Chaptered Fic: Castaway Dreams, Chapter 2
Title: Castaway Dreams
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13 for some dark themes and naughty language, :-)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: The Horatio part fulfills
fanfic100 prompt 32. sunset.
Summary: What really connects human beings is what makes us miserable. A series of vignettes featuring Horatio, Calleigh, Speed, Eric, Yelina, Alexx with some Marisol, Ryan and Natalia.
The structure is still the same as it was in chapter one. No spoilers in this chapter really, but there is some naughty language so cover your ears (eyes?) if you don’t like it. Special thanks to crimelab.nl for being one of the most comprehensive CSI sites out there.
As always, nothing would be readable without my beta, Olly. Thank you for all your work. For ensuring that this fic had verbs (and for everything else), you’ve become absolutely irreplaceable to me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don’t sue me.
Castaway Dreams
Section Two: Growing Pains
By Duckie Nicks
Horatio
For all of six months, Yelina was the embodiment of everything he wanted.
It wasn’t just that she was attractive. Gorgeous women weren’t scarce in Miami - though they all paled in comparison to her. The unruly erotic tangle of dark hair, the infinitely expressive hazel eyes, the sun-kissed olive skin that wrapped tautly around her curves… no, as beautiful as other women were, Horatio had only longed for her.
But the truth was - the truth is - she could have been the ugliest woman alive, and he still would have fallen in love with her. Horatio had always supposed it would be impossible to find a woman as driven by the same moral compass, who was kind, dedicated, honest, and compassionate. Yet, Yelina was all of those things.
There had been no slow realization, no awakening to his feelings. His heart hadn’t magically skipped a beat; his breath had been as steady as it could ever be around her. And truth be told, the normally logical man had no idea how this came to be. Horatio had met her, and in that brief introduction, as his eyes met hers, he had known. But he had said nothing because the CSI didn’t think it was appropriate to date a co-worker.
Obviously his brother hadn’t held the same beliefs.
It had taken six months for Horatio to accept that he couldn’t live without her and didn’t want to try, and then only a split second to know he would have to.
On that fateful day, the redhead had gone for a walk on the beach to clear his head, had needed the sound and smell of the surf to ease the horrible images of the day from his mind. He hadn’t expected - or wanted - to see Raymond walking hand in hand with Yelina.
Kissing her.
The place that was usually so serene now made him feel uneasy - as though he were suffocating. And as the couple hadn’t seen him (nor did he want to be seen), Horatio quickly left, his feet trudging unevenly on the sand.
Half a year to get this far and the rest of his life to try and forget his feelings.
Horatio was never sure exactly when they met, but in the end, he didn’t think it mattered. Raymond had fallen in love with her, and she had obviously felt the same way, and that was enough. The Colombian loved his brother, and that fact would prevent a relationship from ever happening. Even if it made Horatio completely miserable in the process.
There had been no consideration given to confessing his feelings. He wanted her, but the redhead couldn’t put her in the position of choosing. And more than that, there was his brother to think of.
Were they destined to always compete for affection? Or, rather, Horatio thought, was he to spend his life trying to make up for their mother’s choices? He didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to make Yelina choose. Didn’t want to hurt Ray by once again receiving the love that should have been for his brother.
And in the years after, when Ray died, even when there was no one to steal love from, the feeling had lingered on. His sister-in-law had practically offered herself up to him, but he kept his distance.
In those moments, when she had put everything on the line and he had rejected her, her hazel eyes became suspiciously bright. And behind the brownish tinge of anger and hurt were the sparks of disbelief. The curly-haired woman thought he was crazy for not taking what he wanted more than anything.
Horatio had no defense for that. Had no explanation. Because there was no rationale in being the boy who had grown up being told he deserved the world and ending up the man who felt he had earned nothing. Deserved nothing.
Perhaps the fact the feeling had survived should have been a clue to his brother’s survival.
But it’s easy to bury this particular idea because it’s irrelevant now. He knew it the moment Ray had popped up in the back of the Hummer. And can feel it more than ever now as he walks his sister-in-law out to the tarmac.
It doesn’t matter why he didn’t act on his feelings, Horatio knows. It doesn’t matter that he’s felt beholden to Raymond, much to his detriment, for as long as he can remember. All reasoning and logic is moot because the only thing that matters, the only truth Horatio knows is this: Yelina is Ray’s.
And, standing between the two brothers, between her brother-in-law and her husband, Miami and Rio, Yelina knows it as well, the annoyed acceptance setting into her face.
She wants a reason to stay, he thinks. She wants him to stop this, but Horatio is the one who has set this plan in motion. He won’t ask her to make a choice. He won’t let her stay in Miami.
And the tears forming in her eyes are surely being mirrored in his own.
This is the end of their innuendo, of what might have been.
This may be the last time they see each other ever. And it’s the realization of future lonely nights and loss, he knows, that makes her bridge the gap between their bodies. Drives her to break the unspoken rule about touching one another.
The pads of her fingers dig into his back, embracing him fiercely. His own hands stay where they are, crushed between their bodies. He does not return the hug - knows that if he does, he won’t be able to force her on that plane.
Her soft curls tickle his jaw line as she presses her face into the collar of his shirt. Her lips gently brush against his warm unguarded skin.
It’s not a kiss.
She has been, since the beginning, the instigator, the one to push him as far as he could go. But from this moment on, Horatio knows that time is over. Gone. Because he’s forced her hand, has taken the choice away from her - and now, if he wants her to stay, if he wants to feel her lips press into any part of him, it’s up to him to make that happen.
He doesn’t and instead pushes her away with a few words - “You better go. Okay?”
As the redhead watches her walk up the airplane steps, he wishes that she’ll be able to find a way to forgive him. And, more than that, as he looks up towards the sun, Horatio hopes that he can finally get over her.
That his feelings will disappear like a plane in the evening sky.
Calleigh
This is the first time she’s broken the law.
Okay. Not the first time. But this isn’t the same as accidentally getting high while digging a bullet out of solid cocaine. This is deliberate and willful and more than enough to get her fired. And perhaps the only thing that Calleigh thinks is worth noting is the fact that she doesn’t care.
Or more precisely, her concern lies not with her profession - her livelihood, but with her father.
It should be easy to turn her back on him.
After her childhood and the terror he could make her family feel. After never being able to stop drinking and still having the gall to lie about it: “first drink I’ve had in six months” - she wryly thinks.
After she saw the blood on the car.
It should be simple, but it’s not. She should be arresting him and condemning him, but she can’t.
“Take another one.” This is her advice, though it’s clear he doesn’t understand what the point is.
Not that it matters. Kenwall Duquesne never needed a reason to drink before, and he doesn’t need one now.
His callous hands pluck the flask from his jacket. Chubby fingers struggle to open the container, and Calleigh turns away from the sight. Because even though this is what she wants him to do, the daughter doesn’t wish to see this - can’t bear to see her father dabble with the sour temptation once more.
She starts to walk away, her long blonde hair swaying, the straw strands tickling her back. And though the CSI is all too aware of the way the loose pavement crunches under her boots, it’s still not enough to drown out the sound of scotch sloshing against the metal flask.
Perhaps it’s the result of growing up with brothers who liked to torture ants with a magnifying glass - maybe it’s just the whole natural attraction people seem to have to train wrecks, but Calleigh can’t help but turn and look with a touch of morbid fascination. Watches the aging man take a long swig.
Her mouth turns into an even deeper frown. This is what she wanted him to do, but a ribbon of guilt begins to knot itself in her stomach nonetheless. Yet, it’s still not enough for her to change her mind. Will not stop the lie from falling out of her mouth.
She steels herself for what she is about to do. Her normally vibrant green eyes darken and harden till they take on the same color of the metallic grey guns she works with every day.
“My father has come to turn himself in.”
And though her boss obviously suspects something, Calleigh continues with the lie.
“My dad took a drink to calm his nerves before he came in. I witnessed it.”
The words sound convincing enough, but the blonde is unable to look Horatio in the eyes. Between the man reeking of liquor and the friend who has always protected her, she realizes who she is supposed to side with on this.
But the redhead isn’t her father and will never be, no matter how much she hero worships him. More than that, as much as the knot in her stomach is making her feel nauseous, it doesn’t have quite the same tug as the binding, indestructible tie that links the woman to her father. Calleigh loves and respects Horatio, but…
This is her daddy.
And that thought gives her the strength to defiantly look her boss in the eye. Every line on his face seems to turn into a frown, but, she thinks, this is the norm for him since Speed died. There is no outburst, no anger from him - nothing to show his displeasure with her other than a calmly spoken, “You do realize that you’re riding the line on this, right?”
It is, quite literally, the harshest thing he’s ever said to her. She would rather he yell and scream; that’s the sole kind of anger and response the southern girl has been equipped to handle since she was a child. She’s not ready for this disquieting warning.
Horatio gently pulls her off the case, and it’s then that Calleigh begins to wonder how long it will take for this fracture in their friendship to be repaired. It’ll be a while, the blonde thinks, as she stalks down to the lab where her father’s car is being processed.
She knows she should stop - that she should let the newbie do his job. The normally obedient woman is all too aware that she’s disobeying orders. But Calleigh can’t help it. Her hands are in her pockets, as requested, but she can’t keep her hands off of this. Can’t sit idly by and watch her father be prosecuted for this.
And long after they discover the truth, long after she’s taken her father’s keys and gone home, the guilt still gnaws at her. It has been years since Calleigh believed the world was black and white, good and evil. But even so… now the world feels more horribly confusing and ambiguous, devoid of color and contrast.
The CSI has broken the law, has lied to her friend, has ignored his orders. And while everything has changed, the only constant, terrible as it is, is the fact that Daddy is an alcoholic, that she can’t save him, and, worst of all, she’ll forgive him every time.
The sun sets that night in a blaze of reds and yellows, but for the first time, Calleigh, the one to always look on the bright side, is unable to see it. Beyond her darkened eyes, all she sees is eternal night and impasse.
Speedle
His body is warm to the touch still, but there is no question that Tim Speedle is dead. His friend and boss knows that he is gone; too much blood has been lost. And it’s everywhere - caked on Horatio’s face, shirt, and hands, spread in a large, tell-tale puddle on the floor, dried on Speed’s back and chest.
Tim is dead. Only three words needed to express the unacceptable facts: there is no beat to the younger man’s heart, no air in his lungs. The gasps, chokes, and coughs so prevalent in the air only moments before are now gone, just as his redheaded partner no longer urgently whispers and calls for him. Now there is only silence, a heavy emptiness filling the air, mixing with the tangled smell of blood and gunpowder.
A palpable stillness floods the room with nothing to pass the time but thoughts of regret and loss. It’s not the first time Horatio has had to baby-sit a body. It’s not even the first time the body’s been someone he loves… loved? Still the redhead wants to leave, though he knows he can’t and won’t abandon Speed, no matter how tempting the childish desire to hide from this is.
Soon enough, back up will come - along with the reporters, by-standers, and IAB, and perhaps then the current quiet won’t seem so bad. Maybe once the younger man is buried, any time with him, even these last minutes, will feel like a gift. But for now, there is only a dead body and the pervasive feeling of defeat.
Yelina
The smell of purple orchids blooming wafts into the room. A lazy midnight breeze makes the open window rattle back and forth ever so slightly. Rio has come to life, and a dull murmur, punctuated every so often by a distinctive word or shout, fills their heated bedroom.
Carnival is almost over; King Momo had received the key to the city, and soon the nights will calm once more. But until Lent starts, the cariocas (not to mention, the thousands of foreigners who had flocked to the city) party on fervently, determined to partake in as much debauchery as possible.
The brunette can hear samba music playing in the distance; drums are being pounded on rhythmically somewhere in the city, the exact location outside her line of sight. Looking out the bedroom window, all Yelina can see are people enjoying themselves. Even in the darkness, their clothes, spectacular hues of pinks and gold set with feathers and glitter, sparkle. A woman trips over the fishtailed hem of her skirt, but the accident is coupled with a high-pitched laugh. She, like many others, is drunk. Intoxicated but happy, and moments later, the stranger is swallowed by a small crowd of people.
Indeed, the summer celebration seems to have brought everyone out of their homes. And there was no use trying to escape it. Even in her own bed, Yelina couldn’t ignore the sights and sounds. Tonight had been no different; trying to fall asleep had been impossible, and she had casually drifted over to the windows to watch the drama inherent in this celebration unfold.
But the middle-aged woman is all too aware that Carnival isn’t the cause of her insomnia. Of all the things that could keep her awake, the sound of her sleeping husband, snoring unevenly, is the one holding slumber at bay.
Yelina doesn’t turn to look at him, then, even as he releases a loud snort into the air. Doesn’t trust herself to look because, when Ray is asleep, she’s almost able to forget what has happened in these past years - in the past few hours. If she pretends enough, she can almost believe that nothing has changed. At night, she is almost able to forgive him.
Almost.
And it’s not for a lack of trying on either of their parts that they haven’t moved on, she knows. He has explained and justified and broken down and apologized. Her husband has cried for her forgiveness. But it’s never been enough to extinguish her anger or her pain because every time she’s tried to move on, some stubborn part of her refuses to let the past go.
They’ve been running, she thinks, on this cycle of anger and despair temporarily melting into hope, which never seems to last, for months now. Horatio had let her go so that they could be a family, so that they could go back to “normal” and be happy. Yelina is quite sure, though, that all they’ve been is completely miserable.
And it’s ironic that this is the case because she’s also sure that everyone in this house wants the same thing - the same elusive dream of being a family again. They all want to return to the time when there wasn’t a huge cloud of betrayal over their heads, want to go back to the place where the three of them could get through dinner without an argument. It’s been five years since any of that actually happened, but still, that’s what they want.
To return to a time where they all confidently - completely - believed in each other’s love.
Yelina knows that Ray thinks she’s being unreasonable on some level. He has said as much - that she is obsessed with the past, unwilling to give him a second chance. And Ray Junior concurs with his father. Only in this case, her son is much less understanding.
Why her baby could side with the man who had abandoned them had been a question she had had no answer for. She had been the one to raise their child alone, and yet that counted for nothing in Ray Junior’s eyes. It was truly beyond her comprehension until one morning, while her husband was still asleep, her once-sweet boy had directly accused: “You can forgive Stetler.”
Her ex’s name was said with a particular vehemence, the words staccato and filled with disgust. “You can forgive him. Why can’t you forgive Dad?”
Yelina didn’t offer an answer. Didn’t want to upset this delicate house of cards any further by saying that there was nothing more abusive or hurtful than leaving for five years under the pretense of death. In the end, she knew that she could forgive someone for a momentary lack of control, but not someone who deliberately and repeatedly betrayed her.
And, up until tonight, she had kept that knowledge to herself. It had happened only hours ago. Finally, after eight months, she had reached her breaking point. Yelina was more than tired of going around in circles with her husband, sick of all the back and forth. And he had, at last, pushed her to the limit.
By now the argument had become old hat - was well-known, well-covered territory for them: he wanted her forgiveness; she wanted an explanation that could satisfy her lingering doubts. Yelina had tried to give him hope that things would be okay. But, exhausted of reliving the same argument once a week, she could no longer do that.
Ray tried to explain once more. But it wasn’t enough, would never be enough, and she told him so.
“Then why ask for an explanation at all,” he demanded.
Her response was so quiet that it was almost inaudible. “Because…I want to believe you.” And that was the truth - is the truth.
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
“And you probably never will,” her husband said dejectedly.
She avoided his hurt eyes and looked down at her shaking hands.
“You’re gonna give up - just like that.”
Her white teeth bit down on her full lips, trying to will away her burgeoning anger. Yelina knew that his words were supposed to invoke her stubborn side, the part of her that, in theory, would refuse to accept this failed marriage. And he wasn’t completely wrong because it’s been that part of her personality that had gotten her through the first eight months here.
But tonight, instead, with Ray traipsing over her more than legitimate feelings, he had pulled an invisible tripwire.
“No. Not like that.” She swallowed hard and shifted her gaze to him - glared into his dark eyes. He lacked the grace to look away. Though he had already taken so much from her, her husband wanted more, and, shifting gears, she gave it to him.
Her voice was calm, though her accent thick, betraying the underlying emotion. “You know…when you first died, I thought that Horatio would have to bury me also. That’s how much I loved you.”
He sighed. “I know.”
“Sure.” The word was filled with doubt and a harsh sarcasm. There was no room for interpretation; her meaning was clear - she didn’t think he understood.
Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she licked her lips and continued. “For years, people told me to let you go - to move on, yes? And…”
She took a deep breath to finish the thought, but the words escaped his mouth before the truth had time to percolate on her tongue.
“So I guess they’ve finally gotten their wish. Is that it? You don’t love me anymore?”
“I don’t know you, Raymond!”
They both stood in the room in silence.
Finally, Yelina told him, “The man I married wouldn’t have left.”
“I had to.”
Her teeth once more gnawed down on her lip. “No, you didn’t,” she countered.
“They were gonna throw me in jail!”
“Then you should have gone to jail or asked for my help! I would have done anything for you, Ray - destroyed evidence, committed perjury. I would have run away with you.” She clenched her fists as the tears welled up in her eyes. “And the thing that gets me about that is - what a waste that would have been of my time and energy. Because clearly, you never loved me the way I did you.”
“But I do love you.”
“Yeah. Just not enough to tell me the truth, right? You chose to let me suffer for five years. You preferred to let me think that you were dead - let your son think that you were dead - than go to prison.”
Ray bowed his head in shame, then, and only ventured to raise his eyes to look at her after five minutes of silence. Perhaps, she thought, he had finally understood what he had done.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
She smiled sadly at him. “I know…it’s just not enough.”
And that was the end of the conversation. Yelina retreated to their bedroom, spent the rest of the evening sitting quietly by the window, watching all the people passing by with smiles plastered on their faces. The irony of it all hit her then. As the rest of the city was consumed by make up, music, and theatrics, the married couple had finally removed their masks, had revealed to one another who they now were.
Hours later - she wasn’t sure how many - Ray came into their bedroom. She resolutely continued to look outside the window, didn’t want to turn and face him.
“I thought you’d be in here packing.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly, with an air of melancholy. “As much as I would love to leave you right now, I’m not leaving without my son.”
“Then I guess you’re gonna be here for a while. Cause, in case you hadn’t noticed, Ray Junior and I have been getting along pretty well.”
Yelina turned around to look at him, stood up and moved closer to him. “Yeah. But…if there’s one thing I have learned over the years, Ray, it’s that you screw things up every chance you get. You’re selfish and self-destructive, and it’s only a matter of time before Ray Junior realizes that.”
Her husband had no response, perhaps realizing the truth in the words, and he quickly got ready for bed.
And she has been perched by the same window since their fight.
Freedom is only feet away. Her fingertips grip the windowsill, and if she really wanted to escape, the flimsy mesh of the screen is hardly a barrier. It would be easy.
So easy to flee this mockery of a home. She could leave the house and disappear in the boisterous crowd, only to resurface back in Miami, where the rest of her family and friends are.
But doing so will mean losing the most important thing in her life - her son. It’s almost assured that her husband will go back to his old ways; she’s seen the look in his eyes. And leaving is tempting, but she is a mother, and running away means leaving Ray Junior here without a safety net. And God only knows what will happen then.
To run away now would, in the end, she knows, make her no better than Ray. Would make her just as irresponsible and selfish. Staying isn’t what she wants really, but that goes part and parcel with being an adult. With being a parent.
She looks down at the platinum wedding rings on her right hand. It’s the most she’s ever been able to part with them. And even now, as the wife gazes down at the visible tether, she can’t find it in her heart to remove the silver-tinted bands. Maybe, Yelina realizes then, part of her just doesn’t want to go, realizes that maybe, more so than ever, she is attached to her years of married life.
Perhaps there is a lone leopard ready and able to change its spots… maybe there isn’t. But Yelina knows she can’t leave if she wants to find out.
Her right thumb presses into the diamond on the ring, and the reality feels even more ironic to her now: she’s with family, but completely alone. Freedom is only steps away, but she’s never felt more imprisoned.
She is stuck.
Eric
His sneakers scuff on the pavement. And as he walks, Eric kicks a grey stone along the way. It’s not particularly fun, but after spending all day in a classroom, the young boy is brimming with energy.
Usually after nine hours of reading and writing, the bored child would have soccer practice - something to put all of his excitement into. Only today’s practice had been cancelled. And while most kids had taken the bus home, Eric wanted to walk and had purposely missed the big yellow bus.
It’s against the rules, he knows, as he sets out on his path, to walk around Miami by himself. But the walk itself was straight, crossed no major intersections or highways, and was, he had decided earlier in the day, therefore safe. Besides, the direction he was heading also happened to lead directly to Marisol’s school. And as he rarely had any time away from her, the young boy figured he’d run into her anyway.
And that’s exactly what happens - though it’s nothing how his young mind pictured the encounter going.
Shortly after passing the large yellow stucco high school, he spots her down the block. Three guys - bulky teenagers - are surrounding her. And even from across the street, Eric knows that something is wrong by the way she stands - her head focusing on her feet, her arms wrapping around her stomach protectively. The dark-haired boy can tell by the way her typically tight plait (which their older sisters have dubbed her “librarian look”) is loose, strands of hair falling astray at the cross of each braid.
He approaches quietly - a tactic he’s perfected through the years when he’s stolen his sisters’ diaries - to see what’s going on, and half the words are easy enough to understand - show us your tits, stupid bitch, etc. The other half are mangled and battered Spanish, but Eric has no doubt that it’s more of the same. His feet move more quickly now.
And Mari cries, then, not loud, not dramatically - just the quiet sounds of a will being broken, of shame bubbling to the surface with no other outlet that this. The noise only serves to increase the taunts, the teenagers realizing that their prey is giving up. Knowing this, his pace quickens.
He’s only eleven years old, and though he knows what the end result will likely be, the younger brother knows that he has to protect her, defend his sister. Knows that if he just walks away and does nothing, he’ll feel guilty for the rest of his life.
No one sees him approach the pack of teenagers. As one more insult leaves the teens’ mouths, Eric screams loudly, deeply in a voice that is seemingly not his own, it’s guttural, and jumps kicking and scratching onto two of the boys. Completely unready for the attack, the two fall to the ground with a thud, and the third boy takes off running too terrified to look back.
Among the torn jeans and scabbed palms and knees, Marisol reaches out for her brother’s hand, as the two start to realize what’s going on.
Grasping for her hand, Eric scrambles to his feet, and the siblings run as fast as they can. It’s impossible to miss the shout - “You come back here again, and you’re dead meat, brat!” - from behind them.
Still they don’t dare to look back and keep running through people’s yards. Houses and lawns whizzing by them in a whirl, their backpacks flopping behind them, they don’t stop until they’re a few blocks from home. She comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, and before the young woman has even had a chance to catch her breath, she turns to her brother angrily.
“What the hell were you doing, Eric?!”
His heart is pounding. Sweat beads on his forehead from exertion, and he’s still too shocked by what has just happened, that his mind hasn’t even begun to formulate a response. She asks him again.
“What were you doing? They could have really hurt you!”
The younger brother frowns. “I was trying to protect you, Mari!”
“Well don’t,” she snaps at him. “Things were fine until you showed up.
He goggles at her. His sister’s lie is hardly convincing, doesn’t reach her amber eyes. And though Eric has come to accept that girls are weird, to say the least, this takes the cake.
“Fine? Things were not fine. They could have hurt you. What was I supposed to do?” Her only response is a sigh, and he slowly confesses, “I was just trying to protect you.”
Her face softens at his words, and it hits him then that this is probably the first brotherly thing he’s ever done for her.
“I’m your big sister,” Marisol says with finality, as if that explains everything. “It’s not your job to protect me…just drop it, okay? And don’t tell Mom and Dad.” She starts walking again towards the house, and Eric hurries to catch up to her.
“What did those guys want -"
“God, Eric! I said drop it!”
The tone of her voice is dangerous, rounded off with a thin, but hard, accent that only ever makes itself present when his sister is really, really angry. And even though he wants to know what happened, wants to hear every last detail, Eric knows better than to push her. She’s a girl, sure, but that makes no difference when she’s furious. Marisol isn’t beyond hitting him, and pursuing this will only end with that result.
He stops following her and watches as she walks down the white sidewalk. It’s an almost picturesque moment the way the neighbors’ flowers stand proudly in the garden beds, the way the sun beams down onto the asphalt, the way the neighborhood seems so quiet and serene - save for the softly blowing wind and a stormy teenager stalking home.
And he stands there for what seems like an eternity, watches as her stiff form gets smaller and smaller until she takes a turn and disappears into their house. The younger brother knows he can’t say anything, and he won’t, but the scene still bothers him.
Eric sighs as his feet start off on the remaining journey, and in that moment, in the very first steps, he makes his decision: he will walk her home from school for the time being. He isn’t foolish, knows that he might not be able to protect her. But, at the same time, he also knows - or at least has an idea of - how things will go if he pretends like nothing has happened.
It’s a heavy burden, one he doesn’t wish to carry - especially for someone he has been jealous of all his life. He feels so much older now, inexplicably so, and his shoulders slump under the weight of his backpack and the almost crushing guilt he has for not knowing that this was going on. For not knowing his sister.
His hand wraps around the brass doorknob, and he enters the house feeling like a completely different person. Marisol is sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework, her face remarkably calm. Blank even.
She never thanks him for doing something he knows she thinks isn’t his duty, and Eric never asks for that. Because older or younger sibling is a distinction of no importance now, he feels. They are family, and he is a boy, going to be a man, and, after all the childish jealousy and hatred falls away, he is only left with a powerful sense of loyalty.
Of love for her.
It may not be his duty to take care of her, but there are no other options.
Alexx
She’s been an adult since she was five, Alexx thinks. While other kids played hopscotch out in the alley down below, she was cleaning the house, making sure her brothers and sister had eaten breakfast, waking her parents up at random hours of the night to ensure that they got to their jobs on time - in short, even as child, she was a mother.
Too many kids, Alexx knew, crumpled under the immense weight of poverty, but somehow, the little girl with thick dark braids had found her calling through it. She was born to be a nurturer. And when she told her parents she was gonna be a doctor, even though Alexx was only twelve, they had instantly believed it. Knew that this was more than a childish fantasy.
And since that time, it was that dream, that promise of a future that had kept her going. Even when things got hard, this was her ray of light. Being an adult - all of the positive and negative aspects of life had been sweetened or easier to take, thanks to this last vestige of childhood.
But now… now that the cost of her dreams has reared its ugly head, she feels more grown up than ever before. It’s been a whole twelve hours since she was held hostage, long since the body bag had shifted and moved in her van. Even the fire in the Everglades has been contained. The day has essentially ended, and she wants to return to normal, but that’s easier said than done.
As of today, the dark-haired woman thinks, she is now truly an adult. The last burning embers of innocence have gone out, and Alexx no longer has the dream to nurture at all costs. She lies in bed and thinks how much she would like to just…leave it all behind.
She’s loved being a medical examiner from the beginning, but the threat of death is too high a price to live your dreams like a wanton youth. And in that moment, she makes her decision: Alexx Woods needs some time off. It’s a thought that allows her to fall asleep - if fitfully.
The next day, she calls in sick.
End 2/5
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13 for some dark themes and naughty language, :-)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: The Horatio part fulfills
fanfic100 prompt 32. sunset.
Summary: What really connects human beings is what makes us miserable. A series of vignettes featuring Horatio, Calleigh, Speed, Eric, Yelina, Alexx with some Marisol, Ryan and Natalia.
The structure is still the same as it was in chapter one. No spoilers in this chapter really, but there is some naughty language so cover your ears (eyes?) if you don’t like it. Special thanks to crimelab.nl for being one of the most comprehensive CSI sites out there.
As always, nothing would be readable without my beta, Olly. Thank you for all your work. For ensuring that this fic had verbs (and for everything else), you’ve become absolutely irreplaceable to me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don’t sue me.
Castaway Dreams
Section Two: Growing Pains
By Duckie Nicks
Horatio
For all of six months, Yelina was the embodiment of everything he wanted.
It wasn’t just that she was attractive. Gorgeous women weren’t scarce in Miami - though they all paled in comparison to her. The unruly erotic tangle of dark hair, the infinitely expressive hazel eyes, the sun-kissed olive skin that wrapped tautly around her curves… no, as beautiful as other women were, Horatio had only longed for her.
But the truth was - the truth is - she could have been the ugliest woman alive, and he still would have fallen in love with her. Horatio had always supposed it would be impossible to find a woman as driven by the same moral compass, who was kind, dedicated, honest, and compassionate. Yet, Yelina was all of those things.
There had been no slow realization, no awakening to his feelings. His heart hadn’t magically skipped a beat; his breath had been as steady as it could ever be around her. And truth be told, the normally logical man had no idea how this came to be. Horatio had met her, and in that brief introduction, as his eyes met hers, he had known. But he had said nothing because the CSI didn’t think it was appropriate to date a co-worker.
Obviously his brother hadn’t held the same beliefs.
It had taken six months for Horatio to accept that he couldn’t live without her and didn’t want to try, and then only a split second to know he would have to.
On that fateful day, the redhead had gone for a walk on the beach to clear his head, had needed the sound and smell of the surf to ease the horrible images of the day from his mind. He hadn’t expected - or wanted - to see Raymond walking hand in hand with Yelina.
Kissing her.
The place that was usually so serene now made him feel uneasy - as though he were suffocating. And as the couple hadn’t seen him (nor did he want to be seen), Horatio quickly left, his feet trudging unevenly on the sand.
Half a year to get this far and the rest of his life to try and forget his feelings.
Horatio was never sure exactly when they met, but in the end, he didn’t think it mattered. Raymond had fallen in love with her, and she had obviously felt the same way, and that was enough. The Colombian loved his brother, and that fact would prevent a relationship from ever happening. Even if it made Horatio completely miserable in the process.
There had been no consideration given to confessing his feelings. He wanted her, but the redhead couldn’t put her in the position of choosing. And more than that, there was his brother to think of.
Were they destined to always compete for affection? Or, rather, Horatio thought, was he to spend his life trying to make up for their mother’s choices? He didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to make Yelina choose. Didn’t want to hurt Ray by once again receiving the love that should have been for his brother.
And in the years after, when Ray died, even when there was no one to steal love from, the feeling had lingered on. His sister-in-law had practically offered herself up to him, but he kept his distance.
In those moments, when she had put everything on the line and he had rejected her, her hazel eyes became suspiciously bright. And behind the brownish tinge of anger and hurt were the sparks of disbelief. The curly-haired woman thought he was crazy for not taking what he wanted more than anything.
Horatio had no defense for that. Had no explanation. Because there was no rationale in being the boy who had grown up being told he deserved the world and ending up the man who felt he had earned nothing. Deserved nothing.
Perhaps the fact the feeling had survived should have been a clue to his brother’s survival.
But it’s easy to bury this particular idea because it’s irrelevant now. He knew it the moment Ray had popped up in the back of the Hummer. And can feel it more than ever now as he walks his sister-in-law out to the tarmac.
It doesn’t matter why he didn’t act on his feelings, Horatio knows. It doesn’t matter that he’s felt beholden to Raymond, much to his detriment, for as long as he can remember. All reasoning and logic is moot because the only thing that matters, the only truth Horatio knows is this: Yelina is Ray’s.
And, standing between the two brothers, between her brother-in-law and her husband, Miami and Rio, Yelina knows it as well, the annoyed acceptance setting into her face.
She wants a reason to stay, he thinks. She wants him to stop this, but Horatio is the one who has set this plan in motion. He won’t ask her to make a choice. He won’t let her stay in Miami.
And the tears forming in her eyes are surely being mirrored in his own.
This is the end of their innuendo, of what might have been.
This may be the last time they see each other ever. And it’s the realization of future lonely nights and loss, he knows, that makes her bridge the gap between their bodies. Drives her to break the unspoken rule about touching one another.
The pads of her fingers dig into his back, embracing him fiercely. His own hands stay where they are, crushed between their bodies. He does not return the hug - knows that if he does, he won’t be able to force her on that plane.
Her soft curls tickle his jaw line as she presses her face into the collar of his shirt. Her lips gently brush against his warm unguarded skin.
It’s not a kiss.
She has been, since the beginning, the instigator, the one to push him as far as he could go. But from this moment on, Horatio knows that time is over. Gone. Because he’s forced her hand, has taken the choice away from her - and now, if he wants her to stay, if he wants to feel her lips press into any part of him, it’s up to him to make that happen.
He doesn’t and instead pushes her away with a few words - “You better go. Okay?”
As the redhead watches her walk up the airplane steps, he wishes that she’ll be able to find a way to forgive him. And, more than that, as he looks up towards the sun, Horatio hopes that he can finally get over her.
That his feelings will disappear like a plane in the evening sky.
Calleigh
This is the first time she’s broken the law.
Okay. Not the first time. But this isn’t the same as accidentally getting high while digging a bullet out of solid cocaine. This is deliberate and willful and more than enough to get her fired. And perhaps the only thing that Calleigh thinks is worth noting is the fact that she doesn’t care.
Or more precisely, her concern lies not with her profession - her livelihood, but with her father.
It should be easy to turn her back on him.
After her childhood and the terror he could make her family feel. After never being able to stop drinking and still having the gall to lie about it: “first drink I’ve had in six months” - she wryly thinks.
After she saw the blood on the car.
It should be simple, but it’s not. She should be arresting him and condemning him, but she can’t.
“Take another one.” This is her advice, though it’s clear he doesn’t understand what the point is.
Not that it matters. Kenwall Duquesne never needed a reason to drink before, and he doesn’t need one now.
His callous hands pluck the flask from his jacket. Chubby fingers struggle to open the container, and Calleigh turns away from the sight. Because even though this is what she wants him to do, the daughter doesn’t wish to see this - can’t bear to see her father dabble with the sour temptation once more.
She starts to walk away, her long blonde hair swaying, the straw strands tickling her back. And though the CSI is all too aware of the way the loose pavement crunches under her boots, it’s still not enough to drown out the sound of scotch sloshing against the metal flask.
Perhaps it’s the result of growing up with brothers who liked to torture ants with a magnifying glass - maybe it’s just the whole natural attraction people seem to have to train wrecks, but Calleigh can’t help but turn and look with a touch of morbid fascination. Watches the aging man take a long swig.
Her mouth turns into an even deeper frown. This is what she wanted him to do, but a ribbon of guilt begins to knot itself in her stomach nonetheless. Yet, it’s still not enough for her to change her mind. Will not stop the lie from falling out of her mouth.
She steels herself for what she is about to do. Her normally vibrant green eyes darken and harden till they take on the same color of the metallic grey guns she works with every day.
“My father has come to turn himself in.”
And though her boss obviously suspects something, Calleigh continues with the lie.
“My dad took a drink to calm his nerves before he came in. I witnessed it.”
The words sound convincing enough, but the blonde is unable to look Horatio in the eyes. Between the man reeking of liquor and the friend who has always protected her, she realizes who she is supposed to side with on this.
But the redhead isn’t her father and will never be, no matter how much she hero worships him. More than that, as much as the knot in her stomach is making her feel nauseous, it doesn’t have quite the same tug as the binding, indestructible tie that links the woman to her father. Calleigh loves and respects Horatio, but…
This is her daddy.
And that thought gives her the strength to defiantly look her boss in the eye. Every line on his face seems to turn into a frown, but, she thinks, this is the norm for him since Speed died. There is no outburst, no anger from him - nothing to show his displeasure with her other than a calmly spoken, “You do realize that you’re riding the line on this, right?”
It is, quite literally, the harshest thing he’s ever said to her. She would rather he yell and scream; that’s the sole kind of anger and response the southern girl has been equipped to handle since she was a child. She’s not ready for this disquieting warning.
Horatio gently pulls her off the case, and it’s then that Calleigh begins to wonder how long it will take for this fracture in their friendship to be repaired. It’ll be a while, the blonde thinks, as she stalks down to the lab where her father’s car is being processed.
She knows she should stop - that she should let the newbie do his job. The normally obedient woman is all too aware that she’s disobeying orders. But Calleigh can’t help it. Her hands are in her pockets, as requested, but she can’t keep her hands off of this. Can’t sit idly by and watch her father be prosecuted for this.
And long after they discover the truth, long after she’s taken her father’s keys and gone home, the guilt still gnaws at her. It has been years since Calleigh believed the world was black and white, good and evil. But even so… now the world feels more horribly confusing and ambiguous, devoid of color and contrast.
The CSI has broken the law, has lied to her friend, has ignored his orders. And while everything has changed, the only constant, terrible as it is, is the fact that Daddy is an alcoholic, that she can’t save him, and, worst of all, she’ll forgive him every time.
The sun sets that night in a blaze of reds and yellows, but for the first time, Calleigh, the one to always look on the bright side, is unable to see it. Beyond her darkened eyes, all she sees is eternal night and impasse.
Speedle
His body is warm to the touch still, but there is no question that Tim Speedle is dead. His friend and boss knows that he is gone; too much blood has been lost. And it’s everywhere - caked on Horatio’s face, shirt, and hands, spread in a large, tell-tale puddle on the floor, dried on Speed’s back and chest.
Tim is dead. Only three words needed to express the unacceptable facts: there is no beat to the younger man’s heart, no air in his lungs. The gasps, chokes, and coughs so prevalent in the air only moments before are now gone, just as his redheaded partner no longer urgently whispers and calls for him. Now there is only silence, a heavy emptiness filling the air, mixing with the tangled smell of blood and gunpowder.
A palpable stillness floods the room with nothing to pass the time but thoughts of regret and loss. It’s not the first time Horatio has had to baby-sit a body. It’s not even the first time the body’s been someone he loves… loved? Still the redhead wants to leave, though he knows he can’t and won’t abandon Speed, no matter how tempting the childish desire to hide from this is.
Soon enough, back up will come - along with the reporters, by-standers, and IAB, and perhaps then the current quiet won’t seem so bad. Maybe once the younger man is buried, any time with him, even these last minutes, will feel like a gift. But for now, there is only a dead body and the pervasive feeling of defeat.
Yelina
The smell of purple orchids blooming wafts into the room. A lazy midnight breeze makes the open window rattle back and forth ever so slightly. Rio has come to life, and a dull murmur, punctuated every so often by a distinctive word or shout, fills their heated bedroom.
Carnival is almost over; King Momo had received the key to the city, and soon the nights will calm once more. But until Lent starts, the cariocas (not to mention, the thousands of foreigners who had flocked to the city) party on fervently, determined to partake in as much debauchery as possible.
The brunette can hear samba music playing in the distance; drums are being pounded on rhythmically somewhere in the city, the exact location outside her line of sight. Looking out the bedroom window, all Yelina can see are people enjoying themselves. Even in the darkness, their clothes, spectacular hues of pinks and gold set with feathers and glitter, sparkle. A woman trips over the fishtailed hem of her skirt, but the accident is coupled with a high-pitched laugh. She, like many others, is drunk. Intoxicated but happy, and moments later, the stranger is swallowed by a small crowd of people.
Indeed, the summer celebration seems to have brought everyone out of their homes. And there was no use trying to escape it. Even in her own bed, Yelina couldn’t ignore the sights and sounds. Tonight had been no different; trying to fall asleep had been impossible, and she had casually drifted over to the windows to watch the drama inherent in this celebration unfold.
But the middle-aged woman is all too aware that Carnival isn’t the cause of her insomnia. Of all the things that could keep her awake, the sound of her sleeping husband, snoring unevenly, is the one holding slumber at bay.
Yelina doesn’t turn to look at him, then, even as he releases a loud snort into the air. Doesn’t trust herself to look because, when Ray is asleep, she’s almost able to forget what has happened in these past years - in the past few hours. If she pretends enough, she can almost believe that nothing has changed. At night, she is almost able to forgive him.
Almost.
And it’s not for a lack of trying on either of their parts that they haven’t moved on, she knows. He has explained and justified and broken down and apologized. Her husband has cried for her forgiveness. But it’s never been enough to extinguish her anger or her pain because every time she’s tried to move on, some stubborn part of her refuses to let the past go.
They’ve been running, she thinks, on this cycle of anger and despair temporarily melting into hope, which never seems to last, for months now. Horatio had let her go so that they could be a family, so that they could go back to “normal” and be happy. Yelina is quite sure, though, that all they’ve been is completely miserable.
And it’s ironic that this is the case because she’s also sure that everyone in this house wants the same thing - the same elusive dream of being a family again. They all want to return to the time when there wasn’t a huge cloud of betrayal over their heads, want to go back to the place where the three of them could get through dinner without an argument. It’s been five years since any of that actually happened, but still, that’s what they want.
To return to a time where they all confidently - completely - believed in each other’s love.
Yelina knows that Ray thinks she’s being unreasonable on some level. He has said as much - that she is obsessed with the past, unwilling to give him a second chance. And Ray Junior concurs with his father. Only in this case, her son is much less understanding.
Why her baby could side with the man who had abandoned them had been a question she had had no answer for. She had been the one to raise their child alone, and yet that counted for nothing in Ray Junior’s eyes. It was truly beyond her comprehension until one morning, while her husband was still asleep, her once-sweet boy had directly accused: “You can forgive Stetler.”
Her ex’s name was said with a particular vehemence, the words staccato and filled with disgust. “You can forgive him. Why can’t you forgive Dad?”
Yelina didn’t offer an answer. Didn’t want to upset this delicate house of cards any further by saying that there was nothing more abusive or hurtful than leaving for five years under the pretense of death. In the end, she knew that she could forgive someone for a momentary lack of control, but not someone who deliberately and repeatedly betrayed her.
And, up until tonight, she had kept that knowledge to herself. It had happened only hours ago. Finally, after eight months, she had reached her breaking point. Yelina was more than tired of going around in circles with her husband, sick of all the back and forth. And he had, at last, pushed her to the limit.
By now the argument had become old hat - was well-known, well-covered territory for them: he wanted her forgiveness; she wanted an explanation that could satisfy her lingering doubts. Yelina had tried to give him hope that things would be okay. But, exhausted of reliving the same argument once a week, she could no longer do that.
Ray tried to explain once more. But it wasn’t enough, would never be enough, and she told him so.
“Then why ask for an explanation at all,” he demanded.
Her response was so quiet that it was almost inaudible. “Because…I want to believe you.” And that was the truth - is the truth.
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
“And you probably never will,” her husband said dejectedly.
She avoided his hurt eyes and looked down at her shaking hands.
“You’re gonna give up - just like that.”
Her white teeth bit down on her full lips, trying to will away her burgeoning anger. Yelina knew that his words were supposed to invoke her stubborn side, the part of her that, in theory, would refuse to accept this failed marriage. And he wasn’t completely wrong because it’s been that part of her personality that had gotten her through the first eight months here.
But tonight, instead, with Ray traipsing over her more than legitimate feelings, he had pulled an invisible tripwire.
“No. Not like that.” She swallowed hard and shifted her gaze to him - glared into his dark eyes. He lacked the grace to look away. Though he had already taken so much from her, her husband wanted more, and, shifting gears, she gave it to him.
Her voice was calm, though her accent thick, betraying the underlying emotion. “You know…when you first died, I thought that Horatio would have to bury me also. That’s how much I loved you.”
He sighed. “I know.”
“Sure.” The word was filled with doubt and a harsh sarcasm. There was no room for interpretation; her meaning was clear - she didn’t think he understood.
Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she licked her lips and continued. “For years, people told me to let you go - to move on, yes? And…”
She took a deep breath to finish the thought, but the words escaped his mouth before the truth had time to percolate on her tongue.
“So I guess they’ve finally gotten their wish. Is that it? You don’t love me anymore?”
“I don’t know you, Raymond!”
They both stood in the room in silence.
Finally, Yelina told him, “The man I married wouldn’t have left.”
“I had to.”
Her teeth once more gnawed down on her lip. “No, you didn’t,” she countered.
“They were gonna throw me in jail!”
“Then you should have gone to jail or asked for my help! I would have done anything for you, Ray - destroyed evidence, committed perjury. I would have run away with you.” She clenched her fists as the tears welled up in her eyes. “And the thing that gets me about that is - what a waste that would have been of my time and energy. Because clearly, you never loved me the way I did you.”
“But I do love you.”
“Yeah. Just not enough to tell me the truth, right? You chose to let me suffer for five years. You preferred to let me think that you were dead - let your son think that you were dead - than go to prison.”
Ray bowed his head in shame, then, and only ventured to raise his eyes to look at her after five minutes of silence. Perhaps, she thought, he had finally understood what he had done.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
She smiled sadly at him. “I know…it’s just not enough.”
And that was the end of the conversation. Yelina retreated to their bedroom, spent the rest of the evening sitting quietly by the window, watching all the people passing by with smiles plastered on their faces. The irony of it all hit her then. As the rest of the city was consumed by make up, music, and theatrics, the married couple had finally removed their masks, had revealed to one another who they now were.
Hours later - she wasn’t sure how many - Ray came into their bedroom. She resolutely continued to look outside the window, didn’t want to turn and face him.
“I thought you’d be in here packing.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly, with an air of melancholy. “As much as I would love to leave you right now, I’m not leaving without my son.”
“Then I guess you’re gonna be here for a while. Cause, in case you hadn’t noticed, Ray Junior and I have been getting along pretty well.”
Yelina turned around to look at him, stood up and moved closer to him. “Yeah. But…if there’s one thing I have learned over the years, Ray, it’s that you screw things up every chance you get. You’re selfish and self-destructive, and it’s only a matter of time before Ray Junior realizes that.”
Her husband had no response, perhaps realizing the truth in the words, and he quickly got ready for bed.
And she has been perched by the same window since their fight.
Freedom is only feet away. Her fingertips grip the windowsill, and if she really wanted to escape, the flimsy mesh of the screen is hardly a barrier. It would be easy.
So easy to flee this mockery of a home. She could leave the house and disappear in the boisterous crowd, only to resurface back in Miami, where the rest of her family and friends are.
But doing so will mean losing the most important thing in her life - her son. It’s almost assured that her husband will go back to his old ways; she’s seen the look in his eyes. And leaving is tempting, but she is a mother, and running away means leaving Ray Junior here without a safety net. And God only knows what will happen then.
To run away now would, in the end, she knows, make her no better than Ray. Would make her just as irresponsible and selfish. Staying isn’t what she wants really, but that goes part and parcel with being an adult. With being a parent.
She looks down at the platinum wedding rings on her right hand. It’s the most she’s ever been able to part with them. And even now, as the wife gazes down at the visible tether, she can’t find it in her heart to remove the silver-tinted bands. Maybe, Yelina realizes then, part of her just doesn’t want to go, realizes that maybe, more so than ever, she is attached to her years of married life.
Perhaps there is a lone leopard ready and able to change its spots… maybe there isn’t. But Yelina knows she can’t leave if she wants to find out.
Her right thumb presses into the diamond on the ring, and the reality feels even more ironic to her now: she’s with family, but completely alone. Freedom is only steps away, but she’s never felt more imprisoned.
She is stuck.
Eric
His sneakers scuff on the pavement. And as he walks, Eric kicks a grey stone along the way. It’s not particularly fun, but after spending all day in a classroom, the young boy is brimming with energy.
Usually after nine hours of reading and writing, the bored child would have soccer practice - something to put all of his excitement into. Only today’s practice had been cancelled. And while most kids had taken the bus home, Eric wanted to walk and had purposely missed the big yellow bus.
It’s against the rules, he knows, as he sets out on his path, to walk around Miami by himself. But the walk itself was straight, crossed no major intersections or highways, and was, he had decided earlier in the day, therefore safe. Besides, the direction he was heading also happened to lead directly to Marisol’s school. And as he rarely had any time away from her, the young boy figured he’d run into her anyway.
And that’s exactly what happens - though it’s nothing how his young mind pictured the encounter going.
Shortly after passing the large yellow stucco high school, he spots her down the block. Three guys - bulky teenagers - are surrounding her. And even from across the street, Eric knows that something is wrong by the way she stands - her head focusing on her feet, her arms wrapping around her stomach protectively. The dark-haired boy can tell by the way her typically tight plait (which their older sisters have dubbed her “librarian look”) is loose, strands of hair falling astray at the cross of each braid.
He approaches quietly - a tactic he’s perfected through the years when he’s stolen his sisters’ diaries - to see what’s going on, and half the words are easy enough to understand - show us your tits, stupid bitch, etc. The other half are mangled and battered Spanish, but Eric has no doubt that it’s more of the same. His feet move more quickly now.
And Mari cries, then, not loud, not dramatically - just the quiet sounds of a will being broken, of shame bubbling to the surface with no other outlet that this. The noise only serves to increase the taunts, the teenagers realizing that their prey is giving up. Knowing this, his pace quickens.
He’s only eleven years old, and though he knows what the end result will likely be, the younger brother knows that he has to protect her, defend his sister. Knows that if he just walks away and does nothing, he’ll feel guilty for the rest of his life.
No one sees him approach the pack of teenagers. As one more insult leaves the teens’ mouths, Eric screams loudly, deeply in a voice that is seemingly not his own, it’s guttural, and jumps kicking and scratching onto two of the boys. Completely unready for the attack, the two fall to the ground with a thud, and the third boy takes off running too terrified to look back.
Among the torn jeans and scabbed palms and knees, Marisol reaches out for her brother’s hand, as the two start to realize what’s going on.
Grasping for her hand, Eric scrambles to his feet, and the siblings run as fast as they can. It’s impossible to miss the shout - “You come back here again, and you’re dead meat, brat!” - from behind them.
Still they don’t dare to look back and keep running through people’s yards. Houses and lawns whizzing by them in a whirl, their backpacks flopping behind them, they don’t stop until they’re a few blocks from home. She comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, and before the young woman has even had a chance to catch her breath, she turns to her brother angrily.
“What the hell were you doing, Eric?!”
His heart is pounding. Sweat beads on his forehead from exertion, and he’s still too shocked by what has just happened, that his mind hasn’t even begun to formulate a response. She asks him again.
“What were you doing? They could have really hurt you!”
The younger brother frowns. “I was trying to protect you, Mari!”
“Well don’t,” she snaps at him. “Things were fine until you showed up.
He goggles at her. His sister’s lie is hardly convincing, doesn’t reach her amber eyes. And though Eric has come to accept that girls are weird, to say the least, this takes the cake.
“Fine? Things were not fine. They could have hurt you. What was I supposed to do?” Her only response is a sigh, and he slowly confesses, “I was just trying to protect you.”
Her face softens at his words, and it hits him then that this is probably the first brotherly thing he’s ever done for her.
“I’m your big sister,” Marisol says with finality, as if that explains everything. “It’s not your job to protect me…just drop it, okay? And don’t tell Mom and Dad.” She starts walking again towards the house, and Eric hurries to catch up to her.
“What did those guys want -"
“God, Eric! I said drop it!”
The tone of her voice is dangerous, rounded off with a thin, but hard, accent that only ever makes itself present when his sister is really, really angry. And even though he wants to know what happened, wants to hear every last detail, Eric knows better than to push her. She’s a girl, sure, but that makes no difference when she’s furious. Marisol isn’t beyond hitting him, and pursuing this will only end with that result.
He stops following her and watches as she walks down the white sidewalk. It’s an almost picturesque moment the way the neighbors’ flowers stand proudly in the garden beds, the way the sun beams down onto the asphalt, the way the neighborhood seems so quiet and serene - save for the softly blowing wind and a stormy teenager stalking home.
And he stands there for what seems like an eternity, watches as her stiff form gets smaller and smaller until she takes a turn and disappears into their house. The younger brother knows he can’t say anything, and he won’t, but the scene still bothers him.
Eric sighs as his feet start off on the remaining journey, and in that moment, in the very first steps, he makes his decision: he will walk her home from school for the time being. He isn’t foolish, knows that he might not be able to protect her. But, at the same time, he also knows - or at least has an idea of - how things will go if he pretends like nothing has happened.
It’s a heavy burden, one he doesn’t wish to carry - especially for someone he has been jealous of all his life. He feels so much older now, inexplicably so, and his shoulders slump under the weight of his backpack and the almost crushing guilt he has for not knowing that this was going on. For not knowing his sister.
His hand wraps around the brass doorknob, and he enters the house feeling like a completely different person. Marisol is sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework, her face remarkably calm. Blank even.
She never thanks him for doing something he knows she thinks isn’t his duty, and Eric never asks for that. Because older or younger sibling is a distinction of no importance now, he feels. They are family, and he is a boy, going to be a man, and, after all the childish jealousy and hatred falls away, he is only left with a powerful sense of loyalty.
Of love for her.
It may not be his duty to take care of her, but there are no other options.
Alexx
She’s been an adult since she was five, Alexx thinks. While other kids played hopscotch out in the alley down below, she was cleaning the house, making sure her brothers and sister had eaten breakfast, waking her parents up at random hours of the night to ensure that they got to their jobs on time - in short, even as child, she was a mother.
Too many kids, Alexx knew, crumpled under the immense weight of poverty, but somehow, the little girl with thick dark braids had found her calling through it. She was born to be a nurturer. And when she told her parents she was gonna be a doctor, even though Alexx was only twelve, they had instantly believed it. Knew that this was more than a childish fantasy.
And since that time, it was that dream, that promise of a future that had kept her going. Even when things got hard, this was her ray of light. Being an adult - all of the positive and negative aspects of life had been sweetened or easier to take, thanks to this last vestige of childhood.
But now… now that the cost of her dreams has reared its ugly head, she feels more grown up than ever before. It’s been a whole twelve hours since she was held hostage, long since the body bag had shifted and moved in her van. Even the fire in the Everglades has been contained. The day has essentially ended, and she wants to return to normal, but that’s easier said than done.
As of today, the dark-haired woman thinks, she is now truly an adult. The last burning embers of innocence have gone out, and Alexx no longer has the dream to nurture at all costs. She lies in bed and thinks how much she would like to just…leave it all behind.
She’s loved being a medical examiner from the beginning, but the threat of death is too high a price to live your dreams like a wanton youth. And in that moment, she makes her decision: Alexx Woods needs some time off. It’s a thought that allows her to fall asleep - if fitfully.
The next day, she calls in sick.
End 2/5