Fic Post - Curtain Call
Title: Curtain Call
Fandom: CSI
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Post Grave Danger. It’s a lie and they both know it, but that’s how this script works. The script for an act called Okay. Nick/Sara friendship.
A/N: This was begun as a one-shot, but there may yet be more to come. If so, it will move past friendship and into Snickers. Just so’s y’all know.
Nick’s way too used to the feel of a corpse. The texture varies, depending on the circumstances, but, with very few exceptions, they’re always cold. They’re definitely always unresponsive. Newton breaks down; there’s action, but never any reaction. He doesn’t think he’d mind being familiar with bodies if he had any contact with the living, if thinking about the feel of human skin didn’t make him think of cold.
There’s a knock on the door and Nick looks up. Night shift is over. Someone from the lab, coming to check up on him. He knows they’re trying to help, and he does appreciate the effort, but just once, he’d like to not feel as though he has handle with care stamped on his forehead. He sometimes gets the feeling that they’re afraid of him.
He opens the door and finds Sara, looking lost in thought. Next to Ecklie, who came only once, she’s his most infrequent visitor. There always seems to be something on the tip of her tongue, something that never quite makes it out.
“Hey, Sara.”
“Hi.” She tries her best with the smile, but Nick can see that it doesn’t make it into her eyes. “How’re you doing?”
“Good.” It’s a lie and they both know it, but that’s how this script works. The script for an act called Okay.
The talk stays small: It’s been a hot week. The criminal element in Vegas is keeping CSI busy. Nick’s thinking about getting a dog. Yes, Sara would like a drink and no, thanks, she’s not hungry.
He watches her sit on the sofa, knees tucked up, making herself smaller than she really is. She’s tired. Only half there.
“Rough shift?” he asks, sitting across the room, maintaining distance because living people don’t seem to want to touch him these days. He knows she’ll give him the sanitized version, if he gets anything. The gory details will be missing, not because they’re indelicate, but because no one wants to upset him.
She sighs, her mind still back at the lab, as Sara’s mind generally is. “I hate the ones where kids are involved,” she says finally.
Nick waits.
“There was a homicide,” Sara’s speaking mostly to herself now, “battered wife had enough. Fought back.”
“Killed the husband.” Nick’s heard this story before.
“No.” she sets her glass on the coffee table and leans her forehead on her palm. “She wanted revenge. She wasn’t strong enough to take down her husband, so she killed their son. Drowned him in the bathtub. Four years old.”
Nick curses under his breath. Sometimes being told what you wanted to hear isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“He was just a baby, Nick.” Sara brushes away tears. “His face was so - he didn’t even struggle.”
Nick doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sara cry. Upset, yes, but on Sara, that usually works out to anger, not tears, and Nick’s not really sure how to deal with this. Maybe this is why society likes the Okay act, because when you leave the script behind, Sara cries on Nick’s sofa and he doesn’t know what to do.
He leaves his chair and sits beside her. He sits too close on purpose, his thigh brushing hers on the way down. Sara stiffens momentarily, pulled out of the images of the crime scene and of an innocent little boy’s face. She opens her mouth to say - what? Don’t sit there. Don’t touch me; I don’t want to hurt you. Nothing is said, and Sara closes her mouth again, then reaches over and takes Nick’s hand.
It’s his turn to be startled. “Your hands are warm.” Not until after the words have left his mouth does he realize that Sara is probably the one person he knows who just might understand that. She touches the dead more than the living, too.
She smiles sadly. “Feels different, huh?”
He nods, and they sit there in the morning sun, Sara’s fingers curled around Nick’s as he runs his thumb over her knuckles.
“Nick?” she says finally, resting her head on his shoulder. She wants more contact, or maybe just knows that he does.
He transfers her hand to his other one so that he can slip his free arm around her. “Yeah?”
Sara hesitates briefly before asking, “What was it like? That night?”
She doesn’t have to clarify which night. Sara’s just tossed the script for Okay clean out the window, and now Nick knows for sure why it exists. Part of the fiction of normalcy is the pretense that Nick was never buried. If they acknowledge that it happened, then they have to deal with it. Nick has to deal with it.
He barely hears his own voice as he tells her. He knows he’s holding her too tightly, knows he must be hurting her, but right now, Sara’s the only thing keeping him grounded in the reality of his living room. Her hand is the one thing he can concentrate on to try and drive away the darkness and the bugs. He realizes he’s stopped speaking and is sobbing into Sara’s hair, but she doesn’t shush him, or lie that it’s okay, it’s all over now, or pull away and apologize for bringing it up.
When Nick finally fights his way back out of the coffin, he finds that, through their clothes, Sara’s body is warm and living against his. It’s not sexual at all; in fact, Nick is holding on for dear life, focusing on the warmth of her hand, and on the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. Nick can’t think how long it’s been since he held a living being. Maybe that’s why a pet seemed like a good idea.
He looks down at Sara’s hand, where the impression of his fingers stands out bright red. It’ll bruise, but she doesn’t complain.
She laughs a little. “You know, I came over to see if you were okay.” She didn’t come to make sure; she came to see. To give him the option of not being okay.
“I’m not,” he says honestly, and the simple admission makes him feel that much closer to really being okay.
“I know.”
He looks up, fully expecting to see pity in her eyes. He doesn’t, and suddenly it occurs to him that Sara’s been putting on the Okay act for years. Probably for as long as he’s known her. She doesn’t tell him why, and he doesn’t ask, but he can tell she’s seen his realization.
Nick hasn’t slept well in a long time, and if there’s one thing he knows about Sara, it’s that she lives in a state of perpetual sleep deprivation. It’s no surprise that, drained and overtired, they both fall asleep where they are. They’ll wake later with stiff necks and sore backs, and Sara will dash home just in time to get cleaned up before her next shift. She’ll be back when the sun comes up, though, with warm hands and slightly cold vegetarian pizza.
Maybe today, it will be Nick’s turn to toss away the script and find out what’s behind Sara’s mask of normalcy. Maybe they can help each other, if only by providing a little human contact after the curtain falls on the play called Okay. Maybe one day, it will stop being an act. Maybe Nick won’t get that dog after all.
Continued here.
Fandom: CSI
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Post Grave Danger. It’s a lie and they both know it, but that’s how this script works. The script for an act called Okay. Nick/Sara friendship.
A/N: This was begun as a one-shot, but there may yet be more to come. If so, it will move past friendship and into Snickers. Just so’s y’all know.
Nick’s way too used to the feel of a corpse. The texture varies, depending on the circumstances, but, with very few exceptions, they’re always cold. They’re definitely always unresponsive. Newton breaks down; there’s action, but never any reaction. He doesn’t think he’d mind being familiar with bodies if he had any contact with the living, if thinking about the feel of human skin didn’t make him think of cold.
There’s a knock on the door and Nick looks up. Night shift is over. Someone from the lab, coming to check up on him. He knows they’re trying to help, and he does appreciate the effort, but just once, he’d like to not feel as though he has handle with care stamped on his forehead. He sometimes gets the feeling that they’re afraid of him.
He opens the door and finds Sara, looking lost in thought. Next to Ecklie, who came only once, she’s his most infrequent visitor. There always seems to be something on the tip of her tongue, something that never quite makes it out.
“Hey, Sara.”
“Hi.” She tries her best with the smile, but Nick can see that it doesn’t make it into her eyes. “How’re you doing?”
“Good.” It’s a lie and they both know it, but that’s how this script works. The script for an act called Okay.
The talk stays small: It’s been a hot week. The criminal element in Vegas is keeping CSI busy. Nick’s thinking about getting a dog. Yes, Sara would like a drink and no, thanks, she’s not hungry.
He watches her sit on the sofa, knees tucked up, making herself smaller than she really is. She’s tired. Only half there.
“Rough shift?” he asks, sitting across the room, maintaining distance because living people don’t seem to want to touch him these days. He knows she’ll give him the sanitized version, if he gets anything. The gory details will be missing, not because they’re indelicate, but because no one wants to upset him.
She sighs, her mind still back at the lab, as Sara’s mind generally is. “I hate the ones where kids are involved,” she says finally.
Nick waits.
“There was a homicide,” Sara’s speaking mostly to herself now, “battered wife had enough. Fought back.”
“Killed the husband.” Nick’s heard this story before.
“No.” she sets her glass on the coffee table and leans her forehead on her palm. “She wanted revenge. She wasn’t strong enough to take down her husband, so she killed their son. Drowned him in the bathtub. Four years old.”
Nick curses under his breath. Sometimes being told what you wanted to hear isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“He was just a baby, Nick.” Sara brushes away tears. “His face was so - he didn’t even struggle.”
Nick doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sara cry. Upset, yes, but on Sara, that usually works out to anger, not tears, and Nick’s not really sure how to deal with this. Maybe this is why society likes the Okay act, because when you leave the script behind, Sara cries on Nick’s sofa and he doesn’t know what to do.
He leaves his chair and sits beside her. He sits too close on purpose, his thigh brushing hers on the way down. Sara stiffens momentarily, pulled out of the images of the crime scene and of an innocent little boy’s face. She opens her mouth to say - what? Don’t sit there. Don’t touch me; I don’t want to hurt you. Nothing is said, and Sara closes her mouth again, then reaches over and takes Nick’s hand.
It’s his turn to be startled. “Your hands are warm.” Not until after the words have left his mouth does he realize that Sara is probably the one person he knows who just might understand that. She touches the dead more than the living, too.
She smiles sadly. “Feels different, huh?”
He nods, and they sit there in the morning sun, Sara’s fingers curled around Nick’s as he runs his thumb over her knuckles.
“Nick?” she says finally, resting her head on his shoulder. She wants more contact, or maybe just knows that he does.
He transfers her hand to his other one so that he can slip his free arm around her. “Yeah?”
Sara hesitates briefly before asking, “What was it like? That night?”
She doesn’t have to clarify which night. Sara’s just tossed the script for Okay clean out the window, and now Nick knows for sure why it exists. Part of the fiction of normalcy is the pretense that Nick was never buried. If they acknowledge that it happened, then they have to deal with it. Nick has to deal with it.
He barely hears his own voice as he tells her. He knows he’s holding her too tightly, knows he must be hurting her, but right now, Sara’s the only thing keeping him grounded in the reality of his living room. Her hand is the one thing he can concentrate on to try and drive away the darkness and the bugs. He realizes he’s stopped speaking and is sobbing into Sara’s hair, but she doesn’t shush him, or lie that it’s okay, it’s all over now, or pull away and apologize for bringing it up.
When Nick finally fights his way back out of the coffin, he finds that, through their clothes, Sara’s body is warm and living against his. It’s not sexual at all; in fact, Nick is holding on for dear life, focusing on the warmth of her hand, and on the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. Nick can’t think how long it’s been since he held a living being. Maybe that’s why a pet seemed like a good idea.
He looks down at Sara’s hand, where the impression of his fingers stands out bright red. It’ll bruise, but she doesn’t complain.
She laughs a little. “You know, I came over to see if you were okay.” She didn’t come to make sure; she came to see. To give him the option of not being okay.
“I’m not,” he says honestly, and the simple admission makes him feel that much closer to really being okay.
“I know.”
He looks up, fully expecting to see pity in her eyes. He doesn’t, and suddenly it occurs to him that Sara’s been putting on the Okay act for years. Probably for as long as he’s known her. She doesn’t tell him why, and he doesn’t ask, but he can tell she’s seen his realization.
Nick hasn’t slept well in a long time, and if there’s one thing he knows about Sara, it’s that she lives in a state of perpetual sleep deprivation. It’s no surprise that, drained and overtired, they both fall asleep where they are. They’ll wake later with stiff necks and sore backs, and Sara will dash home just in time to get cleaned up before her next shift. She’ll be back when the sun comes up, though, with warm hands and slightly cold vegetarian pizza.
Maybe today, it will be Nick’s turn to toss away the script and find out what’s behind Sara’s mask of normalcy. Maybe they can help each other, if only by providing a little human contact after the curtain falls on the play called Okay. Maybe one day, it will stop being an act. Maybe Nick won’t get that dog after all.
Continued here.