believe in fighting for this. I want to work for this. For us," Bobby pleaded.
"No."
Eames whimpered. She stepped back, pressing herself against the door and raised her hands to put some distance between them. There was a strange, faraway expression on her face.
"Do you remember when I snapped? When I said that not everything was about you?" Eames asked.
She didn't wait for a response.
"You're not the only one with trauma, Bobby."
Alex lifted her chin to meet his eyes. She owed him that. She needed Bobby to know that what she said was the sincere truth and that there would be no changing her mind.
"I'm shattered," Alex said with striking composure.
All trace of her anger and grief was gone. She had moved past it. Bobby came to the horrible realisation that Eames had reached the point of acceptance.
"And… and I did that," Bobby acknowledged.
"Don't flatter yourself," Eames shot back.
She sighed.
"It's not just this… you… us," Eames said.
She struggled to put words to a decade of emotional trauma.
"I lost Joe and then I allowed—"
Eames stopped herself before Kevin Mulroney's name fell from her lips. She had never shared that experience with anyone.
Eames had been vulnerable. Mulroney was a snake. And Alex had allowed him to take advantage of her grief. There was nothing healthy about it.
She had carried the shame of that experience for too long, long enough that she wasn't ready to admit it to herself. It was easier to dismiss it.
For a moment, Bobby caught a glimpse of that internal debate—and his partner's decision to sweep over whatever it was she had considered disclosing.
Alex settled for her favourite generic excuse.
"Well, you know that I have famously bad taste in men."
"Like me," Bobby said.
Eames cringed.
"Bobby, I didn't mean it like that," she said. "I was… comfortable. I… I told you that I love you and I meant it. I still mean it."
Bobby braced himself for the fallout.
"You shut me out. You… you lash out. You don't talk to me. And you were leaving. There was no place for me in your new life. You made that abundantly clear," Eames said.
She pulled her hands close to her sides to stop them from trembling.
"Don't you see? I lost you. And now for the second time, I have to grieve the man I love. It's different from Joe, but it still hurts," Alex sobbed as she clutched her chest. "You're gone but you're not. And… and honestly, I… I don't know which is worse."
She groaned and clenched her fists.
"When I say that I'm shattered—I don't mean my heart. I mean me. All of me," Eames confessed.
Eames may as well have taken a lead pipe to Bobby's kneecaps.
"I can't take another hit. I still haven't pieced my soul back together from the last time you smashed it," Eames confessed. "You… you come in like this wild bull and trample your fucking size thirteen feet all over me."
Eames squeezed her eyes shut and kicked herself to get it together.
"And each time I have to try and rebuild, try to put myself back together—I'm missing pieces. There's parts of myself I can't find anymore."
Alex had lost too much of herself in the process.
"One day, I won't have enough pieces left to put myself back together again. I know that's what's waiting for me if I let you back in," Alex said.
She stared up at Bobby, wordlessly pleading for him to understand how deep her feelings ran—and why she couldn't allow herself to take him back.
He could talk until he was blue in the face about how painful it was for him to drive Eames away—it had nothing on what she felt.
"I can't trust you with my heart, Bobby. You don't take care of it," Alex concluded.
Bobby slipped his fingers under her chin. He hovered close to her face.
She did not pull away. They lingered there against each other, neither willing to break the moment.
Outside, the downpour increased in intensity as the rain pelted against the windows.
"We can talk about this," he whispered. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
"Not this time," Eames replied.
Bobby wanted to kiss her again, but he didn't want to make things harder. Rather, he settled for resting his forehead against her own.
"I love you, Alex," he breathed.
"It's too late," she said.
Bobby took a step back.
"So… what happens then? You close your heart off to the world?" he asked softly.
He wasn't angry. He was worried.
"Don't be dramatic," Eames said.
There was a hint of her usual sarcastic self in that statement.
"Do… do you want me to leave Major Case? I'm not asking as some gesture to try and win you back," Bobby added quickly. "I just… if it would be easier for you—"
"You're assuming I'm even allowed to come back to Major Case," Alex reminded him.
"I think you will be," Bobby said with confidence.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and flashed her a shy smile.
"We could speak to Ross about switch partners. No one would blame you. I'm an arse. It's been a long time coming," Bobby offered.
Eames rolled her eyes.
She wanted to ask who on God's green earth did Bobby expect to put up with his antics. In light of their position, Eames decided on something more diplomatic.
"I don't have a problem working with you. We're partners," Alex said.
"Right. Yeah," Bobby agreed.
Partners.
They had been partners for eight years—more than partners for six years of that time.
"It's… it's going to be hard to set it aside," Bobby acknowledged.
"Yeah," Alex replied softly.
She knew that he was going to take it to heart.
He knew that she was going to go on loving him from afar, carrying the same devotion she did for her dead husband.
And mourning what couldn't be.
Bobby felt like he was standing alone, watching as the last train he would ever catch pulled away from the station. He knew in his soul that there wouldn't be another one to come along.
He chuckled.
Eames's brow furrowed.
"What?" she prompted.
"It's never the one you haven't met. It's the one you can't forget," he mused.
Addendum
This is not the end of the story nor is it the end of Eames/Goren.
I did not want to write a quick fix reconciliation. They have a lot to work through. It seemed a disservice to their characters to skip over that process.
Additionally, I feel like this context creates the foundation for storylines in Untethered, Purgatory, and Frame to carry much more weight.
I can assure that this fic does end with Eames & Goren together—and they will reach that point before the end.
The 'arse in jeans' bit is a reference to one of Kathryn Erbe's lines in Stir of Echoes.