Title: In a New York Minute by Alamo Girl ©
Disclaimer: As fun as it would be (because I know I could come up with some 'different' situations for Goren and Eames to think their way out of), I do not own anything connected to Law & Order: Criminal Intent. I'm just playing with them, and will turn them back in to Dick Wolf when I am through.
Dedication: This story is dedicated in memory of one of TV/Broadway's great actors, the late Jerry Orbach. He was a Law & Order legend (We'll miss you Lenny Briscoe), a true lover of New York, and has and always will be one of my favorite actors. He will be greatly missed. (Jerry Orbach: 1935-2004)
"In a New York Minute"
Life's funny, you know? I used to think that the days moved so slowly, that it was going to take forever for me to grow up, to do the kinds of things grown-ups did. Of course, I didn't know at the time that growing up meant having to deal with all the mundane duties and aggravations that accompany adulthood. When you're a kid, you don't worry about those things. People say, "Time flies when you're having fun."
I always hated that saying.
Because, as I sit here at my desk—in One Police Plaza, on one of the few beautiful winter days New York City will probably see this time of year—I'm not having very much fun. I, Detective Alexandra Eames, am not enjoying spending the 'time that supposed to be flying', shoveling through endless paperwork and case file reports.
As I look longingly out the window near the fax machine, I can see the sun shining brightly—the sky is the clearest blue I think I've seen all winter, and the snow is sparkling in the sunlight like beds of diamonds. People were actually walking to work today, instead of shoving each other out of the way to steal a cab in the sleety-rainy frigidness that's beenthe norm for the past few weeks. Sunshine seems to have a calming effect on people, I've noticed. Especially here in New York, where being in the constant shadow of the cavernous buildings, and the ever present cold wind that shoots down through the buildings like the Grand Canyon -makes a person want nothing more than to run over his fellow man, just to get to the next coffee shop.The sun actually seems to warm people from the inside out, bringing a pleasantness on the faces of native New Yorkers that is not often witnessed.
And here I sit, crammed in behind papers, pens and ringing telephones. The words on the report in front of me are starting to blur, as I sit with my chin in hand trying to remember if I had anything going on for New Years, which was coming up. Funny thought—considering I have no life. No life except my work. And the thought of going over to my sister's, and spending New Year's Eve changing little nephew Nathan's diaper—doesn't quite appeal to me.
Suddenly a pen flips onto my desk, rolling under my eyes.
"Hey, Eames. Earth to Eames…"
I feel a small smile creep over my face, as I bring my eyes to meet the depthless, rich brown beacons that belong to my partner, Bobby Goren. He's got that little boyish half smile, the one I can't resist returning because it's just so damn youthful and innocent. And I tend to think Bobby knows he can get away with most anything with that smile. Unperceptive, Bobby Goren is not.
"What?" I say as if I hadn't been fazing out.
Bobby chuckled and pointed a slender finger at a page on my desk, "I've just been asking for the Cromwell case file for about…oh…five minutes or so." He tilts his head in that way that has become his trademark, and raises an eyebrow as he waits for some witty reply that has become our normal repartee.
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Just wishing I was anywhere but here," I said, handing him the paper.
Bobby's smile fades a notch, he narrows his eyes and I catch the almost imperceptible hint of confusion flit over his features.
"Tired of working with me at last, I see," his tone is quite, and he even huffs a small laugh before the words leave his mouth. But the tone under his words is not really a joke. Anyone else would have just taken his comment for a sarcastic reply—anyone but me. You see, I've worked with him too long, and know him too well, to simply brush off a comment like that coming from one Detective Goren.
For a man who went through three different partners in the space of a year—all of whom were intimidated, off balance or just plain creeped out by his quirks and oddities—a comment like that holds an undercurrent of dread. Especially when the person who's stuck by him for four years now—just blurted out she'd rather be anywhere, than here with him. Obviously, I didn't think that through very well before it slipped off my tongue.
Hey, I'm human! Sue me!
"No, I just mean, it's finally pretty outside and we're stuck in here… drowning in a monsoon of paperwork." I sighed inwardly a little when I saw his shoulders relax a little and the twinkle return to his eye. Yeah, he'd taken my comment the wrong way, alright. "And it's only 10 am, for cripes sake! It may yet need to be proven, but I'm convinced time slows down when we enter the building on paperwork days. Some sort of One P.P. time-warp…"
Bobby laughed out loud at that. He's now proceeding to tell me that you can't really drown from a monsoon. That a monsoon is a period of extremely rainy weather—and that people only drown from the following flood waters. And while he rattles off his never ending store of cataloged random information, using his hands at times to punctuate points, and letting his eyes dart back and forth from me, to the desk, and all points in between—all I can do is sit there smiling and realizing what a wonderful laugh Bobby has.
It's a rarity, a Bobby Goren laugh. A true laugh—not one of distain, strained pity or feigned amusement, like he usually reserves for suspects who he's just pulled the rug out from under. I think a true Bobby laugh rumbles out of that massive chest and fills a room. It seems to literally lighten his face, with one of his full cheek-to-cheek smiles—melting the years of heartache and grueling work out of the lines on his face, like rain washing dirt from the sidewalk. It's infectious, and I have to chuckle along with him every time.
"I think I'd almost take ANYTHING over doing this mind-numbing paperwork," I say with a huff.
"Be careful what you wish for," he replies as he ducks his head back into the files before him.
As usual, I wish I had heeded his warning. We were called out later that day to a robbery at a prominent New York lawyer's posh Park Avenue apartment. The lawyer, Mr. Lott, was particularly insufferable—he'd lost a quarter of a million dollars-worth of art work. And, being the insufferable lawyer he was, proceeded to tell Bobby and me how to do our jobs.
I hope whoever stole his paintings, hung them in a toilet somewhere – perhaps if we were lucky, they flushed said art work down that same toilet.
Bobby is always interesting to watch when around the pompous and more aggravating semi-victims. He starts his questioning by playing dumb—deliberately asking questions that the suspect has already answered, or ones that will get a rise out of him. Bobby Goren is truly adept at sliding people off balance—making them think he's incompetent or 'slightly off'—just before he swoops in and slams them with some miniscule detail he'd picked up that will ultimately land said suspect in jail.
Don't get me wrong, I have a part to play too. I wait patiently for my cue, as Bobby and I have perfected the art of communicating without words—and I will pick up his line of thought when it seems his ever-swirling thought processes have stalled. Or when he might have stepped on that little invisible line of what's acceptable and pushed a little too hard - orwhen the suspect says something that hits him on a personal level. You have to watch Bobby for those cues especially, for that is when he'll need to be reeled in, to regroup. Like I said, we've perfected this routine over our four years together, and truthfully, it comforts me to know that I can have that kind of connection with another person. Not many can say that.
-----
The case went blessedly smoothly—the lawyer's daughter had taken the paintings to pay off her gambling debts (I guess Mr. Lott's little world wasn't as perfect as he'd like us to believe). And now, I find myself staring back into my partner's thoughtful face, and trying not to admit how handsome he can look when the light hits him in just the right way. Yeah, I have to say—at times, I realized that I like Bobby a little more than just a partner and friend. Well... a lot more actually, but we're not allowed to go there. Crossing that particular line would open up a world of disaster that neither of us wants. I wouldn't jeopardize his career or my own, nor would I ever want to lose him as my partner. That's one life change I don't think either of us could bare.
We're sitting in our favorite coffee shop, chatting about the case, the upcoming New Year—when Bobby's cell chirped.
"Oh man, that better not be another call-out," I say, almost whining.
"Thought you wanted to get out more. Enjoy this wonderful New York winter," Bobby says, a small half-grinpulling on the corner of his mouth,as we look out the shop window to see that it's now grey and sleeting again. His boyish smileonly widens when I send him a death glare.
Bobby answers his phone, and after a minute, his face sobers and turns to stone. Now I'm beginning to worry—usually when his face takes on this darkness, it has something to do with his mother. I worry about Bobby the most on days when he goes to visit his mother in the institution she lives in. His sadness is so deep—the despair rolling off him can be so overwhelming—I suddenly want to make sure he's not alone that night. Call it irrational, call me a 'mother hen'—but when Bobby comes back from that mental hospital, I make damn sure I'm available, even if its only by the phone—if he should need me.
Bobby closes the phone and sighs, "Detective Briscoe, formally from the two-seven—he - he died…a day ago."
My mouth drops. I knew Briscoe—from working with him and his partner Green on a couple of cases. I liked him, he was a little rough around the edges—but I could tell he had a good heart—like most of the cops I know. They showed a hard protective shell on the outside, but only to concealsoft hearts on the inside. I can't believe it! I just saw the man three weeks ago at a Police charity banquet!
"Apparently," Bobby says softly, studying my shocked face, "He had cancer. He was diagnosed a while back, but it must have…must have already metastasized before they found it."
It happened so fast. One minute, he was there—he might have checked back in with his former partner, sharing jokes and a cup of coffee (just like Bobby and me)—and the next… he's just gone. Forever. So fast.
I can hear Bobby talking about going to his funeral as we walk back up to the office, but my mind is buzzing. I seem to be going to too many funerals lately. What must his family be going through, to lose him so quickly? Then I realize - I know exactly what its like to loose a loved one unexpectedly.
"Hey," Bobby's soft rumbling voice shakes me out of my thoughts, "Have you got plans for New Year's Eve?" He's smiling again, and I know he's sensed my disquieting thoughts. He's good—very good.
"Not really. I might go up on the roof and watch them blow up Manhattan with the fire works."
He shyly ducks his head and glances down, "Maybe, I'll swing by...you know...catch the show with you." He looks back, uncertain if he'd just ran all over some professional boundary that is supposed to be between two partners of the opposite sex. I say, supposed to be, because when it comes to Bobby Goren and I, that line gets blurred way too often. And honestly, I don't find myself caring anymore—as long as it doesn't interfere with work, that is.
"Sounds good," I smile, as his shyness is one of his more endearing qualities. He looks back to my eyes, his head still tilted down, and nods. Then we return to our desks and mounds of reports.
----
I can't seem to shake it. The thought of how fast life can change. It's ironic really—as earlier I was complaining to myself how time can seem to drag on incessantly. Here I sit, on the roof of my building—freezing as I tug my coat closer around me—and on New Year's Eve, I find my self thinking about life and time. Ironic.
It's not so much about hearing about the loss of Detective Briscoe—I only hardly knew the guy. But the memories that came flooding back, so strong they caused that old ache to rise in my throat, and I feared I might start bawling right there in the coffee shop—that's what's got my mind on overdrive tonight.
A person can be here, in this world, touching people's lives—and then the next minute, they're simply gone. Just like Michael. Maybe that's it. The phone call brought back those horrible memories of a similar late-night phone call I received.
That morning, I had awoken beside my husband—given him a kiss and a playful elbow to the ribs—and we had started our morning no different than any of the other mornings before. We went off to our jobs, Michael to Narcotics division, and me to Vice squad. Then later that night, the phone call came. I woke up that morning a wife—I went to bed that night a widow. It changed so fast.
I shudder as another cold blast of wind whips through my hair. The first explosions of color are starting to light up the night sky. They must be from private partiers, because the main show has to be fired off over the water—the lights from the buildings obscure the fireworks display. Still the reds, golds, and whites are beautiful.
The roof door creaks, and without turning, I know it's Bobby. Sometimes, it's kind of scary how 'in tune' we seem to be with each other.
"Looks like some New Yorkers started ringing in the New Year a little early," he said softly, coming up the wall to stand beside me. I nod and we stand in companionable silence for while.
Again, my mind wanders to the changes that I now realize came rather quickly in my life. After Michael's death, I had put in for a transfer to Major Case. I didn't actually think I'd get it—Major Case is a very sought-after department for young detectives—and I certainly never dreamt I would be partnered with the city's brightest and most enigmatic detective. I went from trolling the streets, waiting for johns in ankle-killing stilettos—to working some of the most complex crime scenes with a six foot four, head tilting, gesticulating Sherlock Holmes (whom most of the squad thinks has gone-off-the-beam a number of times). I have to smile a little—at the time, I was still reeling from the loss of my husband and had no intentions of getting close to another man, partner or not. But Bobby, some how, wound his way beyond the barriers I'd put up—and now I couldn't imagine my life with out him.
Most changes happen too suddenly, and can strike a soul-stomping blow to us that we never wanted. But as I look over at Bobby's burly form looming over me, watching the light show with a child-like gleam in his eyes—I realize that some of those fast changes in our lives are for the better. I never wanted to lose Michael, I loved him very much and I always will—but his loss brought me to Bobby Goren, a brilliant and unique soul, who's presence somehow healed the ache inside me over time. I feel the loss of our connection when we're separated, and I know that he feels the same loss tenfold. We belong together—and I know I don't want to loose that, ever.
The fireworks display increases until the sky is nearly covered in sparkling blooms of a thousand different colors. I can hear people on the street laughing and yelling in celebration, and Time's Square must be one giant mosh-pit by now. Another year was coming to a close.
Bobby edges a little closer, until I can feel his body heat and the smell of his aftershave fills my senses. He always smells so good, but the aftershave is a mystery—since he nearly always has a day's worth of stubble on his cheeks. His heat fends off the chill of the air, and I silently pray we could stay like this forever.
"It must be just about time," he says softly, checking his watch and turning his head down to me. I look at my watch, one more minute until 2005.
Music wafts up from the streets below, as the finale of the fireworks show kicks off with a roar.
"Another year gone, a new one to come," Bobby says as he steals his arm around my waist. I guess he doesn't care about that professional boundary either—and I lean into his warmth as he pulls me close.
I know every moment is precious—even if I sometimes take them for granted. We are reminded every day, that those we love—who we spend our lives with in one form or another—could be taken from us at any moment. Being police detectives, Bobby and I are probably reminded of that fact more often than most. So we relish the special times, like the late night dinners or talks over coffee—enjoying a fireworks show on the roof of a building as the year comes to a close. These are those moments that may come and go quickly, but steel themselves in our memories. You enjoy them while they last, savor the company of the one most important to you, because you never know when they can be stolen from you in the blink-of-an-eye.
"Happy New Year, Bobby. I'm glad you came," I mutter into his massive chest, soaking up his warmth for just a moment—before the spell is broken by real life stepping back in.
His cheek comes to rest on my head, and I can hear his heart beating steadily, "I'm glad I came too. Your place has a better view than mine, anyway."
I can feel him grinning as I give him a pinch on the arm. I pull away and meet his eyes for a moment; his smile fades from playful—to thoughtful as he holds my gaze. We stay that way until the air seems to vibrate, and I feel myself tense a little at the sudden heightened awareness of our soul gaze. So, I smile lightly, and he returns it—and I allow my head to find its place on his chest again—looking out into the night. Bobby relaxes again, pulling me close and resting his cheek near the top of my temple—and we stand there enjoying the moment.
New York is said to be always moving, always changing. And life is one funny, scary, blinding rollercoaster. I might think the some phrases about time and life are trite and overused.
But I definitely believe that I will cherish the moments like this.
Because life, like the saying goes—can change on you "in a New York minute!"
Fin
Please READ and REVIEW! Let me know what you think! Pretty-please!
Okay, I wanted this to be a little funny/sweet, and it kinda took a sad turn. Oh well, sorry about that. What do you think? Ok for a New Year's fic? I hope it wasn't a sap-fest!