FIC: "Staten", Mike Logan/Elliot Stabler
Title: Staten
Author: hawkeyecat
Fandom: Law & Order
Genre: Slash
Word Count: 1,010
Pairing: Stabler/Logan
Theme: Q is for Quandary, a state of uncertainty or perplexity.
Disclaimer: I confess, made it all up.
Elliot stared moodily into his tumbler. Despite the good-natured clamor of Hannigan’s, he felt alone. He’d taken off his jacket and loosened his tie after sitting down at the bar, but hadn’t relaxed, and the whiskey wasn’t helping his tension. He sensed the crowd’s mood change behind him, become tenser than it had been. Someone called out, “Nice right, Logan!” Another voice snarled back, telling the speaker to shut the fuck up. A tall, dark-haired man-definitely Irish, Elliot decided-flung himself onto the stool to Elliot’s right and barked for a Scotch. The same voice, Elliot realized, had told the unknown man to shut up. He had to be a cop if he had gotten away with telling off anyone in Hannigan’s, not to mention carrying the shoulder-holstered gun barely visible under his jacket. Elliot nodded a greeting that was thoroughly ignored before returning to contemplating his Jack Daniels.
The man beside him tossed back his first scotch and signaled for another. “Fuckin’ Staten Island,” he muttered.
Elliot glanced over. “Staten Island? There’s people out there?”
“So they tell me. There’s a precinct, at least.”
“What are you doing in Manhattan if your precinct’s on Staten?”
“Until today, it was the two-seven.” The bartender slid the man another glass over.
“Van Buren’s unit.”
“Yeah, and a damn good one, too.”
“Detective, right?”
“Homicide. How’d you know?” He motioned for another drink.
“Uniforms don’t wear suits, and businessmen don’t carry guns in cop bars. There long?”
“Seven years.”
Elliot whistled softly. “And you’re shipping over to Staten Island?”
The man laughed sourly. “Don’t slug a politician.”
“You must be Mike Logan.”
He knocked back another scotch. “And you are?”
“Elliot Stabler, from the one-six.”
“Sex crimes?”
“Special victims, but yeah.”
The bartender placed a fresh glass in front of Logan and gave Elliot a questioning look.
“Gimme a Guinness.”
Logan nodded approvingly. “Irish?”
“A Manhattan cop, Irish?”
“Yeah, yeah. So why aren’t you drinking your,” he gestured vaguely, “whatever that is?”
“Not helping.”
Mike’s speech was beginning to slur. “Yeah, I know how tha’ is.” The bartender slid over a fifth glass.
“Had enough yet?”
“Still thin’ ‘bout Staten-”
“Island, yeah, I know. How drunk you plan on getting?”
“Drunk as it takes.”
“To forget about Staten? You’d have to be dead for that to happen.”
By the time Elliot finished his beer, Logan had been cut off. “Seven scotches is enough, Mikey,” the bartender told him severely. “I’m not charging you tonight, but no more.” He lowered his voice and turned to Elliot. “Can you see him home?”
“Yeah, sure,” Elliot replied absently.
“Yours is on the house, then.”
Elliot stood, collecting his jacket. “Come on, Logan. I’ll give you a ride.”
“M’ car’s outside.”
“Unless you want your old partner called because you got into an accident, you’ll let me drive you.”
“Better’n Staten.”
“Let’s go. You live in Manhattan?”
“Ummm. Yeah, think so.”
Elliot sighed and motioned for Logan’s wallet. “Let me see your license.”
Logan fumbled, finally pulling the wallet from his pocket, but he couldn’t seem to make his fingers cooperate enough to pull out his license.
“Give me your wallet. Might as well hand over your keys while you’re at it.” Logan nearly dropped them when he passed them to Elliot, but Elliot caught both. He checked the address. It wasn’t too far out of his way, and Kathy would already be ready to murder him. He supported Logan out to his car, helping him into the seat like a suspect and buckling the seat belt for him.
“If you need to puke, tell me.”
“M’not drunk.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
At Logan’s building, Elliot parked in a visitor spot and helped him back out of the car. “Need me to walk you up?”
“Told you, m’not drunk.” Logan took a few steps away-or tried to. His legs kept giving out under him.
“Yeah, I can see that. Tell you what, I’ll walk you there, and you can have your keys once you’re inside.” Elliot slung one of Logan’s arms around his shoulders and put his own arm around the other man’s back. Logan leaned on him so heavily he might as well have carried the man. “Where’s the elevator?”
Logan gestured vaguely. “Tha’ way.”
“You’re not helping here. Still sure you’re sober?”
“Din’ say sober.”
“Right, you’re just not drunk.”
“Now you get it.”
“Uh-huh.” Elliot spotted a guard patrolling the garage and raised his voice. “Sir! Can you tell me where the elevator is?” The guard eyed him suspiciously, and Elliot flashed his badge.
“Yeah, over there, to the left,” the guard finally replied. He nodded to Logan. “Your friend drunk?”
“Thanks,” Elliot replied, ignoring the question. He turned and hauled Mike along. “Which floor, Logan?”
Logan squinted up at the ceiling, then held up four fingers.
“I see four. Do you see four or eight?”
He stared at his hand for a moment. “Six.”
“How do you get six when it’s four fingers?” Elliot pulled Logan’s wallet out and checked his license. “Six it is.”
When they reached Logan’s floor, Elliot checked the numbers, then bore left. Logan stumbled over the threshold of the elevator, and Elliot caught him. “Careful, Logan.”
At the door, Elliot went through several keys before finding the right one. He guided Logan into the kitchen and made him drink two glasses of water, washing down two of the Advil he found in the bathroom cabinet. While Logan pissed, Elliot set a glass of water and three more Advil on the nightstand, then removed the clip from Logan’s gun while he undressed. When Logan lay down, Elliot bent to cover him, just as he’d do for one of his kids. Moving surprisingly quickly, Logan grabbed Elliot’s face and kissed him. Stunned, Elliot responded, until Logan’s day-old beard growth scratched against his face. He came back to himself then and shoved Logan away, barely keeping himself from slugging the other man.
On the elevator ride back to the parking garage, Elliot ruthlessly ignored his arousal.
Author: hawkeyecat
Fandom: Law & Order
Genre: Slash
Word Count: 1,010
Pairing: Stabler/Logan
Theme: Q is for Quandary, a state of uncertainty or perplexity.
Disclaimer: I confess, made it all up.
Elliot stared moodily into his tumbler. Despite the good-natured clamor of Hannigan’s, he felt alone. He’d taken off his jacket and loosened his tie after sitting down at the bar, but hadn’t relaxed, and the whiskey wasn’t helping his tension. He sensed the crowd’s mood change behind him, become tenser than it had been. Someone called out, “Nice right, Logan!” Another voice snarled back, telling the speaker to shut the fuck up. A tall, dark-haired man-definitely Irish, Elliot decided-flung himself onto the stool to Elliot’s right and barked for a Scotch. The same voice, Elliot realized, had told the unknown man to shut up. He had to be a cop if he had gotten away with telling off anyone in Hannigan’s, not to mention carrying the shoulder-holstered gun barely visible under his jacket. Elliot nodded a greeting that was thoroughly ignored before returning to contemplating his Jack Daniels.
The man beside him tossed back his first scotch and signaled for another. “Fuckin’ Staten Island,” he muttered.
Elliot glanced over. “Staten Island? There’s people out there?”
“So they tell me. There’s a precinct, at least.”
“What are you doing in Manhattan if your precinct’s on Staten?”
“Until today, it was the two-seven.” The bartender slid the man another glass over.
“Van Buren’s unit.”
“Yeah, and a damn good one, too.”
“Detective, right?”
“Homicide. How’d you know?” He motioned for another drink.
“Uniforms don’t wear suits, and businessmen don’t carry guns in cop bars. There long?”
“Seven years.”
Elliot whistled softly. “And you’re shipping over to Staten Island?”
The man laughed sourly. “Don’t slug a politician.”
“You must be Mike Logan.”
He knocked back another scotch. “And you are?”
“Elliot Stabler, from the one-six.”
“Sex crimes?”
“Special victims, but yeah.”
The bartender placed a fresh glass in front of Logan and gave Elliot a questioning look.
“Gimme a Guinness.”
Logan nodded approvingly. “Irish?”
“A Manhattan cop, Irish?”
“Yeah, yeah. So why aren’t you drinking your,” he gestured vaguely, “whatever that is?”
“Not helping.”
Mike’s speech was beginning to slur. “Yeah, I know how tha’ is.” The bartender slid over a fifth glass.
“Had enough yet?”
“Still thin’ ‘bout Staten-”
“Island, yeah, I know. How drunk you plan on getting?”
“Drunk as it takes.”
“To forget about Staten? You’d have to be dead for that to happen.”
By the time Elliot finished his beer, Logan had been cut off. “Seven scotches is enough, Mikey,” the bartender told him severely. “I’m not charging you tonight, but no more.” He lowered his voice and turned to Elliot. “Can you see him home?”
“Yeah, sure,” Elliot replied absently.
“Yours is on the house, then.”
Elliot stood, collecting his jacket. “Come on, Logan. I’ll give you a ride.”
“M’ car’s outside.”
“Unless you want your old partner called because you got into an accident, you’ll let me drive you.”
“Better’n Staten.”
“Let’s go. You live in Manhattan?”
“Ummm. Yeah, think so.”
Elliot sighed and motioned for Logan’s wallet. “Let me see your license.”
Logan fumbled, finally pulling the wallet from his pocket, but he couldn’t seem to make his fingers cooperate enough to pull out his license.
“Give me your wallet. Might as well hand over your keys while you’re at it.” Logan nearly dropped them when he passed them to Elliot, but Elliot caught both. He checked the address. It wasn’t too far out of his way, and Kathy would already be ready to murder him. He supported Logan out to his car, helping him into the seat like a suspect and buckling the seat belt for him.
“If you need to puke, tell me.”
“M’not drunk.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
At Logan’s building, Elliot parked in a visitor spot and helped him back out of the car. “Need me to walk you up?”
“Told you, m’not drunk.” Logan took a few steps away-or tried to. His legs kept giving out under him.
“Yeah, I can see that. Tell you what, I’ll walk you there, and you can have your keys once you’re inside.” Elliot slung one of Logan’s arms around his shoulders and put his own arm around the other man’s back. Logan leaned on him so heavily he might as well have carried the man. “Where’s the elevator?”
Logan gestured vaguely. “Tha’ way.”
“You’re not helping here. Still sure you’re sober?”
“Din’ say sober.”
“Right, you’re just not drunk.”
“Now you get it.”
“Uh-huh.” Elliot spotted a guard patrolling the garage and raised his voice. “Sir! Can you tell me where the elevator is?” The guard eyed him suspiciously, and Elliot flashed his badge.
“Yeah, over there, to the left,” the guard finally replied. He nodded to Logan. “Your friend drunk?”
“Thanks,” Elliot replied, ignoring the question. He turned and hauled Mike along. “Which floor, Logan?”
Logan squinted up at the ceiling, then held up four fingers.
“I see four. Do you see four or eight?”
He stared at his hand for a moment. “Six.”
“How do you get six when it’s four fingers?” Elliot pulled Logan’s wallet out and checked his license. “Six it is.”
When they reached Logan’s floor, Elliot checked the numbers, then bore left. Logan stumbled over the threshold of the elevator, and Elliot caught him. “Careful, Logan.”
At the door, Elliot went through several keys before finding the right one. He guided Logan into the kitchen and made him drink two glasses of water, washing down two of the Advil he found in the bathroom cabinet. While Logan pissed, Elliot set a glass of water and three more Advil on the nightstand, then removed the clip from Logan’s gun while he undressed. When Logan lay down, Elliot bent to cover him, just as he’d do for one of his kids. Moving surprisingly quickly, Logan grabbed Elliot’s face and kissed him. Stunned, Elliot responded, until Logan’s day-old beard growth scratched against his face. He came back to himself then and shoved Logan away, barely keeping himself from slugging the other man.
On the elevator ride back to the parking garage, Elliot ruthlessly ignored his arousal.