Getting Goren up the stairs was more work than Logan had anticipated. Goren had the edge on him by two inches and maybe twenty pounds, and most of that was uncoordinated mass. Logan ended up bruising his knee and knocking an elbow hard on the railing just getting the detective up to his fourth floor apartment, and succeeded in cracking his head on a wall trying to guide Goren to the couch.
"Sorry," Goren managed as he sank down into the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm great." Logan felt his temple rather gingerly and tried not to wince as his not-so-tender ministrations sent a stabbing pain through his head. "You need to sleep, Bobby."
"I'm okay here." Goren managed to get his shoes off and lying back, swung his legs up on the couch. "Feels good," he said after a moment. "Comfy."
"Come on, sit up a second." Logan caught Goren's arm, pulling him up into a half-sitting position. "Help me get your jacket off." Together they were able to remove the offending garment and to take off Goren's tie. Having unbuttoned the detective's collar and his shirt cuffs, Logan finally let him lie back down. "You're taking tomorrow off as a sick day," Logan informed Goren, who was already drifting off and who could do little more than grunt in assent.
That is how Goren comes to be sleeping on this dark blue couch. And it's half past two in the morning and Logan hasn't slept. He can't. Where he sits in the armchair across from the couch, his eyes are fixed on the tousled hair of his guest, the long eyelashes that lie against smooth cheeks, the full, slightly parted lips. Goren looks utterly peaceful - as secure as a baby in his mother's arms.
Logan wants to touch him, to run his fingers through Goren's graying dark hair, to smooth the lines that score his forehead, to lightly trace the curve of that lower lip. But chances are that Goren is going to wake up very soon, which means that Logan should leave and close the door very softly behind him. Because if Logan in one of his drunk and famously loquacious moments ever admits that he sat there and simply watched Bobby Goren sleep for hours, Logan is likely to be shot by Eames. Twice. Possibly three times.
But Logan doesn't move, because with the faint moonlight streaming in through the window Goren's face is the most arrestingly beautiful he has ever seen. His eyes follow the even features, the slight upward curve of the chin, the strong column of neck down to broad shoulders in a shirt that is the light blue of the November sky. He wonders what Goren's chest must look like under that shirt.
Goren sleeps in a funny position, with one knee bent, the foot flat on the couch, and the other leg stretched out. One arm is thrown up over the armrest, the other curled against his body. He has broad hands, impossibly long fingers. The faintest shiver courses Logan's spine as he imagines how those fingers could torture him so sweetly -
"Mike?" It is a groggy whisper, uttered in a soft, milky voice that tries its hardest to make Logan melt and almost succeeds. Goren's heavy-lidded brown eyes are open a fraction. He stretches his enormous body, and Logan wishes he were the couch that Goren is lying on. "What time is it?"
"It's quarter to three," Logan says. "You drank too much, I brought you back to my place."
"I remember." Goren lies still for a moment, his eyes closed as though he is trying to come back to himself. "How's your head?"
"It's been better," Logan tells him dryly, and suddenly realizes he has to come up with an excuse for watching Goren sleep. "I was about to wake you up, get you some coffee. Stuff's good for a hangover."
"I don't have a hangover." Slowly Goren pushes himself up to a sitting position. "It's in my genes, the ability to drink as much as I want and not want to die the next morning." He rubs his forehead, further mussing his hair until Logan thinks it's impossible for him to look any more adorable. "But coffee sure sounds good."
Logan goes to the kitchen and leans his head against the cool stainless steel of his refrigerator. He isn't sure precisely what it is about Bobby Goren that gets to him like this, or even if it's anything specific at all. He has an idea that perhaps it's the very essence of the man that has somehow insinuated itself into his veins and is now absolutely refusing to budge.
Carefully, taking his time and counting his movements in a fit of regression - Logan had OCD as a child but grew out of it by ten - he puts on the percolator and sets out two cups on the counter. It is, after all, rude to let Goren drink alone.
"Mike." Goren is standing in the doorway. He is so tall and so broad that he fills it almost entirely. He has taken off his socks and stands on the cool tiles in his bare feet. "Can I use your bathroom?"
"Yeah, it's right there." Logan points to the door, trying his hardest not to look at the other man, and breathes a sigh of relief when Goren is gone. It is a wrong move, however - the smell of alcohol, mingled with cologne and cigarettes, is in the air, and Logan has a feeling that that scent is going to stay with him long after Goren himself is gone. The brewing coffee adding to the very Goren-ness of the aroma does not help matters, and Logan leans on the counter with a hopeless sigh.
"Smells good." Goren has materialized soundlessly in the doorway again, and Logan does a double-take when he sees that the detective is wearing a robe. His robe. His long, dark blue robe, belted at the waist and exposing more of Goren's chest than Logan has ever been conscious to see before in his life. With some difficulty he tears his eyes away and pours coffee for them both. "Milk, no sugar," Goren says without being asked. He leans idly against the doorframe, but his eyes are bleary and Logan knows he's probably feeling the effects of the alcohol, albeit not in direct hangover form.
Logan holds out the coffee and the twelve-ounce cup almost disappears in Goren's gigantic hands. Hoisting his own coffee - the exact opposite of Goren's, sugar but no milk - he makes for the living room but stops when he realizes that Goren, who is taking up far more than his share of the doorway, hasn't moved. He looks at the detective, who merely returns his gaze with what looks like gentle laughter in his sleepy eyes, and resigns himself to the idea of having to squeeze past.
Goren takes the cup from Logan, sets it down on a table in the living room and turns back to him. Waiting, Logan knows, to see what he will do. Whether he will take the bait. And he does, turning to face Goren and somehow managing to edge himself between the detective's barrel chest and the wall.
It's a tight fit. And Logan would happily stay there for the rest of his life, because with the whole front of his body pressed against Goren's, their faces are so close that it would take movement of only inches to kiss him. Thinking about the last kiss they shared, Logan feels his cheeks burn. There is no feeling quite like having one's back against a wall, one's head in a fog of desire and one's mouth being assaulted by Bobby Goren.
Goren, bless him and damn him, has one hand on either side of Logan's head. "Why are you so afraid?" he asks softly, his eyes holding Logan's. "What indignities did you suffer that make you so unwilling? Or should I ask what ecstasies you've experienced that make you so ashamed?"
Logan closes his eyes, and in a rush of sounds and voices, it all comes back. "We called you Father! How could you do that to us? You even did it to your own kid! How could you do that?"
He is suddenly claustrophobic. With the swift reflexes born of hours of baseball practice he ducks under Goren's arm and is in the living room, breathing hard. Shakily he reaches for his coffee. "You don't understand," he says, sitting down as his legs give out. "You don't know what happened."
"Then tell me." Goren crouches before him, those strong, long-fingered hands on the armrests of the chair. "Explain it to me, Mike, why you tell yourself you don't want me when you do. Why every time I get achingly close you push me away again. Tell me why you're afraid. Who hurt you?"
Logan shudders involuntarily. "It's in the past."
"But not forgotten." Goren's breath is warm on Logan's hands. The scent of coffee rises into his face, the steam oddly comforting. "Let me tell you a story," he says abruptly, and strides across the room. He sits down on the couch, rubs his hands together, and stands again to pace.
"In Greek myth, Mnemosyne was the goddess of memory. She was the keeper of the waters of Lethe, which had the power to make you forget, to forget even the most heinous things you had experienced. When you died, before you could get to the Elysian Fields, you had to drink from her fountain." Goren's gaze is fixed on Logan, dark and intense. "So you could forget. Only by forgetting could you accept that you were dead and move on, be happy in paradise."
Logan's heartbeat is uncomfortably fast. He can hear nothing else except Goren's mesmerizing voice.
"What are you gonna do, Mike?" Goren is down on one knee before him, one hand braced on the chair next to Logan's thigh. "You gonna accept that things are different now? That I'm not whoever hurt you? You gonna drink from Mnemosyne's waters? Or have I come to the wrong place for paradise?"