Disclaimer - I don't own Law and Order: Criminal Intent.
Author's Note - Constructive Criticism is love!
In Memoriam
He's heard the rumors. That he's losing it. That Eames is bound to leave him—finally—now that the legendary Goren is a mere shell of his former self. No more brilliant takedowns; gone is the suave self-confidence that slid off him in waves. He couldn't crack an egg by himself, let alone crack a perp. It is inevitable; their solve rate will begin to decline as they rely on old-fashioned police work. No clever tricks, nothing particularly compelling that can nail a hardened criminal. They will fade into mediocrity—the average, jelly donut eating cop—because Goren and Eames is nothing without their Santa mug.
They had a private mass for it, praying for its safe passage through the New York waste system, praying that they would soon meet again. Fate had brought them together. Fate would bind them once again.
As Eames rolled the Santa Mug's shattered pieces into a plastic Wal-Mart bag and tucked it into a fine burial ground beside an empty box of frozen Eggo waffles and a rotting banana, Goren sat on the couch, paying no heed to his unkempt beard and disheveled clothes. The television screamed in silence as a documentary on the genocide in Rwanda blared and he stared at the screen, absorbing nothing, seeing nothing. He could only picture the mug on its descent to the ground, twirling in spite of its inevitable end—grinning despite it all. He saw it shatter and felt his heart explode into as many pieces (fifteen, Eames counted) that lay glittering on the One Police Plaza's worn floor. It was a true soldier and Goren had to honor it. He had to be strong for it.
Eames fell onto the couch beside him, deep, dark bags shadowing her eyes. She looked diminutive in her state of unrest. Her eyes forgot to shine in that clever green of hers. Because of him.
He wordlessly offered his shoulder. She leaned her head against him.
The guilt, like her presence, sunk into him. He knew he should never have sat on her desk, never have gestured his hand to the side, across the desk, across the green-eyed Santa whose perpetually jovial expression unsettled him as often as it contagiously injected joy into an otherwise paperwork stifled day. He knew then that that moment would haunt him.
And it still does. They haven't faltered—not yet. But they will. He's seen the odds. He knows the gossip. But he's convinced that he can persevere. He must. If not for his mother, if not for Eames, then for the Santa mug, may it rest in peace.
He owes it that much.