Fic: SPRING FEVER (Law & Order: Criminal Intent, Goren/Eames)

[jeanniemctavish]

*****
SPRING FEVER

Maybe it's the weather.

It isn’t actually the first day of spring - that was a few weeks ago. It was cold and rainy, and the streets were still running with slush and mud. Today, though...Today the sun is shining, and not with that weak, wintery light either. Alex can feel it strong and warm on her face, and the city looks clean and new, all its colours jewel-bright.

On her morning run, the sidewalks are completely clear for the first time in months, and she feels so free, pounding along in her light running shoes with no need to slow down for snow banks or patches of ice. The giddy joy of it stays with her all day; it’s hard to sit still at work, and she’s so glad when they find a reason to get out of One PP after lunch (a tip that their suspect in an art theft might be renting a locker at a storage facility out in Newark). She drives the whole way there with the windows down, happily ignoring Bobby's annoyed look when the breeze flaps at the file he’s trying to review en route.

Or maybe it’s the clothes.

Alex likes it when she and Goren get to play dress up at work, pretend to be different people. People who aren’t cops. It’s like being on vacation, sort of. She loves her job, no question, but… some days, it’s a heavy load. Hell, some years. So it’s kind of a nice break, to make believe for an hour or two that she’s living a different life. That they both are.

Today, they’re hoping to get up close to this guy and his stuff without him knowing that they’re cops… so they’re trying to come off as a harmless, slightly flaky suburban couple, the sort that might forget the exact location of their own locker and, you know, need to wander aimlessly around the facility looking for it. Bobby disappears upstairs to the crib, reappearing a few minutes later in jeans, T-shirt and a faded old blazer with elbow patches that makes him look like an absent-minded professor. Alex goes down to her car, to rifle through the duffel bag that she’s had since her time in Vice - the one that Joe used to call her costume closet, although these days it’s a little lighter on the mini-skirts and halter tops than it used to be. She digs out a flowery skirt and an honest-to-god pink sweater set - both gifts from her well-meaning but clueless sister-in-law, who thinks that Alex has to suppress her femininity at work, and therefore must be longing to wear frilly pastel clothes at other times.

Alex has to admit that the skirt feels nice at least - it’s light and silky, and it swirls around her knees. The sweater set is soft against her skin, too, but it would take a lot more than that to reconcile her to how very, very pink it is. She rolls her eyes at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and completes the ridiculous ensemble by pulling her hair up into a high ponytail. It swings behind her head as she walks back to the bullpen, and when Bobby sees her he does a slow double-take, lips twitching. She glares him into silence, but she can't deny the warm little thrill that ripples through her. After all the crap they've been through, she's not yet at the point where she can be blasé about seeing him amused and light-hearted, whatever the cause.

She catches him checking out her bare legs a few times, as they walk down to the parking garage, and that’s a bit of a rush too. She’s not-so-secretly ogling him right back: she likes how he looks in jeans, and the dark blue T-shirt is doing nice things for his eyes and his shoulders. (She’s sorry when they arrive at the storage facility and he has to put on the blazer, to hide the fact that he’s carrying.) It’s like there’s this little electric current of awareness humming quietly between them, the two of them just noticing each other and liking what they see, and letting the other person know it.

Or maybe it's the adrenaline.

When they arrive, the storage facility seems deserted. They wander up and down the rows of lockers without seeing or hearing a soul. As they approach the last aisle, Bobby stops by a bulletin board full of notices advertising flea markets and junk removal companies - distracted as he always is by the prospect of something to read, and probably hoping against hope that there'll be a clue there, since the rest of their search appears to be a wash. She leaves him to it and keeps moving. When she turns the last corner, she notices that one of the lockers partway down the row is open, the door rolled up partway. She honestly thinks she'll just talk to whoever’s in there, maybe show them the photo of their suspect and find out if he's been seen in the vicinity. She certainly isn't expecting to peer in and come face to face with Morrison himself, actually in the act of nailing a crate closed.

There’s a split second of frozen surprise on both their parts, and then Bobby, all unknowing, calls out to her.

“Hey, Eames, look at this… there’s another facility a few blocks over. Maybe Morrison’s renting this space as a decoy…you know I thought he might have another credit card…”

She sees realization dawn in Morrison’s face. Fuck, she thinks, reaching for her gun. That’s when he throws the hammer. She ducks, feeling it miss her head by a hair's breadth and hearing it crash into the metal door of the locker opposite.

“Eames?!” shouts her partner.

But by then Morrison has had time to get his own piece out.

“Don’t move,” he snaps at her. Then he raises his voice for Goren to hear. “Back off! Or I’ll shoot her.”

“Okay,” comes Bobby’s voice, steady and conciliating. “Let’s just talk about this, Morrison - ”

“Shut up!”

Morrison gestures jerkily with the gun for her to move into the locker and pull the door shut.

“And don’t even think about busting your way in,” he shouts to her partner, “unless you want your girl here to get one between the eyes.”

But his hands are shaking and his eyes are wild, and she thinks he's afraid. He doesn't have a plan. He’s not a murderer. If I can just get him to calm down... So she throttles the panicked voice inside that’s saying you're not the negotiator, Bobby is, and she puts her gun on the ground and slides it over to Morrison. Then she lets him push her up against the wall and tie her hands behind her back with packing twine.

He has to put the gun down to do it, which means she has a chance to take him down right there and then, but she doesn’t. She’s too busy fighting not to drown in the wave of irrational terror that swamped her the second she felt the rough twine tighten around her wrists.

It’s nothing to do with logic and everything to do with Jo Gage. Knowing that doesn’t help even a little bit.

Breathe, damn it. You can handle this. You have to.

She pulls in air and lets it out. She’s sweating and trembling, and she knows she’s probably almost as wild-eyed as Morrison.

So be it. It’s what you’ve got, so fucking well use it.

She clenches her fists. Huddling against the wall as though her knees are about to fail her, she lets her voice break and her shoulders sag she tells him she won’t make any trouble. She projects small helpless female with everything she’s got - not much of a stretch at the moment, she thinks, swallowing back hysterical laughter - and eventually Morrison goes back to his packing. She lets another minute or so pass by, breathing as shallowly as she can stand, inwardly praying Bobby isn’t about to try anything from outside. She knows that a word from her partner would shatter whatever progress she has made, and she won’t get another chance.

After what seems like a small eternity, she asks Morrison oh-so-meekly if he could please loosen the restraints, just a little, she understands that he can’t untie her but the rope is cutting off her circulation...

Morrison stares at her for an agonizing few seconds, deciding. But then he moves around behind her - leaving the gun behind on the crate, ohthankgod.  The second she feels his hands at her wrists, his breath on her hair, she moves. She snaps her head back, smashing into his nose and mouth, and as he staggers, she jerks round and takes him down the rest of the way with a hard knee to the groin.

She must have shouted "Clear!" then, because someone outside yanks up the door, and Bobby is there with the uniformed cops he called for back-up. She can't really blame them for staring; she’s probably quite a sight, in her silly girly clothes, kneeling between Morrison's shoulder blades as he lies facedown and bleeding on the floor.

"Shit," says one of the officers involuntarily.

“Take him,” Bobby snaps, motioning to Morrison.

There are spots dancing in front of her eyes from the head-butt, and a dull throbbing pain where the back of her skull must have connected with Morrison’s teeth. Her hands and wrists are damp and for a blind, horrified second she’s sure it’s because she’s bleeding from twisting against the rope, bleeding like before - and then Bobby is there behind her, helping her to stand and fumbling with the knots, and when he gets her free she can see that it’s just sweat. Just sweat. She rubs her hands compulsively against her skirt and tries to catch her breath.

"You take him down like that?” says the officer who’s cuffing Morrison. “With both hands tied behind your back?"

She feels rather than sees Bobby twitch, beside her.

“Yeah,” she says, shifting sideways so that her shoulder brushes her partner’s, just for a second.

"Ni-ice," drawls the other officer, grinning. She grins back a little wildly, sharp exhilaration overtaking the receding adrenaline.

Fuck yeah. I did it.

Sure, it’s a relatively minor triumph in the grander scheme of things; she and Bobby have certainly faced worse. But she's learned to take her victories where she can find them, and this one isn’t just about getting the bad guy. It feels like a point on her side of the board in the ongoing battle of Alex vs. PTSD, and that’s pretty sweet.

She's still high on the feeling of accomplishment - and, okay, maybe shaking a little inside with reaction, but she’s not dwelling on that, damn it - an hour later, after they've sent the squad car away with Morrison, and the forensics people have come and gone with the stash of stolen art. The parking lot is empty, except for her and Bobby, and as she watches him walk towards her she suddenly wants so, so badly just to touch him... to grab him in a tight hug and feel his arms warm and solid around her, turn her face into his neck and press her mouth to the pulse point there…stretch up on tiptoe so that her body slides along his, pull his head down to hers and kiss him till neither of them have any breath left. Thinking about it makes her shiver and shift a little, bare legs brushing together under the skirt.

No, she tells herself. You are *not* seriously considering jumping your partner’s bones right here in the parking lot in front of God and everyone.

But she kind of is.

Unfortunately, as soon as Bobby gets close enough for her to get a good look at his face, she can tell that he's not on the same page. Hell, they're not even reading the same chapter. He's still stuck on the one called I've Failed My Partner and Must Torture Myself With Guilt. He stops on the other side of the car and looks at her, and then quickly away.

“We should get back.”

He opens the passenger door and folds himself into the front seat. Alex sighs, and follows suit. She leaves her door open though, and doesn’t even bother to rummage for her keys. Instead she turns in her seat and looks at him, waiting.

“What?” he says irritably.

"Bobby." She puts a hand on his knee to stop him jiggling it...but he just makes a frustrated noise and stares out the window, now drumming an anxious pattern on his leather-bound notebook.

"Bobby," she says again. “Come on.”

No answer.

“Oh, for - ” she mutters exasperatedly.

She knows she could talk him down, but it would take time and patience and she just doesn’t want to waste this beautiful day, this feeling of strength and promise, on an argument they’ve had a thousand times before.  Clearly, more drastic measures are required.

She toes her shoes off and starts to manoeuvre herself over the gear shift.

"Hey, what are you - "

"Hold still."

She lowers herself carefully into his lap. It's awkward; she’s only an inch or two away from bumping her head on the ceiling, and there's little to no room for her knees on either side of his hips, but she shifts a bit until she finds a way to be comfortable. Now they're face to face, and she curls a hand around the nape of his neck and makes him look her in the eye.

"Listen. I know you hate that you weren't in there with me. But I am fine," she says steadily. "It was an unexpected situation, but I handled it. We got our guy. It's over."

She can feel the pulse in his throat hammering beneath her thumb.  For a second he looks like he might want to argue, but she lifts her other hand to his cheek, and tilts forward to lean her forehead against his. One more point of contact. She listens to him breathe, in and out, and then she shifts just slightly, brushing their noses together, and kisses him to drive the point home.  We’re okay. We’re fine. Touch always works better than anything to calm him down - and hey, I don’t exactly hate it either, she thinks dreamily as she feels him relax into the kiss. Lips brushing, tongues sliding and caressing…as coping mechanisms go, it’s way more fun than the meditation exercises her shrink gives her.

When they have to stop to breathe, he lets his head fall back against the headrest, contemplating her. His expression is a lot more serene now, she notes with satisfaction. In fact, he actually looks like he’s trying not to smile.

“What?”

“I can’t get over all the pink. And the ponytail,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“I like it,” he protests, the goofy grin full-blown now. “I really do.”

She rolls her eyes, but lets him push a few escaping tendrils back behind her ears. His fingers are gentle as they trace the curve of her ear and down the line of her neck.

"So tell me about it. Morrison. What happened in there?"

She grins in her turn, feeling a renewed rush of triumph at the memory.

"You'd have been proud. I talked him into putting down his gun. And then I talked him into coming close enough that I could kick his ass."

"With both hands t-tied behind your back."

Bobby manages to say it with only a small stutter, and it occurs to her that he’s probably the only person in her life who knows exactly what that means for her. Others might get it on an intellectual level, but Bobby has triggers of his own, and some of them are as similar to hers as it’s possible to be. He hasn’t worn a wristwatch since Tates.

(His-and-hers PTSD: it’s very romantic, she once joked to her sister in Bobby’s presence. His reaction was a quickly-suppressed chuckle, but Jen’s shocked, stricken look reminded Alex of just how far she and her partner both are from whatever passes for normal these days. Still - joke or not, it’s also the truth: without that shared understanding, she honestly doesn’t know if their relationship would have survived everything that’s happened in the past few years.)

And now Bobby’s gazing at her with that look he gets sometimes, the one that translates to something like you are so fucking amazing. It makes her quiver deep down inside.

"I am, you know. Proud," he says quietly.

"Yeah. Me too. It feels good."

Pause. His touch is warm on her skin like the spring sunlight.

What the hell, she thinks. She shifts in his lap again, very deliberately.

"You know what else would feel good?"

Bobby blinks, his hands falling reflexively back to her hips. "You want to - right now? Here?"

She snorts with laughter at the high incredulous note in his voice, and pushes her face into the crook of his neck. She's sure that she's flushed; part of her can't believe that she's actually suggesting this, and the rest just wants all the skin-on-skin contact she can get, right now. Wants something to do with this crazy giddy energy that's sparking along all her nerve endings and magnifying every touch.

"There's no one around," she mumbles. "And I'm wearing this ridiculous skirt..."

Bobby chuckles, a little breathlessly. "A rare opportunity that we shouldn't waste..."

She’s pretty sure she can feel him getting hard through his jeans. But he sounds like he doesn't quite believe she's serious, so she sits up a bit and fumbles for the adjustment lever on the side of his seat.

The seat back goes down, and Bobby with it, so that he's lying almost flat beneath her. Oh yeah, that's better. A little more room to move, and now she can shrug out of the stupid pink cardigan, rock her hips into his and confirm that yes, parts of him are definitely interested. She leans down and kisses him again, harder and hungrier this time.

"Come on. Just touch me."

She almost never says stuff like that, and it comes out a little curt with embarrassment, sounding more like an order than a sexy request. But that apparently flips some switch in her partner's brain, because he arches beneath her with an inarticulate noise that's all god, yes, okay, you win. His hands slip under her tank top, nails scraping lightly up her back, and then he's fumbling with the clasp of her bra and moving it out of the way so he can touch her breasts, and all she can think is oh,*finally.*

She braces herself over him, pushing into his hands. His thumbs brush over her nipples, sloppy and hungry and a little rough and it's exactly right, jolts of pleasure straight to her clit. "Yeah," she says, breath hitching. She moves her hips jerkily in counterpoint to his hands, rubbing herself against his erection, greedy for pressure, friction, something. In the state she’s in, she thinks she could almost get off just from this. But she wants more, wants to touch him and move with him, feel him deep and warm inside her, so she sits back and goes for the button on his jeans.

Bobby lets out a relieved breath when she gets his fly down, and then sucks the air right back in again when she takes him in her hand. She grins at him, holding his gaze, watching him fight to keep his eyes from falling shut as she touches him. He licks his lips, and that makes her want to feel the thick length of him on her tongue, but there's no room for that in this position, so she stretches out over him and kisses him some more instead, long lazy caressing wet kisses with her fingers still curled around his cock, stroking up and down and around.

Bobby makes contented ohhh that’s nice sounds in the back of his throat and touches her everywhere he can reach, hands running down her back and up her sides, teasing at the curve of her breasts. Then down, around, under the skirt, tracing random patterns over her thighs and ass, squeezing and stroking until she's squirming against him and he groans into her mouth on a rising note of urgency.

“Mmm, yeah, okay,” she says, “let me -"

She sits up and tries to help him push the jeans and boxers down past his hips. But her knee slips off the seat and she starts to topple sideways, and she can't hold back a little shriek. Bobby grabs at her clumsily, barely in time to keep her from tumbling into the driver's seat, and suddenly she’s picturing how they must look. Arms and legs everywhere, fumbling around in the front seat of a city vehicle, for god’s sake. She starts to snicker, and then,

"Ow, shit," Bobby mutters distractedly, with exactly the same inflection as when he gets a paper cut at work or something, and that's it. She loses it completely, collapsing on top of him.

"Oh, sure, very funny..." Bobby tries to sound annoyed, which just makes her chortle even more helplessly into his shoulder. “You laugh, but things get caught -

He can’t continue after that, they’re both giggling too hard. He’s still shifting beneath her, though, and finally manages to push his clothes far enough out of the way that she can feel bare skin. She straightens up and brushes her hair out of her face.

"Oh my god," she says, blinking away tears, trying to catch her breath. She doesn't have a hope, though, with Bobby lying there, flushed and shining-eyed, looking up at her with such naked happiness that her throat closes up with all the things she wants to say to him.

I'm having so much fun. I love this. I love you.

She can't get the words out; instead, she aligns their bodies and reaches between her legs to pull her panties aside, so that when she strokes slowly against him they can both feel her hot and slick all along the length of his cock. Her eyes squeeze shut with the sheer pleasure of it. Bobby’s hands close hard on her hips and she feels his whole body shudder with the effort of holding himself still.

"Alex. Fuck."

She opens her eyes and smiles down at him, feeling wild and free and victorious.

"Yes, let's."

He reaches down and helps her hold her panties to the side. Just at the crucial moment, he looks up at her very seriously.

“Don’t slip,” he says, totally deadpan.

“Shut up,” she sputters, laughing again, but she manages to keep her balance as she sinks down around him, and then they both go quiet.

She tangles her fingers with his where his free hand rests on her thigh, closes her eyes and just feels, inside, her body adjusting to hold him, the way he’s quivering just slightly beneath her. The breeze from the open car door is light and cool on her legs and arms, so different from the hot, heavy, tingling warmth where they’re joined.

Bobby moves his fingers, still hooked around her panties, and manages to brush his thumb over her clit. She gasps and clenches involuntarily around him, and he does it some more, rubbing slow, steady little circles in the slippery wetness. And then she has to move, has to balance herself with her hands on his shoulders and set a hard, fast rhythm.

And oh, god, it feels good. It’s everything she’s been wanting all day without even realizing it. Come on come on come on she chants inwardly. Her thigh muscles are burning and the edges of the seat are digging into her knees, and she knows she won’t be able to maintain this for long... but - oh yeah there that’s good don’t stop oh god don’t stop don’t stop don’t -

She jerks and shudders around him as her orgasm breaks over her. Bobby pulls her down, wraps both arms around her and holds her tight and close as he bucks up into her with a strangled groan. She buries her face in his neck and twitches through the aftershocks.

Finally Bobby’s grip relaxes. She wiggles a bit to extricate her arms, and then burrows back down in a way that she hopes clearly indicates don't want to move.  Bobby seems to get it; he strokes her back, slow and gentle, and one hand comes to rest at the back of her neck, cradling her head.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he says after a while.

She smiles contentedly into his chest. “I know.”

Pause.

“So how come you never told me?”

“Told you what?” she asks sleepily.

“That you have a thing for sex in the car.”

She props herself up on his chest just enough to see him grinning at her, more than a little smug.

“I do not have a thing,” she says with as much dignity as she can manage, which isn’t much under the circumstances.

“Oh no? What was this, then?” Bobby teases.  “I just want to know in case maybe I can recreate the situation some other time…”

She elbows him gently in the stomach. “Don’t push your luck, buddy.” But he holds her gaze, and she can see that he’s honestly curious.

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging a little. “Maybe it’s the weather. Spring fever, or something. Maybe I just felt like celebrating that we made it through the long dark winter alive.”

She says it melodramatically, mostly joking, but Bobby takes her seriously.

“In more ways than one.” His eyes are soft, and suddenly there's a lump in her throat.

“Yeah.”

"I'm glad too," he says quietly.

She puts her head back down on his chest and they lie there in silence for a little while longer. It’s another thing she hopes she’ll never take for granted again: this feeling of shared peace, of profound release and safety and bone-deep fulfillment.

Then a car alarm goes off somewhere nearby, and reluctantly she decides they’d better move before their luck runs out and someone actually does show up. She sighs and sits up slowly, wondering if there’s a way to manage this part without making a mess of both their clothes. Apparently reading her mind, Bobby reaches a long arm into the back seat and hands her the roll of paper towels they keep there for beverage spills.

And just like that, the romance is gone, she thinks about joking, as he gathers her skirt out of the way and she cleans the two of them up as best she can. But Bobby is watching her face, not her hands, with this ridiculously tender look, like he can’t quite believe she’s real, and what little desire she had to be snarky flies right out the window. She feels pretty much the same, after all - profoundly happy and a little awed and just so fucking grateful that they’re here, together.

“Let me,” he says when she reaches awkwardly behind her back to do up her bra again. He sits up carefully, and reaches round in his turn to find the clasps. She leans into the impromptu hug for a few seconds after he’s done.

Then she clambers back over into the driver’s seat, wincing at already-stiff muscles. They’re quiet as they finish putting themselves back together. Never thought I’d be glad of a busy floral print, she thinks with amusement. Talk about hiding a multitude of sins.

Bobby draws in a breath when he sees the marks on her knees from the seat.

“You’re going to have bruises.” He reaches over to rub at them. She flashes him a grin.

“Totally worth it.”

His answering smile is like spring, bright and soft and free. He leaves his hand on her knee the whole way back to work.

THE END



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