A/N: Don't own the character of Mike Logan or Lennie Briscoe. The lyrics are from songs performed and/or written by Seanchai and the Unity Squad.
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For about the tenth time since he sat down on the rickety bar stool, Mike Logan looked up from his drink and at the clock that belonged to the Credit Card machine hanging on the wall. He'd been in the same spot, nursing the same Jameson's for the last thirty five minutes, Ten O'clock my ass. He thought. They never started on time. He never understood why he thought they would this week.

Then again, that's why he loved Manhattan. There was always something to do, even at 3AM when this would let out. That, and it wasn't Staten Island. God, he hated Staten Island. Ten years of his life wasted, dealing with domestic disputes. Though, he supposed it wasn't all bad, at least he was back in the part of the city he loved, doing what he always wanted to do, work major cases.

This was his first time back here since his exile ended. Major Cases started taking their toll on him. He wasn't as young as he used to be. He was reminded of that every time he looked in the mirror and saw the graying hair around his ears. Ten years was a long time.

His drink was getting too warm, time to just down it and get another. He looked at the clock again, and sighed. He hated waiting, that's what Staten Island amounted to, marking time until his retirement. He set his glass away from him on the bar, the unspoken signal for another, and focused his attention on the picture of Mike Bloomberg, the mayor, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Logan remembered when the smoking ban was enacted. At the time, he thought the whole thing was stupid. Now, he thought it wasn't such a bad idea. That confirmed it, he was old.

Oh good, band members are showing up. The bartender just poured another drink. Mike took it quickly and started to stare at that drink, just like he had the first one. The swirls always fascinated him, kept his overactive mind occupied, but they did not stop him from hating waiting. He reminded himself, sometimes, waiting was good. Like when he filed that transfer paperwork to go to the Major Case Squad. He never thought he'd get it, but he did and he was where he was supposed to be.

Sound check time. They'll start soon. It was almost eleven. Mike was glad they were starting soon, he wouldn't be home too early or too late. By the time he got home, after dealing with late night subway schedules it should be about 4AM. It was worth it. He never told any of his colleagues that he came here. He figured if he did, they'd laugh at him, or worse, want to come. He couldn't take that. This was his thing, the one thing he did for himself, it helped keep him sane.

Sane, now that was laughable. He got sentenced to Staten Island because he punched an assemblyman in the face. More recently, he threatened a guy in a pool hall with a broken cue and his attitude, what was the line he said? "Rudy may not be mayor anymore, but that doesn't mean you and I can't have a little fun." If the slime didn't answer, who knows what he would have done, he just knew he'd be back in Staten Island, finishing that gigantic pile of domestic dispute paperwork. The mere thought of it caused him to take a long drink from his glass.

Finally, they were about to start. From what his mother told him, when she was sober, his grandmother, Siobhan Logan, would be proud of him, remembering his heritage. Mike figured she'd be a little appalled as well; this was far from the traditional, a mix of rock, reggae, hip-hop, with a healthy dose of ethnic instruments and melodies. Maybe his grandmother would be less appalled, than he thought. He thought about her every time he came here. His mother also told him that his grandmother had a beautiful voice; Mike imagined she sounded like the woman on stage right now.

He loved his grandmother. The song that was playing reminded him of her. She was a strong lady, helping to move her family three thousand miles, across and ocean, and into a new city. She also adored her grandson. He always remembered that. His grandmother was the one that made sure Mike was well behaved. He thanked her for that, he knew she was the reason he didn't come out of his childhood completely fucked up. When she died, he was about twelve and even then, he knew life wasn't going to be the same, it would be worse. No use in crying in his whiskey, over what was, time to concentrate on what is.

Next song, another one I really like. It was also another he attached some personal meaning to. It was about a gambler found dead in Brooklyn. The last place he was was Staten Island. Crappy place to be right before you die. Mike remembered the case that he and Lennie Briscoe got that was just like the one in the song. The image of the car was burned in his brain, so much blood, in such a small place. The guy couldn't pay the loan sharks back. Then he couldn't pay anyone back. It was one of his first cases with Lennie, the jaded, older, sarcastic detective. Despite Lennie's attitude, when he saw Mike's face pale, he asked if he was OK. Mike, missed Lennie, the only person who stayed in contact with him when he was transferred to Staten Island. It wasn't the same now that he died.

Time for the Band's break. He got another drink and waited through the intermission. Why was he feeling so introspective tonight? He supposed it didn't really matter. He was enjoying the show in his own way. That's all that mattered, he was really enjoying it, before it had been just an escape, but now he was happy where he was in life, and he thought it showed.

He heard the beginnings of their version of the Clash song "Straight to Hell" She was singing again, backed up by the usual lead singer, the ex cop. Mike loved this one, didn't care too much for The Clash version, but to each his own he supposed. All he wanted to do was sing, not like anyone'd be able to hear him, since the speakers were so loud. He just felt bad that his off-key voice would interfere with the woman on stage. He opted to wait for the sing along.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one enjoying it. He noticed someone in the corner, next to the band, having a good time of it. Everyone in that small bar was, of course the band had been playing for an hour or so, and everyone's been drinking at least that long. Mike figured he was one of the few who weren't completely trashed. The cop in him just hoped they were all smart enough not to drive. The rest of him just hoped none of them would be on the same 6 train as him, alcohol induced vomiting in a subway car was not his idea of a pleasant ride home, though it was fun to place personal bets on who would puke first.

Here was that sing along, "The Fields of Athenrye" Any band that thinks of themselves as Irish, better play this. His grandmother would be upset if Mike didn't know the words. He knew them all, but he only sang the chorus when he came here. They play this at every show, sometimes twice. Time for the chorus:

Low lie the fields of Athenrye
Where once we watched
The small free birds fly
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely 'round the fields of Athenrye

This was why his co-workers would laugh at him. Former Homicide Detective and Beat Cop, Mike Logan, also sings, badly.

The last scheduled song. Mike sighed, this one touched a nerve, two actually. A song with a reggae beat, about a cop killer. Mike had two partners killed when he worked at the two-seven. For a while no one wanted to come near him, he had a stigma, the black widow. Being Mike Logan's partner was like signing your own death warrant. Luckily, Mike left the precinct before Lennie did, otherwise—Mike shook his head. He didn't want to think about otherwise.

Two encores and one more whiskey later, Mike Logan walked out of the bar, and two blocks to the nearest subway stop. He descended the stairs, Why is it always so hot in these stations? It's 45° outside. He saw the 6 train, pulling in as he swiped his Metrocard, bolted through the turnstile and jammed his shoulder between the train doors to force them open, and slipped inside. He held the handrail, and swayed with the train. He thought of the one song that the band usually played that they didn't this time, too bad, since he liked that one too. How'd that one go again? It was too late to remember the whole thing, he just thought of the part that was repeated over and over:

The river flows,
forces of nature
carry all in its path
to the place
it's meant to be

Perhaps it does. He sure felt like he was where he was supposed to be, and that nothing was going to stop him from getting there, not incidents with his temper, deaths of the people important to him, his childhood, nothing. The computerized woman's voice informed him he was at his stop. Mike exited the train and hummed that tune all the way to his apartment, wondering what could be thrown at him next.