Goren comes home after saving the world… again. Ficlet. Language.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Bobby Goren or anything else created by the people who did. Ha! Find a loophole in THAT one!
Experts say not to shop when you're hungry. He tries to listen to that advice, but some days he just goes goes goes from start to finish and doesn't even realize he's hungry until his stomach is eating itself in front of the bakery.
He grabs a basket with every intent of filling it, knowing that if he grabbed a cart, he'd fill that too. His wildly fluctuating weight is up this month, following his stress-level like an obedient puppy. What a case. Lots of publicity.
Frozen pizza, Hot Pockets, hotdog buns, peanut butter, and other snacky foods that don't take any thought or preparation before being devoured.
The girl in the check-out counter gives him a second glance. She recognizes him from somewhere, she thinks. But where…? He walks out the door and quickly forgets.
He takes the stairs, flushed but not out of breath when he gets to the third floor. OK, so he didn't let it get too bad this time.
After minimal fumbling with the keys, he gets his door open and hits something solid. The object yowls at him and dives under the couch. "Goddammit, Grendel," he snarls at the bottle-brush tale sticking out from under his sofa. The cat's real name is Peaches, but he can't bring himself to call it that. He's just keeping it until it dies because his mother loves it so much.
He unpacks the groceries, pops a stick of gum and fixes a glass of water, his mind racing crazily and buzzing lamely at the same time. Avoiding the couch, he plops into his recliner and ponders whether or not to turn on the television. After a moment, he figures What the hell and flips on the eleven o'clock local news.
It isn't long before his own face is leering back at him. The anchormen are eating this up. "The self-proclaimed Guinea Gutter of Brooklyn--"
Click, change the channel.
"… Known for torturing, murdering, and mutilating Americans of Italian decent or Italian immigrants--"
Click.
"…Detectives Goren and Eames--"
Click.
"… Near-perfect record arouses suspicion--"
Click.
"… Unusual methods could lead to a dismissal of the confession…"
"Fuck it." He turns the TV off and sits in the semi-darkness, listening to his gum squelch against his teeth and his monster purring under the furniture.
Minutes pass in silence. He rubs his eyelids and sighs. When the bad guy gets away, it's their fault. When they catch the bad guy, they do it wrong. When they have proof they did it right, the City makes them angels for about a week. Then the next psycho comes up and anything positive is quickly forgotten. Eames seems unaffected. Whether New York loves her or hates her, she doesn't care. She does her job regardless.
It's harder for Goren… to be hated. He doesn't have as many people who love him, so hate hurts worse.
"Fuck it," he says again and stretches his long legs until his great body reaches its full height. He rolls his powerful shoulders and winces. He creaks and pops more than he used to.
He throws himself on the bed that'll always be too small and closes his eyes. Seconds later the alarm goes off. The sun is out. The birds are singing. Grendel is screeching by its empty food dish.
A siren sounds in the distance, and he senses innately that he's going to know where it's headed very soon. He's going to follow it.
Morning routine. His cell phone sounds in the corner, the ring tone Eames downloaded for him off the Internet. "Bohemian Rhapsody." The ambulance he just heard is carting away the sole survivor of a hostage situation. Oh, did he call that one or what?
He thinks about asking Captain Deakins to just install a Bat Signal. A G&E Symbol. Then issue grappling-hooks and jet-packs so they can get their sooner.
Nah.
He couldn't afford the gas in a jet-pack, either.