Original fic, Boston
Jun. 14th, 2005 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardAnthony Zuiker is on crack, and not in a good way. He can't put the NY lab in a skyscraper! I don't care that if it's New York, if he puts the lab in a fucking skyscraper, I swear to God I'm giving Flack vertigo when I write fic next season. SWEAR TO GOD. Then come up with a good reason why they're not in the old lab. I LIKED the old lab.
On the other hand, original fic, from that homicide team in Boston, who may or may not be CSIs. I'm actually leaning towards "may not" at the moment, but that could change.
Chris shows up at his door at one o'hell in the morning in the middle of a fucking storm, where wind lashes the trees and sends rain flying hard as bullets against the windows. Jimmy wouldn't be surprised if one broke at the onslaught, just cracked and scattered glass all over his ratty carpet, bringing the storm inside to bed down with him. They say politics brings strange bedfellows; Jimmy never thought he'd end up sleeping with something just this side of a hurricane.
Chris clutches at his old Academy t-shirt with dead men's hands, gripping tight like blood and partners and loyalty. "Help me," he whispers. "Jesus, Jimmy, you gotta - you haveta - oh God make them stop, make them stop." He flinches like he's been shot and Jimmy digs his thumbs into his shoulders and drags him in out of the storm, where the wind puls the door shut behind them.
He's soaked to the skin in the few brief moments he's been outside. Chris is cold to the bone, shuddering and shivering with his t-shirt and jeans so wet they might as well be painted on. Jimmy tries not to look at his madman's eyes, but that means his gaze slides away to the purple bruises sunk into skin and bone and the muddy ghosts of handprints on his shirt.
Chris, Chris, what did you do?
The thought flickers briefly through his mind, and Jimmy tries to push it away but it lingers. Chris's face crumples and he steps back against the wall like avoiding a blow.
"Jesus, Chris," Jimmy whispers.
Chris puts his hands to his head. "Oh, God," he gasps. "Make them stop, make them stop, oh God help me - make them stop, oh God -"
Jimmy slids his palms over Chris's shoulders, feels his partner shudder into silence beneath him. "Chris," he says softly. "Chris - Jesus, Chris, look at me. Look -"
"I can't, Jimmy, I can't, I -" His eyes are screwed tightly shut, but he reached blindly out for Jimmy and knots his fingers in the damp fabric of his shirt. "Oh God help me, make them stop, make them go away, Jimmy please -"
There is a hint of alcohol clinging to his clothes, but he isn't drunk. Jimmy has seen Chris drunk before and this, this blind terrified <(insanity) paranoia, isn't it.
Chris's mouth moves in words Jimmy can't hear, then the storm abates for a moment and his words are clear. "Oh God, oh God, help me, God help me, Jimmy please, make them stop, make them stop, make them stop, Jimmy I can't, I -"
Jimmy digs his fingers sharper into Chris's shoulders than he means. "What? What, Chris? Tell me, so I can help you."
Chris shivers into silence and leans his head forward against Jimmy's collarbone. "God help me, Jimmy," he whispers. "God help me."
"Who hurt you?" Jimmy demands. My partner who hurt my partner don't you fucking touch my partner I -
I'll kill you.
Chris shakes his head against his shoulder. "Don't know, Jimmy, I -" He flinches again, like he's been struck. "Make them stop."
It's a plea, and Jimmy can't do anything about. The realization gnaws at him like cancer. I can't help my partner. Too often.
I can't help my partner.
He remembers Mac, remembers before a kiss, the slant of his mouth, the feel of him in the night, at his back on patrol. Remembers his first partner, his best partner, the man who taught him to be a cop.
Mac. God, Mac.
Remembers. Remembers the shots and the blood and the perp and Cahill yelling, "He's not fucking dead till I say he's dead!" at the paramedics.
My partner. God, can't help him, can't help my partner, can't -
On the other hand, original fic, from that homicide team in Boston, who may or may not be CSIs. I'm actually leaning towards "may not" at the moment, but that could change.
Chris shows up at his door at one o'hell in the morning in the middle of a fucking storm, where wind lashes the trees and sends rain flying hard as bullets against the windows. Jimmy wouldn't be surprised if one broke at the onslaught, just cracked and scattered glass all over his ratty carpet, bringing the storm inside to bed down with him. They say politics brings strange bedfellows; Jimmy never thought he'd end up sleeping with something just this side of a hurricane.
Chris clutches at his old Academy t-shirt with dead men's hands, gripping tight like blood and partners and loyalty. "Help me," he whispers. "Jesus, Jimmy, you gotta - you haveta - oh God make them stop, make them stop." He flinches like he's been shot and Jimmy digs his thumbs into his shoulders and drags him in out of the storm, where the wind puls the door shut behind them.
He's soaked to the skin in the few brief moments he's been outside. Chris is cold to the bone, shuddering and shivering with his t-shirt and jeans so wet they might as well be painted on. Jimmy tries not to look at his madman's eyes, but that means his gaze slides away to the purple bruises sunk into skin and bone and the muddy ghosts of handprints on his shirt.
Chris, Chris, what did you do?
The thought flickers briefly through his mind, and Jimmy tries to push it away but it lingers. Chris's face crumples and he steps back against the wall like avoiding a blow.
"Jesus, Chris," Jimmy whispers.
Chris puts his hands to his head. "Oh, God," he gasps. "Make them stop, make them stop, oh God help me - make them stop, oh God -"
Jimmy slids his palms over Chris's shoulders, feels his partner shudder into silence beneath him. "Chris," he says softly. "Chris - Jesus, Chris, look at me. Look -"
"I can't, Jimmy, I can't, I -" His eyes are screwed tightly shut, but he reached blindly out for Jimmy and knots his fingers in the damp fabric of his shirt. "Oh God help me, make them stop, make them go away, Jimmy please -"
There is a hint of alcohol clinging to his clothes, but he isn't drunk. Jimmy has seen Chris drunk before and this, this blind terrified <(insanity) paranoia, isn't it.
Chris's mouth moves in words Jimmy can't hear, then the storm abates for a moment and his words are clear. "Oh God, oh God, help me, God help me, Jimmy please, make them stop, make them stop, make them stop, Jimmy I can't, I -"
Jimmy digs his fingers sharper into Chris's shoulders than he means. "What? What, Chris? Tell me, so I can help you."
Chris shivers into silence and leans his head forward against Jimmy's collarbone. "God help me, Jimmy," he whispers. "God help me."
"Who hurt you?" Jimmy demands. My partner who hurt my partner don't you fucking touch my partner I -
I'll kill you.
Chris shakes his head against his shoulder. "Don't know, Jimmy, I -" He flinches again, like he's been struck. "Make them stop."
It's a plea, and Jimmy can't do anything about. The realization gnaws at him like cancer. I can't help my partner. Too often.
I can't help my partner.
He remembers Mac, remembers before a kiss, the slant of his mouth, the feel of him in the night, at his back on patrol. Remembers his first partner, his best partner, the man who taught him to be a cop.
Mac. God, Mac.
Remembers. Remembers the shots and the blood and the perp and Cahill yelling, "He's not fucking dead till I say he's dead!" at the paramedics.
My partner. God, can't help him, can't help my partner, can't -
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-16 02:30 am (UTC)*snorfle* I did see that. And dude, she really does have no idea. Did I ever mention that if I had a crime procedural set in Boston, I'd have a murder at the wedding dress sale at Filene's Basement. Hundreds of women eager for a bargain on a dress-- now *there's* a place to hide a crime.
*arches eyebrows* Duly noted. If Chris can ever get his head away from the crazy. Why is it I can come up with cases for the CSIs and not for my originals?
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-16 02:41 am (UTC)Even Mac likes Mac's office. Leave the man his goddamn fishbowl, people.
Duly noted. If Chris can ever get his head away from the crazy. Why is it I can come up with cases for the CSIs and not for my originals?
Apparently the sale is an annual event. And I don't understand the appeal (that'd be the Y chromosome kicking in) exactly, but apparently designer gowns for low prices = large crowds waiting at doors, which have been broken in the past. And they come in and *strip* the racks like a school of piranha. It's been clocked at 36 seconds. That'd be Chris putting his head *in* the crazy, I think, or maybe a different kind of crazy.