CSI:Miami fic Blue Fire
Title: Blue Fire
By: Firefox
Disclaimer: Not mine (I wish). No infringement intended, no money made (forward all requests to Fat Chance Department) and litigation will only get you possession of a truly psychotic car and an eye-watering Visa bill.
Characters: Horatio/Speed
Rating: Sorry - I suck at this rating thing, especially when it comes to US ratings. This is very mild stuff - just implied slash,- nothing at all graphic.
Warning: Brit author, so Brit spelling (though I did manage to remember ‘tires’ - impressive, no?)
Lots of spoilers for Dispo Day and a couple for Tinder Box, both of which were guaranteed to fill my slashy li'l mind with ideas!
Oh - and Tim's not dead. No siree. Not here he ain’t. My excuse is that we haven’t seen that episode over here yet.
Not beta’ed, so I am to blame for all mistakes.
_______________________________________
He's seen it so many times he should be used to it by now, but he's not.
He never wants to get used to it. Ever.
He always wants that rush of adrenaline, that almost-physical feeling of something hitting him full-on in the chest like a pile-driver, making his blood sing and his head spin.
And the best part, the part that sits buried and hidden away inside him like a small, sweet, guilty secret, is that Horatio has no idea. No idea of the effect, no conception of the consequences. Horatio is completely unaware and somehow that makes it, oh, so much more potent.
He doesn't have a word for it, not really. There isn't an articulate way of expressing the way it makes him feel, the emotions or the physical reactions it sparks in him, so he's developed his own, private little label for it. Two words that signify a strange alchemy that he is as addicted to as any tweaker is to meth.
Blue fire.
Kind of appropriate really, as it freezes and burns him all at the same time. Pretty creative for someone not known for his forays into the ethereal.
Blue fire.
Normally, Horatio is verging on the terminally cool. The relaxed stance, the slight head tilt, the upward glance from beneath lowered brows. That trademark sunglasses-on-then-hands-on-hips thing he does with such aplomb. The epitome of control.
Horatio can be in the interrogation room, faced with the most deplorable, lying, low-life waste of skin on the planet and he never raises his voice - he never even takes off his jacket. He just leans across the table and you can see it in their eyes. That flash of fear. That look that betrays their thoughts; 'this guy knows I'm lying and any second now he's gonna make me dig my own grave, then smile when I jump in.' Then he smiles that interrogation room smile of his - the one that freezes blood - and you can almost see them shrink.
It's one helluva thing to behold. It's scary. Even if you aren't the suspect.
It's scary and powerful and sexy as hell.
But it isn't blue fire.
There's another side to Horatio, one that appears less often than the professional-investigator-with-a-feral-streak side, one that’s more hidden, more personal.
He's seen that too - rarely, but he has witnessed it. Horatio dealing with a grieving widow, or a victimised child, when another side of his character emerges - a softer side. The voice loses its granite edge and becomes something richer, more mellow. The movements are smaller, more controlled, less powerful. His whole persona seems gentler, and these victims always respond to it - sometimes with tears, sometimes with smiles of understanding, but they always, always respond. It's a side of himself that H seems almost embarrassed about - a facet of his character that perhaps gives more of him away than he would like. These smiles of his are smaller, sweeter, there’s something almost shy about them.
It's fascinating to watch. Intriguing and beguiling and damned attractive.
But it isn't blue fire.
He's seen blue fire and it's one hell of a thing to witness.
It robs him of his powers of speech and makes his heart tap-dance against his ribs like a trapped bird.
It makes every nerve ending burn and contracts his stomach into a tight, expectant knot of desire.
And that's when it's directed at something, or someone, else.
The real kick is when it's directed at him.
He's only been on the receiving end of it twice, and both times he's really thought he was going to die. No shit - both times it's felt like death whispering in his ear and him not giving a damn because Horatio was there - right *there* - and he could feel himself burning and freezing in that awesome, unfathomable whatever-the-hell-it-is, that does this thing to him that he never wants to end.
He remembers that first time, with the acrid stench of blood and gunfire all around him as he lay flat on his back on the wet concrete, the simple act of inhaling impossible, his chest hurting like a sonofabitch.
He remembers fragments of it - a woman screaming, the staccato of machine pistols, dragging Hollis from the cab of the dispo truck, falling flat on his back. That guy standing over him, dressed in black. Staring at the business of one helluva mean-looking gun and the momentary flash of panic when he pulls the trigger of his own weapon and nothing happens. The feeling of total disbelief as the guy aims and fires, straight at him. The sound of screaming tires and a revving bike engine. The world spinning and starting to fade and his only thought is how fucking ironic that he should die from an ambush by a funeral cortege.
Then he hears it. Horatio's voice. Calling his name. It sounds… urgent. He can hear it - Horatio shouting his name. Then he feels something - hands maybe, grasping at his shirt - shit, his chest hurts like hell! Horatio's voice again, lower now, like smoke on velvet, saying; 'hold on brother, hold on…' It sounds… different. Not like Horatio.
There's almost a tinge of panic in it, he thinks, then instantly dismisses such a stupid notion. No way does Mr Terminally-Cool ever, ever panic.
Then he feels a huge exhale ghost over his face, and the voice says; 'the Kevlar caught it… just breathe… the Kevlar caught it.'
And he can hear the relief in the words. He senses movement and suddenly the voice roars, 'Rescue! Get me a rescue, right now!' There's no ignoring that tone - it's urgent and demanding and in total control. It's Horatio's flint-and-steel, in-command voice and only the truly stupid or imminently suicidal ignore it.
He feels something - a cool hand sliding around his neck.
His eyes open, he looks up and all he can see is a sunlit halo of fiery hair and pair of blue eyes that are an identical shade of blue to the Florida sky behind them. And the eyes are looking at him with such intensity that he can't begin to react to how he feels - his emotions threatening to overwhelm him - freezing, burning, suffocating him.
Blue fire.
It was then, that very moment, that he knew.
The memory still makes his heart race, even now.
He knew that the way he felt about Horatio wasn't unrequited, and hadn't gone unnoticed. If he could have drawn a proper breath he would have cheered his lungs out, but he couldn't, he couldn't do a damn thing except lay there flat on his back, gulping in air like a stranded catfish.
It hadn't been easy - not then. Not at first.
Knowing and acting on the knowledge had been two very different things, and his fear of screwing things up in his usual fashion had made him a basket case - a basket case who blamed himself for Hollis' death and who felt mortified by letting down his team and his boss because he didn't have enough sense to clean his gun.
That, all neatly wrapped up in raging lust for that very same boss, and that woman from IAB with the polygraph hadn't really stood a chance.
His stomach still flutters at the thought of it. He's sitting there, wired up to that fuckin' contraption that he's told himself he understands, told himself is just a bullshit piece of techno-science that measures respiration, heart rate, perspiration and blood pressure, and all he can think of is that this thing is somehow going to *know*. It's going to look inside him and see what he feels, and then it's going to tell that hatchet-faced brunette with the snotty voice and the snottier attitude, what a pathetic, miserable excuse for a guy he really is. And then IAB are going to know that he can't sleep nights because he's fallen for his boss, and then Horatio will know and…. oh God.
He rips the wires and tubes and clips and bands from his body and stalks out because getting fired is way better than getting found out.
And none of it had mattered because Horatio had known. It was as if H had looked inside him and read all the anguish and doubt and guilt and bullshit and simply accepted it.
He smiles, remembering his guts churning like a stampede of hippos as he sits in the lab, trying to find the right words to tell his boss, his friend and the man he now knows he simply can't exist without, that he's a loser who has no right to be on this team, and perhaps it would be better if he resigns? He can't look at Horatio, his eyes dart all over the lab, looking everywhere, anywhere, except at H's face.
The response to this selfless act of martyrdom is a low-wattage version of the smile, and a package, which H explains is a 'late birthday gift'.
A gun cleaning kit. As Horatio's hand ghosts over his as he hands over the package, they both know it will never be mentioned again.
Like they both know that this is the beginning.
A beginning that is almost snatched from them by some asshole with a hero-complex and zero understanding of combustion and accelerants.
That was the second time - his second exposure to blue fire aimed straight at him, and his whole body tingles with the memory of it.
His fear had been real that time - no sudden ambush, catching him unawares and thrusting him into the midst of a chaotic set of circumstances where all he can do is react. Not this time. This time it’s up close and personal - the roar of flames and the stench of burning - burning chemicals, burning clothing, burning hair and flesh. And he’s right in the middle of it, trying to think, to act rationally when his brain is screaming at him to flee.
He remembers finding the door, the heat of the push bar scorching his hand so he has to use his shirt sleeve for protection. Eric? Where the hell is Eric? He looks around, trying to focus through the panic and smoke, surrounded by stampeding people, the air full of screams and cries, the floor burning and melting beneath his feet. He makes it outside, gasping in great, greedy breaths of the indescribably wonderful cool, fresh air. The he hears them - the people still inside club Descent, the panic-stricken screams of young men and women who only a few moments ago had been laughing and dancing.
And he knows he has to go back inside. One person has already died because he hasn’t done his job properly, and there was never, ever, going to be another Hollis.
A couple more deep breaths and he runs back into the smoke and carnage.
He doesn’t actually hear the silver Hummer scream to a halt outside, but he hears the voice. ‘Speed! Where’s Speed?’
It’s the same voice he remembers from dispo day - the same edge of raw emotion in it.
At almost the next second, or so it seems, he feels a hand on his shoulder and he spins around, even though he knows who’s there, and there it is again.
Blue fire.
Everything stops for that millisecond - his instincts, his thoughts, damn nearly his heart.
As soon as Horatio can see he’s alive, he turns and grabs the nearest young woman battling her way towards the one open exit, and H is gone, holding her arm and helping her outside.
He staggers outside, following that red hair like a beacon as Horatio looks up at the conflagration on the upper storey, the smoke spiralling into the night sky.
H’s face is smudged with soot, his shirt is wrinkled and his tie is crooked - Mr Terminally Cool with the edge off.
And suddenly he realises that *that* is why he’ll keep trying. Keep screwing up, but keep trying.
Blue fire.
Some things are worth getting burned for.
The End.
By: Firefox
Disclaimer: Not mine (I wish). No infringement intended, no money made (forward all requests to Fat Chance Department) and litigation will only get you possession of a truly psychotic car and an eye-watering Visa bill.
Characters: Horatio/Speed
Rating: Sorry - I suck at this rating thing, especially when it comes to US ratings. This is very mild stuff - just implied slash,- nothing at all graphic.
Warning: Brit author, so Brit spelling (though I did manage to remember ‘tires’ - impressive, no?)
Lots of spoilers for Dispo Day and a couple for Tinder Box, both of which were guaranteed to fill my slashy li'l mind with ideas!
Oh - and Tim's not dead. No siree. Not here he ain’t. My excuse is that we haven’t seen that episode over here yet.
Not beta’ed, so I am to blame for all mistakes.
_______________________________________
He's seen it so many times he should be used to it by now, but he's not.
He never wants to get used to it. Ever.
He always wants that rush of adrenaline, that almost-physical feeling of something hitting him full-on in the chest like a pile-driver, making his blood sing and his head spin.
And the best part, the part that sits buried and hidden away inside him like a small, sweet, guilty secret, is that Horatio has no idea. No idea of the effect, no conception of the consequences. Horatio is completely unaware and somehow that makes it, oh, so much more potent.
He doesn't have a word for it, not really. There isn't an articulate way of expressing the way it makes him feel, the emotions or the physical reactions it sparks in him, so he's developed his own, private little label for it. Two words that signify a strange alchemy that he is as addicted to as any tweaker is to meth.
Blue fire.
Kind of appropriate really, as it freezes and burns him all at the same time. Pretty creative for someone not known for his forays into the ethereal.
Blue fire.
Normally, Horatio is verging on the terminally cool. The relaxed stance, the slight head tilt, the upward glance from beneath lowered brows. That trademark sunglasses-on-then-hands-on-hips thing he does with such aplomb. The epitome of control.
Horatio can be in the interrogation room, faced with the most deplorable, lying, low-life waste of skin on the planet and he never raises his voice - he never even takes off his jacket. He just leans across the table and you can see it in their eyes. That flash of fear. That look that betrays their thoughts; 'this guy knows I'm lying and any second now he's gonna make me dig my own grave, then smile when I jump in.' Then he smiles that interrogation room smile of his - the one that freezes blood - and you can almost see them shrink.
It's one helluva thing to behold. It's scary. Even if you aren't the suspect.
It's scary and powerful and sexy as hell.
But it isn't blue fire.
There's another side to Horatio, one that appears less often than the professional-investigator-with-a-feral-streak side, one that’s more hidden, more personal.
He's seen that too - rarely, but he has witnessed it. Horatio dealing with a grieving widow, or a victimised child, when another side of his character emerges - a softer side. The voice loses its granite edge and becomes something richer, more mellow. The movements are smaller, more controlled, less powerful. His whole persona seems gentler, and these victims always respond to it - sometimes with tears, sometimes with smiles of understanding, but they always, always respond. It's a side of himself that H seems almost embarrassed about - a facet of his character that perhaps gives more of him away than he would like. These smiles of his are smaller, sweeter, there’s something almost shy about them.
It's fascinating to watch. Intriguing and beguiling and damned attractive.
But it isn't blue fire.
He's seen blue fire and it's one hell of a thing to witness.
It robs him of his powers of speech and makes his heart tap-dance against his ribs like a trapped bird.
It makes every nerve ending burn and contracts his stomach into a tight, expectant knot of desire.
And that's when it's directed at something, or someone, else.
The real kick is when it's directed at him.
He's only been on the receiving end of it twice, and both times he's really thought he was going to die. No shit - both times it's felt like death whispering in his ear and him not giving a damn because Horatio was there - right *there* - and he could feel himself burning and freezing in that awesome, unfathomable whatever-the-hell-it-is, that does this thing to him that he never wants to end.
He remembers that first time, with the acrid stench of blood and gunfire all around him as he lay flat on his back on the wet concrete, the simple act of inhaling impossible, his chest hurting like a sonofabitch.
He remembers fragments of it - a woman screaming, the staccato of machine pistols, dragging Hollis from the cab of the dispo truck, falling flat on his back. That guy standing over him, dressed in black. Staring at the business of one helluva mean-looking gun and the momentary flash of panic when he pulls the trigger of his own weapon and nothing happens. The feeling of total disbelief as the guy aims and fires, straight at him. The sound of screaming tires and a revving bike engine. The world spinning and starting to fade and his only thought is how fucking ironic that he should die from an ambush by a funeral cortege.
Then he hears it. Horatio's voice. Calling his name. It sounds… urgent. He can hear it - Horatio shouting his name. Then he feels something - hands maybe, grasping at his shirt - shit, his chest hurts like hell! Horatio's voice again, lower now, like smoke on velvet, saying; 'hold on brother, hold on…' It sounds… different. Not like Horatio.
There's almost a tinge of panic in it, he thinks, then instantly dismisses such a stupid notion. No way does Mr Terminally-Cool ever, ever panic.
Then he feels a huge exhale ghost over his face, and the voice says; 'the Kevlar caught it… just breathe… the Kevlar caught it.'
And he can hear the relief in the words. He senses movement and suddenly the voice roars, 'Rescue! Get me a rescue, right now!' There's no ignoring that tone - it's urgent and demanding and in total control. It's Horatio's flint-and-steel, in-command voice and only the truly stupid or imminently suicidal ignore it.
He feels something - a cool hand sliding around his neck.
His eyes open, he looks up and all he can see is a sunlit halo of fiery hair and pair of blue eyes that are an identical shade of blue to the Florida sky behind them. And the eyes are looking at him with such intensity that he can't begin to react to how he feels - his emotions threatening to overwhelm him - freezing, burning, suffocating him.
Blue fire.
It was then, that very moment, that he knew.
The memory still makes his heart race, even now.
He knew that the way he felt about Horatio wasn't unrequited, and hadn't gone unnoticed. If he could have drawn a proper breath he would have cheered his lungs out, but he couldn't, he couldn't do a damn thing except lay there flat on his back, gulping in air like a stranded catfish.
It hadn't been easy - not then. Not at first.
Knowing and acting on the knowledge had been two very different things, and his fear of screwing things up in his usual fashion had made him a basket case - a basket case who blamed himself for Hollis' death and who felt mortified by letting down his team and his boss because he didn't have enough sense to clean his gun.
That, all neatly wrapped up in raging lust for that very same boss, and that woman from IAB with the polygraph hadn't really stood a chance.
His stomach still flutters at the thought of it. He's sitting there, wired up to that fuckin' contraption that he's told himself he understands, told himself is just a bullshit piece of techno-science that measures respiration, heart rate, perspiration and blood pressure, and all he can think of is that this thing is somehow going to *know*. It's going to look inside him and see what he feels, and then it's going to tell that hatchet-faced brunette with the snotty voice and the snottier attitude, what a pathetic, miserable excuse for a guy he really is. And then IAB are going to know that he can't sleep nights because he's fallen for his boss, and then Horatio will know and…. oh God.
He rips the wires and tubes and clips and bands from his body and stalks out because getting fired is way better than getting found out.
And none of it had mattered because Horatio had known. It was as if H had looked inside him and read all the anguish and doubt and guilt and bullshit and simply accepted it.
He smiles, remembering his guts churning like a stampede of hippos as he sits in the lab, trying to find the right words to tell his boss, his friend and the man he now knows he simply can't exist without, that he's a loser who has no right to be on this team, and perhaps it would be better if he resigns? He can't look at Horatio, his eyes dart all over the lab, looking everywhere, anywhere, except at H's face.
The response to this selfless act of martyrdom is a low-wattage version of the smile, and a package, which H explains is a 'late birthday gift'.
A gun cleaning kit. As Horatio's hand ghosts over his as he hands over the package, they both know it will never be mentioned again.
Like they both know that this is the beginning.
A beginning that is almost snatched from them by some asshole with a hero-complex and zero understanding of combustion and accelerants.
That was the second time - his second exposure to blue fire aimed straight at him, and his whole body tingles with the memory of it.
His fear had been real that time - no sudden ambush, catching him unawares and thrusting him into the midst of a chaotic set of circumstances where all he can do is react. Not this time. This time it’s up close and personal - the roar of flames and the stench of burning - burning chemicals, burning clothing, burning hair and flesh. And he’s right in the middle of it, trying to think, to act rationally when his brain is screaming at him to flee.
He remembers finding the door, the heat of the push bar scorching his hand so he has to use his shirt sleeve for protection. Eric? Where the hell is Eric? He looks around, trying to focus through the panic and smoke, surrounded by stampeding people, the air full of screams and cries, the floor burning and melting beneath his feet. He makes it outside, gasping in great, greedy breaths of the indescribably wonderful cool, fresh air. The he hears them - the people still inside club Descent, the panic-stricken screams of young men and women who only a few moments ago had been laughing and dancing.
And he knows he has to go back inside. One person has already died because he hasn’t done his job properly, and there was never, ever, going to be another Hollis.
A couple more deep breaths and he runs back into the smoke and carnage.
He doesn’t actually hear the silver Hummer scream to a halt outside, but he hears the voice. ‘Speed! Where’s Speed?’
It’s the same voice he remembers from dispo day - the same edge of raw emotion in it.
At almost the next second, or so it seems, he feels a hand on his shoulder and he spins around, even though he knows who’s there, and there it is again.
Blue fire.
Everything stops for that millisecond - his instincts, his thoughts, damn nearly his heart.
As soon as Horatio can see he’s alive, he turns and grabs the nearest young woman battling her way towards the one open exit, and H is gone, holding her arm and helping her outside.
He staggers outside, following that red hair like a beacon as Horatio looks up at the conflagration on the upper storey, the smoke spiralling into the night sky.
H’s face is smudged with soot, his shirt is wrinkled and his tie is crooked - Mr Terminally Cool with the edge off.
And suddenly he realises that *that* is why he’ll keep trying. Keep screwing up, but keep trying.
Blue fire.
Some things are worth getting burned for.
The End.