A.N. These characters are not mine.


His Waking Life


Chapter One


Robert O. Goren was having a remarkably difficult time focusing. Something wasn't right. In other words, things were only slightly off. But whatever was off per se, it was ever so subtle. Perhaps it was a remote change in frequency of the otherwise dulcet drones of the department's fluorescent overhead lights. Or was it the curious 'fuzziness' that masked the very clarity of any point of detail on his desktop?

Goren blinked repeatedly, inhaling deeply, determined to catch the faint, yet calming scent of the knee-deep mess of library books stacked to the left of his desk. But when all attempts to regain his focus failed, he swallowed tightly, and began mentally counting backwards from ten - anything to steady the anxiety that was building up slowly in his gut. Post five minutes, he was still sifting aimlessly to find the right set of notes, fingers drumming, legs tapping, knees knocking the metal center drawer of his desk, thump, thump, thump.

As a last ditch effort, he went for his ace card. And when he was certain that his partner was thoroughly engrossed in a stack of their latest suspect's financials, he found an excuse to lean forward to grab something (anything) from his desktop while discreetly inhaling air through his nose around her general proximity. Alexandra Eames (Eames to him) was his most complex conundrum. Oh, but he loved puzzles, mystery, and the magic that it all entailed. Yet there were no words to describe Eames. No, that was an unfair assessment: Eames was constant (steady, regular, undeviating, unchanging, loyal, devoted, dependable, true, dedicated, committed - ) and he smiled inwardly at each pronouncement that played from his encyclopedic intellect.

Stealing another glance from behind his desk, it was the expression Eames was wearing that held his eyes, not the dark blue blazer that professionally obscured her ubiquitous sleek tank top. The tips of her bangs cast perfect shadows over high cheekbones. Her brows were knit in concentration, lips pursed with the left side of her mouth slightly curled upwards. It was hard to pin down whether he loved her soft brown eyes more, (obscured now as she worked diligently), or her adorable nose, (it turned upwards ever so slightly).

Indeed, she was his senior partner. Covertly he'd fallen hard for her less than a few years into their partnership. The first time he became aware of his feelings for her was around the time he'd introduced her to his friend Lewis. He felt the queer dichotomy of proudly parading her in front of Lewis, while at the same time he harbored an intense protectiveness of her – or was it unadulterated jealously that gripped his chest. Don't look at her that way Lewis, don't say that you think you're in love, I mean, yes you should know that I work with this amazing woman and yes you should ogle at her in all her wondrous glory. But you are not allowed to look at her like that. Because… because?

"Hey."

"Yeah," his mouth was dry, and he swallowed again, slightly embarrassed to have his thoughts interrupted while he was dwelling upon her in a rather non-professional fashion.

Eames head nodded towards the conference room. He followed her obediently, swallowed again, his nose catching that somewhat distinct scent that could only be her.

He then found himself engrossed in the process of diagramming some obscure flowchart on the whiteboard. He was running out of room to write, the air now had the distinct scent of dry erase markers. He felt giddy as he gesticulated wildly in the air, excited to find some direction at last. She naturally seemed to understand him. To comprehend that he needed space to think, an area to pace: blood moving, and oxygen flowing to his brain. Eames was his best audience, and at last, he had her undivided attention. She squinted her eyes, wrinkled up her nose, nodded when necessary, her gaze intently following his every word, his every explanation (he was her magician. And for the first goddamned time, he got the trick right and pulled off magic without a hitch. And not only did Eames believe in the magic, more importantly she believed in him.) Somewhere in the midst of his intense rant, she smiled warmly, encouraging his wild intellectual musings – and that's when it happened. He felt an odd sensation emanate from his groin, then another, followed by a disorienting warmth originating from the same general area.

And with that, everything disappeared. His eyes fluttered in the darkness of his bedroom. 4:29 am. Sticky, and now uncomfortable cold semen clung to his underware. Even if accompanied by a lurid dream, (which sadly this one was not), he disliked waking up in such an uncomfortable state. Nocturnal emissions were few and far between these days, yet they never failed to take him by surprise.

He sighed, while cleaning up the situation, and resigned himself to a shower, shave and early start to the day. He preferred an early start, and was usually parked at his desk long before a majority of the detectives and working staff arrived. Today, he'd set a new record. In fact, he could have most of their paperwork cleared before she'd have the time to layer out of her winter accessories.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shimmer of light emit from his cell phone milliseconds before the ringer tone reverberated against his eardrum.

"Goren."

"Deakins. I just gotta call from Arthur Branch. We've got a bit of a situation at the Hilton Times Square. You know, a friend of a friend situation. I've already contacted your partner. She'll meet you at the scene. Room 807, and we've really gotta keep this one under wraps. If the media gets wind of this, we're gonna have our hands full Bobby."

Goren nodded into his phone, grabbing his scarf and woolen cao as he prepared himself for what a cold February morning in the city could precipitate.