The room was still dark when Eames woke with a dull ache behind her eyes. She was in the bed with the blanket tucked around her. She didn't remember going to bed. She did remember striking out and hitting her partner, over and over, until she couldn't hit him any more. After that, her memory was a blank. She didn't move, silently listening for any sounds from the room around her. She certainly would not blame him if he'd left. She was surprised when she heard deep, steady breathing from the bed beside her. Reaching out, she rested her hand on his broad back, filled with relief that he was still there. Gently, she rubbed. He shifted, then sighed and settled. She turned onto her side, facing him, and slid closer. Slipping her arm around him, she snuggled against him, rested her cheek against his back and went back to sleep.

When she woke again, she was facing away from him, but he was pressed against her back, his arms around her, holding her snugly. She remembered many mornings when Joe would hold her the same way, and she would feel loved and protected. As soon as he sensed she was awake, he would kiss her neck and blow softly in her ear before nibbling her earlobe...Tears began to run down her cheeks. Oh, Joe...

She closed her eyes against the tears. The arms around her tightened and he moved. She felt his breath against the side of her head and he raised his hand to tenderly wipe the tears from her cheek. After what she'd done to him the night before, how could he find it in him to be so tender, so sweet? Overwhelmed, she drew in an uneven breath, unable to stop her tears. “Eames,” he whispered against her ear. “What's wrong?”

She turned over and looked at his face. “Oh...” she whispered around the lump in her throat.

She ran her thumb over his swollen lip before she touched his bruised eye with her fingertips. “I...I am so s-sorry,” she said.

“Don't be,” he assured her.

“Bobby,” she started, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. She looked away and smoothed her hand over his white undershirt. “I have no idea what came over me...what made me do that...” She stared at his shirt.

He rubbed her back. “I do.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “You were angry, and frustrated, and you needed a way to let it all out. I just gave that to you.”

She rested against him and neither of them spoke. He continued to rub her back until he felt her relax. This was new to him. Whenever he shared his bed with a woman, the primary purpose had always been sex. Sleep came as a natural consequence. But this...this was different, comfortable. He wasn't used to this, but it was definitely something he could get used to. It was...nice. No pressure, no expectations. They were simply being with each other, though in a way they had never been before. He found it comforting to hold her in his arms, even if he could never find the voice to tell her what he kept buried in his heart.

Initially, he'd had to overcome his body's conditioned response to another body in the bed with him, but now that he'd gotten past that, he was comfortable. He liked holding her, being close to her. It was addicting. Absently, he stroked her hair, and she snuggled closer, sighing. “It's been so long,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “So very long...”

“Since what?” he wondered.

“Since I've felt so...” she trailed off.

“Angry?” he offered.

She playfully poked him. “No. I'm not really sure what adjective I'm looking for. I only know that I haven't felt it since I lost Joe.”

He had no reply for that. In fact, he had no idea how to address it, so he dodged the topic entirely. “Uh, I...I mean...we should get going, Eames.”

She was surprised by his sudden discomfort and she pulled back to look up at him. “What's wrong?”

He shrugged. “This is...nice...but-but it's not right. You need someone you can rely on. Not someone like me.”

“Who the hell do you think I rely on most? And what do you mean...someone...like you?”

“I'm not stable enough for you, not...not good enough...”

She frowned her confusion. “What are you talking about? Bobby...”

He would not look at her face as he sat up. “We-we need to get going.”

She set her jaw and glared at his back. “I'm not getting out of this bed until you talk to me.”

“Eames...”

“Start talking. Tell me what you meant by what you said.”

“I just meant...I'm too much like Frank.”

“Frank? Goren, you and your brother are nothing alike.”

“That's not true. We're more alike than we seem. He chose drugs as his escape and gambling as his passion. My passion is justice, and my escape is alcohol. We deal with our pain in different ways but that pain comes from the same well. Neither of us is particularly well-adjusted or socially graceful, though we can get what we want when we want it. We can both be charming, but neither of us can maintain a lasting relationship with a woman over an extended period of time.”

“That's not true. We've been together for nine years. That's significant.”

“We're partners. That's different.”

“How? Maybe we don't share a bed, but we do share a major portion of each other's lives. You're frustrating as hell, but I'm still here.”

“All right, so you're the closest thing I've ever had to a long-term relationship, but it's still not the same.”

She felt an argument brewing, but she didn't want to fight with him, not now. She slid out of the bed. “All right, fine. Whatever. You want to get going, then let's go.”

“Eames, don't be mad...”

She grabbed her clothes and stormed into the bathroom to change. She put on the purple shirt he'd liked so much and a pair of jeans, then looked at herself in the mirror. The collar of her blouse was open to the top of her breasts, plus one more button, and the color suited her. The fabric was soft, and she loved the feel of it, especially where it gathered at her waist. She felt swaddled in a hug, a comfortable feeling.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was dressed and standing by the bed with his bag as he closed it. He looked up at her. “Are you...” He trailed off and stared at her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head, turning away from her to find his voice. “Are you packed?” he asked tightly.

“Almost. Give me a minute.”

He suddenly wanted to go home. He felt more comfortable facing an unknown threat than he did being alone with his partner. The only thing that kept him in place was the fact that she was safe where they were. She was not about to leave him alone to face whatever waited for him at home, and he could not take the risk of any harm coming to her on his account. So...he was stuck, and like any caged animal, he began to pace. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he waited for her to finish packing.

Eames closed her suitcase. “Okay, I'm ready.”

He stopped pacing at the sound of her voice. “Uh...what?”

“I said I'm ready.”

He nodded and grabbed his suitcase. He held the door open for her and followed her from the room.

If Eames had ever thought her partner's driving was unnerving, she found it doubly so on the left-hand side of the road. He seemed comfortable behind the wheel on the right side of the car, on the left side of the road, so she left him to it, doing as much as she possibly could to not distract him.

There was so much running through her mind, and surprising little of it focused on the problems back home. He had successfully distracted her from that. She was troubled by the fact that he thought he was anything like his brother. Frank had angered and irritated her, and she had little use for him. All she had seen him do over the last year and a half of his life was upset and disappoint his brother, not to mention setting him up for his near-fatal venture into Tate's. Frank had been unreliable and self-centered, lost in a dark world his little brother had somehow managed to avoid. She could not help but wonder if she played any kind of role in keeping him out of that world, especially in the recent past. At times, she might have pushed him toward it, but if she had, he would never let her know. Hell, she wasn't ever sure about what went through his head. Impulsively, she reached out and slipped her hand into his.

He glanced at her, but she wasn't looking at him. Figuring she was simply unsettled by the unfamiliar driving conditions, he held her hand and hoped she was enjoying the countryside. He was on edge, an unfortunate consequence of the morning's events. He couldn't explain why she seemed so comfortable sharing the bed with him, and as much as he had enjoyed it, he was glad the situation would not come up again. His wandering thoughts set off down a dangerous path, one that led him to Joe Dutton, and he didn't like that one bit. He was disturbed by the fact that Eames had not fully dealt with her loss, although he wasn't particularly surprised. His partner had as much of a tendency to bury her feelings as he did. Buried emotions did not have to be dealt with. Once buried deep enough, they could easily be ignored. Unfortunately, they also had the annoying tendency to be resurrected at inopportune moments, seeking attention they had no right to demand. Eames had been faced with that following the murder of Kevin Quinn. Memories she thought she'd laid to rest came back to haunt her, and he understood that only too well. He buried himself in the effort to find Quinn's killer, and then, to find the man for whom Ray Delgado was sent to prison. He sought justice, for Quinn and for Dutton. Eames only wanted closure. She hated feeling vulnerable, and that was exactly how she felt when she found him reviewing Joe's case. The look on her face still haunted him. He still regretted it, however necessary it had been. He regretted everything he had done to cause his partner pain, but he could not take back any of it. He had to live with it, and he hadn't done that very well. He hadn't succeeded in making it up to her either. Every time he tried, it backfired on him, and he was on the verge of giving up, which was something he struggled to keep from her. It wasn't her fault he continued to let her down. It was one more brick in the pattern of his life. He never measured up and he was used to that. He'd hoped it would be different with Eames, but it wasn't. It never would be.

The road stretched out before them as they left London behind, and finally she squeezed his hand. “What's on your mind?”

Drawn from his depressing reverie, he stumbled over a few words before he finally settled on, “What?”

Eloquent, he thought, surprised when she twisted her hand to entwine her fingers with his. The friction across the palm of his hand sent tiny currents of electricity to the core of his body, and he liked it. He swallowed hard and she shifted in her seat, settling her head against his shoulder. “Tell me what you're thinking about,” she pressed.

“Uh, no...that's all right. I'd rather not.”

“Why? Are you afraid you'll upset me?”

Okay, I'll go with that, he silently agreed. Aloud, he said, “I seem to have that unfortunate tendency lately.”

“So your answer to that is to stop sharing your thoughts with me?”

“No. I do share my thoughts with you.”

“Outside of a case?”

“Oh, well...there's no reason to, uh...I mean...” There was no graceful way out of this one. Best just to shut your mouth and let it slide, he admonished himself.

Unfortunately, Eames was not inclined to let him do that. “So, unless we're working a case, you don't feel like you have to be honest with me?”

“Don't put words in my mouth,” he grouched at her. I have enough trouble with the words I put there.

“So put them there yourself,” she challenged. “Tell me what's on your mind.”

All right, then. You asked for it. “You are.”

That seemed to catch her off guard. “Me? All right, start talking. What about me?”

Did she feel entitled to his thoughts simply because they were about her? Regardless of what he was thinking, his thoughts were his own, and no one else was entitled to them. He sighed, uncomfortable. “I just...I'm sorry, Eames. I always seem to...let you down, to disappoint you.”

She sat up, away from him, and turned in the seat to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “You're always mad at me. It...” He trailed off, unsure of what words to use to convey his frustration. Finally, he decided to just step off the cliff and he finished, “I no longer know what to say because everything pisses you off. I'm tired, Eames. I'm just...tired.”

“Tired of what? Of being partners?”

Her tone told him she didn't want an answer to that. Maybe she was afraid of what he'd say. But he answered her anyway. “No. The job is what gets me up every morning. It's everything else that wears me down.”

Her brow furrowed with concern. Gently, she rubbed his arm. “I know you've been through a lot since your mother got cancer, but...” She stopped herself. Bringing up the mistakes of the past would not help him at all.

“But what?”

She shifted directions. “I realize it was very hard for you to lose her.”

He knew she was aware of that. She had seen his pain the night she died...the day of the funeral...the times in between when she'd stopped by to make sure he was alright...because she cared... “She was all I had. I was lost when she died.” He focused on the road. “I put even more into the job, because that's what I have. That's all I have.”

She leaned over suddenly and kissed his cheek. “You have me, too,” she promised.

He turned his head to look at her, confused. “Eames...”

She pointed out the windshield. “Drive.”

He turned his attention back to the road, utterly confused and now entirely uncertain. Neither of them spoke for the rest of the drive, but she continued to hold his hand. He had no idea what to make of that.