Disclaimer: Couldn't say I own the series. Couldn't say who really did. Dick Wolf among others I believe... It's all for the fun of it, and I don't profit from sharing my stuff, just so you know.

Author's note: I don't normally dive into the pool head first, but I'm a recent fan of the show and decided to get in on the fun. And that's what all this is supposed to be. Fun. Akin to telling stories around a campfire. So here's a short little post-ep for "F.P.S." just because I could.

"Seven pounds, eight ounces."

The look on his face said it all. The look on hers did too.

She insisted he give his old partner a call, but knew in her heart that he'd do more than that. That's just who he was. So she said she'd take care of booking, leaving him footloose and fancy free to visit his real partner… the one he really cared about.

Sure, it sounds harsh. But she knew. She could continue to play Watson to his Holmes… but she wasn't Eames. She was just the temp, and this wasn't the last stop on her career path. There was simply a way he and Eames clicked... some sort of comfortable intimacy that only comes with understanding. Trust. Patience. Something he seemed not to let people in on. How Eames had found her way in was beyond her.

But maybe that's just it. Maybe she wasn't supposed to figure it out. Maybe some questions are better left unanswered.

Much like she'd never figure out what the hell he was really talking about half the time. But then again, sometimes it wasn't what he said that was important. Consider the wad of paper thrown into the empty chair...

She'd never fill that void, and on one hand, she'd never really want to.

But it always feels good to feel needed. Though any sort of acknowledgement from him was few and far between. So, with a shrug of her shoulders and a short sigh of defeat, she was off to finish up with the suspect knowing that soon enough the stars would realign, and his world would be restored.

And it was true, he did go visit his partner. The one who understood him without ever saying a word. The one who wouldn't had to have asked… she'd have simply known. The one whose chair had been empty for too long… he pondered at how dependant he really was upon this woman with the sharp wit and quick tongue. It was true, in many ways he was so much like the suspect he had caught that day... though he doubted his loyalties would ever come down to murder.

With a peek into the darkened room, he caught sight of a slumbering woman, who, by all rights, had more than every right to rest. He'd bet his next paycheck that his day, in no way, could even begin to compare to hers.

He took a moment to inspect her, much like he would anything else—head cocked to the side, to gain a new perspective on the situation. And as he did so, her tired eyes fluttered open...

"You catch the bad guy?" she whispered hoarsely, with a tired smile.

His smirk, that would have gone unnoticed by the best of them, was not lost on her. He sighed, berating himself for going and waking her up.

"You don't have to entertain me Eames, get some rest. I'll come by later."

She smiled to herself, eyelids desperately begging to shut out the harsh light from the hallway. And as she appeared to drift off, she spoke softly, "would you stick around for a while?"

"Hmm?" he asked, for he hadn't quite heard her, partially due to the fact his mind was often louder than the rest of the world, and partly due to the barely audible decibel level that had been uttered from his partner's lips... as if she was ashamed of the question posed.

"I just feel so alone right now," came a shaky, uncharacteristic answer to his inquiry. It took him but a moment to process what she had said.

Sitting down in the chair beside her bed, he placed a hand over hers, as if to stop her from explaining further. He understood. All the stuff he'd read about post-partum depression... separation… surrogacy. He'd never be able to feel what she must be, and in that moment, he knew.

She may never be exactly the same again... all because of seven pounds, and eight ounces.