Standard Disclaimer: The Law & Order universe and characters are the property of Dick Wolf and NBC. I borrow them solely for my amusement.
Author's Note: Again with the beginnings. As usual, feedback and constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Warden
Her new partner is driving her crazy, and if it weren't for the Captain's watchful eye, she'd be tempted to do something permanent about it. She can't tell whether she's meant to play babysitter or keeper, but even if she wanted the job, her charge is a friendly fire accident just begging to happen; half the time he's in her face, and the other half he's toppling over crime scenes and witnesses like a retarded yeti on his first field trip.
"There's a--" he says to her, and hares off around the corner before sling-shotting back, bearing fragments of the conversation with him. "--blood," he says anxiously. "Eames. In the--" and then he is gone again.
The number of those interruptions could crush them both under their offended masses, and then she'd be rid of Goren and enigma both.
He's back. "--closet," he finishes, and sounds triumphant.
Confusion
They don't talk the same language, which is to say, she speaks English and he speaks Trivial Pursuit, Insomniac's Edition.
"What is that, writing? It looks like break-dancing termites."
"Sanskrit," Goren says, and pokes at it with a gloved finger. "Bhujimol sanskrit. It's been around since the 3rd century. You can see the--" And he stops. Stares at the smudge on his fingertip. Sniffs it. Licks it. Looks rapt.
"You find something?"
"Ice cream," he says, and licks it again. "Vanilla. And some kind of brine."
"Pickles and ice cream," she says. "Great. Our 1800-year old Hindu is pregnant."
"That's the word for sacrifice. I think it's the Yajurveda," he says, suddenly enthusiastic. "The-- the Vedanta."
"And here I was waiting for the movie," Alex says, and sighs.
Fact
He carries his own alternate reality with him and sucks the unwary into it believing it with him, a black hole of fantasy and rambling words that changes the laws of gravity. She hovers on the edge like a gawker on the fringes of disaster, feeling extraneous, feeling superfluous, feeling the hypnotic pull and irritated beyond measure by its temptation.
"He's not the guy," he tells Deakins.
"All our leads point to him," she says.
"He's not the type," Goren insists.
The Captain looks harassed and holds open the door. "Bring me something I can't get from a psychic," he says, and kicks them out. "Evidence isn't a four-letter word."
"He's not the guy," Goren repeats once they're outside.
"You could be wrong," she says, and he simply stares at her, baffled by a thing not dreamt of in his philosophy.
Tear
She writes the letter on four fingers of whiskey and the wrath of the righteous, riding a wave made out of frustration and irritation. It is cathartic and it is easy and it is good to see in black and white, each offense against reason, each violation of procedure, of space, of time, of logic, summed up in one neat, succinct demand.
In the morning, she leaves it in the Captain's office before taking shelter at her desk. Goren stares at her with liquid eyes, then disappears. She is too busy wondering what's growing on the roof of her mouth to notice, so when his hand suddenly materializes beside her ear bearing a cup of water, she almost bites right through her tongue.
"For your--" he gestures at her head, "--hangover," he finishes, and counts out little white pills on the corner of her desk.
Her right eye feels larger than the left. She closes her hand over the painkillers and stares.
"Your lips are dry," he explains humbly. "You're dehydrated."
She still doesn't regret the letter at all, but she'll grudgingly concede that the man might be human.
Ally
"Don't touch me."
"Sir--"
"I'm not going to jail."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Don't touch me," he flares, and his fist flies at her head. She's ready for it, and ducks, but the wind of its passage fans the ready spark of adrenaline.
Something dark and massive moves past her like a storm; her heartbeat jumps even as she recognizes its shape. She straightens fast, gun in hand, just in time to watch her partner squash her assailant against the wall. The man squeaks into bricks and a blue-clad elbow. "Hey," Goren says. "That's not polite." And he grins proudly at her over the jut of his arm.
She snaps the handcuffs closed around bony wrists, loving the rasp of metal, and finds it feels natural to grin companionably back.