CSI: NY Fic: Kiss Me, I'm Irish - Chapter Three [Flack/Stella]
So here the third installment of Kiss Me, I'm Irish, my latest Flack/Stella offering. This is based on real life so laugh all you like!
Disclaimer: Again, I don’t own the characters. They belong to those people I mentioned in Chapter One. So there.
Rating: FRT
Author’s Note: Hello my readers, here is the third installment. To those who were kind enough to leave me wonderful reviews, thank you so much! Mwah! It really makes me giddy that y’all are getting a kick out of Flack’s misadventures. I hope you enjoy reading this, my labor of love. I even skipped my siesta just to finish this chapter. LOL! I really had fun writing this one and crazy ol’ me was laughing like a hyena at what I have Flack doing and thinking here. So, without further ado, here’s the third chapter.
88888888
88888888
Chapter Three
“Uuugghhh,” Don Flack groaned, waking up to the worst hangover of his life. This had never happened to him before. Well, not like this and not this nasty. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ he realized. He tried opening his eyes but found it quite difficult.
He felt as if a construction worker had taken a jackhammer to his head and was now currently drilling it into his skull. “Ooowww,” he said, rubbing his head, taking off the ice pack. He felt a rather large bump on the back. ‘Crap! Where the hell am I,’ he thought. Finally, his eyelids fluttered open, rather reluctantly, slightly blinded by the sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds. He saw that he was in his darkened bedroom. He looked at the clock radio on his night table. Blinking, his vision still blurry, he could hardly see the time. It looked like it read 9:20 am on the digital display.
He removed the comforter covering him and saw that he was only in his boxers and wifebeater. ‘How the hell did I get this way? I don’t remember getting undressed. Fuck, I don’t even remember getting home last night,’ he wondered. The urge to pee suddenly overwhelmed him so he slowly stood up. However, he got so woozy that he had to sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Ahhh, stupid hangover,’ his brain was pounding and screaming. He tried standing again and was finally successful. He felt like a zombie. Heck, he was even walking like a zombie on his way to the bathroom.
Blinking rapidly, he turned on the lights and went inside. ‘Ahhh! Too fucking bright!’ He went over to the toilet to relieve himself. He smelled and sniffed himself. “Uuugghhh, nasty,” he said aloud, scrunching his face. He was reeking of alcohol. ‘This just wouldn’t do,’ his neat freak self was bellowing at him. After he had finished his business, he stripped and went to take a shower.
While shampooing his dark locks, some memories of last night came flooding back into his brain. All he could remember was having a good time at the karaoke joint, singing his lungs out. He remembered drinking a lot. He hadn’t drunk alcohol since way before the start of Lent. He usually made it a point not to drink liquor during the said liturgical season as a sacrifice. But he couldn’t refuse Stella’s invitation. He’d do anything for Stella Bonasera.
‘Fuck! Stella! Oh my God,’ his inner self was roaring at him, conjuring up the image of him singing that cheesy love ballad to her. ‘Sssshhhhiiittt! What did I do? Oh my God! I told her I love her,’ the sudden realization crashing into him like a speeding freight train.
He couldn’t quite remember what happened after that as everything around him at that moment went black. ‘Did I tell her ‘kiss me, I’m Irish?’ Shit! She must think I’m sooo lame,’ he thought. “Oh how am I gonna face her? I must have looked like an idiot,” he was talking to himself rather loudly now, in a tone of desperation. “I am such a fool,” he cried out. Usually he could hold his liquor but something about alcohol missing from his system for more than a month now and unrequited love doing him in!
Finally finished, he wiped himself dry with a towel and then wrapped it around his waist securely. He stood in front of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, like something the cat had dragged in. He could see his eyes were bloodshot. He put his hand over his mouth and smelled his breath, “Eeeewww!”
So he brushed his teeth vigorously but found that the vibrating motion was making his head pound even more. Finally done rinsing his mouth with a minty fresh mouthwash, he opened the medicine cabinet in search of some Tylenol. “Shit,” he muttered to himself when he saw that he didn’t have any. He took out the bottle of Excedrin, opened it, only to find that it was empty. ‘Just my luck! I hope I have some in the kitchen,’ he thought to himself.
He went out of the bathroom, making his way to his closet. He got out a pair of boxers and a white tee. Removing the towel from around his waist, throwing it on a chair, he put his clothes on. He so badly wanted to crawl back under the covers but it was time to hunt for some pain reliever in the kitchen. His monstrous headache was killing him.
Before he could make his way to the bedroom door, he heard the unmistakable sound of something frying in the kitchen. Someone was in his apartment. ‘Fuck! Where the hell’s my Glock,’ he thought. He found it over at the top of the bureau. He was hoping to God it was Messer. He wasn’t fit to deal with an intruder right now considering the state he’s in.
He opened the door and quietly made his way to the living room. He saw Stella over by the stove. ‘Shit,’ he thought, turning around to sneak his way back into the bedroom, hoping against hope she didn’t see or hear him. ‘Now I know how I got here,’ he thought. He didn’t see the standing lamp in his haste to avoid Stella, hitting it in the process, making a rather loud sound. ‘Fuck! Where the heck did that come from? I swear that lamp moved. Shit! There goes me being stealthy,’ the inner turmoil swirling within him.
“There you are,” Stella told him, a smile on her face. By the looks of it, she had spent the night here since he could see she was wearing one of his old t-shirts from high school that he still hadn’t thrown out, her hair up in a ponytail. ‘She really looks sexy in my shirt,’ his thoughts straying for a moment. ‘Snap out of it,’ his cynical self taunted.
At this very moment, Flack so badly wanted to crawl under a rock or better yet, his inner voice was screaming at him, ‘Oh God! Let the floor open up and swallow me whole! What is Stella doing here…in his kitchen cooking bacon?’
“Uh, Stel, what are you doing here,” he asked trying to sound a bit casual, while he put his service pistol on one of the side tables beside the couch, making sure the safety was on.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya, sleepyhead! How’re ya feelin’ ‘tis fine mornin’,” Stella said in her best exaggerated faux Irish brogue, deliberately keeping things light. She could see the unbelieving expression still lingering on Flack’s face.
“Like I’m dying,” he replied, hoping that she couldn’t see how this was really eating him up inside. “Like someone had just dropped a ton of bricks over my head,” he said, trying to smile despite the throbbing pain. “So, what are you doing here, Stel,” he repeated the question.
“Slept on the couch…Just wanted to make sure you were okay after what happened last night,” she said, concern lacing her speech.
“Uhh, what’ve you got there cooking,” Flack said. He knew she had bacon frying in the skillet but he was trying to shift the flow of conversation from what happened the previous night.
“I found some bacon in your freezer, the pancake mix in the cupboard. And I’ve got some eggs here. Didn’t know if you like yours scrambled or sunny-side up, so I made both,” she told him.
“Uhhh, thanks Stel. Shouldn’t you be at work,” he uttered, sitting at the kitchen table.
“Nah…I’ve got the day off today. How ‘bout you? Planning on calling in sick,” she asked anxiously.
“No…Ummm, it’s my day off too, actually,” he replied, rubbing his temple.
“That’s good,” Stella replied. “At least it gives you time to recover from that nasty hangover I can see in your eyes,” she said. “Here,” she continued, putting a plate stacked with pancakes, bacon and eggs in front of him.
“I don’t think I can eat right now,” he said sheepishly.
“Flack, you’ve got to! You can’t take painkillers with your stomach empty,” she said warningly. “Have some Gatorade with your breakfast for the dehydration,” she said in a softer tone, pouring him a glass and handing him the bottle of Tylenol. “Take two after you’ve had at least five bites, Flack,” Stella continued.
“Okay. Aren’t you having some,” he asked, trying to be polite.
“I’ve already had some bagel with cream cheese I found in the fridge,” she responded. “Then, I’ll make you an ice pack for that nasty bump on your head after you finish eating,” she went on.
He ate silently while Stella sat across him, looking at him intently, watching him like a hawk. Flack was too preoccupied about what she was thinking, what he was going to say when they finally talk, really talk. He really wanted to know what she thinks about his declaration of love after singing that cheesy love song Messer picked for him. ‘Fuck! I’m so pathetic!’
The silence and staring were getting to be too oppressive. Even when he was looking down at his plate, he could feel Stella’s penetrating gaze on him. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Flack couldn’t help himself. He looked up and faced her, blurting out, “Stella, say something! Anything!”
To Be Continued…
A/N 2: Yes, another cliffhanger. LOL! Don’t kill me! If you do, you’ll never know what Stella has to say. LOL! Ah, poor Flackie, having the worst hangover ever. Anyone who ever experienced one can relate to this. Haha, I can so relate to this! LOL! Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to push that review button. I’m dying to know how y’all like this so far. So go, leave me a review! LOL! his neat freak self was bellowing at him. After he had finished his business, he stripped and went to take a shower.
Disclaimer: Again, I don’t own the characters. They belong to those people I mentioned in Chapter One. So there.
Rating: FRT
Author’s Note: Hello my readers, here is the third installment. To those who were kind enough to leave me wonderful reviews, thank you so much! Mwah! It really makes me giddy that y’all are getting a kick out of Flack’s misadventures. I hope you enjoy reading this, my labor of love. I even skipped my siesta just to finish this chapter. LOL! I really had fun writing this one and crazy ol’ me was laughing like a hyena at what I have Flack doing and thinking here. So, without further ado, here’s the third chapter.
88888888
88888888
Chapter Three
“Uuugghhh,” Don Flack groaned, waking up to the worst hangover of his life. This had never happened to him before. Well, not like this and not this nasty. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ he realized. He tried opening his eyes but found it quite difficult.
He felt as if a construction worker had taken a jackhammer to his head and was now currently drilling it into his skull. “Ooowww,” he said, rubbing his head, taking off the ice pack. He felt a rather large bump on the back. ‘Crap! Where the hell am I,’ he thought. Finally, his eyelids fluttered open, rather reluctantly, slightly blinded by the sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds. He saw that he was in his darkened bedroom. He looked at the clock radio on his night table. Blinking, his vision still blurry, he could hardly see the time. It looked like it read 9:20 am on the digital display.
He removed the comforter covering him and saw that he was only in his boxers and wifebeater. ‘How the hell did I get this way? I don’t remember getting undressed. Fuck, I don’t even remember getting home last night,’ he wondered. The urge to pee suddenly overwhelmed him so he slowly stood up. However, he got so woozy that he had to sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Ahhh, stupid hangover,’ his brain was pounding and screaming. He tried standing again and was finally successful. He felt like a zombie. Heck, he was even walking like a zombie on his way to the bathroom.
Blinking rapidly, he turned on the lights and went inside. ‘Ahhh! Too fucking bright!’ He went over to the toilet to relieve himself. He smelled and sniffed himself. “Uuugghhh, nasty,” he said aloud, scrunching his face. He was reeking of alcohol. ‘This just wouldn’t do,’ his neat freak self was bellowing at him. After he had finished his business, he stripped and went to take a shower.
While shampooing his dark locks, some memories of last night came flooding back into his brain. All he could remember was having a good time at the karaoke joint, singing his lungs out. He remembered drinking a lot. He hadn’t drunk alcohol since way before the start of Lent. He usually made it a point not to drink liquor during the said liturgical season as a sacrifice. But he couldn’t refuse Stella’s invitation. He’d do anything for Stella Bonasera.
‘Fuck! Stella! Oh my God,’ his inner self was roaring at him, conjuring up the image of him singing that cheesy love ballad to her. ‘Sssshhhhiiittt! What did I do? Oh my God! I told her I love her,’ the sudden realization crashing into him like a speeding freight train.
He couldn’t quite remember what happened after that as everything around him at that moment went black. ‘Did I tell her ‘kiss me, I’m Irish?’ Shit! She must think I’m sooo lame,’ he thought. “Oh how am I gonna face her? I must have looked like an idiot,” he was talking to himself rather loudly now, in a tone of desperation. “I am such a fool,” he cried out. Usually he could hold his liquor but something about alcohol missing from his system for more than a month now and unrequited love doing him in!
Finally finished, he wiped himself dry with a towel and then wrapped it around his waist securely. He stood in front of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, like something the cat had dragged in. He could see his eyes were bloodshot. He put his hand over his mouth and smelled his breath, “Eeeewww!”
So he brushed his teeth vigorously but found that the vibrating motion was making his head pound even more. Finally done rinsing his mouth with a minty fresh mouthwash, he opened the medicine cabinet in search of some Tylenol. “Shit,” he muttered to himself when he saw that he didn’t have any. He took out the bottle of Excedrin, opened it, only to find that it was empty. ‘Just my luck! I hope I have some in the kitchen,’ he thought to himself.
He went out of the bathroom, making his way to his closet. He got out a pair of boxers and a white tee. Removing the towel from around his waist, throwing it on a chair, he put his clothes on. He so badly wanted to crawl back under the covers but it was time to hunt for some pain reliever in the kitchen. His monstrous headache was killing him.
Before he could make his way to the bedroom door, he heard the unmistakable sound of something frying in the kitchen. Someone was in his apartment. ‘Fuck! Where the hell’s my Glock,’ he thought. He found it over at the top of the bureau. He was hoping to God it was Messer. He wasn’t fit to deal with an intruder right now considering the state he’s in.
He opened the door and quietly made his way to the living room. He saw Stella over by the stove. ‘Shit,’ he thought, turning around to sneak his way back into the bedroom, hoping against hope she didn’t see or hear him. ‘Now I know how I got here,’ he thought. He didn’t see the standing lamp in his haste to avoid Stella, hitting it in the process, making a rather loud sound. ‘Fuck! Where the heck did that come from? I swear that lamp moved. Shit! There goes me being stealthy,’ the inner turmoil swirling within him.
“There you are,” Stella told him, a smile on her face. By the looks of it, she had spent the night here since he could see she was wearing one of his old t-shirts from high school that he still hadn’t thrown out, her hair up in a ponytail. ‘She really looks sexy in my shirt,’ his thoughts straying for a moment. ‘Snap out of it,’ his cynical self taunted.
At this very moment, Flack so badly wanted to crawl under a rock or better yet, his inner voice was screaming at him, ‘Oh God! Let the floor open up and swallow me whole! What is Stella doing here…in his kitchen cooking bacon?’
“Uh, Stel, what are you doing here,” he asked trying to sound a bit casual, while he put his service pistol on one of the side tables beside the couch, making sure the safety was on.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya, sleepyhead! How’re ya feelin’ ‘tis fine mornin’,” Stella said in her best exaggerated faux Irish brogue, deliberately keeping things light. She could see the unbelieving expression still lingering on Flack’s face.
“Like I’m dying,” he replied, hoping that she couldn’t see how this was really eating him up inside. “Like someone had just dropped a ton of bricks over my head,” he said, trying to smile despite the throbbing pain. “So, what are you doing here, Stel,” he repeated the question.
“Slept on the couch…Just wanted to make sure you were okay after what happened last night,” she said, concern lacing her speech.
“Uhh, what’ve you got there cooking,” Flack said. He knew she had bacon frying in the skillet but he was trying to shift the flow of conversation from what happened the previous night.
“I found some bacon in your freezer, the pancake mix in the cupboard. And I’ve got some eggs here. Didn’t know if you like yours scrambled or sunny-side up, so I made both,” she told him.
“Uhhh, thanks Stel. Shouldn’t you be at work,” he uttered, sitting at the kitchen table.
“Nah…I’ve got the day off today. How ‘bout you? Planning on calling in sick,” she asked anxiously.
“No…Ummm, it’s my day off too, actually,” he replied, rubbing his temple.
“That’s good,” Stella replied. “At least it gives you time to recover from that nasty hangover I can see in your eyes,” she said. “Here,” she continued, putting a plate stacked with pancakes, bacon and eggs in front of him.
“I don’t think I can eat right now,” he said sheepishly.
“Flack, you’ve got to! You can’t take painkillers with your stomach empty,” she said warningly. “Have some Gatorade with your breakfast for the dehydration,” she said in a softer tone, pouring him a glass and handing him the bottle of Tylenol. “Take two after you’ve had at least five bites, Flack,” Stella continued.
“Okay. Aren’t you having some,” he asked, trying to be polite.
“I’ve already had some bagel with cream cheese I found in the fridge,” she responded. “Then, I’ll make you an ice pack for that nasty bump on your head after you finish eating,” she went on.
He ate silently while Stella sat across him, looking at him intently, watching him like a hawk. Flack was too preoccupied about what she was thinking, what he was going to say when they finally talk, really talk. He really wanted to know what she thinks about his declaration of love after singing that cheesy love song Messer picked for him. ‘Fuck! I’m so pathetic!’
The silence and staring were getting to be too oppressive. Even when he was looking down at his plate, he could feel Stella’s penetrating gaze on him. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Flack couldn’t help himself. He looked up and faced her, blurting out, “Stella, say something! Anything!”
To Be Continued…
A/N 2: Yes, another cliffhanger. LOL! Don’t kill me! If you do, you’ll never know what Stella has to say. LOL! Ah, poor Flackie, having the worst hangover ever. Anyone who ever experienced one can relate to this. Haha, I can so relate to this! LOL! Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to push that review button. I’m dying to know how y’all like this so far. So go, leave me a review! LOL! his neat freak self was bellowing at him. After he had finished his business, he stripped and went to take a shower.