Note(s): The usual disclaimers apply.
This was inspired by an incident (Season 4, maybe?) where Eames said, "You owe me a danish," to Goren. A little bit of fluff (but I can never resist throwing in a handful of angst, so accept my apologies for that in advance), that takes place in the present, during Season 7.
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After her first full night's sleep in almost two weeks – they'd just wrapped up another police-procedural-drama-worthy case the night before – Eames sat at her desk at One PP and was half-surprised to find a cheese Danish and a cup of coffee waiting for her.
Goren usually brought her a bagel with cream cheese when he arrived first.
"Bobby?" she asked when she saw him exit Ross's office. "What's this?"
"You said I owed you a danish. I've heard you say it a few times when you were right and I was, well, wrong."
Eames smiled and rolled her eyes at her partner. "So you actually brought me a danish this time."
"I owed you a danish."
" 'You owe me a danish' is an Eames family saying. My parents, my brothers and sisters, ever since we were kids, that was how you told somebody you were right … 'you owe me a danish.' I guess I say it inadvertently to you sometimes. But thanks for the danish."
Goren shook his head and started shuffling through papers. "An Eames family saying," he mumbled.
"Come on, didn't your family have inside jokes?"
She bit her lip, wishing she could swallow her words. "Don't … don't worry about it," Goren said.
"So," Eames said, slicing the pastry in half with a plastic knife, "care for half my winning danish?"
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The next day, they caught a case involving the murder of an administrative assistant at City Hall, the daughter of a pair of longtime-married Albany politicians.
"I hope we'll be able to put this case to bed before Christmas," Eames told her partner as she drove back to One PP to talk to the medical examiner. She remembered last year's Thanksgiving fiasco.
"Don't worry, Eames, I won't let you miss Christmas."
"You shouldn't miss Christmas either," she said, not taking her eyes off the road.
"I'm … Eames, I …"
"Come have Christmas dinner with my family."
He didn't answer, and just sank back into his seat.
"I'm not saying you'll enjoy it. My first Christmas without my husband, all the love and cheer and eggnog made me want to throw up. But, as my father told me, it was either that or me sitting in a dark room with a bottle of scotch."
He stared at his knees. "You don't have to be –"
"Your friend?" she asked.
"How many people?"
"There's five of us. The four who aren't me are married, and there are ten kids. You'll make twenty-two. I guarantee you'll hate it, but come anyway."
He looked over at his partner, who, despite all the teasing and snarky comebacks, had been kind enough to look out for his sanity. "All right, I'll join you," he agreed.
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Laura Eames-Wozniek peeked through the blinds that shaded her parents' living room window.
"Is she here yet? Is she here?" her four-year-old son begged.
"Soon."
The boy ran into the kitchen to see his grandparents. Laura's husband, Tim, joined her at the window as an oversized black SUV pulled into a parking spot across the street.
Laura saw her sister emerge from one door, and her sister's partner Robert Goren emerge from the other.
"Hey, Tim?" she said, turning to her husband.
"Hm?"
"You owe me a danish."