Thunderstorms really upset Goren.
He was not astraphobic and did not feel the need to take shelter or blot out the noise. It was just that they stirred so many unpleasant memories. Thunder and lightning had always keyed into his mother's delusions and she had been at her worst during storms. He remembered cowering in closets and under tables as his mother whirled about the house, screaming like a banshee, convinced Armageddon had come. If she found him, she would punish him for being cowardly, for being such a child of sin that he could not face his God; her faced twisted with terror at the prospect of her own judgement.
While his rational adult mind knew he had little to fear from a storm, the child within remained scared, confused and vulnerable – convinced that the world that he knew had suddenly turned against him. As a result, every crash of thunder, every flash of lightning seemed to peel away another layer of Goren's defences, leaving him feeling exposed, insecure and a little paranoid. The feelings would linger for days, sometimes weeks and to cope he would retreat into work, into himself, raising the drawbridge. Thin-skinned and sensitive, his temper and a heightened suspicion became his sword and shield until the barriers were rebuilt.
It was worse since his mother's death. Knowing the source of his mother's delusions coupled with grief and guilt had only aggravated the situation. So he was not on best form this week.
Logan's black book was a prime example. Goren knew he used it to keep track of the bets and the reason he was not included in the pool these days was because Logan had lost too much money to him in the early days. But today, as he watched Logan move from desk to desk making notations in that book, he became convinced that Logan was tracking his movements, collecting data on him from his colleagues. Stupidly, and only briefly, but...
And at the pier, the crowd had gathered, and it felt like all their eyes were on him and all their whispered speculations were about him.
"I hate the beach."
He had definitely not been in the right mood for FBI terrorism speculations.
Irritated by his ridiculous notions, Goren took refuge in the interview room, laid out the paperwork on the floor and tried to lose himself in speculations of a different kind. But he couldn't focus – he could see Logan and Eames deep in conversation. Not Eames, not her as well. The one person who...
He gathered up the papers and marched over to his desk, ignoring Logan's departure, focused only on Eames. A small voice crept into his brain.
...wish someone would tell him...because I'm too scared...
Tell him what? What didn't he know? What was so scary? Then Goren's rational mind took over, dismissed the thoughts as a symptom of the storm- induced paranoia and turned back to the case. Searching Dana's residence had produced another uncomfortable moment, not just the sight of Eames dangling men's underwear like an invitation to contribute his own, but the voice again.
...why don't you see?...
See what? What is he missing?
A new fear began to creep in that this was not his usual hypersensitivity after a storm but true paranoia coupled with hearing voices... No wonder he'd lost it a little with Harper. The fear increased all through the next case because the voice didn't let up.
...right there in front of you...now...no, not now...don't leave it too long... stop dithering...
And to his shame, he vented his feelings on that pathetic author. That night he had gone home, got a little drunk and slept heavily – a blessed silence in his head.
Whether it was a good night's sleep or the inevitable waning of the storm's effect, the next day Goren felt a lot better. He'd even passed an idle moment waiting for a fax by flirting with the new girl from admin, delighting in the way he could turn her 'been there, done that' attitude to 'sweet sixteen and never been kissed. '
He'd hoped the credit card records would provide them with another avenue to follow up, and he studied them intensely. Disappointed, he updated Eames.
"No suspicious activity on the credit cards; groceries, gas, the occasional – what?"
Her laughter was joined by laughter in his head and the return of the voice.
... so fucking ignorant...
He seized the opportunity to flee to the library on the pretext of research and resisted the temptation to consult the DSM-IV Diagnostics Manual. After all, he already knew the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia far too well. The library was quiet, and so was his mind and it was with reluctance that he returned to the squad room. It was quiet there, too – most of the staff having left for the day.
Eames was at her desk and he pulled over a chair, straddling it, resting his chin on arms folded on the back of the chair, not wanting to interrupt her work, wanting to watch her for a moment.
... swing his leg over me like that...
What the fuck!
... perhaps I should strip naked...
The voice was loud and clear, giving words to buried fantasies and it was her voice, his fantasies-
... size thirteen? I wonder... so much of him, I could get lost in exploration... ...if that smile tastes as good as it looks...to see love in those eyes...love...
Eames had put down her pen and was looking at him. His mouth was suddenly dry. He'd been on the verge of confiding in her about the voice, about his fears. Confessing doubts about his sanity, about creeping paranoia was one thing. She knew his background, knew it was a possibility, would deal with it in her usual pragmatic way. But admitting that the voice in his head was her voice, and it spoke of secret longings and sexual fantasies, and even more revealing, spoke of love...
He balked.
"Need a hand finishing those forms?"
