Author's Introduction:

Just as there are two sides to every mirror, there are two sides to every story—at least.

A parallel to "I've Got a Theory" by Firestar9mm

She was listening, all right.

"I have a theory on why certain men like petite women," he said, looking perfectly relaxed as he posed across from Talbott. "Want to hear it?"

She felt herself leaning forward, tipping towards the glass ever so slightly. She'd once told him that she only pretended not to pay attention when he talked. That was the truth. In reality, she was always on the job, not only working whatever case they were on but seizing every piece of evidence she could collect about him and storing it away for later. She learned obscure facts and criminal psychology when he spoke; she learned him through his quirks and his foibles, his interrogations and his temper.

And if he had a theory about petite women—this she had to hear.

"Petite women are a…snug fit for small men." He gestured while he spoke—something he did often—and she found herself stuck on the size of his hands, his broad fingers. "I really think I'm on to something here."

Eames couldn't help but smile. She'd have been surprised if Goren hadn't been on to something. Roughly broken down into percentages out of a hundred, Goren's day equaled eighty-seven percent on to something, three percent coffee, ten percent sleep. Presumably.

"I mean, that's how it felt…when you…made love to them," Goren continued thoughtfully. She wondered if he was trying to get inside Talbott's head, if he could feel the tortured skin of Talbott's victims in a sensory hallucination.

Luckily, she didn't have to dwell on the thought. Goren was, as usual, two steps ahead of her. She wondered if the mercurial change of subject was as disorienting to Talbott as it was to her. "What size shoe do you wear?"

Again, she had to smile at his antics. He really knew how to deal a blow to a bastard's ego. If he kept this up, he'd goad Talbott into a confession in no time. She often thanked whatever higher powers that she'd never have to be interrogated by him. She'd probably last about five minutes before she begged for mercy and promised him anything he wanted.

But her synapses misfired almost immediately when Goren propped his own massive shoe on the table. "I wear a thirteen."

That note in his voice—it was almost bragging. It was hard for her to focus when the delicious implications of that size thirteen shoe were behind a rather flimsy pane of reflective glass. She hoped she wouldn't have to answer any detailed questions about this interrogation later. She was decidedly…distracted.

But Goren was still talking. "—had to take drugs because you couldn't satisfy her." Here came the big finish. He was closing in and he knew it; his voice became an ear-shattering roar whenever he had the suspect backed into a corner.

"You never could—get her—over—the hump." And this time his voice was condescending, mocking. He'd risen to his full height, letting his size speak for him, imply that he, this massive man with size thirteen feet and an utterly commanding air, could satisfy anyone.

Talbott lost it, and his rage drove him to shatter to flimsy pane of glass separating her from the testosterone treat in the next room. Unconsciously, she took a step back. Two. She wasn't ready yet. Her feelings would spill through her eyes. He was the master detective, she the foil. He would notice. He would see.

But he didn't crowd her. She was grateful that she had to look up to face him; it kept her gaze that much further away from those size thirteens. "Now she gets to go home and tell her kids," she sighed. If the conversation stayed on Denise Talbott, it wouldn't go anywhere else—unlike her mind during the course of the interrogation. Hopefully.

Even at his desk across from hers, he seemed to fill the room. She was always aware of that, the way his size disturbed the air around him no matter how gracefully he moved through it. Eventually she put her pencil down, a signal for him to spit it out, whatever it was.

He knew the signal. He knew all her signals. "What did you think of my…performance?" he asked softly.

She allowed herself a smirk. "A show-stopper, as always. You had me on the edge of my seat."

"You were standing, I'm sure."

"You know me too well." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I remember thinking in there that I'm glad you'll never interrogate me."

His eyebrows lifted slightly; he was intrigued. "Why's that?"

The smirk dug a deeper hole in her cheek at the possibility of throwing the master for a loop. She toyed with the idea. Would he laugh? No, of course he wouldn't. But he would know the truth when he heard it.

Her lips relaxed into a smile as she quoted an…abridged…version of her own thoughts to him. "I wouldn't last five minutes…before I promised you anything you wanted."

They returned to their work, and she couldn't tell the difference between the hum of a busy office and the implications of her statement processing in his mind.

I'm going to an open house next week for graduate school, for my MA in criminal justice. It's my dream to someday be an investigator. Over the course of that, I'd like to spend a couple of minutes each day being as cool as Eames. I chuckle at the thought that I'm already as quirky as Goren. I pity my poor partner, whoever he will be, provided the dream comes true. Sometimes they do.