Title/Author: "Between the Bars: Logan" by n.s.
Rating: T (minor language, some suggestive scenes)
Summary: A not-canon-but-not-not-canon take on Mike Logan and Claire Kincaid's relationship through seasons 4-6; acknowledgement of Jack McCoy/Claire, also
Disclaimer:I don't own any of these characters. This story is brought to you by 20-year-old repeats of Law & Order that happen to coincide with my daughter's nap time.
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"I can't sleep." He stared at the light from her window through the phone booth.
Silence, tense, until:
"I'm finishing the sentencing recommendation—for Krolinsky," she stumbled over the name, knowing it was probably what was triggering this entire conversation. "I won't be very good company."
"Alone?" he asked, feeling his pulse in his ears.
"Yes."
"Then let me be another lump on your couch."
"Mike—," she began, but he interrupted.
"I just…can't fucking sleep, Claire."
She came down a few minutes later, the same Harvard tee shirt on as that night in Flaherty's. Without a word, she opened the door and they walked upstairs.
"Coffee? Tea? Scotch?" she broke the silence once the door was closed and locked behind them.
"Whatever you're drinking." He hung his coat in the closet next to her bedroom as she made his drink. The door was open, and he instinctively made a move to go inside, but caught himself before she saw.
The sheets were tangled on the bed, sheets he remembered fondly. They were nice. She had a lot of nice things. You could tell she came from money that way, because she had nice things, but they weren't flashy. Just nice enough that you got the sense she could have been living anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else. She had always reminded him of Liz like that. Good family, fancy degree, smart as hell, but she lived in a four-room, third-floor walk up on the West side with no buzzer, she worked for the state of New York, and she slept with Mick cops.
Mick lawyers, too, he thought, and she broke his reverie by handing him a drink. They stood outside the bedroom door together, neither moving towards or away for a beat.
"Do you want to talk?" she asked as she took a sip of her own drink, watching him over the rim.
"You said you had work," he countered, moving away towards the couch.
She watched him sink into the cushions. "Okay."
She went back to her paperwork and he watched M*A*S*H repeats, sharing silence more easily than either of them ever did with anyone else.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he felt her hand on his shoulder.
"Mike," she whispered.
"Hmm."
"It's six. I'm going to the gym."
He opened his eyes and saw her over him, her hair pulled back and her face spotless of makeup.
"Okay," he murmured groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes. She had pulled a blanket over him and taken his shoes and tie off. They were sitting underneath and folded on top of the coffee table.
He was splashing his face with water in the bathroom when he saw the first and only trace of him there.
A man's razor in the cabinet next to the mouth wash. He gargled the Listerine and didn't touch it.
In the kitchen, he leaned on the doorway as she poured coffee into a paper cup and handed it to him.
"You love him, don't you?"
She paused, but then turned her back to him before answering, "I think I do."
"Does he?" he asked as she poured herself a cup.
"I'm not sure," she replied, still not turning to face him.
"Well, he's not stupid."
She turned then, coffee in her hand, and frowned at him.
"What does that have to do with it?"
He stared into his cup.
"I was stupid."
