CSI: NY fic

[bedlamsbard]

So in lieu of, like, working on New York Minute or any of my originals, I wrote CSI: NY fic during school today. I suppose paying attention would also qualify as one of those things I didn't do, which I should probably not do next year because I have Really Hard Classes (like Physics. And Algebra-Trig Honors. And Military History). But that will be then, and this is now.

Anyway, first, a continuation, of sorts of 14-year-old Danny runs away to Tanglewood and Val goes after him. This was written before school, so not technically during school, but...



He knows they think he didn't hear. But he did.

Val hauls him home by the ear, angrier than Danny's ever seen him. Danny doesn't think he'd even bother knocking if Ned Messer's squad car wasn't parked out front. So is Eddie's patrol car, he realizes after a terrified moemnt, when he catches the sheen of sunlight off the blue and white barely hidden behind the squad car's brown bulk.

It's Nate that opens the door, looking disgustingly smug in his red and gold letterman's jacket. Danny resists the urge to punch him in the face. Nate gapes at Val in his expensive worn leather jacket, at Carmine in the driver's seat of Val's beaten to shit Lamborghini, and at Danny's battered face and disheveled clothes.

"What -" he starts to say, but Val cuts him off.

"I want to see my sister," he snaps.

Angela takes the news Danny's run away to join a violent Mafia recruitment gang surprisingly well. Ned does not.

"I don't want him in my house," he growls. "Or any of his fucking gangbanger friends either."

Angela's voice is an agonized wail. "He's your son!"

"Is he?"

Danny, watching from the stairs, sees his mother take a step back as if slapped. "Ned!"

Val, behind her, arches forward with anger behind his chocolate brown eyes. His punch knocks Ned back to the floor. "Don't you dare talk to my sister that way, you son of a bitch."

"Valentine!" Angela snaps. "What the hell are you doing?"

Ned's hand inches toward his service pistol. "How dare you hit me -"

Val trains the gun he's pulled from the small of his back on him. "What're you gonna do? Arrest me? If you don't want Danny I'll take him, and he'll get an education a damn sight better than you could give him. You're welcome to the rest of your blue blood sons, but Danny's mine. Ya' got that?"

"Valentine!" Angela's voice is anguished. "You can't -"

"Watch me," he growls, turning his attention briefly to her. "He'll be better off, Angie." His words are almost a plea. "Angie -"

"My son, Val!"

"And my nephew." He tilts his head back. "Danny! Get down here now!"

Ned Messer crawls to his feet, one hand to his bloody, broken nose. "You son of a bitch. Who the hell do you think you are? Assaulting an officer -"

Val laughs in his face. "I. Don't. Care. I'd like to see you try and make those charges stick. Danny! Get your ass down here!"

Danny scrambles down the stairs. "Uncle Val -"

"Get in the car." He points at the door, and the look on Ned's face is murder.



And then during German I wrote what will probably be the first scene of the first chapter of Bloody Sunday (the last story in the as-yet-unbegun Mac trilogy). What? Ambitious much? Moi?



"Hey, Stella," Danny said, stripping blood-stained latex gloves from his hands and pulling on a new pair. "Where's Mac? Ain't he on this case too? Big one like this, you'd think the brass would haul him in quicker than you can say DNA."

Stella shrugged. "I haven't seen him sice this morning," she admitted. Her eyes drifted to the huddle of guests Flack was interviewing, and two in particular. "I don't have any idea what's keeping him away."

As if on cue, Mac pushed open the door and glanced around, finally spotting Danny and Stella. He came over with a relieved expression on his face. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "I was held up by traffic. What have we got?"

"Desdemona Lysell," Stella said, sweeping the vic's hair back so Mac could see her face, "of Boston, Mass. In town for Thanksgiving. Hawkes is still en route, but she's definitely been stabbed."

"Anyone see the murder?"

"Not that's talking." She inclined her head towards Flack. "In town for Thanksgiving and the grand tour like our vic, came downstairs for dinner and found Lysell on the floor. She was DOA."

Mac glanced toward the witnesses. "I'll go talk to Flack."

"That may not be such a good idea, Mac," Stella protested.

He turned toward her with a surprised expression on his face. "Why not?"

She drew her lips together disappprovingly. "Because your parents are here."



Oh, and this I wrote during Biology. It's okay, people were giving presentations. Danny's brother, the other Detective Messer, makes an appearance.



Danny's mouth twists in an unhappy curl. "Nate," he says coolly, and the detective looks up from the notepad he's scribbling in.

There's only the faintest signs of relation between the two of them. The quirk of their mouths, the blue of their eyes, something in their cheekbones and the quick flurries of their hands. Danny tenses the way he does whenever Flack flinches automatically away from being touched.

Aiden tilts her head back and eyes Nate Messer. He's tall with a lean, wolfish look and fair brown hair, gathering the aura of cop around him in a way Danny has never quite managed to attain.

Nate eyes Danny with narrow dislike and nods politely to Aiden. "Danny," he acknowledges. "You're Burn?" His eyes flick to Aiden.

"Aiden Burn," she says warily. Danny doesn't talk about his family. "Detective Messer, I presume? The other Detective Messer, that is."

He smiles a little. "Yeah, that's me."

Aiden dares a glance at Danny. His face is set unhappily and he looks away from his brother and past the crime tape into the tiny blood-spattered apartment. Aiden sighs noisily, and Danny jumps to glare at her, then his brother.

"What've we got, Nate?" he asks.

Nate gives them the particulars of the case, then follows them into the scene. "You missed Lorelei's graduation," he says. "Eddie was pissed."

"I had a case," Danny replies immediately, the words almost drowned out by the click-whirr of the camera. "Jumper over in Manhattan. We were scraping body parts off of the sidewalk for three days."