Title: The Invisible Line
Author: Orion Tiye
Fandom: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Pairing: None, mostly Bobby-centric
Status: First Draft
Series/Sequel: None
Disclaimers: All belongs to whoever controls LOCI. I am poor.
Summary: Bobby's mother dies, and he goes off the deep end. Results of a very insistent plot bunny. Most likely way OOC, but who knows, considering Bobby. LOL

He walked down the busy street, not noticing the people moving out of his way. Somehow, being out among the masses was worse than being back in his apartment, surrounded by his books. At least his books didn't mutter curses at him, or cast him looks.

Even though his mother had never set foot in his apartment, Bobby still felt the loss in every molecule of air, as thought the universe itself had been changed since she passed. Even three days later, he found he could not force the words "She's dead" to come.

Suddenly, he felt an intense urge to hit something. Anything. Just feel the muscles tense and release the energy into something else. Mentally, technically, objectively, he knew he was using the feeling as a shield, keeping the deep feeling of grief at bay. Physically, it didn't make a bit of difference.

He wished he could go to work. There, at least, he could channel this mobile energy into something constructive. Out here, he felt somehow lost. Without purpose.

Walking across a street among a throng of others, he caught sight of a pickpocket in action. An involuntary grin split his face for just a moment. Finally, something he knew how to handle.

He fell into step behind the rather clumsy thief easily. The earlier buzz in his mind shifted to a low, throbbing pulse, giving him purpose and will. Watching the thief pick his target gave him time to absorb the kids' point of view, try to understand where he's come from and why the turn to crime.

The main questions of "Why are they doing this?" and "Where have they been?" were like a mantra to him, and fueled his constant thirst for knowledge.

The pickpocket found a mark. His posture changed, along with his stride, becoming almost panther-like. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong mark.

As the kid started to reach for the guy's wallet, he turned and pulled the young man down an alley.

Bobby picked up his pace and as he reached the mouth of the alley, he could hear the blows landing.

"Hey!" He yelled as he sprinted towards them. The thief lay supine on the ground. No blood, but that didn't mean much.

The former victim whirled around just in time to see a whirl of sound, shadow and fury bear down on him before the blow landed.

After the first blow, all the others came so easily. Each brought satisfaction, and the sound/feeling that had hummed in his mind intensified again. He lost count of the number of the contacts. Head, stomach, jaw, kidney shot, and a kick just below the knee brought him down. Almost instinctively, Bobby reached for the holster that wasn't there. A few more kicks to the now prone man and Bobby paused.

The sensation of the rapid blows still rang in his head and hands. Rubbing his hands over his face and through his short-cropped hair, he made his decision. Grabbing the man, he hauled him up and slammed him against the wall. It took the lolling green eyes a moment to focus.

"Hi." Bobby's eyes bore into his with an almost wild ferocity. A few grunts were all that escaped from the injured man.

"Now, why were you doing that?" He hissed, using his head to indicate the still supine form a few feet away. The green eyes started to lose focus again. Bobby shook him, banged his head against the spray-painted wall and received a satisfyingly wet sound. Still the eyes refused to focus on his. Again, the head into the wall. Again. He let go, and the body crumbled to the earth.

An urge to laugh nearly overcame his better sense. He realized that he'd just crossed that invisible line. So many times he'd wanted to or very nearly hit someone in the interrogation room, but he always held back. Even when he'd been hit himself (that punk kid who thought himself a prophet always sprang easily to mind), he always checked himself. It was a hard job, and a hard line to hold in his mind. Often enough, some force was required. Intimidation was a part of daily life. It was easy for him to make someone highly uncomfortable, size did matter sometimes.

The young man stirred.

"Oh..." He moaned, holding his left arm, sitting up slowly. "Whoa. Hey, man, thanks for coming to my rescue." He got to his feet and tried to move around Bobby, to get back to the street. He'd seen enough of death to know that the crumbled form of his attacker was dead. The quite large man standing in his way had a wild look in his eyes. Not good. Definitely not good.

"Not so fast," Bobby said in his well-used danger voice. The kid stopped instantly and leaned on the wall. Apparently, he'd been hurt pretty bad. His first impulse was to get the kid an ambulance, then remembered the human-shaped pile of meat behind him.

Slowly, Bobby advanced, closing the distance between them. The kid's eyes flitted every which way, searching for an escape route. An odd sense of pleasure mixed with glee spread through him at the fear in the kid's eyes. The same sense that always threatened to overwhelm him in the interrogation room, only this time he made the decision in a second to let it come. This was too much fun.

"Why are you trying to run?" Bobby's voice was low and harsh. He was acting on a sort of autopilot, only listening to his instincts. He could almost feel the panic rising in the thief.

"I.. I don't know," he stuttered. The kid's brain was screaming at him to RUN, but the message couldn't get to his muscles.
"Are you afraid of me?" Now Bobby was only a few inches away, whispering in that same low voice. An odd half-smile, half-smirk played across his face as the injured kid tried to speak. He leaned in even closer, till he was a hair's breadth from his ear.

"You should be."

The fist flew on its own, landing square and powerful into the young man's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. This time, Bobby did laugh, a low, hollow, mirthless sound.

He hauled the kid up by his long hair, pushed him up against the wall.

"We're going to have a little chat," he said. "And if you don't answer, or if you lie to me... well, why ruin the surprise?" He smiled a purely predatory smile and glanced back at the dead man behind them. When he locked eyes with the one he was holding, the fear and silent pleading told him that he understood.

"What's your name, kid?" May as well start with the basics, see if he'd at least be honest on that. And, if not, there'd be less wasted time. After a few seconds of silence, he gave the kid's shin a quick kick.

"What is your name? It's not that hard of a question, is it?"

"Mark," he said, coughing. There was a weight in his chest, like something warm spreading through him. He just didn't want to get hit again.

"Good name. Now, why were you stealing things?" A sense of disbelief settled on Mark at the question. What the hell was wrong with this guy? Beats someone to death and then plays 20 Questions?

"I don't know."

Instantly, Mark knew that was the wrong answer.

Another rapid succession of blows, delivered with Bobby's full strength behind them brought the kid down for the third time that day. Why didn't people ever listen to him? They all try to outsmart him, out plot and plan him, and it never worked. Bobby sighed and heaved the kid up again.

"Let's try this again, shall we?"

Tears were streaming down Mark's face, blurring his vision. He nodded, not sure he could speak. Desperation made his limbs itch, his pulse raced in his ears.

"I just wanted," he started, breathing what felt like needles and fire. "I just wanted money. Okay? Please, let me go." Pleading tasted terrible to him, but he assumed dead would be worse.

Footsteps approached from the mouth of the alley. A man, around mid-twenties, looking apprehensive about what he was doing.

"Uhm, what's going on?" Even his voice was apprehensive. Bobby looked at Mark and removed a hand and reached into his pocket, enjoying the visible flinches from both parties. He pulled out his wallet, which had his police badge. He flashed it to the interloper, whose color flashed bright red and apologizing profusely, turned and hightailed it out of the alley.

Grinning again, he turned back to Mark, and laughed at the sight of his eyes, nearly as big as saucers.

"What? Wasn't expecting that, were you," he said, taking on the threatening tone again.

"No... I guess not." A small, fleeting hope burst into being, cops didn't kill just for the fun of it, right? He hadn't yet heard of it, at any rate. Perhaps he could get out of this in one piece. Mostly.

"Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted? That's right, you were pleading for your life," Bobby said, poking him in the chest, bringing another flinch. "Unfortunately, I'm not in a very good mood today." He brought his knee into the kid's stomach, but held him upright.

"In fact, I'm really quite pissed," he said with a slight laugh in his voice as he grabbed Mark's jaw on both sides, thumbs in front of the ears, and snapped his neck.

Mark's body fell too the ground in a jumble of arms and legs.

Bobby turned and walked away, feeling both more on edge and more relaxed than he had in days.