Law & Order fic: Mike Logan, "Satan's Island"
Title: Satan’s Island
Fandom: Law & Order
Characters: Mike Logan
Prompt:
100_situations 066:relocate (cross-posted to
teh_logan_barek)
Word Count: 450
Rating: pg-13 for language
Summary: Mike’s first day in exile on Staten Island.
Author's Notes:
Manhattan was an island. A good island. With neon lights and taxicabs and 24-hour delis, and there was always action, always someone lurking around a corner, or something new and exciting waiting to be discovered. There were plenty of good, useful islands. Ireland. Hawaii. The whole Caribbean. Staten Island was not one of those islands.
Detective Mike Logan glared at the hot sun beating down on the asphalt, and glanced over at his new partner. Det. Tony Boyer was chewing on a toothpick, leaning against the sedan and looking like there was no better place to be than right there, waiting for the latest abusive yokel to come out of Tiny’s Bar. No, this was not Manhattan. And Boyer was no Lennie Briscoe, that much was clear.
He’d had coffee with Lennie that morning before taking the damned ferry out to the island. “Good luck on Satan’s Island,” Lennie had said.
And of course, his first day, as they waited outside of the bar at 4pm, it was hot as hell.
The man they were waiting for, Stan Eckerd, came out of the bar, wearing, no shit, a wife beater, and smoking a cigarette.
“Stan Eckerd?” Mike’s voice was condescending.
“Who wants to know?”
Mike rolled his eyes and made a big show of bringing out his badge, as did Boyer. Only Boyer actually acted with that exaggeration and it was ‘normal’ for him. Boyer told Eckerd why they were arresting him (beating his wife, surprise, surprise) and then read him his rights. Sometimes, Boyer had told Mike that first morning, they roughed up the perp before bringing him in.
Ah, the domestic disturbance beat. It was, of course, no homicide beat. Dead bodies were easy. This? This was just fucking annoying.
So Boyer read him his rights and they took the car back to the precinct. The itty bitty insignificant precinct that looked more like a misplaced office than a building for cops and murderers and interrogations and line-ups. As Boyer took care of the perp, Mike lazily sat at his desk, rearranging his belongings, which had been packed up only the week before from the 2-7. Mostly it was nothing…pencil cup, a couple commemorative pins…
He was sitting there, literally twiddling his thumbs, when a short blonde walked by, to the captain’s office. He took a moment to look her up and down as she went by. Not bad. And then she was gone and he was back to twiddling his thumbs. Okay, so he hadn’t really done shit today…but…come on. Domestic disturbances every day? Mickey Mouse charges that didn’t stick, running around on an island the size of a postage stamp?
Lennie was right. This was hell.
Fandom: Law & Order
Characters: Mike Logan
Prompt:
100_situations 066:relocate (cross-posted to
teh_logan_barek)
Word Count: 450
Rating: pg-13 for language
Summary: Mike’s first day in exile on Staten Island.
Author's Notes:
Manhattan was an island. A good island. With neon lights and taxicabs and 24-hour delis, and there was always action, always someone lurking around a corner, or something new and exciting waiting to be discovered. There were plenty of good, useful islands. Ireland. Hawaii. The whole Caribbean. Staten Island was not one of those islands.
Detective Mike Logan glared at the hot sun beating down on the asphalt, and glanced over at his new partner. Det. Tony Boyer was chewing on a toothpick, leaning against the sedan and looking like there was no better place to be than right there, waiting for the latest abusive yokel to come out of Tiny’s Bar. No, this was not Manhattan. And Boyer was no Lennie Briscoe, that much was clear.
He’d had coffee with Lennie that morning before taking the damned ferry out to the island. “Good luck on Satan’s Island,” Lennie had said.
And of course, his first day, as they waited outside of the bar at 4pm, it was hot as hell.
The man they were waiting for, Stan Eckerd, came out of the bar, wearing, no shit, a wife beater, and smoking a cigarette.
“Stan Eckerd?” Mike’s voice was condescending.
“Who wants to know?”
Mike rolled his eyes and made a big show of bringing out his badge, as did Boyer. Only Boyer actually acted with that exaggeration and it was ‘normal’ for him. Boyer told Eckerd why they were arresting him (beating his wife, surprise, surprise) and then read him his rights. Sometimes, Boyer had told Mike that first morning, they roughed up the perp before bringing him in.
Ah, the domestic disturbance beat. It was, of course, no homicide beat. Dead bodies were easy. This? This was just fucking annoying.
So Boyer read him his rights and they took the car back to the precinct. The itty bitty insignificant precinct that looked more like a misplaced office than a building for cops and murderers and interrogations and line-ups. As Boyer took care of the perp, Mike lazily sat at his desk, rearranging his belongings, which had been packed up only the week before from the 2-7. Mostly it was nothing…pencil cup, a couple commemorative pins…
He was sitting there, literally twiddling his thumbs, when a short blonde walked by, to the captain’s office. He took a moment to look her up and down as she went by. Not bad. And then she was gone and he was back to twiddling his thumbs. Okay, so he hadn’t really done shit today…but…come on. Domestic disturbances every day? Mickey Mouse charges that didn’t stick, running around on an island the size of a postage stamp?
Lennie was right. This was hell.