(Disclaimer: Unfortunately, it's not mine. Not a thing. It all belongs to Dick Wolf, NBC, and Universal Studios… you know, all those important people.)
(A/n: This one was fun to write. It was sort of inspired by a French Immersion student in one of my classes.)
Her long fingers tap restlessly on the hard surface of the table between us. She's been tapping some rhythm for most of the day, on any available surface.
"Liv," I say, through clenched teeth, "if you wanted to be a drummer, you're definitely in the wrong line of work."
She grins, stops that damned tapping and says something that isn't English.
"What'd you say?"
She shakes her head and speaks another sentence. I don't know the words – but something's familiar.
She's trying to tell me something, discreetly.
Someone's been teaching her to speak Russian.
And I think I know who.