Fic Post - Snapshot
Title: Snapshot
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick/Sara
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Previous: Curtain Call, Strings, Fear, Common Ground, Breakfast, Progress.
Summary: They don’t discuss Sara’s childhood at all. Nick tried once, shortly after he read that casefile, but Sara shut him down. Between the lawyers and the advocates and the counselors, she said, she’d already done plenty of talking.
A/N: I seem to have fanfiction that needs a bibliography now. It’s down at the end to avoid spoiling things, and is in nothing approaching proper format.
Sara’s still asleep when Nick wakes up. An issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences is on her nightstand and the bookmark has moved enough that Nick figures she’ll sleep for awhile yet. He considers snitching the Journal; there’s a case report on cocaine smuggling he wants to read, but then again, he’d also like to remember the article, and he’s still not quite awake enough for that.
Nick lets himself doze his way awake, idly examining the odd plaster pattern on Sara’s bedroom ceiling. They don’t usually spend much time at Sara’s place; she’s not as comfortable with having her life on display as Nick is, and besides, a house and backyard simply have more room than an apartment. Nick’s house is shut up for fumigation at the moment, though; just because he can deal with insects these days doesn’t mean he wants them in his kitchen.
He’s not sure how long he lies there; time passes strangely when he’s not fully awake. It could be five minutes or twenty-five before he gets up and heads for the shower.
Sara did laundry yesterday, and the stack of fresh towels is just a little too tall. They’re a tight enough fit in the bathroom cupboard that when Nick goes to pull out just one, the rest come along, landing on the floor in a pile of terrycloth. Nick grumbles and begins refolding. It’s not until he goes to set the first towel back on the shelf that he notices the book.
It must have been tucked neatly under the towels, a thick, brightly-colored hardcover of Frances Hodgson Burnett stories. Nick’s seen the name on his niece’s bookshelf; if he recalls correctly, it was The Secret Garden that sparked Tessa’s brief interest in gardening. What a children’s book is doing in Sara’s bathroom cupboard, though, he has no idea. They don’t discuss Sara’s childhood at all. Nick tried once, shortly after he read that casefile, but Sara shut him down. Between the lawyers and the advocates and the counselors, she said, she’d already done plenty of talking.
Nick probably shouldn’t snoop; Sara obviously keeps the book out of sight for a reason. Then again, he thinks, it’s a book. If the exact same volume were on a shelf at the library, he wouldn’t hesitate. The spine is creased so that it opens near the middle, where an old Polaroid has been slipped between the pages.
Sara doesn’t keep photo albums, as far as Nick knows. The only pictures he’s seen of her as a child are harsh, clinical photos of half-healed cuts and bruises on a frightened teenager. The Polaroid is from several years before that, of a girl with a wide smile and unruly curls, holding a china doll. Beside her, crouching with one arm around her shoulders, is a teenaged boy with a familiar lopsided grin.
This isn’t exactly how Nick was planning to spend the evening, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a children’s book on his knees. The Polaroid was between pages 242 and 243, and that’s where Nick begins reading: Being the Whole Story of Sara Crewe.
By the time Nick’s read partway through chapter sixteen, he’s pretty sure he knows how things are going to turn out: Sara Crewe will find her way to the Indian Gentleman and a happy ending. No wonder it was so dear to a girl shuffled between foster homes, belonging nowhere and to nobody.
“Nick?” There’s a knock on the bathroom door and Nick jumps. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he manages, almost surprised to find himself suddenly back in Sara’s apartment. How long has he been reading? Long enough for Sara to wake up and come looking for him, anyway. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Can I come in?” Nick doesn’t answer, and Sara opens the door. “You’ve been in here awhile, I was -“ She catches sight of the book in Nick’s hands and freezes.
He indicates the towels, still scattered all over the bathroom floor. “The, uh - the towels fell. This was under them.”
“Yeah.” Sara leans against the doorframe for a minute, then moves to join Nick on the edge of the bathtub, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Nick flips back to where the Polaroid marks the beginning of A Little Princess. “This your brother?”
Sara nods. “The day he left home.”
By the look on her face, Nick can tell she’s working something through, so he sits silently, waiting.
“He knew our house better than anyone else,” Sara says after awhile, “Whenever there was trouble coming, he’d always look out for me. Try to get me out of the way.”
“Must’ve been tough when he left.”
She shrugs. Nick reaches for her hand and she grips his tightly.
On a hunch, he indicates the photo. “He give you the doll?”
Sara grins a little. “Emily. Yeah.”
“Do you -“ There’s really no tactful way to ask. “Do you still hear from him?”
She shakes her head. “Not since I was nine.”
“When he left.”
“Yeah,” she sighs, “I tried to track him down, when I first got hired, back in San Francisco. There’s nothing. No records.”
No recorded address, no records of employment, arrest, or even death. Nick knows all too well what that means; it’s next to impossible to live completely undetected. Years ago, someone must have buried John Doe Number God-Knows-What, a street kid who once gave his little sister a doll named Emily.
Sara stands up suddenly, forcing a smile. Changing the subject. “You know, I do have comfortable chairs.”
Nick stands too, and discovers that he’s been sitting on the hard side of the bathtub far too long. “That so?”
“Mmm, cushions and everything. Pick up those towels and you might even get dinner.”
He sets the book back on the cupboard shelf. He doesn’t really need to read the end, anyway. “I’ll be right out, Sunshine.”
Notes:
•The abstract of the 2005 Journal of Forensic Sciences article mentioned can be found here, if you're interested. I didn't buy the article, but it sounds neat.
•Page 242 is the beginning of A Little Princess in a 1978 edition containing The Secret Garden, A Little Princess and Little Lord Fauntleroy. Given that Sara was thirteen when her father died in 1984, this edition would have been around when she was of an age to read it.
Continued here.
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick/Sara
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Previous: Curtain Call, Strings, Fear, Common Ground, Breakfast, Progress.
Summary: They don’t discuss Sara’s childhood at all. Nick tried once, shortly after he read that casefile, but Sara shut him down. Between the lawyers and the advocates and the counselors, she said, she’d already done plenty of talking.
A/N: I seem to have fanfiction that needs a bibliography now. It’s down at the end to avoid spoiling things, and is in nothing approaching proper format.
Sara’s still asleep when Nick wakes up. An issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences is on her nightstand and the bookmark has moved enough that Nick figures she’ll sleep for awhile yet. He considers snitching the Journal; there’s a case report on cocaine smuggling he wants to read, but then again, he’d also like to remember the article, and he’s still not quite awake enough for that.
Nick lets himself doze his way awake, idly examining the odd plaster pattern on Sara’s bedroom ceiling. They don’t usually spend much time at Sara’s place; she’s not as comfortable with having her life on display as Nick is, and besides, a house and backyard simply have more room than an apartment. Nick’s house is shut up for fumigation at the moment, though; just because he can deal with insects these days doesn’t mean he wants them in his kitchen.
He’s not sure how long he lies there; time passes strangely when he’s not fully awake. It could be five minutes or twenty-five before he gets up and heads for the shower.
Sara did laundry yesterday, and the stack of fresh towels is just a little too tall. They’re a tight enough fit in the bathroom cupboard that when Nick goes to pull out just one, the rest come along, landing on the floor in a pile of terrycloth. Nick grumbles and begins refolding. It’s not until he goes to set the first towel back on the shelf that he notices the book.
It must have been tucked neatly under the towels, a thick, brightly-colored hardcover of Frances Hodgson Burnett stories. Nick’s seen the name on his niece’s bookshelf; if he recalls correctly, it was The Secret Garden that sparked Tessa’s brief interest in gardening. What a children’s book is doing in Sara’s bathroom cupboard, though, he has no idea. They don’t discuss Sara’s childhood at all. Nick tried once, shortly after he read that casefile, but Sara shut him down. Between the lawyers and the advocates and the counselors, she said, she’d already done plenty of talking.
Nick probably shouldn’t snoop; Sara obviously keeps the book out of sight for a reason. Then again, he thinks, it’s a book. If the exact same volume were on a shelf at the library, he wouldn’t hesitate. The spine is creased so that it opens near the middle, where an old Polaroid has been slipped between the pages.
Sara doesn’t keep photo albums, as far as Nick knows. The only pictures he’s seen of her as a child are harsh, clinical photos of half-healed cuts and bruises on a frightened teenager. The Polaroid is from several years before that, of a girl with a wide smile and unruly curls, holding a china doll. Beside her, crouching with one arm around her shoulders, is a teenaged boy with a familiar lopsided grin.
This isn’t exactly how Nick was planning to spend the evening, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a children’s book on his knees. The Polaroid was between pages 242 and 243, and that’s where Nick begins reading: Being the Whole Story of Sara Crewe.
By the time Nick’s read partway through chapter sixteen, he’s pretty sure he knows how things are going to turn out: Sara Crewe will find her way to the Indian Gentleman and a happy ending. No wonder it was so dear to a girl shuffled between foster homes, belonging nowhere and to nobody.
“Nick?” There’s a knock on the bathroom door and Nick jumps. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he manages, almost surprised to find himself suddenly back in Sara’s apartment. How long has he been reading? Long enough for Sara to wake up and come looking for him, anyway. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Can I come in?” Nick doesn’t answer, and Sara opens the door. “You’ve been in here awhile, I was -“ She catches sight of the book in Nick’s hands and freezes.
He indicates the towels, still scattered all over the bathroom floor. “The, uh - the towels fell. This was under them.”
“Yeah.” Sara leans against the doorframe for a minute, then moves to join Nick on the edge of the bathtub, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Nick flips back to where the Polaroid marks the beginning of A Little Princess. “This your brother?”
Sara nods. “The day he left home.”
By the look on her face, Nick can tell she’s working something through, so he sits silently, waiting.
“He knew our house better than anyone else,” Sara says after awhile, “Whenever there was trouble coming, he’d always look out for me. Try to get me out of the way.”
“Must’ve been tough when he left.”
She shrugs. Nick reaches for her hand and she grips his tightly.
On a hunch, he indicates the photo. “He give you the doll?”
Sara grins a little. “Emily. Yeah.”
“Do you -“ There’s really no tactful way to ask. “Do you still hear from him?”
She shakes her head. “Not since I was nine.”
“When he left.”
“Yeah,” she sighs, “I tried to track him down, when I first got hired, back in San Francisco. There’s nothing. No records.”
No recorded address, no records of employment, arrest, or even death. Nick knows all too well what that means; it’s next to impossible to live completely undetected. Years ago, someone must have buried John Doe Number God-Knows-What, a street kid who once gave his little sister a doll named Emily.
Sara stands up suddenly, forcing a smile. Changing the subject. “You know, I do have comfortable chairs.”
Nick stands too, and discovers that he’s been sitting on the hard side of the bathtub far too long. “That so?”
“Mmm, cushions and everything. Pick up those towels and you might even get dinner.”
He sets the book back on the cupboard shelf. He doesn’t really need to read the end, anyway. “I’ll be right out, Sunshine.”
Notes:
•The abstract of the 2005 Journal of Forensic Sciences article mentioned can be found here, if you're interested. I didn't buy the article, but it sounds neat.
•Page 242 is the beginning of A Little Princess in a 1978 edition containing The Secret Garden, A Little Princess and Little Lord Fauntleroy. Given that Sara was thirteen when her father died in 1984, this edition would have been around when she was of an age to read it.
Continued here.