A/N: The main body of this story takes place in Season 4, but this prelude takes place in the middle of Season 2.

Last week, my 20-year-old, who is a college student 2000 miles away (an English and Philosophy major with a concentration in writing), was diagnosed with insulin-dependent (Type 1 or juvenile) diabetes. When she was 12, she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Since she is her mother's child, she faced this life-changing diagnosis by shaking a fist at fate and asking "I'm a bipolar diabetic! What else ya got?" For her, the most disappointing prospect of her entire situation is that she has wanted to give Katie (my 10-year-old on dialysis) a kidney since she was born, when Jessie was 10. Now, she can't and she found that to be more devastating, initially, than the diagnosis. Of course, now she is panicking about all the ramifications of the disease ("Mom, I want a cupcake!") and how she must work a regular eating routine into her schedule of full-time classes and full-time work. As for me, I learned a very long time ago never to ask the question "What next?" For me, that is the question God answers. People ask us "Who did you piss off?" and the motto of my life has become a quote from Mother Theresa: "I know God will never give me more than I can handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much."

So in the wake of this tsunami, I bring you another story...enjoy. (I am inclined to warn you not to expect too much fluff...)

Of course, all the usual disclaimers apply.

"You son of a bitch!"

The enraged man bolted from his seat, grabbing the chair in both hands and hurling it at the empty space where his interrogators had just been. The chair sailed through the air and hit the one-way glass, shattering it into razor sharp shards.

Goren charged from the corner where he'd shielded his partner from stray shards of flying glass and grabbed the suspect, throwing him against the wall and holding him in place with his weight. The uniformed officers cuffed him and dragged him away, screaming, with his lawyer in tow, shaking her head.

Turning toward the gaping hole in the wall, Goren approached the window, looking apologetically at Deakins. Carver had gone with the defendant to talk a deal with his lawyer. Deakins sighed and shook his head before leaving the room to put in a requisition for repairs.

Eames stepped up to her partner's side, remembering another case that had ended almost the same way, a year and a half ago. Henry Talbot. She still shuddered with revulsion at the memory of him. She glanced at Goren, wondering if he remembered. Of course he did. But it wasn't Talbot he would recall first when he thought of the case; it was Angie Suarez, one of Talbot's victims. Talbot had not made much of an impression on Goren; he'd had fun berating the slimy lawyer about his size. But Angie...Angie had left a mark, even though he'd never met her in life. It was Angie he would remember. In the end, it was usually the victims who got to him.

Eames shook her head slowly. "One of these days, you're going to push it too far, Bobby," she cautioned.

He didn't react and she knew it was advice he would not heed. He would always push the limits. Whatever it took to get a confession, he would do. He could be very single-minded, which was often a good thing. Almost as often, though, it was a bad thing. For her, the most frustrating part of it all was the unpredictability; she never knew whether his zeal would be good or bad. Getting Talbot had been a good thing. Angie Suarez had made a lasting impression on Goren, and he regretted her death, even though they'd gotten her killer. Justice had been served too late. The other side of the coin was Nicole Wallace, who had taken part of him with her when she'd fled several months ago, and all his attempts to find her had come up empty. It troubled her deeply to watch him spinning his wheels, knowing he would never give up. Goren did not have it in him to concede defeat; he did not have the heart of a quitter.

Quietly, she added, "One of these times, you are not going to come out on top, you know."

Finally, he moved, shifting in that restless way of his. He slid his hand along the back of his neck. "I know," he concurred.

"Then what?"

"Then...then I depend on you to pull my ass out of the fire."

"And if I can't?"

He shifted his gaze from the shattered glass to his partner. "Then I'll get burned," he answered, and he left the room.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, Eames followed, wondering just which one of them was going to get burned when he finally fell.