DISCLAIMER: Dick Wolf, NBCUni and probably several other have rightful claim to most of these characters - not I. Detective Blake Jamison is however, an original character of mine.

A/N - A big explanation here... OK. If you've read any of the other stories involving this pairing of Bobby Goren and Blake Jamison you know them as a series of fluffy airy and just fun ficlets. Well, forget everything you've read. I'm starting over. I'm reinventing the wheel.


If those stories would be considered Alternate Universe (AU) - I ask that you consider these Parallel Universe (PU) - an unfortunate arrangement of letters, one I'm sure (VD)O could appreciate. The premise of a parallel universe is a little sci-fi, but I assure you the stories are not - at least not any more than any other AU fics.

This is the beginning of a new series of stories similar to the other Bobby and Blake stories, but rather than light, airy fun fan fiction, these will be a bit darker with more angst. They will remain as individual snapshots - moments in time - connected only by the story of Bobby and Blake.

I really hope you like them. I have several of these new 'moments' written and it won't be long before I post another - if you like this one. These are as much fun for me as the other Bobby and Blake are, who I'm not abandoning to write these.

Special thanks to CIFan for being my test subject...


The two – one man, one woman – slowly approached her apartment building. "You really didn't have to," Blake commented again, with an awkward laugh. Fifteen minutes earlier, they had left the restaurant where several of her co-workers had taken her out to celebrate her birthday. She was referring to, of course, to Bobby Goren's insistence on escorting her to her door, something she had repeatedly told him was unnecessary.

There really was no good reason to turn down the offer, so she had graciously acquiesced to the polite almost - stranger. He may have been a co-worker and fellow detective – and even someone her thoughts had occasionally strayed to, but until this evening they'd scarcely said more than a half dozen words in the more than six months since she'd joined Major Case. To be honest, there was also an element of curiosity at play.

"On the contrary," he replied, "I consider it to be my duty. Even if it were not merely good manners, I promised Eames I'd see you safely home. As much as would I like to pride myself on being a man of my word; the ire and wrath of my partner is by far, the greater of driving forces."

Smiling and nodding her head, "I have noticed that about Alex." She snuck a sidelong glance at her escort and saw the faint curve of a smile. His humor was maybe a little dry, but that was a quality she appreciated.

She sensed there was more to this than he was saying. How ironic that, like her, he was not revealing the full truth either.

Yes, he was indeed a man of his word. Integrity was one of the few things 'they' had not managed to strip him of, even during the recent chaotic and fateful days, he managed to hang onto that. His word would retain its value. And yes, as a gentleman, he considered it his duty to see the lady home. Especially, since his presence at her birthday dinner had been foisted upon her, at the last minute - at Eames' instigation.

There was something else. Somehow, he knew that this woman needed to be returned home safely. That her safety was - or would be - of the utmost importance.

How did he know that? And why did he care? He didn't know. But he did.

He had already taken more than a few covert glances at his companion, throughout the evening, trying to discover exactly what it was he was sensing. Certainly there was an attraction, but it was more than that. There was always more, things were never that easy and simple for him.

"Well," he began, with a cheerfulness that felt forced and unfamiliar to his ears, "I hope you weren't too terribly disappointed by the evening. It seemed that there were times when you wanted to be anywhere but there."

She nodded, unsure what the 'correct' answer should be. "It was very nice," she replied, aiming for a level of ambiguity. To offer an enthusiastic and gracious reply, while still suffering from the unease at being in the spotlight all night was a difficult line to walk. "It was very illuminating. And loud."

"It will go down in the annals of history." He wryly commented, before asking, "Illuminating? How so?"

His voice was quite soothing and his demeanor so much more relaxed than she'd ever witnessed before was causing warning bells to go off in her head. She smiled nervously, before replying, "'In the annals of history' that's quite grand for a simple birthday dinner. But illuminating in that, I could never have imagined I knew so many detectives who could sing so horribly. A Karaoke bar of all places, do I really look like someone who 'Karaokes?"

Unable to suppress a soft chortle, he choked out, "Not particularly."

Stopping outside her apartment building, she turned to face the detective she'd barely said two words to, prior to tonight. "Well… this is me. Again, thank you for seeing me home."

"It has been my honor," he demurred, accompanied by a slight bowing of his head. Then he took her fingers, holding them gently and properly between his own for a moment.

"Well, good night then. I'm sure we'll see each other around the squad room soon." She marveled at how small and delicate her hand looked next to his. She wasn't particularly small or delicate. This was another flash of illumination.

"Of that I'm sure. Good night." He stood, watching her as she turned toward the outer door of her apartment building. "Umm…"

She stopped, closing her eyes. She'd prayed to avoid the awkwardness inherent in 'good nights' at the door. Not that this should be an awkward situation – they hadn't been out on a date or anything similar – but still there was something… She plastered a smile on her face, before turning to face him.

Seeing her look back at him expectantly, he hesitated. He quickly gathered his thoughts before he could second-guess himself, he began, "I wanted to say how sorry I am, that … that I didn't know that it was your birthday. How sorry I am that we've barely even spoken since you transferred in."

"Oh…" This was far from what she'd expected. Truthfully, she'd been expecting to ward off an advance. She couldn't honestly admit that it would have been an entirely unwanted advance. There was something… intriguing about Alex's partner. "Ummm, an apology isn't necessary. It… it isn't a big deal. We're all very focused when we're on a case and… and preoccupied. It isn't as if I'd made much effort …" her reply trailed off and she smiled up at him, a genuine smile that came easily, "I'm glad you were able to come tonight."

Once again, it was his turn to be uncomfortable. He averted his eyes and nodded, almost shyly, before looking at her again. "So… so am I." Shifting his weight, he pointed back the way they'd walked, "I really should let you get inside. I'll be going now. Good night again." He continued to shift his weight restlessly for a minute, before nodding as if he'd answered a question he'd posed to himself.

"Good night." She continued to watch as this seemingly internal dialog played out.

Finally deciding on a course of action, he was the one to turn away, leaving her to continue watching him as he walked away through the light and shadows cast by the streetlights, finally receding into the darkness. When she couldn't see him any longer, when his footsteps became lost in the sounds of the city, she turned with a sigh and went into her apartment building.


Early the next morning, she stepped off the elevator on the eleventh floor, already tired. The party had not continued very late, she'd been escorted home by the fairly early hour of 10 pm, but she had been unable to sleep – a combination of circumstances – she rarely slept well when she drank too much, but her thoughts kept returning to her enigmatic escort home. She was aware of some of the trials he had been through in the last year or so. Most everyone in Major Case had at least a passing knowledge of his embattled state. She found it easy to empathize with his seemingly endless escalating tragedies. She found herself chastising herself, "You do not need a project. You do not want to take this on. It is too much."

Rounding the corner into the squad room, she could see that Goren was already presumably already hard at work. Not that she actually saw him working, but he suit jacket hung precisely from the back of his chair. She glanced over to see if Alex was at her desk, directly opposite his. She was and Blake realized that Alex had been watching her, and probably had since she paused and stood staring at her partner's desk. Flustered at having been caught, Blake smiled and waved, before as she continued to her own desk.

Pulling out her chair, she sat, closed her eyes and began a morning ritual. She always took a moment, she needed only a moment or two, to shut off thoughts of her life, block out as much as possible that was her – it was necessary for her to be able to focus on 'the job' - to get into the right mindset to investigate the monstrous evil men – and women could do. Straightening her shoulders, she slowly released the deep breath as she reached for the handle of the desk drawer where she kept her personal things. She froze as she looked into down the drawer. In the spot where she normally dumped her bag, sat a gift-wrapped package. Slowly raising her eyes, she scanned the squad room, looking for anyone who might be paying special attention. She saw no one, though she had her suspicions.

She quickly scooped the package into her tote bag, stood and walked purposefully into the nearest empty interview room. Placing the package on the table, she took a seat in front of it. She was stunned; she was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. Slowly she reached out and caressed the red velvet bow before carefully removing it and easing the black box from its glossy whit wrapping. She was speechless when she saw it. It was a black lacquer keepsake box, with small shaped pieces of inlaid mother of pearl depicting an Asian garden scene. The artistry was remarkable; delicate bonsai trees, imposing pagoda arches providing background details. The foreground featured and a young woman in traditional kimono crossing a small footbridge, across the footbridge waited a young man, arms stretched out in welcome.

Running her palm across its smooth surface, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't think anyone had ever given her such a lovely gift. She lifted the lid and found a small note card with her name on it. Opening the card, her heart skipped a beat, as she read,

Bobby."

He had seen her enter the interview room and presumed she had found the gift. Walking past his desk, he quickly detoured to duck into the adjacent observation room. He watched as she sat staring at the package before sliding it hesitantly and delicately from its wrapping. His confidence rose as he saw a smile begin to play across her lips as she fingered the delicate design on the box's lid. His confidence soared as the smile grew as she read the card. He watched her stand, he watched her begin slowly pacing around the small room, her gaze never leaving the lacquer box. His exhale eased into a relieved sigh. He knew a decision had been made, a decision that allowed him the hope he requested in his note.

He left the observation room, granting her the privacy to gather her composure to face the rest of the day. Back at his desk by the time she exited the interview room, he discretely watched her progress back to her desk. When she had put her things away – just as she'd tried when she first came in – their eyes met across the room. Neither looked away and after several moments there passed a nearly imperceptible nod of her head and a ghost of a smile quirked one corner of her lips.

He was about to push himself up from his chair as Eames came striding into the squad room, blocking their view of the other. "Detective…" she uncannily mimicked Danny Ross's tone and delivery, "the captain wants us in his office for 'a moment'." Bobby collapsed back onto his chair, leaned back to stare up at the ceiling before popping back upright.

"Of course he does. Why wouldn't he?" Bobby exhaled the words with barely concealed sarcasm. He jerked to his feet, eased into his sport coat and followed his partner into the captain's office, all the while sensing a pair of green eyes following his progress from across the room.

Yeah, this is a HUGE change from how you wrote them before, but I like it! I could see this coming before the others and intertwining..........ready for more, these are good!

Oh yes, I'm hooked! A PU, huh? Please post more!

Oh yes, I am hooked too.

I definitely jumped at the chance to test this story out. I love these 2. It was definitely my pleasure to do. Definitely looking forward to more.

I really like this. I can see this really happening--not has light as the others, but diffidently possible.

I like this other perspective on the Bobby/Blake relationship and look forward to more.

OK... well five people have spoken and that's more than enough for me to continue.
I really need so little encouragement, but as is often the case, more is better. But I thank you all for reading, (there are a few more 'hits' than comments. Hopefully those not commenting don't think this is a horrible premise.)

I have another small story ready to post and I'll get that up in a bit.

The story continues...

<><><><>

It was with quiet stealth, that Bobby emerged from the kitchen, as he heard a soft scraping from the entry. He lived alone and there should be no noise in the apartment apart from the sounds he himself created. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he peered around the corner to see, to his utter surprise … a box.

A wooden crate, more precisely, sitting alone on the floor.

Bobby approached, a knife held ready in one hand. He'd been making a sandwich when he heard the noise and had kept hold of the carving knife he'd been using to slice turkey for his meal.

That's when he heard the footfalls. Ones he recognized, despite the heavy tread they currently that announced their approach. It was Blake, and he stepped away before she could catch him looking so puzzled by something as simple as a box.

"What's the knife equivalent of 'don't shoot'?" she asked when she came round the corner, motioning her head toward the knife he held. She was carrying another crate, her feet shuffling under its added weight.

He immediately set the knife down on the bookcase near the door, and he moved to take the crate from her hands. "Hello Blake," he greeted, torn between the nagging worry that these repeated visits of hers were not, in her best interest and the undeniable thrill her simple presence brought to his flagging spirit. What was he going to do?

"So, what's in the boxes?" he asked, more than a little perplexed. He could have sworn he'd heard a metal clank as the crate shifted under his strength.

"You'll see," she smiled mischievously. "There are five more out there."

Bobby peered out the door, a little concerned. "Is someone helping you?"

Blake's eyes narrowed in surprise, almost hurt that he would suggest such a thing. "No, it's just me. All by my lonesome."

He nodded thoughtfully. Her assertion could be read several ways, both positive and negative. It was most probably a show of support and understanding of his reticence to socialize. But at the same time, it also did a splendid job of reminding him exactly how far in the shadows his own life remained as opposed to hers. Life had always been so much easier when it was built on clear objectives and goals. When trivialities and nuances hadn't bothered him so much.

Blake was already off, heading back out, not bothering to puzzle out what he was thinking, "I rented a pickup to bring them here, but I want to get them up here before anything gets lifted. They're a bit of a puzzle, and it won't work unless all of the pieces are there. Come help me?"

Her odd statement snapped Bobby out of his brooding reverie - a new riddle to ponder - and he put down the crate he was holding. "Sure, I'm right behind you," he insisted, and set out to follow her to the elevator.

Two hours later, Blake sat on Bobby's sofa, watching him fumble with screwdrivers, pliers ... even a riveter. Apparently, he had a well-stocked tool supply.

Behind her, a science fiction show was flickering on the television, one from her young childhood, It was something she should have enjoyed watching. But it played on alone, ignored by its former fan.

It felt just to watch him again, this man she was falling in love with. The most basic healing of all, just to watch him working - living and breathing - only twenty feet away. But this, watching Bobby move around the room, assembling the gift she had brought, there was nothing else like it in heaven or earth.

"You're staring, Blake," he stated, taking her a bit by surprise. He did not address her in any way beyond the words - perhaps in bashfulness - as he expertly took a pair of pliers to his task.

And quite out of the blue, it became one of those moments where she nearly found herself weeping.

Yes. Indeed. She was staring. Thank God above and every fate below, for such simple pleasures. Perhaps it was good that he wasn't looking, as she swiped her hand briefly to her eyes. "An interesting turn of the tables, wouldn't you say?" she replied in as strong of a voice as she could muster.

It prompted the smallest nod from Bobby, his hand pausing motionless for a moment. He'd done the same to her earlier. Staring – and he knew, deep down, that he'd be doing it for years to come, as long as she continued to remain within his sight.

Which only made him question, yet again, if this really were for the best. ... That she continue to be drawn here.

"Is it similar enough to the one you had as a kid?" she asked, diffusing the moment. She referred to the magician's blade box he had nearly assembled.

"I believe it's a bit taller," Bobby remarked. "Has nearly an inch of advantage over me." Then he glanced toward her, "But that should only require a slight adjustment. Have no fears." As he picked up a sword and slid it home.

Blake laughed. "Good. I almost chose the guillotine trick, but thought that was just a tad too gruesome.

"Maybe a touch." He admitted, with a grin.

Deliberately, and with much pride, Bobby picked up the second sword. He took a breath, letting it out in a puff of thought. She really was getting to know him well.

"If you want to play with it, I won't laugh," she reassured with minor amusement. "I promise."

Still, Bobby said nothing, lifting the sword in front of him, balancing its weight in one palm for a moment, and then holding it in defiant challenge, accepting the challenge of the box.

And then, swinging the sword over his head in the most expert arc, he lunged to deliver a level, deadly blow to the box's side. It did Blake's heart to see him come alive in a burst of energy. Only with Bobby's strength and reflexes, could the blade flash so quickly through the air, then be restrained so delicately when it finally collided - metal on wood, to penetrate the box.

"This really works best with a pretty girl in the box…"

Blake watched him, as he twirled the sword, flourishing it with what she thought was a certain artistry. She stood and came around the sofa, pausing for a moment as she teased, "I'll go see if I can find one for you."

As she started to walk towards the door, he reached out and grabbed her hand to stop her. "Why go looking for one, when there's one right here. But if you're afraid…" He caught and held her gaze, as he held her hand.

Her breath and a joking retort caught in her throat as she looked up at him. She was afraid, all right, but not of the blade box. She'd felt her heartbeat accelerate as he'd taken hold of her hand and her mouth go dry. Her reaction to him had been frightening her for weeks.

So quiet was her reply, that he had to lean closer and ask in a voice almost as quiet, "I… I couldn't hear…"

Clearing her throat, she tried again. "I wouldn't say 'afraid', so much as cautious."

Again, he felt her response held layers of meaning. He held her hand a moment longer, savoring the moment of small victory, then retreated in another surge of energy. Backward he went, twirling the sword in an expansive, spinning circle at his side. It was done almost mindlessly, just as she'd seen him do with a knife, only now taken to new level of impressiveness with such a giant blade. Even the air around him was in awe, whistling with a hollow beat.

She returned to her place on the sofa, kneeling on the cushions, leaning against the back to watch him at play. What attracted her attention the most, was that intense stare Bobby was giving his foe, the mystery of the black box. The swing of the sword was secondary. Not even done consciously, but with great showmanship. He was planning his next attack, the exact moment and placement of the sword. His next skill to practice. His mind was working. That wonderful, brilliant mind of his.

She was on her feet before she even realized it, moving around the sofa as if drawn by an invisible force. A pull she recognized more than she was willing to admit. And as she grew closer, the twirling of the sword stopped. Bobby sensed her approach, and knew instinctively to stop the blade before it could inadvertently cross her path.

"Let me try?"

"I can't tell you how it's done, you know."

"I know, I know, it goes against 'the magician's code'."

"Don't mock the code." He admonished.

She eventually convinced him to let her try her skill - or lack thereof - on her own. It was semi-successful, producing only a few comical moments when the blade would become stuck halfway through the box and Bobby would have to help her.

"What do you say to some teamwork, eh?"

Bobby couldn't stop the truth, or at least a hint of it, "I will admit we do make a unique team."

She took a deep breath, knowing he would feel her torso's expansion simply because she could feel his as well. And neither moved to avoid it. "So, I guess it's good the team is back together," she concluded slyly, then began an upsweep of the sword. Bobby's hand followed suit -- strengthening and guiding.

When she was finally preparing to leave, a few hours later, it was with a slightly sore wrist.

His hand wrapped gently around her lower forearm ... with an ease both noticed, but neither would acknowledge outright. "You should rest this for a few days," he suggested as he gently massaged the tight muscles of her arm. "Perhaps a brief soak in some cool water tonight, before you go to bed."

Blake nodded, then slipped a request into a question. "So I guess the next lesson will have to wait a few days, is that what you're saying?"

He paused, studying her. Yes or no. ... Come or leave. ... Stay or go.

The reply he knew they both hoped for. Or the reply that logic kept insisting it should be.

Neither side would allow the other to win. A stand-off. The tenuous balance of the last few weeks was beginning to tip, and as if under the slightest weight of a feather. Or, the weight of a wish.

And he knew his answer. God help him, he knew his answer.

His gentle grip left her arm, causing her to worry for a moment that she had somehow presumed too much, when he proceeded to walk away. He stopped at his desk, he opened and reached inside the center drawer.

He walked back to stand if front of her. He raised a hand to her head to gently caress her hair for a moment. As his hand fell away, he brought it around in front of her. The little sleight of hand trick revealed a credit card sized piece of plastic.

She looked up at him questioningly. He was exceptionally good at being cryptic.

Bobby took a breath, letting it out slowly as the final decision was made.

"It's the key card, Blake," he replied. "For the garage. Carry it with you, and you can park there, safely. As long as you insist on continuing these visits, I won't have to worry about your safety as you come and go, Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I could use some company - your company."

She nodded wordlessly, as she picked up her things and walked to the door. As she opened the door she turned back to face him. "Good night, Bobby."

"Good night, Blake." He now leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. He called out to her just as she walked out the door. "Blake?"

She turned back again, expectantly.

"Thank you for the gift. It's a… a great surprise." His smile was almost shy, and she thought, almost humbled.

Feeling confused again, she nevertheless felt a smile spread across her face, "Your very welcome. I'm glad you liked it. I thought it might have been a little over the top, but when I saw it, I immediately thought of you."

"That's me… a little over the top." He said as he grinned back at her. "No, I love it, I really do. I foresee hours of enjoyment as soon as I can recruit a willing subject."

"I'll keep my eye out…" With a quick wave, the door closed and she was gone.

As Bobby stared at the door, he whispered, "Yes, Blake, thank you for your gift – you."

<><><><>
More to come...

Now, this is the other side of the story I've longed to see. The sweet and tender side. Very well done.

I think I'm falling in love all over again. I love the sweet, tentative, beginnings that we see in this relationship. Please, please go on.

That was a very sweet gift, and I like the tentative steps the two of them are taking to get closer together.

I would LOVE to see VDO playing with a sword box like this one on the show! ::thud::

Thank you so much for showing us this side of Bobby and Blake. I can so easily see how this comes BEFORE the day off in the park. I still stick by my statement that these intertwine with the others.

Thanks! I like the other B&B stories - they're huge fun, but something just seemed to be missing.




Me too... I'm "falling in love all over again" with these two, too.



I think anything other than slow and tentative would be too much for Bobby at this point.




Wouldn't that be a trip? A blade wielding Goren (ala Robert E Howard/Conan of TWWW), LOL!!!! ::THUD:: indeed!

"Go."

Bobby issued the pronouncement calmly and purposefully. His arm rose in time with his words, one hand, one finger pointing toward the apartment door.

"Bobby," Blake sighed, turning his name into a sad plea. "I wish you wouldn't be like this."

He cut her off, taking a step forward and planting himself firmly between her and the rest of his humble abode.

"Go, Blake. ... Now."

For ten long seconds, each one feeling like ten minutes of its own, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief. He was being utterly pig-headed, but she had no way to convince him otherwise. She could stay and continue arguing in circles, or she could do, as he demanded.

Alright. Fine. She would do it his way then.

Turning, she walked away with obvious frustration, barely managing not to stomp her feet as she strode out of the apartment without looking back. For the first time in a long time, she didn't even feel the lingering weight of Bobby's stare as she forcefully – just this side of slamming - closed the door.

Midnight - seven hours later - and Bobby sat in one of his reading chairs, a book on Forensic Psychology open in his hands. He was trying to 'read himself to sleep', while also struggling not to look at the clock.

Of course, he knew better than to expect her back that night. For one thing, it was very late and another, she was probably still angry with him. They rarely argued as they had done earlier that afternoon. He was probably almost as angry with himself as she was with him.

So he read. Or tried to. In every profile he read, he saw himself. All he wanted to do was plead his case with the author. Why not? He'd been arguing with everyone else – Blake, the late-night television news reporter who'd tried to give him the day's highlights, even himself.

Especially himself. Had he done the right thing?

Blake had come over that afternoon, talking about a birthday party taking place later that night for one of the other detectives in Major Case. Bobby and the man didn't particularly know each other – a not unusual arrangement for Bobby. This idle piece of news was mildly interesting, but didn't hold his interest for long.

The problem came when Blake mentioned that she'd actually been invited to the event – over a week ago - and that she had decided not to go, planning instead to spend her evening with him at his apartment.

Now, it wasn't the fact that she wished to spend the evening with him that had responsible for their disagreement. How could he be angry with her when he wished the same thing? And it wasn't the fact that, in the process, she would turn down a chance to mingle with the other detectives. No, what angered him was that she would keep the invitation and her refusal of that invitation quiet, until the last minute. The implication was clear to him, she didn't want him to feel left out or abandoned.

Changing her life to include him was one thing. He didn't always approve, but he knew those decisions were hers – decisions he benefited greatly from – even as all the choices in her life remained hers. But trying to keep it from him, as if she felt she needed to protect him from such truths – needed to shield him from the truth that she had other choices she could make - that angered him.

So, naturally, he had demanded that she go to the party. Now she had to go, as far as he was concerned. He'd shown her the door - quite literally - much to his later shame.

In her determination, and to her credit, she had used every argument in the book to counter him.

"I've already told them I wouldn't be able to attend."

"No one is going to miss me, if I'm not there."

But in the end, she had stopped arguing. As a look of pained helplessness crossed her face, she admitted defeat and she had finally walked away. Just as he demanded.

And now here he sat. Trying to forget.

It was about an hour later, when the faint clicking noise began. A sound he knew, a rhythm he recognized. Blake, her footsteps echoing in the hallway outside his apartment, was approaching in high heels.

Then the clicking stopped. The world around him simply became very quiet. He knew she was standing outside the door, waiting, composing herself.

"I know you're there," he stated flatly, after the silence continued for too long. He didn't turn to face the door so his back remained turned from the apartment's entrance, but he could almost feel her eyes on him. An interesting switch of perspective.

Her footfalls started up again, crossing the room, ending with her hand alighting gently on his shoulder. But still, he did not look up.

A residue of annoyance? Maybe. Regret over his behavior? Probably. Either way, he denied her his attention, prompting her into action.

Stepping around the arm of the chair, she gently nudged his book away and replaced it with herself. The Forensic Psychology tome, determinately removed from his hands to be toss carelessly on the adjacent end table, while Blake carefully slid climbed into his tensely rigid lap.

Such a small decision to make – one that was hers and hers alone. Soon, it had an effect that went well beyond her merely perching on his legs. She had worn a simple black dress, with a lightweight, deep red wrap. She wiggled in his lap as she removed the wrap, her movements causing her to teeter unbalanced before his arms came up around her to fence her in, to keep her from falling.

As she unwrapped the cover-up, she slowly extended her arm to release it. He watched as it pooled over his book. As she dropped the garment, to join his book on the table, so had his reserve dropped away from him. She was back in black, her wardrobe matching his. Black sought black, as she looped her arms around his neck, pulling herself into his embrace, as he finally relented. Even if his anger was directed mostly toward himself, he still could not deny the affection of this woman. His arms encircled her, pulling her close.

"I'm sorry," he murmured alongside her ear, as she rested her head to his shoulder. A simple apology, but so very heart-felt.

"I know," she soothed, her actions granting him even more forgiveness as she burrowed into his safety. Yes, she had risked the late-night streets and his anger to be here. But it was worth it, for this.

"And I'm sorry I left," she added. No matter how insistent he'd been, she chastised herself for not having found her strength to stand up against him. Sometimes, it was up to her. She knew that, it was simply part of being with this man. And she accepted it.

His head dipped to hers, one hand rising to caress the back of her neck. She'd pinned her hair up, the revelation of skin catching his helpless eyes. "You're beautiful tonight," he spoke softly. The words escaped before he'd even realized it. Some truths demanded to be heard.

Blake smiled her modest thanks, before pressing a kiss to his neck. "I came straight over after the party. Just try and send me away again, tonight."

To his surprise, Bobby actually found the beginnings of self-forgiveness within his next words. "I wouldn't even attempt it," he stated quite sincerely. "I ... I'm not ready to see you leave again."

She nodded her agreement, then relaxed in his arms ...a tired sigh released beneath his chin.

"You're tired," he hushed. "Did you have a good time at the party?"

"For the most part," she replied, fibbing all the way. Her calf swung lazily where it draped over the arm of the chair, and she let out another breath. "I danced most of the night, actually. I found a dance partner almost as good as you."

And there came the expected stiffening in Bobby' muscles. She knew the effect of her words would have, she had chosen them purposely. It was, however, the simple truth.

A ragged breath made shallow by adrenaline and muffled by regret was his only response. He had no one to blame but himself. He knew that. Once again he cursed his earlier behavior, especially since he could never fully take it back. What was done, was done.

An expression of concern flickered across his face – only for her safety – and perhaps as well as a veiled threat in case her dancing partner had exceeded the boundaries of propriety.

"He was an absolute gentleman," Blake cooed, with a smile Bobby could hear rather than see. Then she added, "George is a very lucky man."

George? George Hackett. He realized she had given him a piece of a puzzle for him to logic his way through. Hackett had been her partner in Homicide when she was at the 3-4. Gordon's lifepartner was Christopher Mullens, a Captain in the 1-3. Birthday boy had transferred into Major Case from the 3-4. It was probable that Mullens would have gone to the party with Hackett.

And just in case, Blake went on to make it crystal clear. "Gordon couldn't make it. Fortunately for me, Christopher is quite a talented dancer, especially with nice slow waltzes. I can't tell you how many times we circled the room."

Bobby chuckled, obviously relieved. "I had no idea you could be such a minx, Blake."

She, however, was no longer laughing or teasing. "You would do well to remember that then," she insisted firmly but gently. Her head tilted back so she could catch - demand - his attention. "You know, I've never let anyone make my decisions for me, and I'm not going to let you make them either." One feminine fingertip rubbed mournfully at his chin. "Don't ever do that to me again. Don't ever tell me to leave like that."

Bobby swallowed. Silently.

The last vestiges of anger were disappearing, as too were any worries over her little joke. Even the guilt was somehow subsiding, utterly overpowered by the look in her eyes. It was all that simple, and it was all right there.

"I won't," he replied. The shortest of answers, sealed with his word of honor. Then he gave her the truest welcome home, gathering her tightly as she climbed further into the curve of his neck.

Long minutes passed while silent forgiveness was both granted and accepted. A return to each other. A peace, during which time could finally sneak up on them.

"You're tired," he murmured. She was growing limp in his arms, her breathing settling into the most regular, most comforting cadence. A sound, almost like her own poetic beat, her own rhythm - that he'd spent more time in quiet wonder of, than he would ever admit.

Blake shifted, purposefully waking up and reining in her drifting mind. She wasn't done with the day yet. "In a minute. I want to dance first."

"Dance?" he laughed. "Now?"

"Yeah, now." She resisted the urge to point out the obvious irony. Traditionally, it was she who questioned his timing and urge to 'trip the light fantastic'. "I kept the last spot open on my dance card. Saved the best for last."

He laughed again. "You're so tired, you can't even stand up, let alone dance."

Blake's lips roamed from his cheek to hover near his ear, as she whispered, "Then you'll just have to help hold me up, won't you?" although thankfully he couldn't see that her eyes did remain closed in exhaustion.

His grip tightened, already preparing for just such a task ... and knowing from the beginning how much he would enjoy it.

"If I have to, I have to," he replied, taking her with him as he rose from the chair. "Whatever you need, whenever you need."

As they did little more than shuffle their weight from foot to foot, with that simple cadence and combination of easy movement and breath, they recaptured their balance.

<><><><>
More to come...

Wonderful. I really like Blake coming back and working things out. More, please.

I keep forgetting to comment here. I sooo love these 2 as you know. I cannot wait for more.

Wonderful job. This series shows the serious side of their relationship, and well as how much they both mean to each other.

There's always more. And it'll be soon.



You know, it's okay. I'm posting these all over the world now. As long as I hear from you somewhere - and you think I'm doing right by Bobby and Blake, that's enough.
(Although more is always good, too)
I still owe you big time for suggesting the whole 'signature couple' concept. Because I really hadn't thought that at all.


Thanks TCIF. I was kind of freaked out about changing, umm, I guess it's the ... the tone of their story.

A new chapter is coming very, very soon.

Oh goody, a new chapter!

I can understand about wanting to add another dimension to your character.

"Did you enjoy it, Blake?" Bobby inquired, rubbing the shoulder of the girl currently reclined against his side. In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure she'd even been awake for most of the last half of the movie. Not that he would complain though, not that he would complain at all. Not when she chose to spend what free time both of them had, with him, with such closeness.

"Mmhmm," she replied, surprisingly coherent, nodding where her head lay against his shoulder. "But now I'm worried I'll find you hiding behind some potted plant, talking to Shakespeare over there."

He glanced behind them, toward the small bust of Shakespeare acting as a book stop on the shelf above the desk. Considering they'd just watched 'Cyrano de Bergerac', he could imagine her point. He did have an admitted propensity for impromptu re-enactments. . As for the potted plant, there was none to be found anywhere.

"I would prefer to think I speak quite well enough for myself," he replied, feigning a little offense, but only a little. "Couple that with the absence of any potted plants in the apartment, I don't think you have much to worry about in this regard."

Drowsily, she offered, "Plants are good for you; the oxygen they give off will make it easier for you to absorb all that much more minutia about … everything." She patted his chest, before nuzzling closer.

His arm tightened, knowing he should rise and remove the disk from the player. It was late, and he should soon see her safely home building.

'Should', however, does not always equal 'could'.

Add into the mix that today had been one of those rare days, they had been able to spend the whole day together, and he was finding it especially difficult to watch their evening end.

"Thank you," she murmured, shifting her head so she could see him properly. "I liked this."

Her hand rose, fingers curving to lie gently on his chest. A sensation he could feel right through to his core. It could have been worse, he could have lost his nerves' ability to feel such a feather light, exquisite touch. Sweet torture indeed.

"I have something for you," he commented softly. "Before you return home."

Blake smiled. "As long as it's not another case history. I really don't want to play the head case game tonight." She'd made the grave mistake of asking him to recommend work-related reading material for her. He was enthusiastic to share not only his books and materials, but his process and knowledge. She discovered him to be a natural teacher.

Bobby chuckled. "Nothing nearly so cerebral tonight, I should say. Although, I am coming to appreciate your … your imaginative profiling skills."

And then, the time had come, he forced himself to rise from the couch, supporting and coaxing Blake until she too was vertical.

"You're tired, aren't you," he teased when he had to steady her for a second time. "Come, this won't take long."

'Giving' her something had become a tricky endeavor.

Something too personal, or too obvious in any way, might arouse suspicion among her friends – mostly the same detectives he saw everyday – it was a risk neither seemed ready to face. Something too impersonal, and she might choose to keep here, where it would only taunt him with its presence, reminding him of her when she couldn't be here.

Yes, the endeavor had become quite a minefield. Bobby was good at minefields though. He had maneuvered through them most of his life. Probably always would.

What he had selected tonight would be something to encompass all of those qualities, and in a way that if she chose to keep it here, the memory it generated would hopefully delight rather than taunt.

Taking her hand, he led her into the second bedroom of his apartment.

"That is for you," he remarked affectionately, pointing toward a table. Something most rectangular and edged sat atop it, covered with a swatch of blue velvet. "Go on," he coaxed. "It's yours to do with as you wish."

Stepping forward, she gingerly pulled off the velvet, peering with interest as the cloth slipped away, slowly revealing…

Well ... she wasn't sure what it was at first. Its overall shape was much like an antique cash register ... complete with a series of buttons on top. These buttons were electronic, however.

He moved up behind her, one arm slipping around her waist to steady himself - or at least that was how he would justify it – if called upon to do so. He leaned beside her, reaching past her to turn the machine on.

It sprang to life ... lights flashing. And what could only be described as a reel of ticker-tape paper, swiftly jumpstarted and jerked itself into position.

"Does it really work?" Blake asked playfully, with one eyebrow raised. She took in the exotic beauty of the dark haired mannequin face staring back at her, its wispy garments fluttering as its hands passed over a perfectly scaled down version of a crystal ball. It was a tabletop fortune-telling machine.

"I actually found this at the property clerk's auction a couple of weeks ago. It needed cleaned up some and some of the gold gilt needed to be redone. The restoration took a little longer than I thought …" He paused for a moment, suddenly quite nervous and anxious to point out her options. ... "You need not keep it, if it doesn't strike your fancy."

"At least you've given me a graceful out, if it doesn't 'strike my fancy'," She laughed. "which is more than I gave you when I brought over that magician's blade box. If we keep this theme up, we'll be able to open up a booth in Coney Island."

Proudly Bobby ran one hand along the machine's front edge. It had restored to excellent condition.

She was joking, of course, but Bobby took the opportunity to play right along. "Well then you must test it for them, wouldn't want any of the paying clientele to be taken advantage of." His hand pointing toward a lever with 'Tell Me No Lies' sprawled across it in whimsical script, he continued to goad her, "Don't you believe, Blake? Don't you believe? ... ... Please, do try it."

With another amused chuckle, she relented and grasped the handle. "All right."

Down came the immaculately clean lever, and chink, click, chink went the printing device, the fortune spitting out at her on a stream of paper.

That fortune appeared far too long, however - and the chinking and clicking continued for far too long - for it to be correct. That was Bobby's first hint that something was amiss. Ripping the ticker-tape off, Blake read it aloud.

"He loves you ... with all that he shall ... but that is rarely enough."

Her voice tilted into a question at the end as she realized how bad that actually sounded. Especially given where she was standing, and who she was standing so close to. "Well that's not the most encouraging thing I've ever heard," she stated, a bit taken aback.

Bobby's pensive "Hmmmmmm" hummed across the back of her head. "Yes indeed. That certainly wasn't supposed to happen." Glancing at her, "See, it's a good thing we tested it first, before opening for business."

Reaching around her again, he set and reset a few buttons on the side of the obstinate little machine - then paused, clearly frustrated - then gave it a good sharp thwack on its metal frame.

"Beating it up isn't going to help," she chided.

"It came from a raid at a bar. Isn't that the way most drunks would attempt to remedy the situation? There, try ... try again."

"But maybe that's why it didn't work right." Blake took a stubborn breath, cast him a humorously wary look, then pulled the lever a second time.

Chink, click, chink ... ... and she read the result.

"The best of intentions are rarely enough ..."

Two large hands landed at her waist, no longer needing to discipline the machine. It was working, he stepped a little closer behind her, his smile hidden from her amused gaze. "Try again."

This time, her glance back at him was a bit more suspicious, but she did as he suggested. More clinking. More clicking. And she read…

"Yet he shall strive with all that he is ..."

His hands slid happily around her midriff. A liberty taken with the confidence of success. "Again," he purred.

Another pull of the lever, to produce -- --

"Because ..."

This time, she glanced at him with the most affectionate shyness, unsurprised to find that 'face' of his mirroring the sentiment back so perfectly. And this time, she needed no prompting.

One last pull. A chink and a click. -- --

"He loves you ..."

Silence for a moment, after her whisper of the words ended. He leaned closer along the side of her head, hoping that everything was indeed all right ... assured of it, when her fingers carefully gathered together the precious little strips of paper, squeezing them between her palms. A further moment, while she fought back the tears.

"This machine, isn't going anywhere," her hushed voice quite resolutely declared, staring at the little machine she now absolutely adored. "It stays here. But these," she smoothed the ends of the paper strips, peaking out from between her hands, "These come with me. These are mine."

Bobby's head propped to hers, breathing a sigh of both joy and relief. "Yes," he agreed simply. "They are."

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes still trying to escape that same lever she had been so reluctant to pull.

"Do you believe now, Blake?" he asked, breathing the words into her hair.

A few more blinks, as she tried unsuccessfully to slow the welling tears. "Yeah," she whispered, then carefully jarred his reluctant arms loose, just enough to turn for a proper embrace. "Yeah. I think I really do."

I can't get enough of Bobby and Blake! This was so sweet.

This is too sweet. I love this and I can't wait for more.

Why can't I be Blake? *sigh*

This is definitely going into my required reading list for guys.

Men who want to know the kind of things girls like should read this one and a few other books and fics out there to really understand how to impress females without being condescending or patronizing.

Oh, wow! These last two were absolutely beautiful! Just breathtaking! Thank you....

Thank you. As long as I can keep thinking of situations to throw at them.




I like the idea of required reading - men need something to get them on track sometimes - don't they?
I'd like to be Blake too! Does that make me a 'Mary Sue'? LOL!!!



Thanks FM. I like the way these new ones are turning out. They're much more natural for me to write than the flat out fluffy ones I was doing - and will continue to do- when an idea presents itself.

The next one is going to be a halloween story of some type - it seems the right time of year,
dontcha think?

The "fluffy" ones work well in between these "more serious" ones.....

Halloween is the subject of Challenge #6........

No matter what season or holiday, these are just GREAT.

Wonderful as always, and I look forward to your halloween piece.

This was wonderful. I always look forward to these 2. Great story and look forward to more.

These stories are so great!! I'm so glad you decided to let us see how they started.
The third story has to be my favorite of this little series so far. Keep them coming!!!

What a nice, firm dance frame Bobby had, Blake thought as she and her beau swayed to the music. An old jukebox, another song for them to now claim as their own, and two large hands gently guiding their combined 'frame'.

His hand did not curve around her waist solely to steer her, their steps had taken them barely three yards from their initial starting point. And then when one of his fingers - just one, had inched its way between hers, that wasn't entirely formal technique, now was it?

Unfortunately, Blake had an early morning. There was always time for one last dance though, and Bobby invited his lady to choose the tune. Of course, she had no idea what she was picking, and ended up with a jazzy piece that had more life to it than it had words.

That didn't hinder them though. On the contrary, he was soon stepping quite repeatedly into her personal space - blaming it on the tempo, of course. Then her hand dared just a little further around his neck - only so she could keep up, mind you. Their frame was beginning to look rather collapsible.

Bobby's grin matched hers, and he found himself laughing softly along with her. She apparently found colliding feet to be terribly amusing, while it was her laughter that he found tantalizing. He really shouldn't have been too surprised then, when she leaned further into him, gazed up at him with the coyest expression, and said, "Dip me!"

"Dip you?" he repeated, though the tone of his voice hint at amusement and interest.

"Yeah." She drew still closer, until his hand made the most natural shift from her waist to her back. "I think I've been dipped maybe twice in my life. Once by my father, and once by a dance instructor. The instructor was trying too hard, to be too impressive; and my dad is well, 'my dad'." Her lips fluttered dangerously close to his chin, as though they may alight any moment. Instead, they simply whispered the quiet request. "I want you to dip me."

An image formed in his head, of this woman, reclining safely within his arms. And maybe, just maybe granting that kiss with which she currently teased him.

Nearing the end of the piece, the music swelled behind them, as did Bobby's chest. The adrenaline flowing, his affection growing for the first person to ever make such a delightful request of him. Hoping he didn't appear too eager, his hand spanned across her back, balancing shifting and then the brief tilting back of his dance partner.

Blake's smile rose instantly, her head leaning back as she giggled. It was very close to what she wanted, but ... "Come on, lower," she laughed, trying to shift her weight to her advantage. Not that she had a prayer, his arm was like a band of steel holding her in place. ... ...

And he really did consider doing exactly as she asked. It would have been a sight to behold, he knew that too. This woman he loved, seeing her draped low over his arm would have been a sight he might never have forgotten. But he couldn't do it.

"Lower," she insisted. "I'm not scared ... you know I trust you."

He paused. He froze

She'd never said those words to him before. That she trusted him.

He had sensed it clearly at times, but now she had given it power, by voicing the conviction aloud. Playfully and in passing, to be sure. Uttered while trying to get her own way. But still, she'd said it. With an ease only the truth could inspire.

It should fill him with joy. It should speak to their blossoming relationship. It should assure him that her other words of affection and constancy were equally true.

He righted her, efficiently and quickly, using the music's ending notes as his excuse.

"Our next dance, perhaps," he suggested, feigning ease and quietude as best he could. He moved away from her ... casually, although his heart was still thumping over that vivid image behind his eyes. "When we have opportunity again. I know you need to get home soon."

What could Blake say? She was left dumbfounded, and could only watch as he put more distance between them.

Usually at this point, in what little routine they'd already established, he would be asking about her schedule for the next few days. Trying to find a convenient time for them to see each other again - even deciding what they might do. He would embrace her, emphasizing that she should be careful. And she warn him of the same -- with even more adamancy, knowing there was always the chance he'd be off chasing on a new case. A few quiet moments of closeness before she left, or before they set out together and he would see here home.

She really did need to be going soon, and he knew it. So why was he now standing at an end table, fiddling with the tray of tea she'd been drinking?

"What's wrong, Bobby?" she asked in confusion. She moved to the side -- not bold enough to approach directly, but hoping to at least re-insert herself into his field of vision. And when he didn't look at her she knew it was something deeper than a 'dip'.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, as he clinked the tea cup and saucer in a most unnecessary way. Distraction - nothing else. She reviewed the previous minutes in growing concern, trying to recall her last words. "Because I said I wasn't scared? That I trust you not to drop me?"

Well, she was close. The crux remained, and it stung him anew.

"You should not trust so easily," he replied, watching the fingers before him delicately pinch the handle of a porcelain cup. "Or so quickly," he amended. "There are days I wonder how I can protect you, when you are so open as is your willingness to trust."

"WHAT?" was her eventual reply. "What are you talking about? What do you mean 'trust so easily'? I said I trust you. Not just anyone. You. ... What on earth is wrong with that?"

His head just shook for a moment, a sad moment, that he wished he could take back, or at least undo. He couldn't even find words for the thoughts that raced through his head. How do you apologize for something that you are not fully sorry? How do you regret a thought, but not the actual deed? In the end, to a man, who'd spent most of his life in solitude, the answer was distance. The answer to so many things and some many times, was distance.

"But, to prevent the tyrant's violence," he finally spoke, using the master's words rather than his own. "For trust not him that hath once broken faith."

A new puzzle and she immediately went to work on the solution. "Broken faith? When did you break faith?"

He finally turned quickly, and with a new determination. She still was not seeing, and having already broached the topic, even against his better judgment, he suddenly, simply, needed it done. For the thoughts in his head, for that voice whispering that she never would, and never should, trust him again.

He stepped away. Further into the room, now abandoning the tea tray as well. Trying to get away from her, maybe? He wasn't even certain himself. ... ... Why had he pushed this so far? ... And when would that damn voice in his head be silent?

Equally surprised - by both the conversation, and the fact that he was now yards away from her and receding fast – Blake's words took on a new urgency. "Where did this come from? You know I trust you. Forget about some stupid dance move - you could dangle me off the edge of a roof and I'd still trust you. I love you.

And that, finally returned his gaze to hers. The full weight, and she basked in a moment of relief. It never ceased to amaze her how much she could miss this man, even on those occasions when all she really lacked was the view of his eyes.

"Do you?" he asked, softly and solemnly. "Are you certain of that?"

She nodded. Did he really need that assertion from her? Did he really need to hear this in her own words? Again? When he had yet to... Alright. Fine. He would have it. ... Whatever he needed.

He was frozen again. But at least focused on her now, instead of his hands.

It was anger -- maybe even fury -- that he had always expected to come flooding out of her, one day when she finally saw fit to speak her mind. Instead, here was a smooth, serene show of strength. Empathy even. ... An understanding that could never be claimed by the self-righteous, or those who considered themselves outside the game.

Was this her admission, that right and wrong was not always as black and white as some chose to believe? That even his darkest of actions, may not have been the blackest? Was this her confession, on the most volatile experience they'd ever shared?

She stepped closer, her fingers reaching tentatively towards his cheek to caress delicately the flesh and blood of him, that part of him that couldn't be hidden beneath the mask. She knew the man beneath. She knew what had made him. And what had broken him.

"I've had a lot of time to think about things, too" she spoke. "To think about everything from your mom to Brady, from Frank and Donny, and from Alex to Declan. All of it." She emphasized. "I know you had no other way to show us the truth of what had happened and what could happen. I know 'we' would never have simply 'believed' you otherwise. I do trust you. It's there, and it's real. I just hope you can trust me. Because I love you too."

Her final words became a plea, a helpless statement of fact, and she closed the final distance. Then still more promised "I love you's", her arms looping around his neck as she rose onto tiptoe, pulling herself into his embrace. How could she do anything else?

The breath left his body in one deep exhalation. Relief. Remorse. Exhaustion. Even a little pride, over the strength in this woman before him. "I do love you, Blake," was the natural end to that breath, his head pressing adamantly to hers. "And I have never trusted any one, as I trust you. It grows with each passing day."

"Oh Bobby," she hushed in response, rising to hold him cheek pressed to cheek, more intimately than a kiss.

Then she released him, but only to take his hand. His grip had always been gentle, cautious, as if fearful of harming her. And she understood that too. ... ... Yeah, she knew what he sometimes saw in those overtly strong hands of his.

"And these," she said, holding five fingers between her own. "I trust these too."

A kiss for the tip of his pointer finger. Then another for the soft curve between his knuckles. His hand moved of its own accord, barely caressing her chin while he breathlessly watched the scene.

"These hands mean safety to me, too." she continued. Her face turned in to the palm, where another kiss was reverently laid. "Don't ever think otherwise. Don't ever try to keep them away."

It was an amazing thing to witness, so much affection poured out across well-used, life-worn hands. Hands that had both received, and dealt out, far more violence than tenderness. Hands that were well-practiced in justice, but woefully unaccustomed to the receipt of kindness.

And she loved them. How clear that was.

His second hand rose to her back, spanning the distance between her shoulder blades holding her with a new permission, a new confidence. He leaned closer, drawn to those tiny kisses that continued across his black-clad palm.

"I do love you," he whispered, barely audible. But the one who needed to hear it, did; and her lips migrated onto his waiting, frozen, perhaps even hopeful smile. The sweetest kiss, intimately shared and jealously private, guarded safely and securely, behind a most trustworthy hand.

By the time it ended, his embrace was returning to its rightful strength. Even better than before, drawing her urgently into his arms.

And now came new images - better images - to battle back the old. As she moulded herself into the curve of his body, he could see his hands on her back. Splaying, gripping, cradling. Loving. Certainly not hurting, as she moved beneath them. These hands only completed what she herself had started ... bringing her closer.

An embrace, for which both had waited months, years, perhaps lives. An embrace full of optimism and acceptance, one beyond mere forgiveness. Neither anxious for to end.

Well past the time Blake had hoped to be back at her apartment.

Bobby's voice came low beside her ear - wistful, yet melancholy. "Come, gentle night. Come, loving, black-brow'd night." Soon, he would be escorting her home. Soon, this same night would part them.

His grip began to weaken at the inevitable, and his chin pressed one last time to her head. They should be going and he knew it. Hands that had finally found their true strength, would have to release her for now.

Not yet though, as Blake worked for quite the opposite.

She held him still as tightly; still as relentlessly, hands clinging around his neck. "We have another minute," she whispered. "There has to be another minute. One last dance, Bobby? Just one last dip?"

The faintest chuckle came easily. So much emotion swirling around them, slowly dispersing in a moment of playful surprise. His hands returned, answering her silently and with much less hesitancy, encircling her once more.

These touches were to be savored. Every moment, savored, as she settled quite happily back into his embrace.

Only then did Blake's head retreat, just far enough to catch his eyes. One last wordless exchange. One last nod of both request and permission, given by the lady. One last kiss to be indulged in ... before Blake's body was slowly, gently tilted, by the absolute safest of arms.

For all of his expertise, that dance instructor had been wrong. Something Blake had always suspected, and was now proving to herself quite well, with the assistance of her rapidly agreeing Bobby.

A proper dip must be done properly. Not necessarily with music - there was none. Not with a perfectly precise 'dance frame' - this was far, far more secure. But rather, with genuine trust - trust shared best, and most naturally, between those who genuinely loved.

More to come...

<><><><>


A/N The quote… attributed to the master, is from William Shakespeare's, King Henry the Sixth

"But, to prevent the tyrant's violence, -

For trust not him that hath once broken faith."

The next line is, "I'll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary…" I like to think that Blake will be Bobby's sanctuary.

<><><><>

Now I can go catch up on all my reading...

I like Bobby's hands, too....

Good job. I really liked how you weaved the classics into this story, so very typical of Bobby. You painted a very vivid and beautiful picture here.

I want to be Blake so badly when I read these....

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Wonderful chapter and those 3 little words said. My little heart go pitter patter.

Oh my! You have done an amazing job of moving us from a light, fluffy, fun moment of dancing to the dark, insecure recesses of Bobby's tortured heart, and back into the light of his realization that this woman understands, accepts, and loves him exactly the way he is. Beautiful, just beautiful. And I love his hands too!

"These hands only completed what she herself had started ... bringing her closer." ::SIGH.......::

Another wonderful piece. Thanks for the lovely way you moved these two forward.

You can dance with Bobby after I have my turn with him, cousin!

Everytime I think I have a favorite you write a new one. This has to be one of the best, you practicality transported us to the dance floor.

The Story Continues....



Two AM, and Bobby lay awake in his bed room, stretched out, hand beneath his head, staring pensively at the ceiling. Listening to the silence. Listening to the stillness. Listening for one thing to interrupt the silence and the stillness; listening for the soft footfalls padding down the hallway signaling Blake's return.

It was Blake, and he was no longer startled at these unexpected late night visits. She had let herself into his apartment minutes ago, confessing quietly, that she couldn't sleep. He knew she was more worried about him not sleeping than any supposed problem she might be having. He knew that and she knew that he knew. Both determined to let that be just another of the things they didn't talk about - yet. He could remember the first nervous, awkward, heart-pounding encounters? Her approach was always so tentative, almost shy, despite the fact that it was entirely her own decision to embark on this particular journey.

It was not a shyness born by fear of discovery. She would never come to him if she feared him. She harbored no fear of him. Not in her eyes; not in her words; not in her behavior; not even in her touch, and he had looked. Most assuredly, he had searched for any signs. He watched for them with an intense focus only sheer paranoia could muster. There was nothing of that emotion anywhere within her. An unspoken compliment that filled him with what he could only describe as undeserved pride.

Nor was it the shyness of shame. It was no secret at 1PP that they were a couple. It wasn't even the elephant in the room, although it had started out that way. The relationship became public knowledge several months ago. Everything revolved entirely of her own volition; she was in control of it all. Every time she walked through his doorway, she would grace the dim light with a small, victorious smile. Showing him that she too felt a sense of pride; having proven her spirit yet again in seeking him out.

No, this was a shyness born of love. A fact that was always responsible for him inhaling deeply whenever his thoughts turned in that direction. She loved him. She had said it often enough. She had often shown it to be true. Whenever she would come to him like this, he knew her shyness came from the timid hope that he really did believe her.

And he did. God help him, he did.

"You're awake," she whispered, smiling as she leaned against the side of his doorway. She couldn't tell that by simply looking at him, as his eyes remained closed, obviously she knew his breathing. A familiarity they noted with silent affection.

"Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them," he replied, intoning an expressive moan into the last pair of words. Not that he had to search his memory for an appropriate quote. He'd offered the same explanation many times before. They were developing a bit of a script, it seemed. Buried within the good mood that his voice conveyed, lay his hidden approval that she was welcome. She entered, quietly crossing the floor.

A soft cotton t-shirt and shorts were her pajamas, a set she kept here for the nights she decided to spend at his apartment. As expected, her arms crossed over her midriff, offering meager protection against the winter chill that never seemed to won over by the heating system in his apartment.

So he knew what to expect at her approach, lying still as she climbed past him into the niche between his body and the far side of the bed. Once she'd settled down against his side, he reached above his head, and brought his arm gingerly around her, and he tried not to shiver when she wiggled closer in anticipation, wrapping her arm across his waist and laying her cheek on his shoulder. Could he release his breath now?

"Do you genuinely believe this helps you sleep?" he asked incredulously, his fingertips gently sliding up and down her arm. "Slinking around in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness ..."

Blake smiled to herself. "No, but then I wasn't the one lying here awake at two o'clock in the morning. Who knows, maybe it's your sleep that will be helped."

Now it was Bobby's turn to smile, secretly in the dark. He had yet to come up with a retort to her smug assertion, despite his having heard it several times now.

"Besides," she continued. "There's something I need to tell you. I ... I thought it would be easier here, now, in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness... "

She heard his soft chuckle as his words were turned back on him. And felt his body tense as he realized what she had just said.

This was not part of the script or scene that usually played out. He took a deep breath as she began.

"I was going to wait until Friday, after I knew for certain there was no way around it. I don't think there will be, and I don't like keeping it secret or... or springing it on you at the last minute."

He looked down across her face, genuine concern rising. "Tell me, Blake."

"It's looking like that on Monday, I'm off to D.C. for at least three weeks, for the Homeland Security liaison team training."

Bobby took another deep breath, lifting Blake right along with him, and then let it out slowly. He stared at the ceiling as he asked, "When did you find out that you're going to be part of the liaison team?"

"Um… yesterday. I needed to figure out how I felt about it, before I told you. But, I think it has the potential to be an effective program and I think… I hope that I can help keep the focus on what's really important and avoid the issues of territoriality and who gets credit between the departments."

A silent pause, while Bobby's inevitably supportive reply formed. "Well then you have to go, just know that I'll miss you."

"I don't want to go," she admitted quietly. "I know that it's only three weeks, but I don't want to go, I don't want to leave."

Bobby's hand landed on her arm, rubbing gently where it lay across his abdomen. Indeed, he would miss her. Possibly more than she even suspected. "I know," he replied. "But if that's the extent of your dilemma, if that's what's keeping you awake at night, it could be much worse. So much worse."

Blake nodded on his shoulder. He'd remained quite relaxed, so she would make one further request. Tightening her arm, silently bracing him for what he was about to hear, she murmured, "Will you tell me why you're awake at two o'clock in the morning, so many nights?"

She actually felt and heard his heart rate shoot up, and she simply waited. There were very few avenues of escape for him at the moment.

"Perceptions are more than visual," he finally said. "Blake, the thoughts, the memories that keep me awake would change your view of me and I … I'm not ready for that."

Blake's eyes closed, her muscles easing into defeat. She was growing so weary of this standoff. So weary of being torn between her feelings of sympathy for what he must have endured; what he must still endure now, and the simple desire to see - to know - the man she loved.

"Why do you keep insisting that I couldn't handle it?" she challenged with a hushed, thinly veiled anger. "That I couldn't accept what I find?"

"It is I who could not accept what I would find, if I gave voice to them," he corrected her quickly, even tersely. "To leave them in darkness confines them. And keeps you safe and free."

He caught himself before his words became harsher, then reflexively pulled her tighter, reminding himself that she was not one of those who had walked away, or let him down. What she was, instead, was the one who had saved him probably more times than she realized; and who, he genuinely believed, loved him.

"Blake," he sighed mournfully. "Once you have seen the extent of it, even if only for a moment, I ... I am the one who will continue to be tortured by it. Every time you look at me, I will see its reflection. And I don't have your strength."

His answer was truthful, and he waited silently for her rebuttal. She would try again, he knew that, and he secretly welcomed it. Her determination was building up to that very same strength he needed. She would eventually break through. It was more a question of 'when' than 'if', and part of him joyously cheered her on. How she would accomplish her mission sparked his curiosity.

She didn't argue with him now. She didn't attempt to draw him out further, at least not blatantly. At first, there was no reaction. Then he felt a low frequency shudder vibrating out from her torso and into his own. He recognized it as the effect of her breathing as she exhaled under the stress of trying not to weep.

That was where her words ended, reduced to a muffled sob. The strong hands that she thought would comfort her, didn't. He made no movement of consolation or comfort, freezing and stiffening beneath her. Even his attention appeared denied to her, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above.

For what felt like long minutes, they remained exactly that way, although in truth it was mere seconds. Then her worst fear realized, retreat, always his retreat. His arms left her with little fanfare, and he removed himself brusquely from beneath her weight.

"Bobby!" she wept, struggling to sit up. He was fast, and was already striding across the room. "Bobby, please come back. I'm sorry. Please!"

He had reached the doorway, prepared to leave her for the night. Or, so she thought. Instead, he closed the door, instantly sinking the room into a darkness so complete, she felt as if a mask had been placed over her eyes.

"Bobby?" she sobbed again, knowing he was on this side of the door, but unable to see even an inch in front of her. "Bobby?"

"Shhhh," he hushed. "Don't be afraid. Please, Blake."

Then the sensation of fingers, landing gently on her arms, sliding smoothly down to catch her hands. A warm and loving touch, but unusually firm at the same time.

The shift of the mattress as he sat down beside her. The bump of her leg with his own as he drew closer.

And then, while his hands gingerly kept her own in check, came the most tentative press of warm, full lips to her own. Brief, less she feel more than he was prepared to reveal, but lingering just long enough to prove his deep compulsion to continue.

"I do love you, Blake," the words whispered across her cheek. "Please don't cry. You're the one who will get us there. When the time is right."

Finally, an affectionate squeeze of her hands as he indulged in one more soft brush of her lips. It was a continued, careful risk that he simply could not resist, even as it revealed more than he intended.

It left her trembling in shock, swallowing the last of her tears as his tears mingled with hers. When his hands suddenly disappeared from her own. He was gone again, back into the dark depths of the room.

Even when he re-opened the door, it took her eyes a moment to adjust, to the newer shade of lighter darkness as he returned to the bed. Once again, his mask in place, smiled at her as he coaxed her to lie back down.

She complied, retrieving the blanket and wrapping it around them both as she welcomed him back to his bed, whispering her own endearments as she found herself pulled into his arms.

This was different. It had been such an uncomplicated gesture, so simple and so subtle, but one that irreversibly changed everything. They both knew and they both delighted in it even more as he settled down to face her, adjusting himself so that her forehead could rest gently against the mask he wore, even with her.

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More to come...

I could really sense their closeness and how they are starting to rely more on each other. This was wonderful.

Beautiful!!! This is just what I needed before heading out to work. I love how Bobby could reveal only a small part of himself and only in total darkness. I also love Blake's determination. Can't wait for the next one.

This is really, really good Fussekat. Are you sure you don't do this for a living? I mean you could make really good money at............

Oh. My. God. I was afraid to breathe for fear that I would ruin everything. Loved how you used the darkness so well in this. I think this is my favorite, although the car washing episode was pretty great, too!

This was sublime. The perfect dark and quiet...

I quite enjoyed this. Ok, I loved it, loved it. The snuggling, OMG that was just *sigh* beautifully written.

Thanks to you all! I'm glad you liked this one, because if you liked this one, I think you'll like the next couple and they are almost finished ....


Blake's going to get through to him, if its the last thing I do.







I wish I could make a living doing this....

This was so beautiful. Like FM, I was afraid to breath, afraid to break the spell. Loved it!

Thanks CIADDICT.

As I've said before, I have so much fun writing these, it's hard to believe it all started quite innocently as a one shot. Everyone of you has encouraged me with your kind words and I owe you all so much because I have gotten and I'm sure will get so much enjoyment writing these.

THANK YOU ALL!

The story continues… a hint at some of Blake's family history....

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As she waited for sleep to take her away, her thoughts meandered back to an earlier time. A time long, long ago, in a life far, far away, Blake Jamison had a brother. In that same life she had also had a mother. And she had a father. But her immediate thoughts and memories revolved around her brother. All of whom were in the back of her mind always, but brought back into sharp focus by the recent, sudden and tragic death of Bobby's own brother, Frank just at the one year anniversary of their mother's death. She knew that by the facts, but not by any discussion by or with Bobby about it. Neither she nor Bobby talked much about their family. This was just another similarity in their nature that others didn't understand.

But she knew that Bobby's relationship with his brother had at best been problematic from the time they were teenagers. Blake wasn't sure if she considered herself lucky that she hadn't had as much time with her own brother. There had been a time when she looked up to her brother in awe when they were kids. He had been a brother she loved, and he was now a brother she missed terribly at times, as she did her parents. But, he was also a brother that she - like most little girls - often considered to be utterly diabolical.

Slowly her breathing began to deepen, falling into sync with the sleeping figure next to her. Oh, taunt her, her brother did. In the way, that only sibling rivalry can inspire. Getting her into trouble purely for the fun of it; hiding her things until she thought she was losing her mind; and the full assortment of typical, juvenile practical jokes. As they grew older the jokes became less juvenile. By the time she was in her early teens, his 'acting out', his jokes became cruel and were the cause of an estrangement with her and with their parents that lasted until his death. That still had incredible power over her. Until she met Bobby, she had thought that exquisite torture was uniquely hers. It didn't make her happy to know that others in the world shared that particular agony.

So it should have come as little surprise that when hours later as her guard was down – in sleep – that her unconscious would star her brother in her dreams, that as he teased her in sleep that his name would come to her and cross her lips.

"Evan, stop it!" she mumbled still half asleep, waking enough to realize her discomfort.

Waking further, she tried to lift her arm from where it hung out over the edge of the bed, almost convinced she'd find it wrapped in a cold wet towel – in her dream, her brother was wrapping her in cold, wet 'bandages' to turn her into a mummy. Instead, she found that it wouldn't even move.

Her eyes blinked open, the dream ebbing away as the reality of Bobby's bedroom filtered in. In seconds, she finally realized the actual innocence of her predicament. Her arm was immovable, simply because it was asleep, stretched out into the air beyond the mattress' edge. The sometime working heating system was living up to its reputation. She was only cold because the weather had taken an unseasonable dip into low temperatures and the heat in Bobby's building was not prepared for that contingency.

With determination, she made her hand into a fist, slowly waking the muscles as they protested with pins and needles tingling fiercely enough to be responsible for a soft gasp to escape her lips. Each new flex of fingers and rolling of her wrist eased the burning sting coursing through her arm as the blood flow returned.

While her hand pumped open and closed, and she struggled to bend her arm at the elbow, she looked down for the blanket, anxious to get herself – and especially her arm - back beneath it. When she finally found the blanket, she had to ask herself just what kind of dream she had been having. Only a small portion of the blanket lay wrapped around the bottom corner on her side of the bed, most of it lay pooled in oozed mass of flannel on the floor. Her own fault, apparently. Too bad - usually she tried to blame Bobby for the torn up state of the bedding in the morning.

Smiling at the thought of his usual defensive protests, that it was her restlessness and not his own, she turned her head to find the man in question curled across her. No doubt - she thought to herself in amusement - trying to hold her restrained in this position, until he could point out her own ill-inspired disposal of that blanket. It was just the type of game he would enjoy teasing her with. The wicked glee with which he would point out the true culprit - casting all prior indictments into doubt – would follow her forever.

He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Any minute though, he might open his eyes to watch her intensely. It did make her wonder if his position was just very good subconscious planning for when he awoke next time, or a remnant from the last time he'd drifted off.

And soon she understood why her arm felt so especially cold. It was because the rest of her body had been kept so especially warm, despite the blanket's absence.

One of his long legs had angled up to hook across hers. Only inches higher, his elbow rested at her navel, his arm lying in a 'V' across her midriff to cover a significant portion of her torso.

And his hand - as it had been since making love hours earlier - was form-fit gently atop one breast, his shoulder covering the other.

Blake took a deep breath, trying to let it out slowly so he would neither awaken nor stir. She wanted to see this. She had to see this as she her thoughts drifted to possible scenarios for the situation she found herself in.

It was almost as if he was trying to cover her against the chilled air. If he couldn't catch the blanket as it slipped to the floor, he would use himself instead, silently cloaking her in his own warmth.

Had his hand been the first to sense it? Had he reached for her in the middle of the night, only to find cold skin at his fingertips? Had he stretched his arm out blindly for the blanket, or had he even bypassed such a solution altogether, instinctually offering himself as protection against the cold?

Had she reached that far into his subconscious, and did such moments - as those she now fancifully imagined - really play out in the middle of the night? The possibilities made her heart swell, warming her from within just as he warmed her from without.

Not wanting to break the spell, she tried to find a position to warm her errant limb without shifting or disturbing Bobby. There were few alternatives though, and at last she laid it carefully alongside his own. It was then that she received her answer; and a more honest answer than she'd ever suspected.

In the process, the cold skin of her upper arm brushed gently against the fingers that draped around the outside of her breast. And when those fingers felt the chilled flesh, they rose, shifting slightly to bring her arm under their warming safety as well.

She wrapped her hand around his elbow – in truth, couldn't help it - a reaction just as natural as his own. Unfortunately, it was enough to wake him. The cadence of his breathing changed, and she believed she could actually feel the moment that his eyes opened.

For a second or two, their gaze met, until finally his entire grip tightened affectionately. "Why are you smiling?" he inquired in a low voice - barely awake, but intrigued by the enigmatic curve on her lips.

Part of her considered telling him. Another part considered winding herself properly into his embrace and letting him perform the role of 'blanket' even more fully. But in the end, she decided not to ruin such a precious secret with revelation.

Her arm rose, her finger pointing playfully down toward the bottom of the bed.

Perplexed, he scanned across them both, trying to figure out what she meant. As soon as he saw the dark red blanket, piled just beyond her side of the bed, he offered exactly the tease she expected. "Why you have to play such physical games in the middle of the night, I'll never know."

How irresistible it always was, to indulge in those humorous back-and-forths with him. Not this time though, not this time.

If it had started as her 'game', or even merely an overly-energetic dream, it certainly had not ended as such. Not with him. The absence of that simple wool blanket had given her an insight that she'd never imagined possible. In sleep, all barriers receded allowing their bond to deepen, to move beyond the line of defense each had staked out.

"Maybe, it's merely the residual effect of…" she finally answered in the faintest whisper. Then she stretched closer, touching her lips to his forehead. She had convinced herself that her 'scenario' was the proper explanation and she felt her pulse quicken.

It left him wondering, and just a little bewitched. "Of?"

"Of … of a stressful day." Already she was moving away though, her line of defense rebounding as she became more awake. A tale not ready to be told. Deflecting the moment, she made a grab for the corner of the thick fabric covering. His arms opened as she went, his hands following her movement, sliding slow paths along her back. And so he waited for her return, finally helping her reel the blanket up around them again.

She assumed he still didn't realize what had so fully captivated her thoughts, moments earlier when he'd awoken. Nor did she think he ever considered such things with his waking mind. Her assumption was immediately cast into doubt, however, with the words he spoke as she snuggled back into his embrace.

Welcoming her back into his arms as she finished arranging the bedding, he pulled her close to playfully murmur, "Would you really prefer a wool blanket to me?"

Her eyes went to his and met with the same unspoken amusement, followed by mutual unspoken affection. It was such an easy choice, such an obvious choice.

Abandoning their last minute adjustments, her hands moved instead to search him out - slipping herself blissfully into the warmest embrace - wrapping herself up in his willing and eager limbs.

"No, have no fear of that." She offered in hushed tones, as she curled against him. Relaxing into his embrace until his waking mind could enfold her every bit as thoroughly as his sleeping mind had done. A soft kiss to the underside of his jaw and she neither felt nor remembered the cold, or even the blanket itself.

"Never," she whispered. ... ... "Never. Never fear that." As she drifted off to sleep, she felt a small measure of triumph. So much between them unspoken and untested, so much unquestioned and simply understood.

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More to come….