Disclaimer: Resolve to remind myself that I own nothing of Wolf's things. Never have, never will.

Story takes place either Season 19 or Season 20 - reader's choice. Inspired by a Writer's Digest prompt.

Leap of Faith… (or Insanity)

"Please don't. This isn't going to work. I'm not qualified at all for this."

"Sure you are."

She didn't believe him, so with the crowd looking on, he proved his point.

Cyrus Lupo tapped the microphone a couple of times, hearing the 'thump, thump' echoing in the dark, semi-smoky room. He figured that most of the folks who remained had either called this dive their home or they were dodging an inevitable return to such a place. Right now, he felt dangerously exposed - naked and exposed without his gun - standing up on the stage, three of the four spotlights dimly shining on him.

'Now I know how a perp feels in interrogation,' he thought as he shielded his eyes, counting the souls - semi-conscious and not - who would probably just as soon heckle him than call for his assistance in the case of an emergency.

Sitting front row and slightly off-center was the instigator of this leap of insanity - Consuela Rubirosa.

He gave her a rueful smile, cleared his throat, and then took the plunge.

"Um, hi." What he wouldn't give for a transporter beam-out by Scotty right about now, he thought. He said the first thing that came to mind, the first thing that would probably earn him a beer or two - thrown at him. "I'm a cop, not a comedian."

One guy in the back, complete with lumberjack-plaid shirt over an obvious beer gut, 'kindly' gave a sarcastic clap - thrice in half a minute.

"Um, yeah," Cyrus said, giving a shout out to the one respondent. "Completely thankless job. Definitely not all it's cracked up to be - policing junkies, not practicing jokes, I mean." That got a guffaw from the other corner.

Cy shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it's obvious I've not been practicing jokes, either. So, why do I walk the beat?" Removing the microphone from the stand, he began to pace about the stage, repeating the question once more. He took a few more steps, pivoted, then stopped.

Feet shoulder's width apart, arms stretched out at the sides, he waited a few heartbeats, brought the microphone back to his mouth and deadpanned, "Do I look like I can dance to one?"

The response startled him. A number of folks broke out in laughter. Getting an encouraging smile from his friend, his traitor, Cyrus continued.

Before he knew it, his few minutes of 'fame' were done and he quickly, yet contently jumped off the stage.

--

"You are so going to pay for this," Cyrus told her as the bartender brought him a drink on the house. "I can't believe you talked me into it. I can't believe I actually did it! What was I thinking?"

Connie placed a hand on his forearm, relieved that he wasn't as irate as he had a right to be. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe you're crazy? Maybe it's a head start on a midlife crisis?"

Cyrus tapped his glass against hers before emptying half of his in one gulp. "Well, I do know I'm crazy." He said the last word in such a way that she knew he knew she had to know what he meant "As for midlife crisis…"

Connie frowned as a wistful look crossed his face. Almost any other day of the week, the two of them, along with their respective partners and bosses, could joke about age, always saving the best for the oldest.

He motioned for a refill. "Today, I officially surpass my brother in age."

Connie felt her face redden. Sure, she had access to his birthday - in more ways than one. Sure, she had the difficult task of prosecuting the one responsible for the assisted suicide only to lose in the 'final hour.' Yet why she failed to see this coming, she couldn't say.

"At least you're still living." She looked around the bar, the patron count half of what it was before Cyrus took her up on the silly challenge. "Your comedy act may be dead, but-."

When she turned to face him once more, the familiar chuckle followed by that comforting smile relieved her of her earlier anxieties, until she saw the glint in his eye.

"Oh, ye of little faith," he retorted before giving her a peck on the cheek.

(fin)