"Lucky Man"
A Law & Order: Criminal Intent Fanfiction
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler

"I'm a lucky man."

He'd murmured it before falling asleep, balled up in the bed and hogging the covers, his bright eyes closed and his breathing regular. He generally babbles before sleep, muttering slightly before drifting off, stating something random and useless. The first few times, his babblings were about cases and suspects, work-related non-sequiturs. Those were easy to ignore.

Then, one night, it was, "I like it this way." The world around me shifted, and I stared at his sleeping form, studying the steady rise and fall of his chest.

That was the day when the world stopped making sense.

Honestly, it never really made sense. He's spent the four years we've worked together making my life a living Hell. He plagues me with his brilliance, his logic, his underhandedness. He's not afraid to play with the mind of some unwitting suspect or witness to discover the truth. And, perhaps more terrifying, he's not afraid of hurting himself to reach the same ends. He'll cut his palm open to show a suspect's fear of blood. He'll stand on the ledge of a building, step in front of a gun-wielding mobster, or entice a dangerous criminal to violence. There is never any fear in those eyes – those darting, restless, soul-searching eyes – when he dangles on the thread between brave and stupid, and, more than once, I've been enraged by his willingness to risk himself for one slip of the tongue or one confession.

In his mind, the end justifies the means.

Sometimes, the means he chooses incite me to anger. More than once, I have stormed into Captain Deakin's office in a rage, ready to demand the badge of his unorthodox detective. On those days, the duo bows their heads and she, his dutiful partner, whispers something under her breath. I've heard every rebuke she's sent his way, including one particularly feisty outcry of, "Oh, just stop being an ass to the ADA, Bobby!" when she thought I'd already made it into the elevator. He'll push my buttons and pull my strings, and I dance like a marionette for him. Waving my arms and my legs, I tumble and trip and turn until he's finished. Then, he sets me back in the toy box and moves to play another game.

The tension between us is always thick, able to be parted by a knife. Our eyes meet, and my blood warms. He touches my wrist to drag me back into an office or holds my shoulder to calm me before I slug someone (preferably him), and my skin tingles with gooseflesh. I've tried to remain casual – sitting on desks, shedding my "lawyer skin," as he has called it, smiling at him – but it's hard. It's excruciatingly hard.

Perhaps that's why it started. The heavy kisses outside the door to his apartment (we never spend any time in mine), the caresses in the darkness of his living room, the midnight trysts after a long day's work, the groans and moans and screams that echoed off his walls and, more than once, has earned a rebuking 3 a.m. phone call from an angry neighbor. His bed is old and the springs squeal. The headboard hits the wall. He claws and clings and bites. I wheeze and grunt and hold on for dear life.

Every night, he drifts off to sleep within the first fifteen minutes after it's over, tangled in the sweat-damp sheets, his head cradled in a pillow.

Every night, I tug back on my expensive suit, gather up my briefcase, and head home through the silent streets.

I stare down at him, his breathing regular, my lips pursed and brow furrowed. He's said many things, but never this.

"You're a lucky man?" I repeat quietly, not realizing I said it.

He smiles slightly, sleepily, the gesture sedated. "I have you, don't I?" he questions.

My suit is in a pile in the corner. My briefcase is on the couch in the next room, but its contents have spilled out, onto the floor. My glasses are on the nightstand, next to the alarm clock and his watch. His sock-covered feet hang off the end of the bed.

I slide into bed beside him and crawl under his arm. He accepts me and pulls me close, a gradual tightening of muscles until my back is pressed against his chest and his face nuzzles into my neck His stubble tickles me. His pale skin looks ridiculous next to my dark complexion.

"G'night, Ron," he mutters softly.

I fluff my pillow and close my eyes. "'Night, Bobby."

Yes, the world has officially stopped making any sense whatsoever.

But then again, I've got serious doubts that it ever made sense to begin with.

Fin.

Standard Disclaimer: Law and Order and all related characters belong to NBC and Dick Wolf. I am simply borrowing them with no intent to, you know, make money. Friends, perhaps, but not money.

Author's Notes: I really am a Goren/Eames 'shipper, honest, but this just came to me tonight! Please forgive me! I'm sorry! I have sinned!

(And yet, I love this piece.)

February 28, 2005
1:32 a.m.