I dreamed these characters one night, then Dick Wolf stole them from my dream. Legally I don't own them. Spiritually they are MINE MINE MINE!
Love is Helping Someone Live
It was hard, thinking of Frank Goren as a victim. She had thought of him as a scumbag, a loser, someone who didn't even deserve what good came to him. She was too invested in Bobby Goren not to feel biased toward his ne'er-do-well brother.
But, when justice was concerned, not all victims were perfect—and in truth none were—so she had pursued his killer, as well as Nicole Wallace's, to the bitter end. Never before had she understood that term so well.
She wanted to put this part of her career as Bobby's partner as far away as possible, so it was with a rare sense of peace that she attended the funeral. The whole time, she shot looks and glimpses at her partner. She knew Ross and Rodgers kept one eye on him the whole time, taking measure of his emotional state. It was not good.
After the service ended, she shot a look at the two of them: Mine. Back off. She had never felt so protective of a partner before, just wanting to hold him and let him cry until her shoulder was soaked. Her father had taught her that one day, it might be like this, with the one partner you knew you would never be able to function without. She'd known it had been him since the first case they had cleared together after she withdrew her letter requesting a new partner. The rush of closing that one case with her brilliant partner (and he had been brilliant working that case) led her to go home and tell her father, "I've found him Dad."
Such a long time ago. It almost broke her heart, the way he had changed from the lean man of conviction and righteous anger to this broken, pudgy man he was now. It almost broke her heart how the gods had played with his mental state to such a sadistic extent.
She shut off her thoughts of regret for tonight. It would be their last together in the same city for awhile; after this he was going to take some time off. She didn't know where he might go, and she didn't ask. The desire, the need, to talk to him would be too great as it was, and he did not need her interrupting his time of solitude.
Now, though, she wanted to do one more thing for him.
They went to her place for coffee. They said nothing, enjoying one another's company as they so often did; there was really nothing to say anyway.
He had not cried yet. He was ignoring his pain, trying not to feel it too strongly. It was as though he, too, were dead. Not good.
She asked if he wanted some music. Not saying anything, he nodded. She put on an old album she had had since she was a child: the Ave Maria. Scratchy by now, but somehow still so beautiful. At first, he gave her a confused look. She looked away to give him privacy, listening with a choked feeling to the music.
The beginning itself was the most beautiful organ introduction, then the singer came in like a great lady entering the ballroom without even noticing that all heads had turned, completely confident. The music soared, dove, and wrapped her around in strong arms like a father.
And Bobby Goren cried. It was hesitant at first, a few tears at first, quickly swiped away, then faster and more urgent as the music took him. Long before the music finished, he was sobbing, tears falling down to irritate his beard, shoulders shaking. From pain, from loss, from sheer beauty. He knew what it was to be alive again.
As the night fell, he collapsed across the sofa in her living room, and she covered him with a blanket. Kneeling beside him, she touched her hand to his arm and whispered, "Sleep now pal. I'm here."
She didn't know if he heard her, but he opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled. Safe in her arms, he went to sleep.