Fic post - Strings
Title: Strings
Fandom: CSI
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Sequel to Curtain Call. Nick likes the feel of smooth, freshly-sanded wood, when it still leaves a bit of dust on his fingers and smells like his grandfather’s workshop.
A/N: How is it that we never heard of this hobby of Nick’s outside of Stalker? Honestly.
Nick likes the feel of smooth, freshly-sanded wood, when it still leaves a bit of dust on his fingers and smells like his grandfather’s workshop. He has a small shed out back full of bits of pine in various stages of carving. Some will never be finished. Some are almost done. The air in here is thick with sawdust, and when the sun shines through the windows, you can see bits of it sifting their way slowly to the ground. He’s spent a lot of time here lately. A lot of idle hours to fill.
That other workshop, his grandfather’s, was much larger. For a little boy, it was a wonderland of curls of wood, tiny springs and screws, and other Tom-Sawyer-type treasures that Nick’s mother used to fish out of his pockets and the bottom of the washing machine. It was something out of the past, like the old man himself. The faded yellow cuckoo always seemed a little surprised to find itself chiming the same hours as atomic clocks.
That old clock broke about eight years ago, and Nick doesn’t know how to make it run again; that was something his grandfather never got around to teaching him. It would sound weird alongside his cell phone anyway.
His phone rings, an alarm, not an incoming call. He’s not getting that many calls these days. The alarm was set to go off when night shift ended because Sara said she’d be over after work. Ever since that first morning, a week ago now, she’s been spending more time at Nick’s place than at her own. Nick knows that sooner or later, she’s going to stop coming. Some afternoon, it’s going to be “see you later,” instead of “see you tomorrow,” when she leaves. Some day, she’s going to want her own space. He doesn’t know when that will be, and he doesn’t bring it up, because he doesn’t really want to know. For now, he’s grateful that she doesn’t leave him alone.
She pulls up close to two hours after the end of her shift. Nick’s not especially surprised; it’s hardly uncommon for Sara to work late, and, judging by the morning news, it’s been a busy night.
The scent of lemons and Sara’s still-damp hair tell Nick what she’s been up to. “Been working a decomp?”
She grimaces. “Out near Red Rock. Body’d been in the trunk of a car since April. I figured you’d rather I showered.”
“Yeah, I appreciate it.” He can’t imagine she’d have an appetite after a case like that, but he offers her breakfast anyway and gets a glare.
“Could you eat after your last decomp?”
He knows how the odor of of decomposing flesh lingers in the nostrils, even when the rest of the world can’t smell it. Just thinking about it takes away Nick’s appetite too. “How ‘bout a drink, then?”
“Sure.”
He steps into a patch of sunlight when he hands her the glass and Sara pauses, then reaches up to brush a hand across his shoulder.
“What?”
She shows him her fingers. “Nick, when you start to gather dust, you know it’s time to get out more.”
Of course his dark shirt would show it. “Look who’s talking. And it’s sawdust.”
Sara glances around the living room. “Renovating?”
“No,” Nick glances out the window, at the shed. Aside from the electrician who put in the wiring, no one but Nick has been in there since he bought the house, and it’s more than a bit of a mess, more than a bit private. He looks back at Sara, who’s still waiting for him to tell her about the sawdust. He could make up some excuse, or just move on without explaining, but he surprises himself by saying, “c’mon, I’ll show you.”
He leads her out back, unlocks the shed while Sara watches him curiously. “What’s this, a workshop?”
“Yeah.” Nick takes a deep breath before opening the door and standing aside to let Sara in. “Don’t mind the mess.”
She looks around at the assortment of works-in-progress: a set of letters spelling out TESSA for his nine-year-old niece’s bedroom door; a small keepsake box waiting for a second coat of varnish; a spinning top, trickier to make than it looks because it has to be balanced; a bird that was meant to be a bittern, but became a heron when its neck ended up too long; the marionette he’s been working on for the past few nights. “You made all these.”
He nods and Sara picks up the heron, runs a finger over its back. “Nick, these are beautiful. I didn’t know you could do this.”
Nick shrugs, hoping he’s far enough in the shadows that she can’t see his face redden. “Yeah, my grandpa used to -“ he indicates the workbench where the marionette lies, arms not yet attached.
She replaces the heron and examines the unfinished toy. “Is this a puppet?”
“I found instructions for them online.” He has to climb on a stepstool to reach the finished one. “They’re pretty simple as far as puppets go, but they work.”
Sara grins when Nick makes the little wooden man walk jerkily across the workbench and applauds laughingly as the puppet bows. “Your sister’s kids must love to see you coming.”
“Here,” he hands her the control while he gets down from the stool and Sara takes it tentatively. “No, like this,” he positions her fingers around the bars, “these are for his hands, use this one with your other hand for his knees.”
She purses her lips in concentration, the corners of her mouth twitching with the beginnings of a smile. Nick watches, suddenly struck by the surreality of the idea of Sara, of all people, standing in his workshop playing with a marionette. She must have had more or less the same thought; she glances up and grins self-consciously before going back to the puppet.
“You don’t need to move that much,” he chuckles as the little man appears to have a seizure at Sara’s hands, “here, look.”
He has to stand behind her, watching the puppet over her shoulder, in order to help her hold the controls properly, let her feel the right amount of motion to walk the marionette across the dusty floor, make him wave his hands, nod his head.
Definitely surreal, Nick thinks as the lingering scent of lemons from Sara’s hair mingles with the sawdust. He shows her how to make the marionette do an awkward Can-Can and Sara laughs delightedly. Surreal, but not at all wrong.
Continued here.
Fandom: CSI
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Sequel to Curtain Call. Nick likes the feel of smooth, freshly-sanded wood, when it still leaves a bit of dust on his fingers and smells like his grandfather’s workshop.
A/N: How is it that we never heard of this hobby of Nick’s outside of Stalker? Honestly.
Nick likes the feel of smooth, freshly-sanded wood, when it still leaves a bit of dust on his fingers and smells like his grandfather’s workshop. He has a small shed out back full of bits of pine in various stages of carving. Some will never be finished. Some are almost done. The air in here is thick with sawdust, and when the sun shines through the windows, you can see bits of it sifting their way slowly to the ground. He’s spent a lot of time here lately. A lot of idle hours to fill.
That other workshop, his grandfather’s, was much larger. For a little boy, it was a wonderland of curls of wood, tiny springs and screws, and other Tom-Sawyer-type treasures that Nick’s mother used to fish out of his pockets and the bottom of the washing machine. It was something out of the past, like the old man himself. The faded yellow cuckoo always seemed a little surprised to find itself chiming the same hours as atomic clocks.
That old clock broke about eight years ago, and Nick doesn’t know how to make it run again; that was something his grandfather never got around to teaching him. It would sound weird alongside his cell phone anyway.
His phone rings, an alarm, not an incoming call. He’s not getting that many calls these days. The alarm was set to go off when night shift ended because Sara said she’d be over after work. Ever since that first morning, a week ago now, she’s been spending more time at Nick’s place than at her own. Nick knows that sooner or later, she’s going to stop coming. Some afternoon, it’s going to be “see you later,” instead of “see you tomorrow,” when she leaves. Some day, she’s going to want her own space. He doesn’t know when that will be, and he doesn’t bring it up, because he doesn’t really want to know. For now, he’s grateful that she doesn’t leave him alone.
She pulls up close to two hours after the end of her shift. Nick’s not especially surprised; it’s hardly uncommon for Sara to work late, and, judging by the morning news, it’s been a busy night.
The scent of lemons and Sara’s still-damp hair tell Nick what she’s been up to. “Been working a decomp?”
She grimaces. “Out near Red Rock. Body’d been in the trunk of a car since April. I figured you’d rather I showered.”
“Yeah, I appreciate it.” He can’t imagine she’d have an appetite after a case like that, but he offers her breakfast anyway and gets a glare.
“Could you eat after your last decomp?”
He knows how the odor of of decomposing flesh lingers in the nostrils, even when the rest of the world can’t smell it. Just thinking about it takes away Nick’s appetite too. “How ‘bout a drink, then?”
“Sure.”
He steps into a patch of sunlight when he hands her the glass and Sara pauses, then reaches up to brush a hand across his shoulder.
“What?”
She shows him her fingers. “Nick, when you start to gather dust, you know it’s time to get out more.”
Of course his dark shirt would show it. “Look who’s talking. And it’s sawdust.”
Sara glances around the living room. “Renovating?”
“No,” Nick glances out the window, at the shed. Aside from the electrician who put in the wiring, no one but Nick has been in there since he bought the house, and it’s more than a bit of a mess, more than a bit private. He looks back at Sara, who’s still waiting for him to tell her about the sawdust. He could make up some excuse, or just move on without explaining, but he surprises himself by saying, “c’mon, I’ll show you.”
He leads her out back, unlocks the shed while Sara watches him curiously. “What’s this, a workshop?”
“Yeah.” Nick takes a deep breath before opening the door and standing aside to let Sara in. “Don’t mind the mess.”
She looks around at the assortment of works-in-progress: a set of letters spelling out TESSA for his nine-year-old niece’s bedroom door; a small keepsake box waiting for a second coat of varnish; a spinning top, trickier to make than it looks because it has to be balanced; a bird that was meant to be a bittern, but became a heron when its neck ended up too long; the marionette he’s been working on for the past few nights. “You made all these.”
He nods and Sara picks up the heron, runs a finger over its back. “Nick, these are beautiful. I didn’t know you could do this.”
Nick shrugs, hoping he’s far enough in the shadows that she can’t see his face redden. “Yeah, my grandpa used to -“ he indicates the workbench where the marionette lies, arms not yet attached.
She replaces the heron and examines the unfinished toy. “Is this a puppet?”
“I found instructions for them online.” He has to climb on a stepstool to reach the finished one. “They’re pretty simple as far as puppets go, but they work.”
Sara grins when Nick makes the little wooden man walk jerkily across the workbench and applauds laughingly as the puppet bows. “Your sister’s kids must love to see you coming.”
“Here,” he hands her the control while he gets down from the stool and Sara takes it tentatively. “No, like this,” he positions her fingers around the bars, “these are for his hands, use this one with your other hand for his knees.”
She purses her lips in concentration, the corners of her mouth twitching with the beginnings of a smile. Nick watches, suddenly struck by the surreality of the idea of Sara, of all people, standing in his workshop playing with a marionette. She must have had more or less the same thought; she glances up and grins self-consciously before going back to the puppet.
“You don’t need to move that much,” he chuckles as the little man appears to have a seizure at Sara’s hands, “here, look.”
He has to stand behind her, watching the puppet over her shoulder, in order to help her hold the controls properly, let her feel the right amount of motion to walk the marionette across the dusty floor, make him wave his hands, nod his head.
Definitely surreal, Nick thinks as the lingering scent of lemons from Sara’s hair mingles with the sawdust. He shows her how to make the marionette do an awkward Can-Can and Sara laughs delightedly. Surreal, but not at all wrong.
Continued here.