Fic: Pieces [Mike Logan]
Title: Pieces
Fandom: Law & Order/Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Characters: Mike Logan, mentions of: Lennie Briscoe, Don Cragen, Max Greevey
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 820
Summary: Every case and every lost colleague takes a piece of you.
Author's Notes: Thanks to neojess for the beta. I haven't written a piece that focuses solely on Logan in a long time and it was totally a "coming back to my roots" sort of moment. Nothing fancy, but I'm happy with it. Please read and comment. Thanks!
When Max died, Mike was young, reckless. He had a couple gray hairs, but his grin was so big it took up his whole face when he’d tell a joke. Poufy, 1980s hair would fall in his eyes and the whole squad would be laughing, or if he was at a crime scene, the M.E. would be rolling her eyes.
After Max…he learned. He’d been anything but innocent-his childhood ensured that-however, after hearing Marie’s screams on the phone as her husband was murdered in cold blood in their own driveway, he saw firsthand just how cruel their job was. He kept telling himself, hell, he told Marie, that it should have been him. But the job was indiscriminate. It took cops with families, guys on the verge of retirement, young kids just starting out. It happened all the time and in the bigger scheme of things, Max Greevey wasn’t a point of interest or anything special. You could never survive this job if you dwelled on the bitter parts of it, so Mike pushed it back, didn’t talk about it and moved on.
Lennie was different. Mike had argued with Max and they’d never quite made it to ‘friends’, even on their better days. They’d been partners, good ones, but Lennie was different. Lennie was Mike in twenty years. Lennie was who he went to for advice, who he hung out at the bar with after hours, who he thought he’d be partnered with till Lennie retired.
Of course, that all changed when Mike was sent to Staten Island to walk the domestic dispute beat. “Serving five-to-ten” for punching Kevin Crossley in the face in front of television cameras. Not even Lennie could save him then.
Mike didn’t see the older detective much in those first couple of years. He told himself he didn’t want to, that Lennie had screwed him over just like McCoy. Meanwhile, Briscoe convinced himself there was nothing that could have been done to change his former partner’s fate, certainly not any pleas from another wiseass cop who probably would have done the same thing. Lennie told himself, and he told Mike, that it was Mike’s own fault and what could he be expected to do? To be exact, he'd said, “Oh, no, Mike Logan’s drowning! Throw the Lennie Briscoe lifesaver!”
The case they worked together in ’98, though, changed things again. Mike was still on Staten Island, but now it was different. For that one case, it was like old times, excepting the fact that Rey Curtis was now occupying his desk at the 2-7. There was a peace made between the two cops, both with their tacky ties and “humor” that drove Van Buren up the wall. When they finished, when Mike was sent back to Staten Island, he knew now that he could go find Lennie for a drink and a talk. He knew that if he stayed on Staten Island forever (god help him) he’d at least have that left of his days at Manhattan Homicide.
Then one day, a few months before he would finally be transferred back to the City, to Manhattan’s Major Case Squad, he got a call from Donnie Cragen.
“Captain, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Mike, it’s Lennie.” Cragen’s voice was somber.
“What about him?” Mike’s was flippant.
“He’s-gone, Mike.” The captain sighed.
“Gone where?” Mike’s first instinct was deflecting with humor.
“He had a heart attack, Mike. He didn’t make it.” Cragen’s voice was calm, smooth, like when he talked to victims or their families.
Logan was in a daze for about a week. He remembered going to bars, and eventually to Lennie’s funeral. He drank a lot, but other than that, what else could he do? It hurt like hell but nothing would change it. He’d learned that with Max. Shit, he’d learned that from his parents. So he did what he always did-he pushed it all back, and tried to go forward.
A few months later, he was back in Manhattan like he’d always wanted, with one less person to share it with. He’d gone out to drinks with Don Cragen, only to sit there wondering how long it would be before Donnie, too, was gone.
He still told jokes-the inappropriate kind that Homicide cops looking to lighten the mood often made. Only now he smiled less when he told them. The cruelties of the job…rarely made him flinch.
Sure, you moved on, life went on, the earth kept revolving. You could tell yourself you were fine, you could be ‘over it’…but every instance took a piece of you with it. Between Lennie and Max and everything else he’d seen on the job, hell, in his life, coupled with ten years on an island that had sucked a lot of the life out of him, he’d been wondering lately just how much of himself he had left.
Fandom: Law & Order/Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Characters: Mike Logan, mentions of: Lennie Briscoe, Don Cragen, Max Greevey
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 820
Summary: Every case and every lost colleague takes a piece of you.
Author's Notes: Thanks to neojess for the beta. I haven't written a piece that focuses solely on Logan in a long time and it was totally a "coming back to my roots" sort of moment. Nothing fancy, but I'm happy with it. Please read and comment. Thanks!
When Max died, Mike was young, reckless. He had a couple gray hairs, but his grin was so big it took up his whole face when he’d tell a joke. Poufy, 1980s hair would fall in his eyes and the whole squad would be laughing, or if he was at a crime scene, the M.E. would be rolling her eyes.
After Max…he learned. He’d been anything but innocent-his childhood ensured that-however, after hearing Marie’s screams on the phone as her husband was murdered in cold blood in their own driveway, he saw firsthand just how cruel their job was. He kept telling himself, hell, he told Marie, that it should have been him. But the job was indiscriminate. It took cops with families, guys on the verge of retirement, young kids just starting out. It happened all the time and in the bigger scheme of things, Max Greevey wasn’t a point of interest or anything special. You could never survive this job if you dwelled on the bitter parts of it, so Mike pushed it back, didn’t talk about it and moved on.
Lennie was different. Mike had argued with Max and they’d never quite made it to ‘friends’, even on their better days. They’d been partners, good ones, but Lennie was different. Lennie was Mike in twenty years. Lennie was who he went to for advice, who he hung out at the bar with after hours, who he thought he’d be partnered with till Lennie retired.
Of course, that all changed when Mike was sent to Staten Island to walk the domestic dispute beat. “Serving five-to-ten” for punching Kevin Crossley in the face in front of television cameras. Not even Lennie could save him then.
Mike didn’t see the older detective much in those first couple of years. He told himself he didn’t want to, that Lennie had screwed him over just like McCoy. Meanwhile, Briscoe convinced himself there was nothing that could have been done to change his former partner’s fate, certainly not any pleas from another wiseass cop who probably would have done the same thing. Lennie told himself, and he told Mike, that it was Mike’s own fault and what could he be expected to do? To be exact, he'd said, “Oh, no, Mike Logan’s drowning! Throw the Lennie Briscoe lifesaver!”
The case they worked together in ’98, though, changed things again. Mike was still on Staten Island, but now it was different. For that one case, it was like old times, excepting the fact that Rey Curtis was now occupying his desk at the 2-7. There was a peace made between the two cops, both with their tacky ties and “humor” that drove Van Buren up the wall. When they finished, when Mike was sent back to Staten Island, he knew now that he could go find Lennie for a drink and a talk. He knew that if he stayed on Staten Island forever (god help him) he’d at least have that left of his days at Manhattan Homicide.
Then one day, a few months before he would finally be transferred back to the City, to Manhattan’s Major Case Squad, he got a call from Donnie Cragen.
“Captain, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Mike, it’s Lennie.” Cragen’s voice was somber.
“What about him?” Mike’s was flippant.
“He’s-gone, Mike.” The captain sighed.
“Gone where?” Mike’s first instinct was deflecting with humor.
“He had a heart attack, Mike. He didn’t make it.” Cragen’s voice was calm, smooth, like when he talked to victims or their families.
Logan was in a daze for about a week. He remembered going to bars, and eventually to Lennie’s funeral. He drank a lot, but other than that, what else could he do? It hurt like hell but nothing would change it. He’d learned that with Max. Shit, he’d learned that from his parents. So he did what he always did-he pushed it all back, and tried to go forward.
A few months later, he was back in Manhattan like he’d always wanted, with one less person to share it with. He’d gone out to drinks with Don Cragen, only to sit there wondering how long it would be before Donnie, too, was gone.
He still told jokes-the inappropriate kind that Homicide cops looking to lighten the mood often made. Only now he smiled less when he told them. The cruelties of the job…rarely made him flinch.
Sure, you moved on, life went on, the earth kept revolving. You could tell yourself you were fine, you could be ‘over it’…but every instance took a piece of you with it. Between Lennie and Max and everything else he’d seen on the job, hell, in his life, coupled with ten years on an island that had sucked a lot of the life out of him, he’d been wondering lately just how much of himself he had left.