"to hold the sea the sun the fields the tide"
Title: Flicker
Author: scarletts_awry
Rating: FRM
Pairing: Flack/Danny
Summary: “She.” The word twists and dies.
Word Count: 2425 (damn, I shouldn’t be so impressed by that)
Warnings: references to child molestation; near toxic levels of angst
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and it's a good thing too because they'd be too busy with the sex to have time for the crimefighting.
Crossposted all over the damn place
For: the fanfic100 prompt 35) Sixth Sense (ooh, pretty grids), and the inaugural slashy_csi_boys challenge prompt Live’s “Pain Lies on the Riverside”
companion piece to Time Fell
Times like these are when Danny’s the most glad he works for the lab, glad that his main responsibility is to evidence. Because evidence is inanimate (usually).
Patrick Alder’s grief pours out of the hallway and into the living room, around the smooth Pottery Barn furniture and the pale woman marred by a single, small caliber gunshot wound to the head. The crimescene Danny has been sent to process. Flack pulls the husband away, suggesting they talk somewhere else, suggesting the kitchen.
The thought of Don in a kitchen makes Danny pause a split-second and smile, no more than a nonsense catch in his thoughts as he sets the camera aside and pulls the GSR test from his kit. The vic’s a thirty-eight year old stay at home mom. A saint as far as anyone’s concerned. At least that’s what Flack gathered before Danny showed up just now.
He removes the gun and wipes her gently curled hand. She’s not a suicide.
A teenage girl pounds into the entryway, and an incoherent noise spills from her mouth. Oldest of the three daughters, Danny bets. She’s dragging along a boy about the same age. The boy doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are too big.
Danny meets them at the doorway, blocking the scene with his body the best he can. Flack appears to shepherd the kids away, back to the kitchen presumably. Away from here. That’s what matters. From the corner of his eye he notices the tension in Flack’s shoulders when he pulls the quiet boy away from the sight of the dead woman. Danny looks up after it, something screaming at him to catch a better look before it’s gone, but he’s too late. There’s only a glimpse of Don’s back down the hall, and the sound of fingernails against metal from some corner of his own head. Danny bends down, taking in the scene again at a low angle, and continues processing.
…
The boy’s mother presents a smooth front of innocent grief. Cooperative grief. Almost everyone’s cooperative on the surface. No reason for them not to be.
The boy hasn’t talked, so it’s too much speculation, too much instinct. At least that’s what Mac would say if he’d been fully informed.
But Mac’s not here. No, Mac’s not anywhere near here. It’s him and Flack, and they know how to get shit done. Besides, there’s a sick little corner of Danny that knows they’re right. Knows it. Knows it like he knows there’s something off with the way Don’s leaning forward right now.
Danny’s standing back. He’s let Flack take the lead for the moment, part because Flack really is good at this and part because this case keeps tightening a knot in Danny’s gut. So Danny’s standing quiet by the wall with a sheaf of printouts and photographs. Evidence. He’s doing a shitty job listening to the line of questions and watching the boy’s mother. His attention keeps drifting back to Don and the edge in his shoulders.
The kid’s name is Brandon. And his mother is Laura Cheever. Danny recites the facts in his head to bring his attention back to the interrogation in progress. Laura is acquainted with the Alders, has been to their house, so her prints alone aren’t probative. Evidence out of context. Laura knows this.
“Well, of course. I was just over there Tuesday.” Her eyes speak concern, but that’s an easy half-truth from where she’s sitting. “Judith and I had tea.” The stress pinching her face could be anyone’s.
Another story is the proliferation of the kid’s prints in the Alders’ master bedroom, particularly in the absence of prints any from the Alders’ daughters. The girls weren’t allowed in their parents bedroom, and apparently they listened. DNA gave them the vic, the husband, and an unknown male. They didn’t have anything to match the unknown male to. Yet.
“We think your son killed Mrs. Alder,” Flack says. A half-truth. They’re all very good at half-truths when they need to be. They had the kid across town on a bodega’s surveillance tape when the murder was committed. He’d skipped english with the Alders’ eldest daughter. Lindy. She’d provided them with the alibi.
“No.” Laura starts. “No, Brandon didn’t kill her.” There it is. That crack in a nervous smile that told Danny they had her. “I mean, why would he?”
He sits beside her. “We found DNA evidence of a sexual relationship between your son and Judith Alder.”
“Now, that’s a hell of a motive.” Flack continues. “One a jury will probably find sympathetic. Of course it’ll still have to go to trial. He’ll have to get up and testify, recount every detail of the abuse.” He spreads his hands. “Most importantly, he’ll have to explain why he didn’t tell anyone. Why he felt he had to take matters into his own hands instead of asking for help.”
“He didn’t. He told me.” Laura crumples into herself. “He told me so I did it. I killed Judith because she was an animal.” She looks down at her hands and her voice drops into a cold resignation. “She raped my baby boy. She was an animal and she deserved to be put down.” When she raises her head, it’s Danny’s eyes she meets. “Brandon skipped school with Lindy. They got lunch and went to a record store. They didn’t know. If I’d told them what I had planned, I would’ve made sure they stayed in class yesterday.”
“We know,” Danny says and collects the evidence back into its folder. Flack reads her rights and sends her off with a uniform. Danny follows him back to his desk.
“She’ll probably get off light since she was protecting her son,” Danny chews on his tongue because he hadn’t planned on saying it, doesn’t know why he said it.
Flack snorts. “Though rape may be a bit of an overstatement.”
“Technically it’s rape.” Danny shrugs. “Statutory. The kid’s just turned fifteen. Judith Alder was more’n twice that.”
“I’m just saying that teenage boys will screw anything that moves.”
“Yeah, well, Laura had her reasons, we got her to confess.” Danny cuts a glance at Flack, who doesn’t notice it. “It’ll all come out at trial, and what are you gonna do.” Danny pages through the file, putting things back in order. Flack’s doing something similar, looking for something underneath the papers littering his desk. “How old were you?”
“Hm?” Flack stares at a scrap of paper. “What, when I first got laid? Thirteen.”
Danny doesn’t like the math at all, but he keeps his mouth shut for a long moment. “You wanna meet up, get a beer later?”
“Nah.” Flack stops searching his desk long enough to look up at Danny. “I’m beat. The Knicks are at Oklahoma, so I’m just gonna go home and watch that.”
Danny nods. “Sounds good.” His chest loosens and he takes a deep breath. “See you around.” That’s what makes this screwing around they do work, the way they always leave things open. No expectations, no nothing. Nothing to own up to, nothing to live up to. It’s why they work.
…
“Why would I do that? I’m the one outnumbered here.” Danny stops pacing long enough to point across the room. “That asshole started it, and one of his buddies hit me in the back of the head.”
It’s a shit bar, and Danny’s never been in it before so he doesn’t know why he decided to stop for a drink here tonight. It was stupid. Stupid to stop here, stupid to let some asshole pick a fight with him. Now everything’s fuzzy, as much because he’s got a couple beers in him as because he had to put his glasses in his coat pocket. One of the arms popped off when they fell from his face during the scuffle. That’s all it was really, a scuffle. Not a proper barfight, and someone had called the goddamn police anyway, so now there are a couple uniforms eyeing him.
They know he’s a cop, and they’re eyeing him like they don’t want to haul him in but he’s not giving them a whole lot of choice here. Like this is all his fault. No one’s all that hurt, and it would be one thing if it were Danny’s word against the other guy and his buddies, but no. No, the bartender, who apparently qualifies as an impartial observer in all this, he also says that Danny started it. Bastard. Like the other guy isn’t a regular. Like the bartender’s gonna piss off his good customers.
“Call-call Flack.” Danny takes a deep breath and makes himself stop moving, face the uniforms. “Detective Don Flack out of the one-two. He’ll make sure I don’t do something stupid on my way home.”
He gives them Flack’s number and starts pacing again, a tight line along the far wall. His toe catches on a chair leg, and he turns and kicks the chair over for good measure.
“Hey, calm down,” one of the uniforms comes closer. “Don’t make us arrest you.”
“No, no sir.” Danny swallows and tries to get the spite out of his voice. “No need for that.”
Flack shows up about twenty minutes later, and he’s pissed. The unusual line in his shoulders has grown even harder. Danny stands back as he talks to the uniforms.
When they’re a block away from the bar, Flack looks him up and down like the uniforms did. “I’m going home,” he says. “You can go wherever you want, just don’t call me again tonight.”
Danny doesn’t say anything but keeps pace beside him.
On the subway Flack drops a few idle threats. “Don’t you ever drag me out of bed again,” he mutters. “Next time I’ll let you rot in jail overnight.” Danny expects at least as much. Flack’s great at this kind of empty threat.
By the time they get back to Flack’s apartment, Danny’s most of the way back to sober. Sober enough that he can wish he really was drunk while Flack finds the right key. The fight was fueled more by stress and adrenaline than alcohol. No, not fight, scuffle. Whatever.
Inside, Danny pulls Flack close and kisses the back of his jaw. Arms wrap themselves loose around Danny’s waist, so he moves to brush their lips together. Flack just meets his mouth. Don’s head is somewhere else. Danny pulls away with a little shrug and goes to get himself a glass of water. Something is wrong. Rain and the dog-wet smell of old upholstery tugs at the edge of his consciousness. Don is in the living room. When he looks up, Don is staring at a blank bit of wall. Something is wrong. Danny comes around the corner and puts his glass down on the end table.
“Hey,” Danny says and rocks back on his heels. Flack doesn’t look at him.
“She.” The word twists and dies.
Danny sees it coming-he must because it’s the only way he could’ve gotten across the room that fast. Don collapses into himself completely. Inertia starts to carry them down to the floor, but Danny steers them to the couch instead. In his arms Don is stiff and still. Much too still.
And Danny could handle this, he could, if Don’s face weren’t so dead. If he would say or do something Danny could handle this. Even if he were crying or some shit Danny could handle this, could think of some kind of response, but he can’t. Just can’t. There’s nothing but stale wet and metallic rain. So Danny just says “Jesus” and stops because he’s long forgotten how to want something that much, how to mean something that much. He turns his face and presses it into Don’s neck. “Jesus,” he repeats anyway. nopleaseno.
Don makes a little gasp and Danny smiles out of sheer relief. “I got you,” he says because you’re supposed to say stupid comforting things to someone who’s having a breakdown. Danny repeats it a couple times-I got you-it’s small consolation, but he can’t say it’s okay because it’s not. He shoves at the gentle sound of soft nails on wet metal, shoves it back to the corner it usually hides in. He can’t think of anything else, and it’s not okay at all.
“She was a teacher. Seventh grade math.” Don’s voice is tight, but startlingly even. “Went on for six months. No one ever knew.”
Teacher. That’s someone you could track down-someone he could track down. Wouldn’t take all that much to find out where Flack went to middle school, who taught math when Flack was a student there. You could track this woman down easier than-
“Shit,” Don says. Danny feels the raw shift of muscle against him, feels the moan more than he hears it.
And sure the statute of limitations has long run out on anything that happened, even if they could prove it, but-
Don lets out a long shuddering breath, and even when it’s gone he keeps shaking. Something hard and bright moving within him, too fast to contain.
“Let’s-” Danny chews on his lip and slides his hand up Don’s arm. “You could use some sleep. Let’s get you to bed.”
They stand, and Danny walks them to the bedroom. He pulls the covers down, and from the corner of his eye he watches Flack undress.
Don crawls into bed. He rolls onto his back and looks up at Danny. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” Danny strips to his underwear and slides beneath the covers. Don curls onto his side to face him.
“Hey,” Danny says. He traces the side of Don’s face with his fingertips and frowns because he still doesn’t know what else to do.
“Hey.” Don turns his head and kisses the heel of Danny’s palm.
“You should go to sleep.”
“You said that already.”
“Yeah.”
“Think everything will be all better in the morning?” Don perks his eyebrows like he does when he wants something. It’s the same look he gets when he’s contemplating blackmail.
Danny laughs at the face and feels a little like a bastard. “I don’t know,” he answers. Okay, he feels a lot like a bastard. “C’mere?”
Don moves toward him, and Danny gets an arm underneath to bring him closer still. Danny rolls onto his back, and Don hooks a leg over his hip. Danny knows his arm will fall asleep long before he does, but he can feel Don’s breath flicker against his chest. So it’s okay.
……
thanks for reading; feedback appreciated
Author: scarletts_awry
Rating: FRM
Pairing: Flack/Danny
Summary: “She.” The word twists and dies.
Word Count: 2425 (damn, I shouldn’t be so impressed by that)
Warnings: references to child molestation; near toxic levels of angst
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and it's a good thing too because they'd be too busy with the sex to have time for the crimefighting.
Crossposted all over the damn place
For: the fanfic100 prompt 35) Sixth Sense (ooh, pretty grids), and the inaugural slashy_csi_boys challenge prompt Live’s “Pain Lies on the Riverside”
companion piece to Time Fell
Times like these are when Danny’s the most glad he works for the lab, glad that his main responsibility is to evidence. Because evidence is inanimate (usually).
Patrick Alder’s grief pours out of the hallway and into the living room, around the smooth Pottery Barn furniture and the pale woman marred by a single, small caliber gunshot wound to the head. The crimescene Danny has been sent to process. Flack pulls the husband away, suggesting they talk somewhere else, suggesting the kitchen.
The thought of Don in a kitchen makes Danny pause a split-second and smile, no more than a nonsense catch in his thoughts as he sets the camera aside and pulls the GSR test from his kit. The vic’s a thirty-eight year old stay at home mom. A saint as far as anyone’s concerned. At least that’s what Flack gathered before Danny showed up just now.
He removes the gun and wipes her gently curled hand. She’s not a suicide.
A teenage girl pounds into the entryway, and an incoherent noise spills from her mouth. Oldest of the three daughters, Danny bets. She’s dragging along a boy about the same age. The boy doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are too big.
Danny meets them at the doorway, blocking the scene with his body the best he can. Flack appears to shepherd the kids away, back to the kitchen presumably. Away from here. That’s what matters. From the corner of his eye he notices the tension in Flack’s shoulders when he pulls the quiet boy away from the sight of the dead woman. Danny looks up after it, something screaming at him to catch a better look before it’s gone, but he’s too late. There’s only a glimpse of Don’s back down the hall, and the sound of fingernails against metal from some corner of his own head. Danny bends down, taking in the scene again at a low angle, and continues processing.
…
The boy’s mother presents a smooth front of innocent grief. Cooperative grief. Almost everyone’s cooperative on the surface. No reason for them not to be.
The boy hasn’t talked, so it’s too much speculation, too much instinct. At least that’s what Mac would say if he’d been fully informed.
But Mac’s not here. No, Mac’s not anywhere near here. It’s him and Flack, and they know how to get shit done. Besides, there’s a sick little corner of Danny that knows they’re right. Knows it. Knows it like he knows there’s something off with the way Don’s leaning forward right now.
Danny’s standing back. He’s let Flack take the lead for the moment, part because Flack really is good at this and part because this case keeps tightening a knot in Danny’s gut. So Danny’s standing quiet by the wall with a sheaf of printouts and photographs. Evidence. He’s doing a shitty job listening to the line of questions and watching the boy’s mother. His attention keeps drifting back to Don and the edge in his shoulders.
The kid’s name is Brandon. And his mother is Laura Cheever. Danny recites the facts in his head to bring his attention back to the interrogation in progress. Laura is acquainted with the Alders, has been to their house, so her prints alone aren’t probative. Evidence out of context. Laura knows this.
“Well, of course. I was just over there Tuesday.” Her eyes speak concern, but that’s an easy half-truth from where she’s sitting. “Judith and I had tea.” The stress pinching her face could be anyone’s.
Another story is the proliferation of the kid’s prints in the Alders’ master bedroom, particularly in the absence of prints any from the Alders’ daughters. The girls weren’t allowed in their parents bedroom, and apparently they listened. DNA gave them the vic, the husband, and an unknown male. They didn’t have anything to match the unknown male to. Yet.
“We think your son killed Mrs. Alder,” Flack says. A half-truth. They’re all very good at half-truths when they need to be. They had the kid across town on a bodega’s surveillance tape when the murder was committed. He’d skipped english with the Alders’ eldest daughter. Lindy. She’d provided them with the alibi.
“No.” Laura starts. “No, Brandon didn’t kill her.” There it is. That crack in a nervous smile that told Danny they had her. “I mean, why would he?”
He sits beside her. “We found DNA evidence of a sexual relationship between your son and Judith Alder.”
“Now, that’s a hell of a motive.” Flack continues. “One a jury will probably find sympathetic. Of course it’ll still have to go to trial. He’ll have to get up and testify, recount every detail of the abuse.” He spreads his hands. “Most importantly, he’ll have to explain why he didn’t tell anyone. Why he felt he had to take matters into his own hands instead of asking for help.”
“He didn’t. He told me.” Laura crumples into herself. “He told me so I did it. I killed Judith because she was an animal.” She looks down at her hands and her voice drops into a cold resignation. “She raped my baby boy. She was an animal and she deserved to be put down.” When she raises her head, it’s Danny’s eyes she meets. “Brandon skipped school with Lindy. They got lunch and went to a record store. They didn’t know. If I’d told them what I had planned, I would’ve made sure they stayed in class yesterday.”
“We know,” Danny says and collects the evidence back into its folder. Flack reads her rights and sends her off with a uniform. Danny follows him back to his desk.
“She’ll probably get off light since she was protecting her son,” Danny chews on his tongue because he hadn’t planned on saying it, doesn’t know why he said it.
Flack snorts. “Though rape may be a bit of an overstatement.”
“Technically it’s rape.” Danny shrugs. “Statutory. The kid’s just turned fifteen. Judith Alder was more’n twice that.”
“I’m just saying that teenage boys will screw anything that moves.”
“Yeah, well, Laura had her reasons, we got her to confess.” Danny cuts a glance at Flack, who doesn’t notice it. “It’ll all come out at trial, and what are you gonna do.” Danny pages through the file, putting things back in order. Flack’s doing something similar, looking for something underneath the papers littering his desk. “How old were you?”
“Hm?” Flack stares at a scrap of paper. “What, when I first got laid? Thirteen.”
Danny doesn’t like the math at all, but he keeps his mouth shut for a long moment. “You wanna meet up, get a beer later?”
“Nah.” Flack stops searching his desk long enough to look up at Danny. “I’m beat. The Knicks are at Oklahoma, so I’m just gonna go home and watch that.”
Danny nods. “Sounds good.” His chest loosens and he takes a deep breath. “See you around.” That’s what makes this screwing around they do work, the way they always leave things open. No expectations, no nothing. Nothing to own up to, nothing to live up to. It’s why they work.
…
“Why would I do that? I’m the one outnumbered here.” Danny stops pacing long enough to point across the room. “That asshole started it, and one of his buddies hit me in the back of the head.”
It’s a shit bar, and Danny’s never been in it before so he doesn’t know why he decided to stop for a drink here tonight. It was stupid. Stupid to stop here, stupid to let some asshole pick a fight with him. Now everything’s fuzzy, as much because he’s got a couple beers in him as because he had to put his glasses in his coat pocket. One of the arms popped off when they fell from his face during the scuffle. That’s all it was really, a scuffle. Not a proper barfight, and someone had called the goddamn police anyway, so now there are a couple uniforms eyeing him.
They know he’s a cop, and they’re eyeing him like they don’t want to haul him in but he’s not giving them a whole lot of choice here. Like this is all his fault. No one’s all that hurt, and it would be one thing if it were Danny’s word against the other guy and his buddies, but no. No, the bartender, who apparently qualifies as an impartial observer in all this, he also says that Danny started it. Bastard. Like the other guy isn’t a regular. Like the bartender’s gonna piss off his good customers.
“Call-call Flack.” Danny takes a deep breath and makes himself stop moving, face the uniforms. “Detective Don Flack out of the one-two. He’ll make sure I don’t do something stupid on my way home.”
He gives them Flack’s number and starts pacing again, a tight line along the far wall. His toe catches on a chair leg, and he turns and kicks the chair over for good measure.
“Hey, calm down,” one of the uniforms comes closer. “Don’t make us arrest you.”
“No, no sir.” Danny swallows and tries to get the spite out of his voice. “No need for that.”
Flack shows up about twenty minutes later, and he’s pissed. The unusual line in his shoulders has grown even harder. Danny stands back as he talks to the uniforms.
When they’re a block away from the bar, Flack looks him up and down like the uniforms did. “I’m going home,” he says. “You can go wherever you want, just don’t call me again tonight.”
Danny doesn’t say anything but keeps pace beside him.
On the subway Flack drops a few idle threats. “Don’t you ever drag me out of bed again,” he mutters. “Next time I’ll let you rot in jail overnight.” Danny expects at least as much. Flack’s great at this kind of empty threat.
By the time they get back to Flack’s apartment, Danny’s most of the way back to sober. Sober enough that he can wish he really was drunk while Flack finds the right key. The fight was fueled more by stress and adrenaline than alcohol. No, not fight, scuffle. Whatever.
Inside, Danny pulls Flack close and kisses the back of his jaw. Arms wrap themselves loose around Danny’s waist, so he moves to brush their lips together. Flack just meets his mouth. Don’s head is somewhere else. Danny pulls away with a little shrug and goes to get himself a glass of water. Something is wrong. Rain and the dog-wet smell of old upholstery tugs at the edge of his consciousness. Don is in the living room. When he looks up, Don is staring at a blank bit of wall. Something is wrong. Danny comes around the corner and puts his glass down on the end table.
“Hey,” Danny says and rocks back on his heels. Flack doesn’t look at him.
“She.” The word twists and dies.
Danny sees it coming-he must because it’s the only way he could’ve gotten across the room that fast. Don collapses into himself completely. Inertia starts to carry them down to the floor, but Danny steers them to the couch instead. In his arms Don is stiff and still. Much too still.
And Danny could handle this, he could, if Don’s face weren’t so dead. If he would say or do something Danny could handle this. Even if he were crying or some shit Danny could handle this, could think of some kind of response, but he can’t. Just can’t. There’s nothing but stale wet and metallic rain. So Danny just says “Jesus” and stops because he’s long forgotten how to want something that much, how to mean something that much. He turns his face and presses it into Don’s neck. “Jesus,” he repeats anyway. nopleaseno.
Don makes a little gasp and Danny smiles out of sheer relief. “I got you,” he says because you’re supposed to say stupid comforting things to someone who’s having a breakdown. Danny repeats it a couple times-I got you-it’s small consolation, but he can’t say it’s okay because it’s not. He shoves at the gentle sound of soft nails on wet metal, shoves it back to the corner it usually hides in. He can’t think of anything else, and it’s not okay at all.
“She was a teacher. Seventh grade math.” Don’s voice is tight, but startlingly even. “Went on for six months. No one ever knew.”
Teacher. That’s someone you could track down-someone he could track down. Wouldn’t take all that much to find out where Flack went to middle school, who taught math when Flack was a student there. You could track this woman down easier than-
“Shit,” Don says. Danny feels the raw shift of muscle against him, feels the moan more than he hears it.
And sure the statute of limitations has long run out on anything that happened, even if they could prove it, but-
Don lets out a long shuddering breath, and even when it’s gone he keeps shaking. Something hard and bright moving within him, too fast to contain.
“Let’s-” Danny chews on his lip and slides his hand up Don’s arm. “You could use some sleep. Let’s get you to bed.”
They stand, and Danny walks them to the bedroom. He pulls the covers down, and from the corner of his eye he watches Flack undress.
Don crawls into bed. He rolls onto his back and looks up at Danny. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” Danny strips to his underwear and slides beneath the covers. Don curls onto his side to face him.
“Hey,” Danny says. He traces the side of Don’s face with his fingertips and frowns because he still doesn’t know what else to do.
“Hey.” Don turns his head and kisses the heel of Danny’s palm.
“You should go to sleep.”
“You said that already.”
“Yeah.”
“Think everything will be all better in the morning?” Don perks his eyebrows like he does when he wants something. It’s the same look he gets when he’s contemplating blackmail.
Danny laughs at the face and feels a little like a bastard. “I don’t know,” he answers. Okay, he feels a lot like a bastard. “C’mere?”
Don moves toward him, and Danny gets an arm underneath to bring him closer still. Danny rolls onto his back, and Don hooks a leg over his hip. Danny knows his arm will fall asleep long before he does, but he can feel Don’s breath flicker against his chest. So it’s okay.
……
thanks for reading; feedback appreciated