Fandom: Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Rating: FLUFF-TASTIC. Or, PG for slight sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Dick Wolf pwnz.
At Home With the Gorens
Notes: Written for baggers for Christmas - no eggshell blue boxes, but I want to save that for another fic. Warning: this is fluffy. Yes, it's contrived. Yes, it's lame. BUT IT'S MEANT TO BE. Fun! Fun! Fun! Senses of humour, set them on stun!
His knees were up around his ears, and a tiara perched on his head.
"That would be most wonderful."
She poured the tea (really, soy milk and water provided by her mother), the other guests at their mid-afternoon meeting silently watching with their black button eyes.
"Two lumps, or one?"
Long, adolescent fingers picked up the sugar and placed them on the edge of his saucer, leaning in conspiratorially to whisper, "don't put them in your cup, Daddy, 'coz it's just milk and Mommy doesn't want us just to have milk and sugar, okay?"
"Ahh," he emoted, catching sight of a voyeur watching in the doorway behind his hostesses' head. He touched his nose and moved his legs to avoid the cramp he felt coming on. "Gotcha."
The two adults exchanged a look over the tiny head that was now busily explaining the weather to her other, less human guests, and smiled.
The second time she gave birth, she had complications. Arising from age, her doctors said; from being forty-two and having little time off from a stressful job, from the weather, from God, whatever. She knew, really, it was the shock of even getting pregnant to her partner to begin with.
"You knocked me up!"
He'd just stared.
Like when she'd been rushed to the hospital, their illegitimate child coming early and steadily, he sat in the back of the ambulance and stared.
Standing between her mother and father, staring. Being taking to the hospital cafe by her brother so he didn't have to see her being chopped up, staring. Being dressed in scrubs so he could be by her side as they performed an emergency c-section, staring.
The doctor asked, "who's the father?"
"I am." And that was all he needed to snap-to - holding her hand as she cried, stroking her hair and watching, not staring, looking strong and purposeful like she'd never seen him look before.
Finally, through the pain and the blood, a cry. And when there was three, she finally felt loved.
SIX & 1/3.
Frances sat on his shoulder, dressed like a fairy, and pointed at the desk.
"Can I have the tape?"
She butted her head against his and sighed, melodramatically.
"Because your hair is sticking up, duh, Daddy."
The first time they'd slept together, it wasn't the most memorable of occasions.
She'd pressed him against the wall of his apartment and kissed him. She'd kissed him for warmth, because the cold, hard truth of finding Nicole Wallace's body in the men's locker room of One Police Plaza made her shake, made her tense and almost made her weep when Bobby finally let himself cry with relief.
She didn't know, really, if it was relief or remorse. But when she kissed him, he responded, and they fucked - didn't make love, or have sex or fornicate - and she felt empowered that even after ten years, she could still turn him on if she wanted to.
The release was violent, not satisfying. It was tension, not pleasure - they hadn't undressed, just pulled down their pants and screwed against the closed front door.
Afterwards, she tried to put herself together. She walked to the bathroom to clean up; then, she left, without even looking at him and without even a word.
She wondered, as she drove home, if it had been self-indulgence. Or pity. Or loneliness.
Her phone rang and she answered.
"Pull over." Click. Bobby's seldom-used Ford pulled in behind her, and before she could open the door he'd flung it open and stared at her.
Always with the staring.
"Bobby -" Cutting her off, he kissed her. Long, hand, with tongue and substance and promises and tomorrow.
Then he turned, walked to his car and drove away.
"I want lettuce."
"For breakfast? I'd prefer you had cereal."
"Gunston has lettuce."
"Gunston's a rabbit. Who died because you didn't feed him lettuce."
"Mommy. Exactly. Like me, huh."
"Franny, I'm pretty certain you're a human and not a rabbit, because you came from me and I'm a human."
"But do you really know, Mommy? What if you were really a rabbit? Is Daddy a rabbit? What if people were called rabbits and rabbits were called people? Who decided, Mommy?"
A voice, from across the table. "She has a point."
"What, that we're not sure if you're human or not?"
"I'm my father's daughter, right, Daddy? That's what Mommy always says."
Alex got up from the table, sighing. "If you two need me, I'll be with my intellectual equal, Gunston Mark two."
They kept it from the station, because they didn't need to know. The Captain would have yelled, cajoled and split them up. He would have asked questions and gotten involved when their relationship was busy enough with just the two of them.
Across from her, at his desk, he spoke.
"I moved the books from the bookshelves in the kitchen."
She looks up, her brow furrowed. "Good?"
"And emptied two drawers in the bedroom."
A light went on in her head. "Oh." She shifted in her chair and waited for him to look up. "Thank you," she added, when, after an eternity, he did.
He nodded. Looked down, looked up.
"We should get married."
Because that's just how Robert Goren got things done.
Franny stood in front of her mother, who was paying bills.
"I'm not psychic, Frances. You're gonna have to tell me what you want."
Sixteen, her father's eyes and mother's nose. "Dad's not home?"
Alex looked up and pretended to look serious. "No. Sit. Talk."
"There's this dance next week..."
"And you wanna go? Why all the cloak and dagger from your father?"
"Mom. Promise me. Promise me you won't let him sign you both up as chaperones! Do you know how uncool it is to have your dad telling off your date for dancing within two metres of you?!"
Later, Alex relayed the conversation, and Bobby frowned.
"It's not my fault the kid had grabby hands."
"They were dancing, Bobby. They have to touch, it's a prerequisite."
He stared at her. "I have a gun."
"And an overactive imagination." She kissed his cheek and turned the light off. "If she gets pregnant from dancing, I'll hold myself responsible, okay?"
"You still call me Eames, y'know."
"Huh." He put his book down. "Well, it's, uh, nicer than 'Wife'."
x-posted to my journal, if you're seeing double