"I'd offer you a drink but they frown on anything stronger than caffeine-free Dr. Pepper here." I waved him into my room ahead of me and gestured for him to sit on the bed. "Have you figured out a way to smuggle in some scotch along with the cigarettes?" I asked, moving the chair closer to the bed and sitting backwards on it.
He chuckled. "I'd be lying if I said that I didn't think about it constantly. It's counterproductive, though. I bet that'd be a nice way to spend the afternoon, though. Drunk in your room."
"I bet you say that to all the boys," I growled in my best Groucho style, surprised by the flutter of interest he evoked. I studied his face for a clue to his sexual orientation. Was Bobby straight, gay or bi? Bipolar disorder often went along with bisexuality or homosexuality, or so that was my understanding. I was ready to collect my own data.
"Not all of them," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'm very specific in my preferences."
"I see," I said skeptically, trying to ignore the sudden rise in my heart rate. No one had ever fallen so easily into this kind of banter with me -- except Wilson -- and, despite all insinuations to the contrary, he was disappointingly and unswervingly straight. Bobby was walking a fairly narrow line between flirtation and self-mockery. I responded in kind. "Is it the limp that does it for you? Or do you require all your boyfriends to engage in mutual hallucinations?"
His lips were pursed as he studied my face for several seconds. "The limp I could take or leave. It's the...mind that I'm enjoying. I'd like to know more about it. You were...as quiet as I am. In group."
"Sorry, K-Mart shoppers. The blue light special doesn't extend to the secrets of my psyche. I'm not passing out samples of psychic pain to random bargain hunters on any given Thursday. The average person's experience or opinion is of no interest to me. The average person is a moron. That includes the average inmate of the psych ward. Given your IQ and mine, the law of averages leaves no room for anything but mental deficients in the rest of the group. Not only am I not sharing my angst with them, I don't see the point of sitting through a whiny recital of theirs."
"Mm," he replied, nodding. "I have a different opinion of things. Janet, for example." I shook my head to indicate that I'd already forgotten her. "The woman in the blue shirt, bipolar. When she talked about her experiences at work before they fired her...you know. Flying off the handle, fighting with her boss, embarrassing herself. And the whole inability to really remember what she did for weeks or sometimes months...those are things that, when someone experiences them...they know how horrifying it is to live in that wake. And we suspect that no one truly understands." He cleared his throat. "I can't share in group, but it does me good to listen to what she has to say."
"Let's see.... Flying off the handle, fighting with my boss, embarrassing myself (according to Wilson anyway) -- sounds like my life. And I'm not even bipolar. I have no excuse for being a bad boy."
"Evil genius?" he proposed.
"More a description than an excuse," I shrugged. "What about you? Are you the evil genius of the NYPD? The bad boy everyone loves to hate?"
He sighed. "Yes. No. Depends on who you ask."
"And if I asked your boss?"
"He'd say I'm difficult. Emotional. Obsessive."
"And let me guess that despite his complaints about your behavior, you continue to get the tough cases...."
"I'm on Major Case," he replied, matter-of-fact. "The tough cases are my job. But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't very tolerant of me."
"Sounds like we've each found the perfect gig. And yet we find ourselves languishing in the nuthouse. What's wrong with this picture?"
He glanced around the room, surveying intensely. Not just any answer would do, it seemed. "With exception to the aforementioned absence of alcohol, it seems pretty nice in here." He smiled.
I grinned. "There's a little matter of sex and drugs and rock and roll. With them, this dingy monastic cell would feel almost like home." I wondered how my new buddy would react to the list of my needs and wants -- and how closely his list would overlap with mine.
"Sex would be nice. Drugs I suppose I would enjoy," he agreed. "I like to be surrounded by books more than rock and roll. That's not to say I don't like it..." He trailed and eyed me for a few moments. After swallowing, he took a deep breath. "The only thing we genuinely can't get around here are the drugs," he ventured.
Something about Bobby Goren excited me on levels I hadn't felt in a long time. We stared at each other, unblinking for a moment before I cleared my throat and offered him some encouragement, eager to find out how far he was willing to go. "Sounds like you've been having more fun than I have," I pretended to pout. "Maybe I should make a point of hanging with you from now on. You seem to know how to get the most out of this experience."
"It could be even better..." he trailed and bit his lip.
"Tell me," I encouraged him. "What do you have in mind?" I licked my lips, hoping I wasn't misreading his intentions.
"Nothing that would keep us out of trouble around here." He continued to eye me steadily and wordlessly. "I have to warn you," he began, breaking the silence, "I'm difficult. Emotional. Obsessive. The captain's right about a lot of things."
It had been weeks since I'd gotten into trouble. I was overdue. "Difficult and obsessive, I've heard before. Outrageous, too. And, my all-time fave, immature. Interested?" I smirked.
He slid closer to me. Cautiously, he slipped his hand around my neck and ran his finger along the nape. He put his other hand on my shoulder; his fingers slid lightly down the length of my arm. At my hand, he threaded his fingers in mine and stood, pulling gently. I moved off the chair cooperatively. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered: "What do you think?"
"I think..." I paused. I wasn't drunk or high. Amber and Kutner were nowhere to be seen. "I think I need to examine you a little more thoroughly to make sure you're not just a figment of my imagination," I squeezed the hand that was holding mine while my free hand traced his lower lip. "Feels real," I said, as though withholding final judgment.
"What would it take to prove it to you?" He asked. He brought my hand back to his mouth and brushed his lips across it.
"I can see you. I can hear you. I can feel you." I leaned in and sniffed in the vicinity of his neck. "I can smell you. Can I taste you?" I asked, my lips an inch away from his mouth. I waited for his answer.
It came in the form of a kiss at both corners of my mouth. He delicately took my bottom lip between his own and licked it slowly. The hair stood up on my neck. "That real?" he whispered. His lips brushed against mine as he spoke.
"If you're not real, I'd just as soon never find out," I said, closing my eyes. "If you're something I made up, then feel free to enact all my favorite fantasies. I give you free rein with my subconscious." I was enjoying letting Bobby take the lead. He hadn't disappointed me in the least.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, smiling. "I don't know your fantasies. I suppose mine will have to do for now," he said. Two steps and I found myself laying down on the bed. He laid beside me and tucked his arm between my own and my side. "They've been piling up since I met you." He propped himself up and leaned over to kiss me again.
"I love surprises," I told him, "With any luck, I've provoked some pretty twisted thoughts in that screwed-up brain of yours. Feel free to demonstrate all of them." The fact there was no lock on the door was like icing on the cake. And I love cake.