Scut work and pints

===27 Harvest 1383==========

“Hey,” Curry whispered, leaning over several stacks of papers and knocking his boot against mine where our two desks were pushed together. When I looked up from my busywork he grinned happily at me. “Guess what. It’s Fourthday afternoon, and we’re detectives.”

I kicked irritably at his boot under the desk. “Fuck’s sake, Mag. Calm yourself. We’ve been assigned this post less than a week and while we might technically be detectives, right now we’re sorting through old paperwork and we probably will be forever because Baggett hates me and doesn’t trust me to do anything more difficult than that. So I hope you’re happy with the boat anchor you slung round your neck when you picked me for your partner,” I added with dark pessimism.

He wrinkled his nose at me. “All of us are organizing old casework, because the current load is light and nobody died this week. It’s a terrible thing, I know.”

“All of us being you and me, since Chakrabarti and Battenfeld already disappeared for the week and who knows where Baggett fucked off to? Not that I give a shit when it means a respite from the man’s constant petty sniping.”

“Aah, Fuzzy,” Curry said cheerfully. “There’s no reasoning with you when you’re like this. He’s just one of those people who reads different than they really are. You’ll see. In a year you’ll be amazed you ever felt this way.”

“In a year I’ll be amazed if Baggett hasn’t gotten me somehow kicked off **** squad altogether,” I muttered.

Curry ignored me, licking his thumb and turning the page he was on.

Because he had some kind of obscene sixth sense for detecting his mere mention, Baggett returned just then from who knew where, cloak draped over his arm, and stopped at our desks, apparently the better to tower lankily. “Aren’t you sick of scut work yet, children?” he inquired, pulling up a chair and straddling it backwards so he could prop his chin in his hand. “Time to end the week with a pint or something, yeah?”

I gave him my best smug, tight-lipped, shit-eating smile. “Nah, I’m grand,” I said, at the same time that Curry said, “Pints it is.”

Baggett grinned obnoxiously at this. Curry and I exchanged a look, and he won the exchange. “Whatever,” I told him, shaking my head.

“Pints sound good,” he told Baggett. “You pick the spot. We mostly only go to our local.”

“What say you, Bersk?” Baggett asked. “Moody’s has hoppier house ale. Ugly Chestnut is close to the Fourth.”

“Moody’s is in the Sixth,” I said, with a glance at Curry, who knew I didn’t go to the sixth ward for nearly any reason if I could help it. “So how about Chesty’s.”

Baggett’s flinty grey eyes settled on me. Interesting, said his raised brow, but he didn’t offer any thoughts aloud on my ambiguous dismissal of the Moody Pig. “Chesty’s it is.”