Fic: Witch Ball [BSI 'verse]
Title: Witch Ball
Author: stellaluna_
Fandom: CSI:NY
Rating: PG for language
Summary: Flack may be in way over his head.
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.
Notes: A part of the BSI 'verse. scarletts_awry's tag || my tag
Two days into his new liaison gig, and Flack is convinced: these people are freaks. He's also secretly convinced that this isn't any kind of promotion, the way the brass swore up and down it was, but is actually a punishment of some sort, if not an elaborate prank. But he's not about to voice that little fear to anyone. He's already getting enough shit from the rest of the Homicide squad, who are never let him going to live this down. He's already sick of finding rubber bats and astrology columns cut out from the newspaper taped to his locker.
He sits in one of the lounge areas, staring up at the glass ball over the only window. He's wasted an entire morning tagging along with Agent Messer while he questioned witnesses about an alleged series of ghoul attacks in Central Park, and another two hours tramping around in godawful muck in the sewers under the Bowery while two more agents, whose names he hasn't bothered to learn, took something they called etheric impressions from the dripping walls. He's had it; he just wants to go back to the precinct and do his real job, but he can't until he talks to Agent Taylor, who he's already decided is crazier than the rest of them put together.
Flack is still staring at the ball and thinking evil thoughts when Agent Bonasera walks in, and he perks up. She might be as big a loon as the rest of them, but she's good to look at.
"Detective Flack," she says.
"Agent."
"Do you need anything?"
Oh, there's an opportunity. He bites his tongue, then says, "No, just waiting for Agent Taylor."
She nods. "He should be along soon. Listen, are you settling in okay? I know it's a lot to process all at once."
"I'm fine." He pauses. "Just trying to figure out what the hell that thing is, though."
She turns, following his gaze. "Oh, that. It's a witch ball."
Flack feels his heart sink. "A witch ball."
"Yeah. They're supposed to trap any evil spirits that try to come through the windows. Mind you, they don't actually work; that's just a superstition. But we have a lot of things like that around here, things people tried to use and failed with. It's good to study them, you know? We have to know what doesn't work if we're going to understand what does." She stretches up on her toes -- even in the midst of his dismay, Flack doesn't mind the view at all -- and turns the ball so that it catches the light better. "Besides," she says, "they're pretty."
"Pretty. Right."
She smiles at him. "You'll be just fine, Detective Flack. It'll all make sense eventually."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Come have drinks with us Friday night after work," she says. "Get to know us."
Flack raises his eyebrows. "I'll check my schedule."
"Good," she says. She's still smiling, and she gives him a little pat on the shoulder as she leaves.
He watches her go. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
Feedback is always appreciated.
Author: stellaluna_
Fandom: CSI:NY
Rating: PG for language
Summary: Flack may be in way over his head.
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.
Notes: A part of the BSI 'verse. scarletts_awry's tag || my tag
Two days into his new liaison gig, and Flack is convinced: these people are freaks. He's also secretly convinced that this isn't any kind of promotion, the way the brass swore up and down it was, but is actually a punishment of some sort, if not an elaborate prank. But he's not about to voice that little fear to anyone. He's already getting enough shit from the rest of the Homicide squad, who are never let him going to live this down. He's already sick of finding rubber bats and astrology columns cut out from the newspaper taped to his locker.
He sits in one of the lounge areas, staring up at the glass ball over the only window. He's wasted an entire morning tagging along with Agent Messer while he questioned witnesses about an alleged series of ghoul attacks in Central Park, and another two hours tramping around in godawful muck in the sewers under the Bowery while two more agents, whose names he hasn't bothered to learn, took something they called etheric impressions from the dripping walls. He's had it; he just wants to go back to the precinct and do his real job, but he can't until he talks to Agent Taylor, who he's already decided is crazier than the rest of them put together.
Flack is still staring at the ball and thinking evil thoughts when Agent Bonasera walks in, and he perks up. She might be as big a loon as the rest of them, but she's good to look at.
"Detective Flack," she says.
"Agent."
"Do you need anything?"
Oh, there's an opportunity. He bites his tongue, then says, "No, just waiting for Agent Taylor."
She nods. "He should be along soon. Listen, are you settling in okay? I know it's a lot to process all at once."
"I'm fine." He pauses. "Just trying to figure out what the hell that thing is, though."
She turns, following his gaze. "Oh, that. It's a witch ball."
Flack feels his heart sink. "A witch ball."
"Yeah. They're supposed to trap any evil spirits that try to come through the windows. Mind you, they don't actually work; that's just a superstition. But we have a lot of things like that around here, things people tried to use and failed with. It's good to study them, you know? We have to know what doesn't work if we're going to understand what does." She stretches up on her toes -- even in the midst of his dismay, Flack doesn't mind the view at all -- and turns the ball so that it catches the light better. "Besides," she says, "they're pretty."
"Pretty. Right."
She smiles at him. "You'll be just fine, Detective Flack. It'll all make sense eventually."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Come have drinks with us Friday night after work," she says. "Get to know us."
Flack raises his eyebrows. "I'll check my schedule."
"Good," she says. She's still smiling, and she gives him a little pat on the shoulder as she leaves.
He watches her go. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
Feedback is always appreciated.