Goren is outside in the alley behind the plaza, leaning against the wall. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips, tendrils of silken smoke twisting through the crisp early morning air. He seems not to notice when Logan closes the door behind him, nor when the other detective lights his own cigarette. "I really gotta quit one of these days," Logan remarks inanely, feeling his cheeks redden and knowing it's not from the slight chill in the air.
Goren doesn't answer; Logan doesn't expect him to. Instead he draws deeply on the cigarette, the glowing end burning brighter, and exhales a cloud of smoke through his nostrils, the sign of someone who doesn't smoke often but enjoys every moment of it when he does. Christ, Logan thinks. I'm starting to think like him.
"So." He blows an expertly produced smoke ring that mingles with the nicotine haze already in the air. "What did you want to talk about?"
Goren looks at him now, focusing those brown eyes on him with all the intensity in the world. He cocks his head at an odd angle, and something of amusement enters his gaze. Still he says nothing. He prefers to leave the burden of conversation to Logan, who is well aware of this tactic but who also knows that there is nothing he can do but be the patsy. He sighs inwardly. "Last night," he begins, and trails off, unsure of what he wants to say, or even if he wants to say anything at all.
"Yes, last night," Goren says, surprising him. He is preternaturally calm, his features relaxed. "What about last night?"
A muscle works in Logan's jaw. Goren is toying with him; to hell with diplomacy and protocol. "We kissed last night," he states matter-of-factly, ignoring the leap his heart makes. "Did that happen for a reason?"
Goren gives a slight, maddening smile, and takes another pull on his cancer stick. Smoke issues from his parted lips in a slow, effortless stream. "Everything happens for a reason, Mike."
The use of his first name makes Logan want to groan aloud, and he makes an effort to dislodge his heart from the position it has taken up in his throat. "Yeah?" He's trying to be cool, to act like it means nothing to him. Like nothing Goren says has any effect on the workings of his internal organs. "So, Mr. Know-It-All, why'd you kiss me last night?"
Goren exhales a cloud of smoke. The cigarette is held between long fingers that promise to have devastating effects on Logan's sanity. His lips curl ever so slightly, and now the humour on his face is definitely not imagined. His eyes hold Logan's for a long moment, appraising, calculating. "As I recall," he says with perfect serenity, "you were the one who kissed me."
This is not going well. Words are being used but to no purpose. Logan can't stand pointless conversation; he detests the abuse of the English language that he sees so many perps employ - talking a lot but saying nothing. He runs a hand back through his hair. His cigarette is almost down to ashes and he's barely smoked it at all.
"Look," he says heavily, and takes one last drag. He drops the cigarette on the damp ground and grinds it out with his heel. "I don't know what the hell goes on in your head or why you do what you do, but believe me when I tell you that with me, things don't just happen. I didn't just kiss you 'cause I felt like it, you get that?"
Goren tilts his head back now and there is a hiss as he outs his cigarette against the brick wall. "I get it, Mike," he says softly.
Logan stands very still, breathless and feeling stranded in the midst of an emotional wreckage. The tension goes out of his body; he feels his shoulders slump slightly. He can't help feeling like an idiot, but maybe that's just the effect Bobby Goren has on him. He finds his voice at last. "Then prove it." It is quiet, almost inaudible. He wants physical proof of what he thinks he's seeing in Goren's laughing brown eyes. No more guessing. No more assumptions.
Goren shrugs, an elegant upward movement of broad shoulders ensconced in a black coat that Logan idly thinks would feel heavenly against his bare skin. It is a random thought and soon passes, but the memory of it is seared into his brain like the afterimage of a lightning strike. Logan feels goosebumps rise on the back of his neck, and his muscles spasm slightly as an involuntary shiver courses through his body.
"Okay," Goren says, and straightens up, coming off the wall and stepping toward Logan, who feels his chest tighten almost unbearably. The other man pauses mere inches away. Logan can feel the warmth of the detective's body, can smell that scent, strong on the cigarette smoke side but still with the coffee and cologne undertones. He knows that Goren will taste like fine wine, with a rich palate and notes of different flavours, but still with that inescapable magnetic tug that only serves to enthrall Logan more and more with every passing moment.
Goren leans in, and his breath ghosts over Logan's face. He takes one more step forward, bringing his body up against the Irish detective's, and Logan finds himself pinned against the wall. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, but he knows nowhere else he would be more comfortable. Goren's chest is warm and firm and feels unreasonably good, and then full lips touch Logan's.
His brain immediately shuts down, his inability to think proportionate to the degree of pleasure being created by the skilled tongue currently requesting entrance into his mouth - entrance which is willingly granted. Logan, in all his years of womanizing and the sexual excesses of his wild youth, has never encountered a better kisser than Goren. This is possibly due partly to the fact that Logan strongly believes he is in love with the man, but would also, he thinks, be undeniable to an impartial test subject experiencing the sheer ecstasy brought on by any encounter with Bobby Goren's mouth.
Goren takes his sweet time. It is a slow, leisurely kiss, precisely the way Logan likes his kisses, but then chances are Logan will like anything Goren decides to give him. He tries to wrap his mind around the idea of loving his colleague, but somehow the notion seems larger than life. Much like Goren himself.
When Goren lifts his head and steps back, Logan is breathless. His knees are rubber and can barely support his weight; he leans heavily on the wall. He sees that Goren, to his satisfaction, has finally been shaken. The look of lost composure on the other man's face is comforting in a peculiar way to Logan. It assures him that he isn't driving down a one-way street.
Goren stands looking at him for a long while before he speaks. When he does in fact utter words, they are spoken calmly, with no hint of anxiety or nervousness - he has recovered his self-possession in seemingly record time. "Come on, Mike," he says at last. "We've been a long time."
Logan stares. He has an idea he is incapable of coherent speech, and goes on to prove his point. "Uh..."
Goren reaches out and places a large hand on Logan's shoulder. The warmth of the hand sears Logan's skin through three layers of clothes with the promise of things to come. "Everything happens for a reason," he repeats. "Coincidence does not exist." His eyes meet Logan's meaningfully, accompanied by slight pressure from his fingers, and pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. The Gordian knot has slowly begun to unravel.
"And try not to look so ravaged," Goren adds gently, holding the door open for Logan. "People will talk."