The Unusuals ficlet: you shine electric
you shine electric [The Unusuals, Shraeger/Walsh, G, 376 words, written for today's 
tuesday376 prompt. Title from R.E.M. - Electolite.]
Second squad. This is dispatch. Be advised, there's a fallen star on Montgomery Street. If you're gonna wish on it, put in a good word for me.
When Casey was little, her nanny used to read her stories about princes and princesses and falling in love, seeing stars and falling head over heels. Casey's a pragmatist; she's seen stars and fallen head over heels, and it had nothing to do with love. First time she was hit around the head with a crowbar, second time she was trying to match the guys drink for drink plus one.
Falling in like is a whole other process.
It's sneaky, for one thing. It's little things not being what she thinks. So she thinks she's being a good partner, remembering exactly how Walsh likes his coffee, and she thinks she's just too tired to bitch about the trash in the car, or too polite to complain when he serves her a burned omelet.
The warm feeling she gets when he says good job, that's just pride in her work, and because she knows he's a damn good detective.
It's sneaky, and it's easy and slow and comfortable. It's hardly her fault that she doesn't recognize it at first, because nobody says falling for someone is like that.
She's driving. Which is good, because she doesn't have to look at Walsh. "I think we ought to have a regular, rolling secret-telling session," she says.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Maybe one secret a week. How's that sound?"
"And how long is this gonna go on?"
"A while, I'm thinking. What about you?"
"One a week? Yeah, it'd be a while."
"Friday sound like a good day to start?"
"It's Friday today," Walsh points out.
"Yeah."
Walsh shrugs. "You wanna start?"
"Okay."
"So," Walsh prompts.
"I'm falling in like with you."
"I kinda knew that already."
"You did? How?"
"You didn't complain about the burned eggs."
"Oh. Huh."
"I'm a detective. I notice these things."
That figures. "Your turn," she says.
Walsh doesn't pause. "I wished on the fallen star," he says.
"What'd you wish for?"
Walsh smiles, and his eyes crinkle. "Ask me again next Friday."
Dispatch here. I'm in a good mood today. No prizes for guessing who got lucky last night.
//
Crossposted to DW and LJ - comments enabled on both.
tuesday376 prompt. Title from R.E.M. - Electolite.]
Second squad. This is dispatch. Be advised, there's a fallen star on Montgomery Street. If you're gonna wish on it, put in a good word for me.
When Casey was little, her nanny used to read her stories about princes and princesses and falling in love, seeing stars and falling head over heels. Casey's a pragmatist; she's seen stars and fallen head over heels, and it had nothing to do with love. First time she was hit around the head with a crowbar, second time she was trying to match the guys drink for drink plus one.
Falling in like is a whole other process.
It's sneaky, for one thing. It's little things not being what she thinks. So she thinks she's being a good partner, remembering exactly how Walsh likes his coffee, and she thinks she's just too tired to bitch about the trash in the car, or too polite to complain when he serves her a burned omelet.
The warm feeling she gets when he says good job, that's just pride in her work, and because she knows he's a damn good detective.
It's sneaky, and it's easy and slow and comfortable. It's hardly her fault that she doesn't recognize it at first, because nobody says falling for someone is like that.
She's driving. Which is good, because she doesn't have to look at Walsh. "I think we ought to have a regular, rolling secret-telling session," she says.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Maybe one secret a week. How's that sound?"
"And how long is this gonna go on?"
"A while, I'm thinking. What about you?"
"One a week? Yeah, it'd be a while."
"Friday sound like a good day to start?"
"It's Friday today," Walsh points out.
"Yeah."
Walsh shrugs. "You wanna start?"
"Okay."
"So," Walsh prompts.
"I'm falling in like with you."
"I kinda knew that already."
"You did? How?"
"You didn't complain about the burned eggs."
"Oh. Huh."
"I'm a detective. I notice these things."
That figures. "Your turn," she says.
Walsh doesn't pause. "I wished on the fallen star," he says.
"What'd you wish for?"
Walsh smiles, and his eyes crinkle. "Ask me again next Friday."
Dispatch here. I'm in a good mood today. No prizes for guessing who got lucky last night.
//
Crossposted to DW and LJ - comments enabled on both.