DIETY DANCING

Written by Ann Rivers ann.rivers@virgin.net

Summary: A bet with Lennie, some herbal tea and a certain movie conspire to give Mike Logan a very odd night…

Disclaimer: L & O and its characters belong to Dick Wolf and NBC. Logan is mine only in my dreams… I'm not infringing copyright here - just borrowing my two favourite detectives for a little bit of fun…

Author's note: After recently seeing Jerry Orbach in Dirty Dancing, I got this idea for a slightly surreal L & O fanfic… I hope you enjoy it… please let me know if you do !

As he stepped onto the gymnasium scales, Mike Logan sighed and ruefully shook his head. It was, he reflected with the belated advantage of hindsight, his own damn, stupid fault.

Two days previously, he'd made the mistake of telling his supposed friend and partner that the dreaded middle age spread tended to come early in the Logan family.

"So ? Go on a diet…" Briscoe had told him around a mouthful of sandwich the size of Manhattan.

Glaring at his partner's mastery of irony, Logan had then picked up his own gargantuan lunch – finding it suddenly and oddly difficult to attack it with his usual gusto.

"Aw, hell, Lennie, I tried that when I was a kid…" he'd protested, picking idly at his sandwich. "And I tell ya, there's nothing more tedious than endless plates of bunny food…"

"Okay, let's make it more interesting…" Briscoe had retorted with a deceptively innocent shrug. "Twenty bucks says you can't lose five pounds by this time next week…"

If he'd had one of those pounds in common sense, Logan would have let the matter drop right there.

Instead, in a momentary loss of both sense and sanity, he'd accepted his partner's challenge. After all, five little pounds in seven days… how hard could it be…?

His optimism had soon faded, however, when he'd gone to the gym to record his starting weight.

"You've gotta be kidding me…!" he'd protested, staring at the printout with wide, horrified eyes.

"fraid not, Logan…" Pat Chang, head of PT at the 2-7, had said with a sadistic amount of glee. Seeing his dismay, their fitness instructor had then offered the mortified Logan a consoling smile. "The scales don't lie, Mikey… you're eight pounds heavier than when you had your last physical…"

Initially shocked, Logan had then left the gym resolutely determined to shift those extra pounds – even if that meant forsaking his beloved dogs and bagels for those endless plates of bunny food.

Needless to say, Lennie Briscoe was equally determined to give his partner every possible support.

It had to be said, though, that said partner didn't entirely appreciate his idea of helpful suggestions – his list of "100 interesting ways with lettuce…" hurled with appropriate disdain into the wastebin.

Now, two days later, that set of scales were still stubbornly refusing to move in the right direction.

"Damn thing must be broken…" Logan growled, staring forlornly down at the dial at his feet.

"Maybe if you took off your tie…?" Lennie suggested, thoroughly enjoying his partner's plight.

To his surprise, his suggestion was followed – if only to give Mike something to throw at him.

"I just don't get it, Lennie…" Mike sighed dejectedly as they returned to the squad room. "I mean, I'm doing all the right things, y'know…? Surely I shoulda lost something by now…! Hell, next door's cat's eating more than I am…!

"Maybe you just need more exercise…" Briscoe retorted, stopping to glance at the snack machine.

Seeing the predatory gleam in Logan's eyes, he then briskly moved on, dragging Mike with him.

Hell, that'd been close… he thought dryly. Two more seconds and he'd have ripped the door off…

Seeing Profaci return from his latest donut run, Briscoe quickly grabbed Logan's arm again, steering his bewildered, highly indignant partner out of temptation's way.

"Aw, Lennie, come on…! Don't you trust me…?" Logan protested, a study of injured innocence. Pulling a face at his partner's eloquent silence, Mike then grinned in mischievous inspiration. "Hey, Lennie, tell ya what… instead of mugging him, how about if I chase Profaci instead…? You know, do a few circuits round the parking lot… I mean, that'd count as exercise, right…?"

While this surreal scenario held a certain appeal, Lennie Briscoe remained sternly unmoved – grinning helplessly, though, as his disgruntled partner stomped sulkily into the squad room.

Three days later, a much happier Mike Logan returned from the gym with a marked spring in his step, meeting his partner's questioning glance with a triumphant grin as he patted his stomach.

"Five down, three to go…!" he gloated, deciding this was the time for some long overdue payback. "Better hit the ATM, Lennie… 'cos come Monday, I'll be taking more weight out of your wallet…"

"Hey, my girls'll tell you, Mike… those last few pounds are the hardest to lose…" Lennie shot back – yet not even this slightly disgruntled warning could dent Logan's enthusiasm.

"Boy, I tell ya, Lennie, this herb tea that Pat's brother put me on is really something…!" he went on, eagerly taking a large, half emptied bottle from his desk drawer and handing it to his partner.

Taking a cautious sniff, Briscoe pulled a face and swiftly handed the bottle back to its owner.

"I'll take your word for it…" he retorted, waving a file across his desk to dispel the lingering odour.

All disgust aside, he had to admit that, however odious that brew was, it was certainly beneficial.

After just three days on Jay Chang's herbal tea, Logan looked healthier than he'd done in months. The day before, he'd chased a perp over several blocks while Lennie provided mobile back-up. Not only had he caught the kid before Lennie reached him, he'd not even broken a sweat doing so.

"You sure this stuff's legal…?" he finally asked his still smiling, suspiciously bright eyed partner.

Logan frowned back at him, puzzled, before the penny dropped and he roared with laughter.

"Yeah, I checked it through with narcotics myself…" he chuckled, giving the bottle a vigorous shake. "'sides, you know what health nuts the Chinese are… fing swee, and all that…"

"I think you mean feng-shui, Mike…" Van Buren corrected him, smiling at the glare this provoked.

Leaning past him, she picked up the bottle and read down its various ingredients in curious interest.

It was then Logan's turn to smirk as Van Buren's reaction to its odour mirrored that of Lennie's.

"Good God, Mike ! I've known week old corpses that smell better than that…!" she said at last, trading sympathising glances with Lennie as the entire squad room all nodded in heartfelt agreement.

"Yeah, it's Mike's new weapon in crimefighting…" Lennie chipped in, nodding towards his partner. "Forget guns and dustbin lids… one whiff of this stuff and they're queuing up for the holding cell…"

Knowing better than to rise to the bait, Logan just pulled a face back at him before filling his mug – pointedly ignoring the groans uttered by his partner, lieutenant and everyone else within a five desk radius.

Not even their less than subtle follow ups of walking by his desk with cans of air freshener fazed him.

No, he was on a mission. And, as Lennie ruefully knew, once Mike Logan set his mind on something, nothing short of aliens landing in Central Park would distract him away from it.

So when Logan left that night for his weekend leave, it was hard to tell who was happier about it.

Happily oblivious to the can-waving mutiny he'd left behind, Logan arrived home tired but happy.

That latest session at the gym had been especially enjoyable – partly because he'd lost another pound, but mostly because of the company he'd had in the weights room.

Ellie McNicol, one of the precinct's new dog handlers – and someone who'd already caught his eye. And judging by the approving grins that she'd kept casting towards him, he'd caught hers too…

By the time they'd headed for the showers, they'd already agreed to meet up again on Monday – with an equally enjoyable dinner and… well, who knew what else, to look forward to afterwards…

For now, though, he wasn't thinking of anything more strenuous than fixing himself something to eat, before sprawling on the couch and lazily unwinding in front of the TV.

Mentally ticking off number eighteen on Lennie's lettuce list, Mike smiled as he opened his fridge – juggling a growing armload of various fruits, nuts and salads onto the worktop alongside.

Five minutes later, impressively heaped plateful in one hand and fresh bottle of herbal tea in the other, he moved into his living room, placing his loads on a nearby table before stretching out on the sofa.

"Well, isn't that just my luck…?" he muttered, flicking through a plethora of cable channels. "Finally get a night in… fifty channels to choose from… and total junk on every one of 'em…!"

Hunkering further down on the sofa, Logan draped those awkwardly long legs of his over the armrest, munching steadily from the plate at his side while searching for something to watch.

Eventually something caught and held his interest – a profile on the inimitable Eric Clapton.

"Hey, now we're talking…!" he grinned, tilting a now empty bottle in tribute to one of his idols.

Yet even with finding something decent to watch, Logan was finding it oddly difficult to stay awake.

Relaxing back into the cushions behind him, Mike could feel his eyelids start to droop downwards.

By the time the Clapton profile gave way to the late night movie, he was more or less asleep.

His last waking memory before his eyes finally closed was the slow motion swirl of dancing bodies,

and the distant strains of The Ronettes asking him to be their baby…

A few minutes later, the sound of vigorous bongo drums startled him from the threshold of sleep.

Groaning in protest, he fumbled sleepily for the remote while pondering one of life's great mysteries – what was it, some kind of weird, cosmic attraction between remote controls and the backs of couches ? Maybe he'd find all those missing socks down there too… not to mention that lost set of car keys…

Wryly thinking that he needed a lot more sleep, Logan finally located his quarry with a contented sigh.

He was about to hit the off button so he could get back to that sleep when something caught his eye.

Something which caused his eyes to widen, his mouth dropping open in sheer astonishment.

His friend and partner – or at least someone who looked a hell of a lot like him – was dancing. And not just the usual gyrating windmill routine either, but he was really putting on the style.

Not only that, but his dancing partner was the proverbial knockout. Young, blonde and gorgeous, with legs that went all the way up to her…

Still half asleep, Logan lay transfixed by this surreal scene, before a drowsy grin settled on his face.

"Go for it, Lennie…!" he chuckled, rolling onto his side and promptly going back to sleep again.

Within moments, his subconscious and a concoction of Chinese herbs had set to mischievous work…

The squad room, it had to be said, looked… well, rather different from where he'd last seen it. For one thing, it was bigger. A lot bigger. Rather more opulent too, flanked by pillars on either side.

Squinting into the unusual darkness, Logan then stared at the sight which met his wide, puzzled eyes.

Nondescript desks were now draped in crisp white linen, each softly lit by a lantern-covered candle. Above his head, the reflections from a spinning glitter ball danced around the walls and ceiling.

"Gee, Toto, I guess we're not in Kansas any more…" he murmured, bemusedly scratching his head.

Venturing further into the room, he was half expecting to see Dorothy skipping over to meet him. Needless to say, his mischievous, tea-saturated subconscious went one better…

"Hey, Mike…! Glad you could make it…!"

Turning in response to that familiar voice, Logan's relief at this welcome normality was short lived.

"L–Lieu-tenant…?" he finally stammered, staring at his senior officer's less than familiar appearance.

Gone were the cardigans, in favour of a vibrant red dress which, to Mike's practised if totally confused eye, seemed to be defying the laws of gravity.

Of course, he noted, staring down in startled surprise, his own appearance had changed somewhat too.

Instead of the ratty sweatsuit that he'd worn to the gym, he was now dressed in slinky black silk, his favourite plaid tie draped rather dashingly across his shoulders…

When he looked up again, it was to a scene that did nothing to assure him that he hadn't totally flipped.

Profaci, resplendent in finest Italian silk, was now dancing with surprising agility around the desks, passing out bagels, doughnuts and other delicious treats to his fellow revellers, while Lennie…

Rubbing his eyes, Mike took a deep breath then opened them again – and instantly wished he hadn't. No, he was still there. Leonard William Briscoe, large as life, was still tap dancing on his desk, while Kincaid and Olivet were getting down to some serious jitterbugging with Stone and Schiff.

Taking full advantage of his dumbstruck state, his vampishly grinning boss was now leading him, by his tie no less, and with one hell of a gleam in her eye, into the gleefully jiving crowd.

"This dance is mine, handsome… and that's an order…" Van Buren purred, winking slyly up at him.

Lost for words, Logan finally sighed while allowing his lieutenant to drag him onto the dance floor. Well, he thought, if you can't beat 'em…

All doubts over his sanity aside, it didn't take long for Mike Logan to get into the spirit of things. In fact, as the evening wore on, it was his partner who needed encouragement to let his hair down.

From halfway down the central aisle, and spurred on by their boisterously cheering colleagues,

Logan cast the distant, openly doubtful Briscoe a broad, coaxing grin.

"Hey, come on, Lennie, you know you want to…! Yes, of course I'll catch you… now, on three… one… two… thr…"

*THUD*

From the depths of the soundest sleep, Mike Logan woke with a sudden, not to mention painful start.

"Damn it, Lennie, I said on three…!" he groaned, dazedly counting a whole galaxy of stars.

As his senses gradually cleared, and puzzled by the lack of response, subconsciously or otherwise, Logan cautiously opened his eyes and squinted around him, frowning as he did so.

Dazedly wondering why the hell he was lying on the floor, he then eased himself back onto the couch, gingerly rubbing the ache of impact from his shoulder while trying to re-orientate himself.

The discovery that he was safely back in his apartment, albeit bruised and confused, was a comfort. God, for a moment there, he could've sworn that he was back at the precinct, trying to coax his partner into jumping into his outstretched arms…

Rapidly shaking that thought from his mind, he then glanced down to see what had rolled by his foot.

Picking up the thankfully empty bottle, Logan sat back again, spending some moments studying the various ingredients –wryly wondering if maybe, just maybe, Lennie's reservations over them had been valid after all.

One thing was for sure, though… he would never, ever admit that to Lennie…

God, getting him involved in this damn diet had been bad enough, but if he ever got wind of this – if Lennie Briscoe, or anyone else at the 2-7, ever found out that Mike Logan had gotten himself spaced out on herbal tea… God, he'd never live it down…

Struck by a sudden thought, Mike then grinned in hopeful, happy anticipation as he closed his eyes again – softly urging his subconscious to bring him something more appetising than Lennie Briscoe.

"Come on, McNicol, I've been a good boy… now, give me a doggy treat…"

Five minutes later, the dreaming smile of Mike Logan very happily widened…

"So, Mike… how'd your free weekend go…?" Lennie greeted his return on Monday morning – putting his partner's bright eyed and bushy tailed healthiness to its usual lascivious cause.

Remembering his earlier resolution, Logan just grinned while keeping his reply judiciously casual.

"Yeah, it was okay… didn't do much, just… well, you know, same old same old…"

At Briscoe's curious look, the grin gleefully widened as he handed Lennie that all important printout. "Read it and weep, Lennie… and get out your wallet…!"

Even with the evidence right there in his hand, Briscoe was still deeply sceptical over its authenticity.

Knowing his partner, which he did only too well, a little sneaky forgery wouldn't be beyond him.

But no, he had to grudgingly admit, there it was… officially there in countersigned black and white.

Against all expectations, Mike Logan was now eight pounds lighter than he'd been seven days ago. And, needless to say, he was looking insufferably smug about it too…

Plucking a brand new twenty out of his stunned partner's hand, Logan jigged victoriously to his desk.

"Oh yeah, I had a great weekend…" he went on, casting a flummoxed Briscoe an ear to ear grin – one that grew to Cheshire Cat proportions as Mike dived joyously into a massive strawberry danish. "In fact… well, let's just say, I had the time of my life…!"