For The Trust Challenge
And for Bast2 in hopes she's feeling better soon. Hope this brings at least a chuckle, m'dear!
And I have to give a major shout-out to Daf9 for the 'choose your own adventure' idea.
Mothership Old School, Mike and Lennie, just under 1000 words.
“I knew you were Irish---does that explain why you’re green?”
Mike Logan groaned and leaned against the doorjamb long enough for his partner to enter his apartment. “Glad someone can get some yucks out of this.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“I’m pukin’ my guts out every five minutes.” Mike staggered back to his sofa, dropped his exhausted, flannel-pants clad frame onto it. “And every ten---“ He jerked a thumb towards the bathroom.
“Hey, you can’t blame the Chinese we had for lunch yesterday.”
“More like what I had for dinner,” Mike agreed, slumping down to put his head on a battered METS pillow.
“Which was?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he blinked as if surprised to find Lennie still in the room. “What’d you come here for?”
“Donnie said you called in sick, I got worried!”
Mike tried to remember the last time someone had been honestly worried about him. At least, he hoped Lennie meant what he said. He was still trying to get a grip on his new partner’s personality.
“I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“You better be, or I’m gonna be stuck riding with Profaci and that is definitely bad for my health.” Lennie glanced towards the TV. “Ohhhh, you have a big screen.”
Mike forced one eye open. Surely, now that he knew what the problem was, Lennie wasn’t planning on staying, was he?
“Briscoe, really, you don’t---“
Too late. Lennie had found the remote, dropped into the recliner, and was merrily flipping channels. “Wow, you must have the whole package. How many channels of ESPN do you get?”
“Ten of---“
He couldn’t stop the distinctive uummpppttthhhmm sound as the flickering screen set off a reaction. His stomach cramped and the world spun. A long minute later, he wanted to crawl under his sofa. Even Phil had never seen him like that.
Lennie’s response was to stroke one cool hand behind Mike's neck and hold the basin (which, mercifully, he had remembered to bring to the living room) with the other.
“Damnit,” Mike muttered, feeling more embarrassed than sick. Lennie gently pushed him sideways on the sofa.
“Keep your eyes closed. I’ll be right back.”
He was, in less than thirty seconds, with a cold washcloth that he laid over Mike’s heated face.
“Thanks," Mike rumbled.
“You got anything not caffeinated?”
“Not sure.”
“I’ll look.” Mike counted footsteps, heard Lennie whistle with admiration at his kitchen. Twelve more steps, and he returned with a glass of Gatorade. “Here. Sip it, slowly.”
Mike removed the cloth, eyed Lennie. “Why---“
“Hey, I raised two girls, remember? Every time one got the bug, the other got it, then the wife du jour got it. I’ve seen more upchucking than the docs at the Betty Ford Bulimia Clinic.”
Mike managed a smirk. “And remind me why I’m supposed to want kids? Ugh. This is nasty.”
“So that’s why they call you the Black Cat,” Lennie said, watching as Mike grimaced and groused while polishing off the sports drink. “Cause you’re really a big pussy.”
Mike shrugged. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know that, partner. But I also know you look like hell, you’re probably dehydrated, and you should have gone to the doctor but you won’t. So I’m staying here until you get some rest and can keep something down---got it?”
“Who died and made you my mother?”
Lennie simply arched an eyebrow. Mike sighed.
“Actually, you’d be a vast improvement on my mother. Fine, if you want to watch me barf, hang around.”
Mike knew that his relief was probably evident, despite the surly words. He hated being sick, and alone. It always made him feel like the world’s biggest loser, that maybe he’d been cursed from birth.
Lennie was shedding his suit jacket, loosening his tie. He’d meant what he said. Mike finally felt himself begin to relax.
“At least you don’t have to worry. I know what this is, and I’m not contagious.”
“Oh, so what is it?”
“Promise not to tell?”
“Hey, you can trust me!”
Mike winced. “I was trying to make the lasagna that Elaine---that’s Phil’s wife---made for me on my birthday. I did something wrong, just can’t figure out what.”
“So you gave yourself food poisoning?”
“Looks that way.”
Lennie reclaimed the chair. “I’d call that a brilliant deduction, detective. Keep up the sharp thinking and we may catch some bad guys yet.”
“Catch this,” Mike said, flipping a playful salute.
***
(And for the end….)
Option One---Lennie Can Be Trusted
The priest’s words kept echoing in his head---gone to a place where all the secrets of the human heart are known, where this is no hiding, no shame, and no more mysteries to be solved.
He couldn’t help but be worried about the last part of that. Wouldn’t Lennie be bored out of his immortal soul if there were no more mysteries to unravel, clues to search for?
Better hope that Heaven had decent pool rooms, if Saint Peter didn’t want trouble.
The secrets though…Lennie had confessed to so much in his final days, even the truth about what happened to his daughter’s killer. But one secret, about a certain partner’s inability to cook, had gone with him to his grave.
Mike wondered if that ability to keep secrets, that sacred trust between them, wasn’t the core of the reason he had loved Lennie so much deeper than all the rest.
Option Two---Lennie Can’t Be Trusted
Mike stared at the pyramid of books on his desk. It looked like everyone in the 2-7 had made a contribution. He lifted the one on the top.
Italian Cooking for Dummies.
Profaci patted his shoulder. “It’s OK, Mikey. Even we real sons of Italy need help from time to time.”
“Where’s Lennie?” Mike hissed. “I’m gonna kill him.”
And I have to give a major shout-out to Daf9 for the 'choose your own adventure' idea.
Mothership Old School, Mike and Lennie, just under 1000 words.
“I knew you were Irish---does that explain why you’re green?”
Mike Logan groaned and leaned against the doorjamb long enough for his partner to enter his apartment. “Glad someone can get some yucks out of this.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“I’m pukin’ my guts out every five minutes.” Mike staggered back to his sofa, dropped his exhausted, flannel-pants clad frame onto it. “And every ten---“ He jerked a thumb towards the bathroom.
“Hey, you can’t blame the Chinese we had for lunch yesterday.”
“More like what I had for dinner,” Mike agreed, slumping down to put his head on a battered METS pillow.
“Which was?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he blinked as if surprised to find Lennie still in the room. “What’d you come here for?”
“Donnie said you called in sick, I got worried!”
Mike tried to remember the last time someone had been honestly worried about him. At least, he hoped Lennie meant what he said. He was still trying to get a grip on his new partner’s personality.
“I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“You better be, or I’m gonna be stuck riding with Profaci and that is definitely bad for my health.” Lennie glanced towards the TV. “Ohhhh, you have a big screen.”
Mike forced one eye open. Surely, now that he knew what the problem was, Lennie wasn’t planning on staying, was he?
“Briscoe, really, you don’t---“
Too late. Lennie had found the remote, dropped into the recliner, and was merrily flipping channels. “Wow, you must have the whole package. How many channels of ESPN do you get?”
“Ten of---“
He couldn’t stop the distinctive uummpppttthhhmm sound as the flickering screen set off a reaction. His stomach cramped and the world spun. A long minute later, he wanted to crawl under his sofa. Even Phil had never seen him like that.
Lennie’s response was to stroke one cool hand behind Mike's neck and hold the basin (which, mercifully, he had remembered to bring to the living room) with the other.
“Damnit,” Mike muttered, feeling more embarrassed than sick. Lennie gently pushed him sideways on the sofa.
“Keep your eyes closed. I’ll be right back.”
He was, in less than thirty seconds, with a cold washcloth that he laid over Mike’s heated face.
“Thanks," Mike rumbled.
“You got anything not caffeinated?”
“Not sure.”
“I’ll look.” Mike counted footsteps, heard Lennie whistle with admiration at his kitchen. Twelve more steps, and he returned with a glass of Gatorade. “Here. Sip it, slowly.”
Mike removed the cloth, eyed Lennie. “Why---“
“Hey, I raised two girls, remember? Every time one got the bug, the other got it, then the wife du jour got it. I’ve seen more upchucking than the docs at the Betty Ford Bulimia Clinic.”
Mike managed a smirk. “And remind me why I’m supposed to want kids? Ugh. This is nasty.”
“So that’s why they call you the Black Cat,” Lennie said, watching as Mike grimaced and groused while polishing off the sports drink. “Cause you’re really a big pussy.”
Mike shrugged. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know that, partner. But I also know you look like hell, you’re probably dehydrated, and you should have gone to the doctor but you won’t. So I’m staying here until you get some rest and can keep something down---got it?”
“Who died and made you my mother?”
Lennie simply arched an eyebrow. Mike sighed.
“Actually, you’d be a vast improvement on my mother. Fine, if you want to watch me barf, hang around.”
Mike knew that his relief was probably evident, despite the surly words. He hated being sick, and alone. It always made him feel like the world’s biggest loser, that maybe he’d been cursed from birth.
Lennie was shedding his suit jacket, loosening his tie. He’d meant what he said. Mike finally felt himself begin to relax.
“At least you don’t have to worry. I know what this is, and I’m not contagious.”
“Oh, so what is it?”
“Promise not to tell?”
“Hey, you can trust me!”
Mike winced. “I was trying to make the lasagna that Elaine---that’s Phil’s wife---made for me on my birthday. I did something wrong, just can’t figure out what.”
“So you gave yourself food poisoning?”
“Looks that way.”
Lennie reclaimed the chair. “I’d call that a brilliant deduction, detective. Keep up the sharp thinking and we may catch some bad guys yet.”
“Catch this,” Mike said, flipping a playful salute.
***
(And for the end….)
Option One---Lennie Can Be Trusted
The priest’s words kept echoing in his head---gone to a place where all the secrets of the human heart are known, where this is no hiding, no shame, and no more mysteries to be solved.
He couldn’t help but be worried about the last part of that. Wouldn’t Lennie be bored out of his immortal soul if there were no more mysteries to unravel, clues to search for?
Better hope that Heaven had decent pool rooms, if Saint Peter didn’t want trouble.
The secrets though…Lennie had confessed to so much in his final days, even the truth about what happened to his daughter’s killer. But one secret, about a certain partner’s inability to cook, had gone with him to his grave.
Mike wondered if that ability to keep secrets, that sacred trust between them, wasn’t the core of the reason he had loved Lennie so much deeper than all the rest.
Option Two---Lennie Can’t Be Trusted
Mike stared at the pyramid of books on his desk. It looked like everyone in the 2-7 had made a contribution. He lifted the one on the top.
Italian Cooking for Dummies.
Profaci patted his shoulder. “It’s OK, Mikey. Even we real sons of Italy need help from time to time.”
“Where’s Lennie?” Mike hissed. “I’m gonna kill him.”