Title: The Measure Of A Man
Author: jesse
Fandom: Law&Order (original flavor)
Pairing: None. Yet...
Rating: R, I suppose for language and concept
Summary: Post-ep for Manhood, 3d season. Sometimes we learn things we'd rather not know ... or do we?
Archive: Yes to list archives, anybody else please ask
Email: jesse.bee@lycos.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money
Author Notes: Many thanks as always to culturevulture73, who got me started, and a couple other folks, including Leaper 182, aided and abetted.
##########
Measure Of A Man
##########
"Mo-ther-fuck-ing-*damnittoHELL.*"
Detective Lennie Briscoe looked up, startled. Barely loud enough to carry between their adjoined desks, the curse had still packed enough heat to scorch the tired, ugly paint of the 2-7 squad room walls. "What?"
His partner Detective Mike Logan wore an expression that would have sent a serial killer running for cover. "They walked," he gritted out, one hand still on the phone he'd just hung up.
"What?" Lennie repeated, eyebrows coming together as he leaned forward. "Who walked?"
"The Newhouse case. That was Stone's office. The fuckers *walked.*"
Lennie's jaw dropped; then he blew out an explosive breath. "Sonovabitch." He closed his eyes and shook his head, fighting the sudden raw surge of anger that had him wanting to pound the desk.
He snapped them open again as Mike shoved up out of his chair, metal and plastic squealing in protest. "Whateryou -- "
"I'm outta here, Lennie." The younger man grabbed his suit coat, turned for the door, obviously uncaring of the fact that their shift didn't end for another fifteen minutes.
"Mike?"
"I'm goin' to the gym," Mike hissed over his shoulder, "'cause I really need to HIT something."
And that was where Lennie found him about an hour later, taking his temper out on the battered red punching bag in the back corner of the workout room.
Lennie dropped onto a convenient bench, absently noting the texture change under his hand where the ancient vinyl had been repaired with duct tape, and the clinging, never eradicated odor of years of sweaty bodies. Mike was sweat-soaked himself and slowing down, the slap of his fists against the bag loud in the almost empty room.
Lennie still wanted to punch something too.
Officer Rick Newhouse, on the force all of three years, out on his beat alone that one night because his partner had been studying at John Jay to take the sergeant's exam. Ran into drug-dealer trouble, got pinned down, called for backup. And had died there on the street, alone, because help didn't come in time.
Because his fellow officers hadn't liked the fact that Rick Newhouse was gay.
And now the bastards who'd left him out to die, four of New York's "finest," had literally gotten away with murder.
Mike finally wound to a stop, his arms around the bag and his forehead resting against it, breath coming in short pants. "I need a drink." His voice was muffled.
"So do I," Lennie said, smiling sardonically as Mike's head came up with a jerk, eyes wide. "But I'll settle for dinner. Just watching you is makin' me hungry."
He waited while Mike showered, noting idly that the locker room was as ugly as the rest of the gym. As the rest of the 2-7, actually -- apparently paint hadn't been on anybody's requisition list for at least a decade.
Some twenty minutes later, a damp, tired, and rather better-smelling Mike claimed not to be hungry, but Lennie wasn't buying it. After a workout like that, he had to be. But even if he wasn't, Lennie had no intention of leaving his partner alone. He didn't like the look in Mike's eye any more now than he had when the younger man had stormed out of the squad room.
And this wasn't all for Mike's benefit, anyway. Lennie's own frustration and anger were prickling hot under his skin -- the sort of feelings he'd drowned too many times in a fifth of vodka. *He* didn't need to be alone right now either.
They ended up in the familiar smoky confines of O'Grundy's, a cop bar if ever there was one, where Lennie had a steak and Mike found an appetite after all, having dead cow on a bun and enough beer to raise even Lennie's eyebrows. Far as Lennie'd known, Mike imbibed but he didn't *drink*, courtesy of two alcoholic parents.
Seemed tonight was an exception, though. And Mike was displaying the near-legendary capacity of the Irish.
"'S not right, Lennie."
Lennie looked assessingly at his partner, whose bitching was still impressively coherent for a guy who'd sucked down about half the bar. "You're starting to repeat yourself, Mike."
"Well, 's not," Mike insisted, sounding a little defensive now. "Why the hell's it matter who he was sleepin' with, anyway?
Lennie eyed him more closely. Okay, this *wasn't* exactly the same tune. Up to now Mike had been on about the stupidity of the jury and the contemptibility of the four officers and all the lawyers involved, although Paul Robinette seemed to be curiously exempt. "The gay thing doesn't bother you?"
"Why t' hell should it? Didn't affect his work, wasn't doin' it on the job, file says he was a good cop! He didn' *threaten* those guys, chase 'em, waving it around!" Mike leaned forward on his elbows, his face flushed with booze and temper. "Shouldn't matter who he was fucking on his own time."
Lennie leaned forward as well, in hopes of keeping Mike's voice down. "You've made the jokes too, Mike, I've heard ya."
"Well, sure. An' you're off on spics and micks an' everybody else when I know you don' give a rat's ass about 'em that way. And we both talk 'bout women. It's just talk." Mike shook his head dismissively. "Y'don' measure somebody by who he loves, guy's gotta right to love whoever he wants."
Lennie cocked a cynical eyebrow. "You think love's got anything to do with it?"
"Sometimes. It should. Like, love, something -- should be *something* more than just sweaty sheets."
"Even if it's with the same body parts you got," Lennie prodded, curious. He didn't know why he was pursuing this, exactly -- as sauced as Mike was, he wasn't gonna remember any of it. Or maybe that was why. But the cop instincts he couldn't turn off had been piqued. There was something here trying to get out, something deep within his partner that had been loosened by anger and alcohol.
Mike blinked, then narrowed his eyes, his brows coming down. "Yeah. Y'fall in love with *people,* Lennie, not body parts," he said with sudden, unnerving intensity. "Parts 'r fun, but it's *people* that matter."
"This from the guy who changes girlfriends weekly," Lennie scoffed, uneasy, because he had to say *something* -- those eyes were getting to him. He couldn't really be hearing -- Mike wasn't really saying --
Mike blinked again, staring at him. Then his head dropped, but not before Lennie saw a very odd expression wash onto his face. "I been in love, Len. I know what it feels like," he mumbled, and fell silent, tapping a slow finger against his nearly empty glass.
It was Lennie's turn to stare, stunned. The conversation had gone somewhere he'd never anticipated, someplace that he'd never in a million years have expected Mike Logan to go. Whether it was trust or mostly the alcohol talking, for Mike to have actually told him what Lennie was pretty sure he'd just said ... it was touching, flattering. And more than a little uncomfortable. So Lennie did what he usually did, when the conversation and the people mattered. Something he was good at, although he couldn't say he was proud of the skill. He dodged.
"C'mon, Mike, let's get you home. You're gonna hurt in the morning."
"I hurt *now,*" Mike muttered. Lennie didn't ask what he meant.
He poured Mike into the car and took him home, thankful he'd been to his partner's place once before and the location had stuck in his memory. Got him up to his apartment, although Lennie almost had to take the keys and open the door when Mike's fingers were reluctant to do the job. Hauled him back to the bedroom, dumped him onto the surprisingly neat bed. He even, since he was such a nice guy, found a bottle of aspirin in Mike's bathroom cabinet and left that along with a glass of water on Mike's nightstand -- the man was gonna need 'em in the morning. By this time Mike was dead to the world, passed out on his back, still mostly dressed although he had managed to kick his shoes off, at least.
Lennie stood for some minutes and looked at Mike there in the half dark, concern and affection welling up for this troubled, complicated soul who was his partner. His own discomfort had mostly subsided, now that he'd had a chance to absorb the revelation.
Mike was Mike - he really didn't care who the man chose to sleep with, long as it didn't affect their partnership. Hell, in view of Lennie's own checkered past, that'd be more than a bit hypocritical. But he'd never expected... He shook his head. "You're a surprising man, Mike Logan."
Walking out into the main room, he ducked into the tiny kitchen, nosed around until he found a spare set of apartment keys in a catch-all basket on the table. Pulling out his pad, Lennie scribbled Mike a quick note, left it on the table next to the basket. //Here's to neat people,// he thought wryly, saluting the unconscious man in the next room. //Least I can lock up and leave you to have your hangover in peace without worrying about somebody walkin' in on you.// He'd give Mike the keys back tomorrow.
Assuming Mike actually made an appearance at work tomorrow, of course.
He chuckled and went out, locking the door behind him.
But Mike's voice kept coming back to Lennie later that night, lying in bed with only the radio and his own breathing for company.
//"Y'fall in love with people, not body parts ... Y'don' measure somebody by who he loves...."//
He thought of his two wives, of all the people in between and since. He thought about his effect on those lives that he'd touched, shared. Shattered.
And he threw an arm over his eyes to block out the sight of the stained ceiling.
"Then how do you measure him, Mike?" he whispered.
finis
Author: jesse
Fandom: Law&Order (original flavor)
Pairing: None. Yet...
Rating: R, I suppose for language and concept
Summary: Post-ep for Manhood, 3d season. Sometimes we learn things we'd rather not know ... or do we?
Archive: Yes to list archives, anybody else please ask
Email: jesse.bee@lycos.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money
Author Notes: Many thanks as always to culturevulture73, who got me started, and a couple other folks, including Leaper 182, aided and abetted.
##########
Measure Of A Man
##########
"Mo-ther-fuck-ing-*damnittoHELL.*"
Detective Lennie Briscoe looked up, startled. Barely loud enough to carry between their adjoined desks, the curse had still packed enough heat to scorch the tired, ugly paint of the 2-7 squad room walls. "What?"
His partner Detective Mike Logan wore an expression that would have sent a serial killer running for cover. "They walked," he gritted out, one hand still on the phone he'd just hung up.
"What?" Lennie repeated, eyebrows coming together as he leaned forward. "Who walked?"
"The Newhouse case. That was Stone's office. The fuckers *walked.*"
Lennie's jaw dropped; then he blew out an explosive breath. "Sonovabitch." He closed his eyes and shook his head, fighting the sudden raw surge of anger that had him wanting to pound the desk.
He snapped them open again as Mike shoved up out of his chair, metal and plastic squealing in protest. "Whateryou -- "
"I'm outta here, Lennie." The younger man grabbed his suit coat, turned for the door, obviously uncaring of the fact that their shift didn't end for another fifteen minutes.
"Mike?"
"I'm goin' to the gym," Mike hissed over his shoulder, "'cause I really need to HIT something."
And that was where Lennie found him about an hour later, taking his temper out on the battered red punching bag in the back corner of the workout room.
Lennie dropped onto a convenient bench, absently noting the texture change under his hand where the ancient vinyl had been repaired with duct tape, and the clinging, never eradicated odor of years of sweaty bodies. Mike was sweat-soaked himself and slowing down, the slap of his fists against the bag loud in the almost empty room.
Lennie still wanted to punch something too.
Officer Rick Newhouse, on the force all of three years, out on his beat alone that one night because his partner had been studying at John Jay to take the sergeant's exam. Ran into drug-dealer trouble, got pinned down, called for backup. And had died there on the street, alone, because help didn't come in time.
Because his fellow officers hadn't liked the fact that Rick Newhouse was gay.
And now the bastards who'd left him out to die, four of New York's "finest," had literally gotten away with murder.
Mike finally wound to a stop, his arms around the bag and his forehead resting against it, breath coming in short pants. "I need a drink." His voice was muffled.
"So do I," Lennie said, smiling sardonically as Mike's head came up with a jerk, eyes wide. "But I'll settle for dinner. Just watching you is makin' me hungry."
He waited while Mike showered, noting idly that the locker room was as ugly as the rest of the gym. As the rest of the 2-7, actually -- apparently paint hadn't been on anybody's requisition list for at least a decade.
Some twenty minutes later, a damp, tired, and rather better-smelling Mike claimed not to be hungry, but Lennie wasn't buying it. After a workout like that, he had to be. But even if he wasn't, Lennie had no intention of leaving his partner alone. He didn't like the look in Mike's eye any more now than he had when the younger man had stormed out of the squad room.
And this wasn't all for Mike's benefit, anyway. Lennie's own frustration and anger were prickling hot under his skin -- the sort of feelings he'd drowned too many times in a fifth of vodka. *He* didn't need to be alone right now either.
They ended up in the familiar smoky confines of O'Grundy's, a cop bar if ever there was one, where Lennie had a steak and Mike found an appetite after all, having dead cow on a bun and enough beer to raise even Lennie's eyebrows. Far as Lennie'd known, Mike imbibed but he didn't *drink*, courtesy of two alcoholic parents.
Seemed tonight was an exception, though. And Mike was displaying the near-legendary capacity of the Irish.
"'S not right, Lennie."
Lennie looked assessingly at his partner, whose bitching was still impressively coherent for a guy who'd sucked down about half the bar. "You're starting to repeat yourself, Mike."
"Well, 's not," Mike insisted, sounding a little defensive now. "Why the hell's it matter who he was sleepin' with, anyway?
Lennie eyed him more closely. Okay, this *wasn't* exactly the same tune. Up to now Mike had been on about the stupidity of the jury and the contemptibility of the four officers and all the lawyers involved, although Paul Robinette seemed to be curiously exempt. "The gay thing doesn't bother you?"
"Why t' hell should it? Didn't affect his work, wasn't doin' it on the job, file says he was a good cop! He didn' *threaten* those guys, chase 'em, waving it around!" Mike leaned forward on his elbows, his face flushed with booze and temper. "Shouldn't matter who he was fucking on his own time."
Lennie leaned forward as well, in hopes of keeping Mike's voice down. "You've made the jokes too, Mike, I've heard ya."
"Well, sure. An' you're off on spics and micks an' everybody else when I know you don' give a rat's ass about 'em that way. And we both talk 'bout women. It's just talk." Mike shook his head dismissively. "Y'don' measure somebody by who he loves, guy's gotta right to love whoever he wants."
Lennie cocked a cynical eyebrow. "You think love's got anything to do with it?"
"Sometimes. It should. Like, love, something -- should be *something* more than just sweaty sheets."
"Even if it's with the same body parts you got," Lennie prodded, curious. He didn't know why he was pursuing this, exactly -- as sauced as Mike was, he wasn't gonna remember any of it. Or maybe that was why. But the cop instincts he couldn't turn off had been piqued. There was something here trying to get out, something deep within his partner that had been loosened by anger and alcohol.
Mike blinked, then narrowed his eyes, his brows coming down. "Yeah. Y'fall in love with *people,* Lennie, not body parts," he said with sudden, unnerving intensity. "Parts 'r fun, but it's *people* that matter."
"This from the guy who changes girlfriends weekly," Lennie scoffed, uneasy, because he had to say *something* -- those eyes were getting to him. He couldn't really be hearing -- Mike wasn't really saying --
Mike blinked again, staring at him. Then his head dropped, but not before Lennie saw a very odd expression wash onto his face. "I been in love, Len. I know what it feels like," he mumbled, and fell silent, tapping a slow finger against his nearly empty glass.
It was Lennie's turn to stare, stunned. The conversation had gone somewhere he'd never anticipated, someplace that he'd never in a million years have expected Mike Logan to go. Whether it was trust or mostly the alcohol talking, for Mike to have actually told him what Lennie was pretty sure he'd just said ... it was touching, flattering. And more than a little uncomfortable. So Lennie did what he usually did, when the conversation and the people mattered. Something he was good at, although he couldn't say he was proud of the skill. He dodged.
"C'mon, Mike, let's get you home. You're gonna hurt in the morning."
"I hurt *now,*" Mike muttered. Lennie didn't ask what he meant.
He poured Mike into the car and took him home, thankful he'd been to his partner's place once before and the location had stuck in his memory. Got him up to his apartment, although Lennie almost had to take the keys and open the door when Mike's fingers were reluctant to do the job. Hauled him back to the bedroom, dumped him onto the surprisingly neat bed. He even, since he was such a nice guy, found a bottle of aspirin in Mike's bathroom cabinet and left that along with a glass of water on Mike's nightstand -- the man was gonna need 'em in the morning. By this time Mike was dead to the world, passed out on his back, still mostly dressed although he had managed to kick his shoes off, at least.
Lennie stood for some minutes and looked at Mike there in the half dark, concern and affection welling up for this troubled, complicated soul who was his partner. His own discomfort had mostly subsided, now that he'd had a chance to absorb the revelation.
Mike was Mike - he really didn't care who the man chose to sleep with, long as it didn't affect their partnership. Hell, in view of Lennie's own checkered past, that'd be more than a bit hypocritical. But he'd never expected... He shook his head. "You're a surprising man, Mike Logan."
Walking out into the main room, he ducked into the tiny kitchen, nosed around until he found a spare set of apartment keys in a catch-all basket on the table. Pulling out his pad, Lennie scribbled Mike a quick note, left it on the table next to the basket. //Here's to neat people,// he thought wryly, saluting the unconscious man in the next room. //Least I can lock up and leave you to have your hangover in peace without worrying about somebody walkin' in on you.// He'd give Mike the keys back tomorrow.
Assuming Mike actually made an appearance at work tomorrow, of course.
He chuckled and went out, locking the door behind him.
But Mike's voice kept coming back to Lennie later that night, lying in bed with only the radio and his own breathing for company.
//"Y'fall in love with people, not body parts ... Y'don' measure somebody by who he loves...."//
He thought of his two wives, of all the people in between and since. He thought about his effect on those lives that he'd touched, shared. Shattered.
And he threw an arm over his eyes to block out the sight of the stained ceiling.
"Then how do you measure him, Mike?" he whispered.
finis