Habeus Corpus and Bloody Friday
Aug. 25th, 2005 03:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardFor those that don't remember, Habeus Corpus is the story after Omerta, and Bloody Friday is the one after that. You know how Mac's been sort of semi-stable through Omerta? Well, Habeus Corpus and Bloody Friday are going to send him spiraling downward until he's in a very bad place, where he's walking a knife edge between going too far and not going far enough, and where Bad Things are happening all around the lab. You know how Danny lost his shit in "Crime and Misdemeanor" over the silver guy? Well, that's sort of what happens to Mac in Habeus Corpus. Except worse. And now that Omerta's winding down, a tiny bit of promo for Habeus Corpus:
The crime scene's secure. The perp's in custody. The only thing they're missing...is the body.
And because people were asking, the Mac/Stella from Bloody Friday, which isn't actually M/S yet, but I have to warn you: BIG FREAKING SPOILERS FOR BLOODY FRIDAY!
NO, REALLY, THEY'RE HUGE.
YOU PROBABLY WANT TO TURN BACK NOW.
Still here? Well, on that hand...
Background: It's November/December, they're in the skyscraper lab, Hawkes and Lindsay Monroe are working as CSIs, e.g. everything went off as we've been expecting it to for the new season, only a little behind schedule.
Oh. And nothing ends well in this universe.
When she finally left the hospital it was late, and she left because the whitewashed walls held nothing but pain and fear, sending shivers of unhappy memory in waves down her back until she wanted nothing more than to scream. She couldn’t do anything; this was a battle she couldn’t fight, and the realization gnawed at her like acid. It wasn’t until she stopped at a liquor store on her way to Mac’s that she followed the cashier’s gaze down to her hands and saw the dried blood flaking away, caked under her fingernails and in the grain of her fingertips. Aiden’s blood, or Danny’s. It was one and the same to the naked eye, away from the black and white of DNA and A and B and O, and she stared down at her bloody hands until the cashier coughed and she began leafing through her wallet.
Mac had given her a key to his apartment complex months ago; Stella fit it into the lock and hit the up button next to the elevator, standing for a moment with one hand on her gun and clenched around the bottles of bourbon in the brown paper bag she’d been given. Then her patience ended and she swung away toward the stairs, ignoring the looks the college-aged couple that had just come out of the elevator were giving her. She didn’t think she could hold still, not even for the minute and a half it would take the elevator to get her to Mac’s floor. She’d taken a department vehicle for that very reason; if she’d taken the train she would have snapped and killed something from the endless waiting. Too much waiting; it was all she’d done since she’d woken up. Waited for results, waited for Tom Mallory to take the knife away from Aiden’s throat, waited for the ambulance with her hands wrist-deep in Danny’s blood, waited for Danny to come out of surgery.
cursed building
my sister is dead
She didn’t bother with the doorbell, just banged on the door with her fist until she heard Mac’s voice. “Go away,” he snapped, syllables thick with Chicago laced through them, as if she’d stepped out of New York and into Illinois.
“Mac, open this fucking door or I’ll open it myself,” she snarled, and slammed her palm against it for emphasis.
There was no response. She shoved the second key into the lock and twisted viciously, bulling it open with her shoulder and the kick of one high-heeled foot. “It’s Stella,” she announced, just in case he came at her with a gun. She wouldn’t put it past him; she’d do the same thing.
There was a long pause, and then he said, “I’m in the kitchen.” Another pause, as she relocked the door and made her way down the hall, then he added, “Is Danny –”
“Still in surgery,” she said, turning into the kitchen. Mac was sitting at the battered wood table there, a bottle of Stolichnaya and an assortment of shot glasses in front of him. Decorative ones, mostly, not meant for actual drinking, a few with chips around the rim. Not the sort of thing she’d expected Mac to own, but she remembered what he’d said the last time she’d been over, about a lot of the furniture and cutlery and various accoutrements coming from the previous owner. I didn’t bring anything over from Manhattan, he’d said. Everything reminded me of Claire. I don’t have anything from before – He’d stopped then, face suddenly exhausted, and Stella had slid a hand over his. Didn’t say anything; there had been nothing to say.
Stella swallowed past the lump in her throat. “The doctors aren’t telling us anything,” she said. “Flack’s still there, and Val Constantine and Carmine d’Alessandro, and some Narco sergeant named Messer. I think he’s a brother. I don’t know where Hawkes and Lindsay went.”
“They’re back at the lab,” Mac said. He tossed back a thimbleful of Stoli. “It’s a crime scene now, and they’re CSIs. Since they haven’t worked there as long, they’re not as ‘emotionally compromised’ as you and I are.” He poured himself more vodka, and a little splashed over the sides and onto the table. “What about –”
“She’s at the morgue,” Stella said, suddenly exhausted. She regarded him for a moment, the normally impeccable NYPD detective now exhausted and disheveled, bags under his eyes, his tie wrinkled, his suit jacket nowhere in sight, his dress shirt with the bloodstained sleeves rolled up and dark splotches of blood staining the white fabric. He hadn’t changed it; maybe he hadn’t had a chance. They’d shuttled him away as soon as the ambulances had left, sirens screaming, to meet with panicked NYPD brass demanding to know how a criminal had managed to get close enough to a detective to take her gun and shoot her partner, then cut her throat, and wasn’t there something he could have done to stop the crime taking place in front of his eyes, in their own building? Crime wasn’t supposed to come to them, they were supposed to go to crime, or preferably stay as far away from it as possible. Stella swallowed back an ill-humored laugh. Maybe it would do the brass some good to realize that their ivory tower wasn’t as impregnable as they’d thought. Then the grief bit down on the humor, fierce, angry murmurings demanding why the hell did it have to come at the cost of one of ours, goddamnit? Why couldn’t that bastard Mallory take someone from some other division captive? Why us?
Chin trembling slightly – she’d held dead flesh and bone often enough, but never one of her friends – she stepped away from the door, holding the bag of liquor up. “You shouldn’t be drinking by yourself,” she said, as the bourbon clinked and splashed in her hands
Mac tilted his glass at the chair next to him. “I fucked up,” he said, as she dropped down into a seat. He repeated the words as Stella picked up the Stolichnaya and wafted it under her nose, shaking his head. “I fucked up.”
“What the hell do you think you could have done?” she demanded, capping the vodka and moving it down to the other end of the table. “The guy was crazy, he –”
“I should have moved faster,” Mac said, looking faintly bemused as Stella pried the cap of the Mount Gay off with her teeth and took a swig straight from the bottle. It burned going down, and she licked away residual rum from her lips before offering the bottle to Mac. “I shouldn’t have tried to negotiate with him.” He didn’t bothering pouring it into one of the shot glasses, just tilted the bottle back and drank, throat working silently.
“Bullshit,” Stella said, taking the bottle back. She swallowed before drinking, then said, “You did everything you could, the best you could. Mallory still –” She stopped, drank more to try and burn away the snapshots caught forever in front of her eyes.
Mac waited for her to finish before reaching for the bottle. “If we’d still been in the old lab, this wouldn’t – wouldn’t have – Ai – she wouldn’t be –” He shook his head, said very carefully, “This wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have accepted –”
“You never had a fucking choice in the manner,” Stella snapped, more forcefully than she meant. She rubbed furiously at her hands; dried blood flaked away and floated down to Mac’s table. “If you hadn’t done what you did, moved when you did, Danny might be dead right now, and we’d be digging two graves instead of one.”
“And that makes it any better?” he demanded, stricken. “One of my people – one of my detectives – is dead, in front of my eyes, beneath my hands, because of a decision the brass made. No matter what I did or didn’t do, what I did or should have done, if we’d still been in the old lab this wouldn’t have happened! If we’d still been in the old lab – if Hawkes hadn’t switched from the ME’s office to the Crime Lab – if Lindsay hadn’t transferred from Montana – it might have been me and you in that elevator, Stella, and it might have been you with that knife to your throat. Can you deny that?” He stood the bourbon almost straight up to drink.
“None of that happened, though,” Stella said. She repeated it. “None of that happened. We can’t – change that. That didn’t happen. What happened happened, and we – we –” Aiden, with the gash cutting a bloody smile across her throat. Danny in the elevator, blood pooling around him as he dragged himself upright with the gun shaking in his hand. Blood. So much blood. How could one human body – how could two human bodies – hold so much blood? How could he be alive, and she dead? Why hadn’t it been her and Mac in that elevator? Or Hawkes and Lindsay? Or Flack? What trick of fate had it been that put Danny and Aiden there, in that moment, with Tom Mallory and his homicidal intentions?
cop-killer
you killed my sister
The crime scene's secure. The perp's in custody. The only thing they're missing...is the body.
And because people were asking, the Mac/Stella from Bloody Friday, which isn't actually M/S yet, but I have to warn you: BIG FREAKING SPOILERS FOR BLOODY FRIDAY!
NO, REALLY, THEY'RE HUGE.
YOU PROBABLY WANT TO TURN BACK NOW.
Still here? Well, on that hand...
Background: It's November/December, they're in the skyscraper lab, Hawkes and Lindsay Monroe are working as CSIs, e.g. everything went off as we've been expecting it to for the new season, only a little behind schedule.
Oh. And nothing ends well in this universe.
When she finally left the hospital it was late, and she left because the whitewashed walls held nothing but pain and fear, sending shivers of unhappy memory in waves down her back until she wanted nothing more than to scream. She couldn’t do anything; this was a battle she couldn’t fight, and the realization gnawed at her like acid. It wasn’t until she stopped at a liquor store on her way to Mac’s that she followed the cashier’s gaze down to her hands and saw the dried blood flaking away, caked under her fingernails and in the grain of her fingertips. Aiden’s blood, or Danny’s. It was one and the same to the naked eye, away from the black and white of DNA and A and B and O, and she stared down at her bloody hands until the cashier coughed and she began leafing through her wallet.
Mac had given her a key to his apartment complex months ago; Stella fit it into the lock and hit the up button next to the elevator, standing for a moment with one hand on her gun and clenched around the bottles of bourbon in the brown paper bag she’d been given. Then her patience ended and she swung away toward the stairs, ignoring the looks the college-aged couple that had just come out of the elevator were giving her. She didn’t think she could hold still, not even for the minute and a half it would take the elevator to get her to Mac’s floor. She’d taken a department vehicle for that very reason; if she’d taken the train she would have snapped and killed something from the endless waiting. Too much waiting; it was all she’d done since she’d woken up. Waited for results, waited for Tom Mallory to take the knife away from Aiden’s throat, waited for the ambulance with her hands wrist-deep in Danny’s blood, waited for Danny to come out of surgery.
cursed building
my sister is dead
She didn’t bother with the doorbell, just banged on the door with her fist until she heard Mac’s voice. “Go away,” he snapped, syllables thick with Chicago laced through them, as if she’d stepped out of New York and into Illinois.
“Mac, open this fucking door or I’ll open it myself,” she snarled, and slammed her palm against it for emphasis.
There was no response. She shoved the second key into the lock and twisted viciously, bulling it open with her shoulder and the kick of one high-heeled foot. “It’s Stella,” she announced, just in case he came at her with a gun. She wouldn’t put it past him; she’d do the same thing.
There was a long pause, and then he said, “I’m in the kitchen.” Another pause, as she relocked the door and made her way down the hall, then he added, “Is Danny –”
“Still in surgery,” she said, turning into the kitchen. Mac was sitting at the battered wood table there, a bottle of Stolichnaya and an assortment of shot glasses in front of him. Decorative ones, mostly, not meant for actual drinking, a few with chips around the rim. Not the sort of thing she’d expected Mac to own, but she remembered what he’d said the last time she’d been over, about a lot of the furniture and cutlery and various accoutrements coming from the previous owner. I didn’t bring anything over from Manhattan, he’d said. Everything reminded me of Claire. I don’t have anything from before – He’d stopped then, face suddenly exhausted, and Stella had slid a hand over his. Didn’t say anything; there had been nothing to say.
Stella swallowed past the lump in her throat. “The doctors aren’t telling us anything,” she said. “Flack’s still there, and Val Constantine and Carmine d’Alessandro, and some Narco sergeant named Messer. I think he’s a brother. I don’t know where Hawkes and Lindsay went.”
“They’re back at the lab,” Mac said. He tossed back a thimbleful of Stoli. “It’s a crime scene now, and they’re CSIs. Since they haven’t worked there as long, they’re not as ‘emotionally compromised’ as you and I are.” He poured himself more vodka, and a little splashed over the sides and onto the table. “What about –”
“She’s at the morgue,” Stella said, suddenly exhausted. She regarded him for a moment, the normally impeccable NYPD detective now exhausted and disheveled, bags under his eyes, his tie wrinkled, his suit jacket nowhere in sight, his dress shirt with the bloodstained sleeves rolled up and dark splotches of blood staining the white fabric. He hadn’t changed it; maybe he hadn’t had a chance. They’d shuttled him away as soon as the ambulances had left, sirens screaming, to meet with panicked NYPD brass demanding to know how a criminal had managed to get close enough to a detective to take her gun and shoot her partner, then cut her throat, and wasn’t there something he could have done to stop the crime taking place in front of his eyes, in their own building? Crime wasn’t supposed to come to them, they were supposed to go to crime, or preferably stay as far away from it as possible. Stella swallowed back an ill-humored laugh. Maybe it would do the brass some good to realize that their ivory tower wasn’t as impregnable as they’d thought. Then the grief bit down on the humor, fierce, angry murmurings demanding why the hell did it have to come at the cost of one of ours, goddamnit? Why couldn’t that bastard Mallory take someone from some other division captive? Why us?
Chin trembling slightly – she’d held dead flesh and bone often enough, but never one of her friends – she stepped away from the door, holding the bag of liquor up. “You shouldn’t be drinking by yourself,” she said, as the bourbon clinked and splashed in her hands
Mac tilted his glass at the chair next to him. “I fucked up,” he said, as she dropped down into a seat. He repeated the words as Stella picked up the Stolichnaya and wafted it under her nose, shaking his head. “I fucked up.”
“What the hell do you think you could have done?” she demanded, capping the vodka and moving it down to the other end of the table. “The guy was crazy, he –”
“I should have moved faster,” Mac said, looking faintly bemused as Stella pried the cap of the Mount Gay off with her teeth and took a swig straight from the bottle. It burned going down, and she licked away residual rum from her lips before offering the bottle to Mac. “I shouldn’t have tried to negotiate with him.” He didn’t bothering pouring it into one of the shot glasses, just tilted the bottle back and drank, throat working silently.
“Bullshit,” Stella said, taking the bottle back. She swallowed before drinking, then said, “You did everything you could, the best you could. Mallory still –” She stopped, drank more to try and burn away the snapshots caught forever in front of her eyes.
Mac waited for her to finish before reaching for the bottle. “If we’d still been in the old lab, this wouldn’t – wouldn’t have – Ai – she wouldn’t be –” He shook his head, said very carefully, “This wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have accepted –”
“You never had a fucking choice in the manner,” Stella snapped, more forcefully than she meant. She rubbed furiously at her hands; dried blood flaked away and floated down to Mac’s table. “If you hadn’t done what you did, moved when you did, Danny might be dead right now, and we’d be digging two graves instead of one.”
“And that makes it any better?” he demanded, stricken. “One of my people – one of my detectives – is dead, in front of my eyes, beneath my hands, because of a decision the brass made. No matter what I did or didn’t do, what I did or should have done, if we’d still been in the old lab this wouldn’t have happened! If we’d still been in the old lab – if Hawkes hadn’t switched from the ME’s office to the Crime Lab – if Lindsay hadn’t transferred from Montana – it might have been me and you in that elevator, Stella, and it might have been you with that knife to your throat. Can you deny that?” He stood the bourbon almost straight up to drink.
“None of that happened, though,” Stella said. She repeated it. “None of that happened. We can’t – change that. That didn’t happen. What happened happened, and we – we –” Aiden, with the gash cutting a bloody smile across her throat. Danny in the elevator, blood pooling around him as he dragged himself upright with the gun shaking in his hand. Blood. So much blood. How could one human body – how could two human bodies – hold so much blood? How could he be alive, and she dead? Why hadn’t it been her and Mac in that elevator? Or Hawkes and Lindsay? Or Flack? What trick of fate had it been that put Danny and Aiden there, in that moment, with Tom Mallory and his homicidal intentions?
cop-killer
you killed my sister
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-25 11:59 pm (UTC)We can only hope that CBS's plot line is as good as yours but somehow I doubt it. They seem to be obsessed with "Brightening Up CSI NY" they obviously haven't heard of the phrase "If it ain't broke dont fix it." I'd love to fix them....
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-26 10:56 pm (UTC)See, my problem with CBS' "Bring Daylight To The Streets Of New York!" agenda is this: you want bright lights, go to Vegas. You want sunshine, go to Miami. This is New York, my friend, a city born as much of blood and bone as mortar and stone. There's light enough, but it's the shadows where the danger and the mystery lie.
Plus, we'll see in Bloody Friday how the whole "move to a skyscraper" thing doesn't work out, at least in the Snafu-verse.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-26 04:12 am (UTC)And just the flatness of Stella's statement: She's at the morgue. That brings it all home, really, the ongoing crawling horror of it.
on a shallow note, Mac and I appear to prefer the same brand of vodka.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-26 11:53 pm (UTC)If CBS is going to screw with my show, I'll screw with it right back, only my way, in my universe. *sheepish grin* The death scene - the death scene should actually be really cool, in a macabre sort of way, because it happens pretty much right in the center of the new lab, so everyone sees it. So everyone gets the guilt, the "what if?" that lingers.
Hmm. I should write the death scene, just to get it out of my head.
And just the flatness of Stella's statement: She's at the morgue. That brings it all home, really, the ongoing crawling horror of it.
Crawling horror is right. It hasn't really hit home yet, just what happened, because it's been - hmm, trying to keep Danny alive on Stella and everybody else's part, but it's just starting to hit. Aiden is dead, and not coming back, and the Crime Lab has been changed forever.
on a shallow note, Mac and I appear to prefer the same brand of vodka.
Good taste. *nods*