All I Can Taste is Champagne
by ALC Punk!

Maybe it was the little blonde girl and her boyfriend and the way they seemed to be in their own little world. The rest of the class was paying appropriate attention (as much as teenagers would ever pay attention anything -- bar the one or two who were teacher's pets and who ate every word he said like it was from the mouth of God).

Detective Pete Shanahan prided himself on his observational skills. So he watched the two in the back.

And that was how he caught them writing each other notes five minutes after he'd decided they were irritating.

He narrowed his eyes at them, and waited.

Two minutes after that, the boy leaned over and ran two fingers down the inside of the girl's arm. Her head didn't move from its staring ahead posture, but he saw the slight flinch. It wasn't an unhappy flinch. Pete narrowed his eyes more.

It wasn't often Pete was detailed to be part of the group which talked about self defense to the local high schoolers. But he'd drawn the short straw -- that, plus being the rookie here in Colorado Springs had sealed his fate. He was partnered in today's lecture with Detective Mike Smyth. Pete watched the two kids, and was peripherally aware that the rest were almost as bored.

A sudden thought came to him, and he waited until there was a good moment to interrupt, "Detective Smyth, could I have a quick word with you?"

The older man eyed him, then shrugged and moved to a corner of the classroom with Pete. "What's up, Shanahan?"

"I think we need to give the kids a practical demonstration."

Smyth's eyebrows raised, "Now, Shanahan--"

"In self defense, sir. I think they'd be more interested if they saw something real for themselves. Just a few basic blocks, maybe?"

"You just want to get out of the classroom."

"Possibly."

The older man slowly nodded, "All right. We'll go outside -- there's a nice section of grass that should work. Oh, and Shanahan, since it's your idea, you get to be the human punching bag."

"Right. Sir." Pete sighed.

The two kids in the corner were at it again.

He narrowed his eyes again. He was definitely going to do something about them -- he wasn't sure what, or why. But it would be something.

-

"We should cut."

"And miss this wonderful opportunity to learn self defense?"

"Oh, yes, because we don't already know more than enough."

The sarcasm in the whispered statements reminded Pete of someone, but he didn't turn to look at the offenders. He knew who it was. Those two kids from the corner. They were standing close enough that he could have touched them, but they didn't seem to notice him.

"Jack, on a more practical note, we don't need detention."

The teen let out a lusty sigh. "Fine. But I get to grope you while no one's watching."

"You're *such* a romantic."

"But you love me anyway."

"I don't know about that one, buster."

The conversation continued in a similar vein, and Pete considered the kids. They argued like adults, like an old married couple (he was reminded of his upstairs neighbors in Denver, the Whitlams. They'd bickered and shouted and generally loved each other a hell of a lot). Which, since they were teenagers, was wrong. Very wrong.

"How'm I supposed to get my hand to good use if you keep pulling it away?"

"You're *not* putting your hand to *that* sort of use in the middle of class, Jack."

"Aw, why not, Carter?"

Pete froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

"Because I'd prefer to keep my orgasms private, thank you very much. And, for cryin' out loud, Jack. Stop calling me that."

The speech patterns and mannerisms had been the same. He didn't know how he'd missed them -- but then, they *were* teenagers. Who acted exactly like General O'Neill and Sam Carter. Except for the groping each other part. And the hanging out in each others' personal space (at least, he didn't think they did all that -- Sam was his fiance, for Christ's sake!). He'd never seen pictures of them at this age, but he was willing to bet... well, he wasn't sure WHAT he was willing to bet. But he knew there were stranger things out there than he'd thought.

Meanwhile, the rest of the class was participating in short lunges and blocks led by Detective Smyth. One of the cool kids had demanded to be the 'attacker', and so he was being occasionally smacked, much to the amusement of his friends and the giggling of at least two girls.

The two had settled down for a few minutes, and then the girl said abruptly, "Gah."

"What?"

"I can't believe she's dating a cop. They're so... boring."

"Boring?"

"Yeah, I mean, look at them. As if these kids don't already know enough dirty tricks--"

The kid was snickering at her.

"All right, Jack. So maybe only *we* do."

"Carter, do you consider fishing boring?"

"I plead the fifth."

"Wench. You're not answering because you *do* find it boring. Carter, that makes me boring, which makes your choice of me interesting, since you think cops are boring."

"Against you, cops are massively boring. However, against technology, everyone is boring."

Pete heard a wistful note in her voice, and recognized it. If he hadn't already convinced about these two, he certainly was now.

He glanced sideways at them. They were standing against each other, his arms looped around her and his chin on her shoulder. It was oddly cute, and strangely disturbing.

And he suddenly couldn't help himself. If they were who he thought they were, this might be the time to get a little dirt. "Do you find all cops boring?"

"I'm sorry," there was a dangerous tone in her voice. He'd heard it in Sam's once or twice. "I was unaware that our private conversation warranted your commentary."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm just curious."

"Then, yes. Dating a cop would be like dating a career Army or Navy man."

"How?"

"Dedicated to their work, and they'll leave a family behind."

The young man had stiffened, his eyes suddenly hooded as her words spilled out. "You mean if they die."

"Something like that."

"Not all of them do it for the wrong reasons."

"I know." Her head tipped down. "But so few of them do it for the right ones."

Pete blinked, suddenly certain that he was being completely forgotten. This conversation no longer had anything to do with cops and men dying.

"I can't promise."

"No." She turned her head to look at him. "I know you can't."

And then they were kissing. Pete blinked again. They had definitely forgotten him. So he cleared his throat.

The girl looked at him, her eyes scornful. "Still here?"

"I am supposed to be."

"Ah." She nodded, "Get your rocks off watching teenagers neck, do you?"

"No, I'm just fascinated by the way you two remind me of my parents."

"Did he just call us old?" The boy lifted his head from her shoulder and nailed Pete with a look. "We're not old. We're 16."

"I don't know, I'm feeling at *least* 16 and a half right now."

"Don't taunt the cop, Carter, he probably hasn't had his doughnuts and coffee yet."

It was cute. Pete was highly disturbed to realize this. But it was. The way the two of them bickered and bantered was, well, cute. He smirked, "Y'know in about ten years, the two of you are still going to be the cutest things ever."

"You can't kill him."

"Why not?"

"Uh, Detective Shanahan?" One of their classmates pointed at the still-sparring group. "Can you show us how to do that?"

"Sure, kid."

There were three of them, and Pete found they were evenly matched. He eyed 'Jack', but didn't ask for him to join in. Which was just as well, since during the following twenty minutes, he and 'Carter' gave pointers and snide commentary on all of their forms.

Finally, he'd had enough. "All right. If you're so good, why don't YOU show us how it's done?"

"Don't kill them, Carter." Jack muttered.

She shot him one look over her shoulder and then stepped into the impromptu ring.

Pete had to give her a hell of a lot of credit. Five minutes later, none of the three boys was getting up again (they were crying uncle), and Carter had barely broken a sweat. "You're good."

"Yes." She turned away from him, disinterested.

"But that was against high school boys. How about trying me?"

Her back stiffened. "You?"

"Yeah, see if you can kick my ass."

"Oh," she turned, and something glittered in her eyes. It wasn't a nice look. "I don't think that will be a problem."

"Uh, Carter--"

"Shut up, Jack."

In less than a minute, Pete found himself out-matched. She was quick and the blows she landed were -- while not as powerful as a man who weighed 300 pounds -- quite good. Within another few seconds, Pete found himself down. He dragged himself back up and eyed the circling teenager.

"Cryin' uncle, Shanahan?" Her voice was taunting.

"Not yet."

"Glutton for punishment."

He went down four more times before wisely staying there. Her shadow fell across him. "You're pathetic, Shanahan."

"Thanks." He squinted up at her. "What's pissed you off?"

"You." The teenager turned away, "Jack. I'm in the mood to risk detention."

"Cool."

Pete simply lay there as they disappeared. He wasn't a stupid man (you couldn't be stupid and actually make detective, after all). So it wasn't long before he finally realized that this version of Sam Carter was pissed at him for dating the elder version. Which was weird. But he was learning to live with weird when it came to Sam Carter.

As he got up and dusted himself off he decided he wouldn't mention this to Sam. For one thing, he could be completely wrong. It could be that these two were just similar in temperament.

Maybe he just needed a stiff drink.

-f-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!