Disclaimer: I don't own Law & Order: Criminal Intent or its characters...

Author's Note: I usually write third person narratives but there is just something about Alex Eames that makes you want to use her voice! Otherwise, I'm not sure of the point of this...

Warning: Contains some coarse language and sexual references.


Bobby Goren, you are driving me crazy!

I just watched the man do it again. He's so good at reading people. There's nothing like watching him get the information he wants from a witness. The way he corners them without them knowing it, weasels into their psyche, and with a tilt of the head and a few soft words, or forceful ones, coerces the truth from them. By the time he's done, they are dying to tell him the truth. I can see it in their eyes, the overwhelming urge to confess all, to have the weight lifted from their burdened souls. And more often than not, they look kindly upon him while doing so, thinking he's more of a sympathetic ear than a detective seeking out a criminal. He's amazing.

And now this amazing man is sitting next to me, as we stay stuck in traffic, staring absently out the passenger side window. I know his mind hasn't wandered from the case, though. It rarely does. I know he's putting the few pieces we have of the case together even as we remain impotent amidst a killer traffic jam in Manhattan during the peak of summer. I only wish my own mind wouldn't wander, at least wander as it does, so frequently to him.

I actually don't mind being stuck in traffic with him. I do enjoy just being with him, even in this silence, even in this heat. I could sit all day with him. At the same time, though, it's eating away at me. Just sitting here, you know. That's all it ever is…being there, nothing more. But how I long for more sometimes, how my mind wanders as it does. I can't help thinking about what it would be like to be with him. I find the thought enticing, I find the man attractive, but how would it work exactly…physically? I mean the man is at least twice my size! Have you ever seen a St. Bernard try to get it on with a shitzu?

Well, I'm not shitzu. At least I'd hope that isn't what I'd be if I were a dog. I think I'd be more of a…a beagle. And Bobby's more like a Newfoundland. Yeah. A big black Newfie who is overprotective and wants to save everyone from drowning, even if its only from their own stupidity. And I would be his beagle, forever loyal, forever following him around. Anyway, you get the picture? It's practically a physical impossibility. Let's just say it is, because admitting it is in the realm of possibility but still knowing that it's taboo is too much for me to handle.

And now he's looking at me from the passenger seat. My God, Bobby! Don't you have something better to do than look at me that way? He can probably read everything I'm thinking about him on my face. But if he can, he isn't letting on. He never lets on. And I've been fantasiz-thinking about him a lot lately. At first I blamed it on pregnancy hormones, or the fact that my body had to readjust after giving birth. But it's been over a year since I played surrogate mother for my sister, and the thoughts keep on coming. I've tried other excuses, but it's probably something deeper, something I won't admit to…and he's still looking at me with his deep eyes, pretending he's being nonchalant, but not fooling me. He's reading me, like a Goddamn book, too. I know it. He can see right through me. I should be embarrassed at having the thoughts I've been having, and I am, but the look he's giving me is only serving to increase the attraction I'm feeling. And it's wrong and uncomfortable. Right now, any distraction, any excuse will do. Like…

"It's hot in here," I say, turning away from him to unroll my window.

"Sure is," comes his subdued reply. No witness to interrogate. No puzzle to solve. No fun. Eh, Bobby? He unrolls his window as well.

There, that helped. A distraction. Focus on the road, Alex. But we're still not going anywhere, and a breeze has somehow magically just picked up in the middle of Manhattan, just my luck. You'd think a breeze would be a welcome reprieve from the dead heat emanating from the pavement. Not this breeze. Sure it cools my skin, but it also carries, piggy-backed on its flowing particles, the scent of his subtle aftershave. Why did he have to be so savvy with it? He wore so little of it, not like most men, just enough to be noticeable when you were so close to him that your blood was already flowing more rapidly at the possibility of contact, of one slight touch.

Stop it, Alex! Stop thinking like this! He's your partner. You admire and respect him. You do not want to turn the engine off, unbuckle your seatbelt, climb over to the passenger seat and into his lap, and ride him like the bull of a man he is! I need to stop thinking like this! These are dangerous thoughts to have when your partner can practically read your mind. Another look at me and he seems to sense how uncomfortable I feel at the moment. I must look like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. And all I can think is that I'll never taste the goods. I should be more worried about what's bound to come next, the randomly inserted completely innocent question meant to connect with me and make me feel more at ease but only serves to fluster me. He seems to do it often. I wonder if he knows how completely off-guard it catches me. Of, course he does. Maybe he does it on purpose! I'd have to be on top, otherwise he'd crush me. Then I'd be in control. See how that feels, Bobby!

"How's your nephew?" he asks. BAM! There it is! And yet it again, it works. It takes me several seconds to straighten my thoughts, process what's been said and respond. How could he not notice with that brilliant mind of his?

"He loves his Aunt Alex," I respond with a smile. You won't get a confession out of me, Bobby! I know how your game works!

"I don't doubt it," he responds with a genuine smile that at the same time seems sly.

Wait a minute! I do not like that tone of voice! Was there something more to that or am I reading into it too much? Because I could've sworn there was some hidden meaning behind that statement, that that smile held some sort of hidden yearning. It must be the heat. But sometimes, okay, most of the time, you really drive me crazy, Bobby Goren!

I look at him scrutinizingly, but he's returned to his preponderances, staring out of the window again.

I return my attention to the road, hoping to find a distraction from the man who so often drives me to distraction.

Oh, Thank God!

"Traffic is moving again."

THE END