Title: A True Romantic
Date: 8/23/03
Author: jesse
Fandom: L&O
Rating: Oh, PG-13, I suppose, for a bad word and implied nookie
Type/Pairing: Slash, Briscoe/Logan. Yep, it's me again.
Summary: Romance is what you make it.
Standard Disclaimer Nonsense: Aren't mine, never were. If they had been, Mike'd gotten a medal for punching that idiot, not a sentence to Staten Island.
Author Note: Shamelessly inspired by the 5 minute challenge story Cassatt posted the other day, and I hope she'll forgive me; and thanks to CV and her buddy for the votes of approval. g
## ## ##
"You?" Lennie Briscoe popped a slice of water chestnut into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before pointing elegantly and precisely with his chopsticks. "You don't have a single romantic bone in your body."
Mike Logan stopped dead in his tracks, fork full of noodles halfway to his mouth, and stared at his partner. Shock, indignation, consternation, and half a dozen other things that Claire Kincaid could not identify to save her life chased across his handsome face, and she fought to smother her amusement.
"I'm not romantic," Mike said slowly.
"Not a bit."
Mike jammed the fork into his lo mein and set the white container down on the edge of Claire's desk with a thump. "Really. So the fact that I actually have a very active social life -- "
"Just means that people find you attractive," Lennie smoothly cut him off. "That's an accident of birth, nothing you can take credit for. In fact," he gestured again with his chopsticks, "there's your problem right there -- *you* never had to work for it, so you never learned."
"Whadaya mean I never . . . *excuse* me, but what's wrong with flowers?"
"That's grade-school, basic stuff."
"And dinner?" If Mike's thick, dark eyebrows rose any higher, they were going to hit his hairline.
"That's what I mean, no imagination. Now guys like me, on the other hand. . ." Lennie leaned back in his chair with a smug expression. "We know all the tricks."
The look that settled on Mike's face this time was completely priceless, and Claire lost it. "And thank *you* so much for your support," Mike said to her sourly as she giggled behind her hands.
"Mike, I'm sorry," she managed around her laughter, "but your expression . . .! "
"Well, it's nice to know I'm good for someth -- don't say it!" he barked, pointing a finger at Lennie as the older detective opened his mouth, and Claire lost it again.
The next ten minutes or so were full of more snide comments from both men, and looks traded between them that Claire wasn't at all sure she was really seeing correctly. She finally called a halt as she realized it was close to one a.m.; they weren't accomplishing much and there wasn't anything else on this case that couldn't wait until morning, at least.
"Let's pack it up, guys. I'm going to the washroom, be back in a moment. Try not to kill him while I'm gone," she teased Mike.
"What, you wanna watch?" he shot back, and Lennie grinned.
Claire's feet were killing her, and she slipped off her heels with a sigh of relief before leaving the ladies' room. The halls of One Hogan Place were empty and quiet as she made her way back, shoes in hand, her nylons making no sound on the tile. It was just as she reached the corner that she heard them, the two male voices soft but carrying clear on the still air through some trick of acoustics. Curious -- well, all right, nosy -- and just tired enough to indulge herself, she paused to listen.
"You're full of shit, you know that?" That was Mike.
"About which part?" Lennie returned. "But I told you a long time ago, I'm no longer lookin' for romance."
"Well then, I guess it's a good thing you're with me."
Claire nearly stopped breathing, but Mike was continuing.
"But if you're not interested, maybe I should try and get my money back for the . . . romantic evening I had planned."
"Think you've got an idea that qualifies?"
"It was gonna be a surprise, but . . . two seats on the floor, Bulls, next Saturday." Mike's voice dropped into a deep place that bumped Claire's heart rate up a notch, even though it wasn't aimed at her. "Happy Birthday."
There was a pause before Lennie replied, his voice also gone low and smooth, with a warm quality that reminded Claire vividly of fine cognac. "'S nowhere near my birthday, Mike."
"So?"
"So, maybe you're trainable after all."
"Bastard." The way Mike said it, the word might as well have been "sweetheart." "You're gonna pay, dearly, for razzing me like that in front of her."
"'S that a threat or a promise?"
"I gotta choose?"
Her heart pounding, Claire made herself move carefully back up to the hall to the washroom. Once safely inside, she blew out the breath she'd been holding and grabbed onto one of the sinks, inhaled deeply. What she had just heard . . . //God. Oh my God.//
Straightening up, she took a couple more deep breaths. Then she slipped her shoes back on, plastered on her best poker face and started back to her office, being sure to make noise this time.
//Oh my God . . ..//
## ## ##
Jack McCoy was on his second cup of coffee, the morning sun warming his back, when Claire opened his office door. He glanced up as she entered, then put down his pen and leaned back in his chair as she closed the door and crossed the room. He knew that walk, and that expression: it was the one she wore when she'd discovered some bit of evidence or some point of law that would clinch a case. "And good morning to you, too. What's up?"
Claire hitched herself up on one corner of his desk and looked down at him, *that* smile playing across her lips, and held out one hand, palm up.
Jack looked at her palm, then back up, his own smile breaking out in response to her always infectious one. "What?"
"I win."
Jack let his eyebrows ask the question.
"That little bet we made about Mike Logan? About the rumor that he seems to be out of the field, has he got a new lover, who is it?" Claire tilted her head, and her grin widened to truly evil proportions. "I win."
She leaned in, almost close enough to kiss. "And you," she murmured, "owe me a nice -- expensive -- romantic dinner."
finis
Date: 8/23/03
Author: jesse
Fandom: L&O
Rating: Oh, PG-13, I suppose, for a bad word and implied nookie
Type/Pairing: Slash, Briscoe/Logan. Yep, it's me again.
Summary: Romance is what you make it.
Standard Disclaimer Nonsense: Aren't mine, never were. If they had been, Mike'd gotten a medal for punching that idiot, not a sentence to Staten Island.
Author Note: Shamelessly inspired by the 5 minute challenge story Cassatt posted the other day, and I hope she'll forgive me; and thanks to CV and her buddy for the votes of approval. g
## ## ##
"You?" Lennie Briscoe popped a slice of water chestnut into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before pointing elegantly and precisely with his chopsticks. "You don't have a single romantic bone in your body."
Mike Logan stopped dead in his tracks, fork full of noodles halfway to his mouth, and stared at his partner. Shock, indignation, consternation, and half a dozen other things that Claire Kincaid could not identify to save her life chased across his handsome face, and she fought to smother her amusement.
"I'm not romantic," Mike said slowly.
"Not a bit."
Mike jammed the fork into his lo mein and set the white container down on the edge of Claire's desk with a thump. "Really. So the fact that I actually have a very active social life -- "
"Just means that people find you attractive," Lennie smoothly cut him off. "That's an accident of birth, nothing you can take credit for. In fact," he gestured again with his chopsticks, "there's your problem right there -- *you* never had to work for it, so you never learned."
"Whadaya mean I never . . . *excuse* me, but what's wrong with flowers?"
"That's grade-school, basic stuff."
"And dinner?" If Mike's thick, dark eyebrows rose any higher, they were going to hit his hairline.
"That's what I mean, no imagination. Now guys like me, on the other hand. . ." Lennie leaned back in his chair with a smug expression. "We know all the tricks."
The look that settled on Mike's face this time was completely priceless, and Claire lost it. "And thank *you* so much for your support," Mike said to her sourly as she giggled behind her hands.
"Mike, I'm sorry," she managed around her laughter, "but your expression . . .! "
"Well, it's nice to know I'm good for someth -- don't say it!" he barked, pointing a finger at Lennie as the older detective opened his mouth, and Claire lost it again.
The next ten minutes or so were full of more snide comments from both men, and looks traded between them that Claire wasn't at all sure she was really seeing correctly. She finally called a halt as she realized it was close to one a.m.; they weren't accomplishing much and there wasn't anything else on this case that couldn't wait until morning, at least.
"Let's pack it up, guys. I'm going to the washroom, be back in a moment. Try not to kill him while I'm gone," she teased Mike.
"What, you wanna watch?" he shot back, and Lennie grinned.
Claire's feet were killing her, and she slipped off her heels with a sigh of relief before leaving the ladies' room. The halls of One Hogan Place were empty and quiet as she made her way back, shoes in hand, her nylons making no sound on the tile. It was just as she reached the corner that she heard them, the two male voices soft but carrying clear on the still air through some trick of acoustics. Curious -- well, all right, nosy -- and just tired enough to indulge herself, she paused to listen.
"You're full of shit, you know that?" That was Mike.
"About which part?" Lennie returned. "But I told you a long time ago, I'm no longer lookin' for romance."
"Well then, I guess it's a good thing you're with me."
Claire nearly stopped breathing, but Mike was continuing.
"But if you're not interested, maybe I should try and get my money back for the . . . romantic evening I had planned."
"Think you've got an idea that qualifies?"
"It was gonna be a surprise, but . . . two seats on the floor, Bulls, next Saturday." Mike's voice dropped into a deep place that bumped Claire's heart rate up a notch, even though it wasn't aimed at her. "Happy Birthday."
There was a pause before Lennie replied, his voice also gone low and smooth, with a warm quality that reminded Claire vividly of fine cognac. "'S nowhere near my birthday, Mike."
"So?"
"So, maybe you're trainable after all."
"Bastard." The way Mike said it, the word might as well have been "sweetheart." "You're gonna pay, dearly, for razzing me like that in front of her."
"'S that a threat or a promise?"
"I gotta choose?"
Her heart pounding, Claire made herself move carefully back up to the hall to the washroom. Once safely inside, she blew out the breath she'd been holding and grabbed onto one of the sinks, inhaled deeply. What she had just heard . . . //God. Oh my God.//
Straightening up, she took a couple more deep breaths. Then she slipped her shoes back on, plastered on her best poker face and started back to her office, being sure to make noise this time.
//Oh my God . . ..//
## ## ##
Jack McCoy was on his second cup of coffee, the morning sun warming his back, when Claire opened his office door. He glanced up as she entered, then put down his pen and leaned back in his chair as she closed the door and crossed the room. He knew that walk, and that expression: it was the one she wore when she'd discovered some bit of evidence or some point of law that would clinch a case. "And good morning to you, too. What's up?"
Claire hitched herself up on one corner of his desk and looked down at him, *that* smile playing across her lips, and held out one hand, palm up.
Jack looked at her palm, then back up, his own smile breaking out in response to her always infectious one. "What?"
"I win."
Jack let his eyebrows ask the question.
"That little bet we made about Mike Logan? About the rumor that he seems to be out of the field, has he got a new lover, who is it?" Claire tilted her head, and her grin widened to truly evil proportions. "I win."
She leaned in, almost close enough to kiss. "And you," she murmured, "owe me a nice -- expensive -- romantic dinner."
finis