CSI:NY fic: AU: "Winter City"
Jun. 9th, 2006 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardSuperhero AU, indeterminate time period, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stellaluna_. Cut tag is from Carol O'Connell's novel Killing Critics.
Gavin Moran had the click of the woman’s heels and the scent of her perfume embedded in his mind long before he saw her. When she did reach his desk, he didn’t bother looking up.
“I’m looking for Donald Flack.”
“He’s dead.” Gavin set the report aside and picked up the next one.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I think we might be talking about two different people. I’m looking for Detective Donald Flack.”
“He’s out.”
“When will he be back?”
“When hell freezes over.” Dead on arrival, he wrote. Medical examiner pronounced cause of death – “He’s on indefinite leave.”
There was a long pause where Gavin kept writing, then the woman said, “Could I have his phone number, please?”
Gavin put his pen down to dig one of Flack’s business cards out of his desk. “It won’t help,” he said, finally seeing the strong lines of her face and the tumble of chocolate brown curls “He keeps disconnecting his phone.”
She kept her hand held out. “I’ll take that chance.”
Gavin kept the card held back. “I’m not going to give you my old partner’s kid’s number on a whim, lady.”
She palmed a gold detective’s badge. “I’m NYPD,” she said. “And that’s all you need to know. The card, please.”
Gavin held out the card reluctantly. She took it from him with two fingers, and he swore he saw the paper of the card brown slightly where she touched it. “Good luck finding him,” he said.
“This isn’t his address?”
“It’s the precinct’s.” Gavin sat back in his chair, watching her. She was beautiful, he’d give her that, but cold.
The woman put the card facedown on his desk. “Give me his address.”
“What do you want with him?”
“That’s department business.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I want Detective Flack’s address, or I’ll find it in the system.”
“Unless you’ve got a real skill with card catalogs, that’s easier said than done.”
She leaned forward. “I’m not going to hurt him,” she said, “and I might even help him. But I can’t do that unless you help me.”
Gavin held her gaze for a moment, then dropped his head to scribble an address and an apartment number on the back of Flack’s business card. “If you hurt him,” he said as she took it, “I will ruin you.”
“I’ll take that chance,” the woman said again, and turned to leave.
-
-
Don Flack sat on an unmade bed in an uncleaned apartment with a gun in his hand. It was a loaded gun, but a gun loaded with only one bullet clicked into the third chamber. Every so often he’d unload and reload the revolver, the movements sure and mechanical. The detective was hollow-eyed and hollow-faced, unshaven and disheveled, bearing very little resemblance to the grinning young man in the NYPD uniform in the picture facedown on the nightstand.
If he heard the steps in the hall, he showed no sign of it, not even when a key scraped in the lock and the door opened.
“Detective Flack?”
No reply.
“My name is Stella Bonasera. I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Meta Crimes Unit.” She waited for a reply, but when none came, continued. “We’d like you to consider joining the MCU.”
Flack’s fingers caressed the gun in his hand. Air fluttered loosely around him and the feathers that littered the floor stirred slightly.
Stella saw the picture on the nightstand – not the fallen one, but the one with the broken frame covering the picture of Flack and his father, both in their dress blues. “I’m very sorry for the loss of your father.”
Silence.
“I’ll leave you my card,” Stella said. There was a rasp of paper on wood, and several white feathers flurried briefly up from the table by the door. “You can find me or my partners and the address here. Thank you for your time.”
She locked the door behind her. Flack didn’t move.
-
-
Danny started the car as Stella stepped inside, shaking snow off her shoes. “So’re the rumors true?” he asked.
“What rumors?”
“The ones that the Old Man’s kid is cracking up.” Lieutenant Donald Flack, Senior, had been “Old Man” to every officer and detective on the force, even to his own son.
“He’s very unstable at the moment,” Stella said neutrally.
“So he is cracking up.”
“He’s been through a lot of stress.”
“The Old Man died a year and a half ago, Stella. The average person is, you know, over it by now. You sure Flack’s the kinda detective you want in the MCU?”
“Mac is,” Stella said, wincing as Danny pulled away from the curb. A passing horse reared back, prancing and neighing, breath misting in the frosty winter air. The rider swore. “And I trust Mac’s judgment.”
“That makes one of us.” He swerved widely, skidding on the icy cobblestones and scaring pedestrians back to the shelter of the looming brownstones. Horses and other cars dove out of the way. “I don’t.”
stellaluna_. Cut tag is from Carol O'Connell's novel Killing Critics.Gavin Moran had the click of the woman’s heels and the scent of her perfume embedded in his mind long before he saw her. When she did reach his desk, he didn’t bother looking up.
“I’m looking for Donald Flack.”
“He’s dead.” Gavin set the report aside and picked up the next one.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I think we might be talking about two different people. I’m looking for Detective Donald Flack.”
“He’s out.”
“When will he be back?”
“When hell freezes over.” Dead on arrival, he wrote. Medical examiner pronounced cause of death – “He’s on indefinite leave.”
There was a long pause where Gavin kept writing, then the woman said, “Could I have his phone number, please?”
Gavin put his pen down to dig one of Flack’s business cards out of his desk. “It won’t help,” he said, finally seeing the strong lines of her face and the tumble of chocolate brown curls “He keeps disconnecting his phone.”
She kept her hand held out. “I’ll take that chance.”
Gavin kept the card held back. “I’m not going to give you my old partner’s kid’s number on a whim, lady.”
She palmed a gold detective’s badge. “I’m NYPD,” she said. “And that’s all you need to know. The card, please.”
Gavin held out the card reluctantly. She took it from him with two fingers, and he swore he saw the paper of the card brown slightly where she touched it. “Good luck finding him,” he said.
“This isn’t his address?”
“It’s the precinct’s.” Gavin sat back in his chair, watching her. She was beautiful, he’d give her that, but cold.
The woman put the card facedown on his desk. “Give me his address.”
“What do you want with him?”
“That’s department business.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I want Detective Flack’s address, or I’ll find it in the system.”
“Unless you’ve got a real skill with card catalogs, that’s easier said than done.”
She leaned forward. “I’m not going to hurt him,” she said, “and I might even help him. But I can’t do that unless you help me.”
Gavin held her gaze for a moment, then dropped his head to scribble an address and an apartment number on the back of Flack’s business card. “If you hurt him,” he said as she took it, “I will ruin you.”
“I’ll take that chance,” the woman said again, and turned to leave.
-
-
Don Flack sat on an unmade bed in an uncleaned apartment with a gun in his hand. It was a loaded gun, but a gun loaded with only one bullet clicked into the third chamber. Every so often he’d unload and reload the revolver, the movements sure and mechanical. The detective was hollow-eyed and hollow-faced, unshaven and disheveled, bearing very little resemblance to the grinning young man in the NYPD uniform in the picture facedown on the nightstand.
If he heard the steps in the hall, he showed no sign of it, not even when a key scraped in the lock and the door opened.
“Detective Flack?”
No reply.
“My name is Stella Bonasera. I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Meta Crimes Unit.” She waited for a reply, but when none came, continued. “We’d like you to consider joining the MCU.”
Flack’s fingers caressed the gun in his hand. Air fluttered loosely around him and the feathers that littered the floor stirred slightly.
Stella saw the picture on the nightstand – not the fallen one, but the one with the broken frame covering the picture of Flack and his father, both in their dress blues. “I’m very sorry for the loss of your father.”
Silence.
“I’ll leave you my card,” Stella said. There was a rasp of paper on wood, and several white feathers flurried briefly up from the table by the door. “You can find me or my partners and the address here. Thank you for your time.”
She locked the door behind her. Flack didn’t move.
-
-
Danny started the car as Stella stepped inside, shaking snow off her shoes. “So’re the rumors true?” he asked.
“What rumors?”
“The ones that the Old Man’s kid is cracking up.” Lieutenant Donald Flack, Senior, had been “Old Man” to every officer and detective on the force, even to his own son.
“He’s very unstable at the moment,” Stella said neutrally.
“So he is cracking up.”
“He’s been through a lot of stress.”
“The Old Man died a year and a half ago, Stella. The average person is, you know, over it by now. You sure Flack’s the kinda detective you want in the MCU?”
“Mac is,” Stella said, wincing as Danny pulled away from the curb. A passing horse reared back, prancing and neighing, breath misting in the frosty winter air. The rider swore. “And I trust Mac’s judgment.”
“That makes one of us.” He swerved widely, skidding on the icy cobblestones and scaring pedestrians back to the shelter of the looming brownstones. Horses and other cars dove out of the way. “I don’t.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-10 06:06 am (UTC)And I like the little hints of what this world might be like, too, like the horses and cars seeming to co-exist as regular methods of transportation.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 12:57 am (UTC)And I have the random urge to make the city a character. Stop me, please.