disclaimer: so not mine it's really not funny anymore.

rating: pg13-ish

summary: It's a beautiful day for a funeral.

pairing: oh, please.

author's note: 1) it took me forever to find an ending, and i'm not sure if i'm satisfied. hope you are though. feedback would be appreciated, of course. 2) angst: like i write anything else.

Dancing in the Dark

Jo C.

"If it all fell to pieces tomorrow, would you still be mine?"
The Eagles, "Take It to the Limit"

Fast forward: four people - her weary father who wouldn't give up his corner for a more able-bodied person at the front left; at the front right, her younger brother whose looks remind you of those of Anthony Perkins; Eric Delko who hasn't spoken more than two words at a time, ready at the back left; and you with your tired soul at the back right.

She wasn't even suppose to be there, and when you found out she was during the explosion at the lab, you hid behind a parked Hummer and deposited your stomach contents out on the curb, wondering why, why, why in God's name she was spending her day-off at CSI.

Now she was spending it at the hospital (that is, after spending the larger part of it trapped under rubble).

Please, God, please, please, please, Jesus, please, don't let her die.

From outside her room, you, only half-listening to the doctor, watched Calleigh's father through the shiny window pane sitting beside her bed and holding her hand. "...haven't been able to stabilize her condition. If we had gotten to her sooner, there –"

You shook your head and studied the waxed hallway floor. "What are you saying?"

The doctor turned his gaze to Calleigh for a brief moment, then back, his expression grim. "She's been hemorrhaging since surgery; we've slowed it down, but we can't stop it." A calculated and rehearsed pause, then two bleak words: "I'm sorry."

It was at that instant you discovered just how little a meaning that phrase held, and the resulting bitterness that flooded your veins affected you to such an extent that you couldn't bring yourself to enter her room.

The box is heavy, and you can no longer convince yourself that she's not in there (because the box is heavy).

The sunlight is flooding through stained glass, lighting the place up like Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve. It makes you feel sick.

The doors of the church open, and the four of you move down the aisle as people stare. Alexx Woods reaches out and touches your arm fleetingly, and you don't have the courage to meet her eyes.

You walk down the steps toward the road, and there's crying and sniffling into Kleenex and birds singing for her in the trees. The sun's thick rays feel good against your back.

It's a beautiful day for a funeral.

After much protest from both Eric and Alexx, you left the hospital, unwavering vengeance the only thing on your mind, and Ryan Wolfe, who was
standing next to you, recognized the raw passion that surged through you and knew somebody was going to pay for fucking sure. Wordlessly agreeing that on of them had to keep an eye on their personal Captain (or in this case, Lieutenant) Ahab, Ryan followed you back to what remained of the lab.

Two hours at a burnt (and watered) down crime scene and a half a dozen calls from Alexx later, Frank Tripp had for you the beginning of a long, long list of possible suspects with possible motives because of their possible grudges against Miami's justice system. A third of them, he explained somberly, falls under the category of Likely; another third is Very Likely; the last third is Extremely Likely.

Wolfe took one look at the small print on the first page and heard his voice rasping out, "That bastard." He called Delko and reported the situation; Eric was at the station under ten minutes.

You spent the night sifting through the rubble.

The (heavy) box is lowered into the ground. You step back to stand next to Calleigh's mother who grips your arm tightly.

You were drinking black coffee by the potfuls when you, Eric, and Ryan were straining your eyes in the fluorescent light, trying to put together shards of a homemade bomb, lifting partials from measly fragments.

(Alexx called you four more times, and you were so afraid you only answered once.)

Tripp searched through the list for people who had been known to use homemade bombs. The list thinned to a page, but it was still impossible to work, and you were in your office throwing breakable objects against the wall.

Frank called a janitor, then set a solid hand on your shoulder and told you to go see Calleigh because "she needs you." He dropped you off at the hospital twenty minutes later.

Her father stepped out of her room, and you took his place in that incredibly uncomfortable plastic chair, trying to look brave and failing severely. You were there for a mere five minutes and were about to leave when she woke.

You sat down again and touched her hand hesitantly as you cleared your throat of threatening tears. "Are you in pain right now?"

She shook her head, her voice croaking softly: "No."

You looked away. "You're not a very good liar, Calleigh."

It was silent for a while, and you listened to the heart monitor and respirator report back to you that she was still alive.

"We're pretty close to catching the person who did this to you."

Her eyes closed slowly, and she pressed two fingertips to your lips. "And you consider yourself a good liar, Horatio?"

You grasped her hand in yours and leaving a kissing on her palm, you murmured into her wrist, "I wish I were better. For you."

And suddenly she was crying, and you discovered that you were, too.

You want to sleep this off like a nightmare, a nightmare that can be soothed away with sunlight. The sunlight is on you now, but the nightmare remains a cold reality though you are dressed in black on a brutal Miami day.

At the first hint of dusk, the crowd of mourners disperses, and you are left with her beautiful ghost.

The sky has faded to an awful black when you finally drive home.

You finish off the bottle of scotch that has been on your kitchen counter and sit in the dark in your living room with CNN keeping you company as it babbles on about a hurricane whose name you can't remember.

(You can't remember any names at all save hers.)

You don't sleep.

Back at the lab, you started watching hours and hours of the local news coverage from the minute the press got to the crime scene to present time. Al Humphrey once told you that a bomber was like an arsonist: he or she always wants to see the final product.

You sat back with a cup of strong coffee and scanned the media footage until your eyes were pulsing out of your brains with images of faces in crowds outside the yellow police tape, with newscasters saying again and again, "...bomb exploded at the Miami Crime Lab at 9:30 in the morning..."

You fell asleep at your desk, and it was the most regrettable mistake in your life because when you woke up, (you knew) Calleigh was gone.

When you finally manage to crawl to the bathroom, you undress and stand under the numbing spray of hot water. Steam fogs up the mirror and glass walls.

Your blood boils and pounds in your veins, and you've never felt so old and beaten as you do now in your shaken frame.

You look out the tiny window, and morning is peeking through the clouds. Another beautiful day is coming, and you wonder when the skies are going to mourn for her.

You haven't slept yet. (You don't want to wake up and realize this isn't a nightmare.)

Alexx gave you a death-grip hug when she got back to the lab. You told her to go home and see her kids; she nodded wordlessly and left with a promise of returning soon.

You leaned against the edge of your desk and rewound the few tapes you slept through. Eric called a moment later and told you somberly that he was running a few more smudgy prints he lifted through AFIS and Wolfe and Tripp were looking into the hardware stores in the area.

(You heard the despair in his voice, but you had no hope to give him.)

Minutes later, a messenger came in with a large yellow envelope, said M.E. Alexx Woods wasn't found, so he was handing it over to you. "Medical report?" you heard your voice rasp out.

"Yes, Sir."

The folder felt heavy in your hands. "Thank you."

When he closed the door behind him, you wondered if you should look at the papers that told you officially in medical jargon that she was gone or whether you should never even read it. You shook your head and waited for Alexx.

She returned an hour later and read to herself while you stood next to the window. She chewed her lip and steadied her breathing, then murmured, "She died of a hemorrhagic –”

"Alexx." There was a gentle warning in your tone, and she stopped. You didn't look at her, but she was looking at you.

"Horatio, do you know if she was dating someone? We should contact him." There was a deliberate pause in her speech as she collected the remnants of her voice, and you held your breath. "She was three weeks..." Her sentence faded into an unsettling silence. "Do you know if...because we should..." All her words were lost.

You kept your gaze on the window, through the window, past the window, into the distance where you knew Calleigh's spirit was flying toward in the sprinkled sunlight. (She died on one hell of a beautiful day.)

"I don't know," you answered under your breath. You glanced over your shoulder, and said more loudly, "I don't know if she was seeing anyone."

Alexx nodded slowly and after a moment, headed toward the door, wiping away strayed tears.

"Alexx," you called. She faced you, and you faced the window. "Let's keep this information between us for now; is that all right with you?"

"Of course."

When she left, you turned your attention back to the television, and you watched the screen until your eyes lost all focus of the images and blurred with uncried tears.

(You betrayed her. You failed her.)

The morning edition of the Herald has arrived, and you're afraid to open your front door and pick it up.

Her obituary is in there.

So you leave it outside where it can do you no harm.

(Section B, Page 18.)

For once in your life, you pray that someone steals it. Nobody does though because that is just how it goes in this cosmos.

The sun is invading your home, filtering through the tall windows and hitting the white walls in a blinding manner that is almost poetic. You draw the curtains shut and sit on the floor in front of the couch, your back against the upholstery, and watch NASDAQ plummet into the ground on your TV.

It had been two days, and God was finally on your side: Eric called with a hit on AFIS. You nearly broke down and wept with relief.

Dean Adamsen. Age thirty-seven. Brown hair, brown eyes. Five-ten...

"He's not on our second list," Tripp said, skimming over the information, “but he is on our first; his brother, Colin Adamsen, however, is on our second."

"The brother is on the list for homemade bombs?"

"And he was incarcerated in '02 for that along with manslaughter."

42 Plymouth Drive, and you had your gun drawn even as Frank was knocking on the door. Your hands were shaking, but your nerves were steeled up and if the bastard even made a single wrong move, you knew you'd shoot him and kill him. And you would feel no remorse.

Frank, Delko, and Wolfe were all ahead of you though when an officer crashed through, and you had to pull yourself out of your mental paralysis before being dragged into the momentum of a dozen cops streaming pass.

Dean Adamsen is in handcuffs and being pushed into a squad car, and you still haven't holstered your weapon, the safety still off.

(He was in the background of Tape Four from Channel Four; he looks scruffier in real life, but the rage and madness behind his eyes were still recognizable.)

The metal of your gun felt cold in your hands, and Wolfe had to seize your arm in a reassuring grip before he removed the piece from your grasp.

You stood there on the sidewalk in front of the house, staring up at the sky as it began to fade to dusk, as the flurry of MDPD officers swirled around you. You wanted to cry.

Your cellphone rang in your pocket, vibrating against your chest, and you watched the clouds shift above you.

"Hello?" you managed after the fifth ring.

"Hello, Mr. Caine?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"Jefferson Lerner from Miami Herald. I'm writing the obituary for Calleigh Duquesne. Her brother wondered if you'd like to add a few words."

(Your throat was impossibly dry; you had no words left to give her.)

"Mr. Caine? Are you there?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"Is there anything you'd like to say, Sir?"

(Oh, God, yes.)

"No. There's nothing."

The sun disappeared into the horizon behind you.

You've watched the headlines scroll by the bottom of the television screen enough times to recite them by now. You reach for the remote and flip through the channels.

Beauty and the Beast is on Cartoon Network; a candlestick and a teapot are telling you to be their guest.

They didn't think you should be in the interrogation room. You ignored their warnings and went in anyway.

Not ten minutes into the questioning, you socked Adamsen across the jaw for a smart-assed comment you only half heard. (There was no point in listening; Adamsen was spewing bullshit in all directions.)

It took four grown men to hold you back from a second swing. Delko, Wolfe, Tripp, and a uniform at the door were scrambling, struggling to keep you in check, and the whole department stopped its activity to watch you get pulled out of the room.

Adamsen was screaming that he wants a lawyer, he wants a fucking lawyer, but all you heard was the fading sound of her laughter in your ears, and there was nothing to be done to prevent the onslaught of tears that was already underway.

(You were sent home. A few hours later, you got a phone call telling you that you were on suspension for an undetermined amount of time. You also received a few numbers for psychiatrists.)

Your left shoulder aches (because the box was heavy), a constant, painful reminder that tells you she's gone, and all you have to give her now is grief and CNN headlines.

You leave the television on even as you venture to the bedroom because you can't stand the stillness of the apartment.

You touch the bedspread, and it smells like her: an elusive blend of peaches and the autumn breeze. You crawl under the sheets and with the blinds drawn and a pillow over your head, you fall asleep (grudgingly) and dream.

You slipped your hand around hers, leading her in a slow four across the floor to a song you didn't know, but was utterly sexy and suitable for this occasion. The background was swirling around you, and the chattering din of the bar was on mute.

There was something that subtly mimicked a smile playing across your face. "You're the fourth person with whom I've slow danced," you said.

She looked up at you. "Tonight?"

"Ever."

"Ever?" She raised an eyebrow at you. "I find that hard to believe."

Your gaze met hers. "I've only ever danced with women I love."

Her grin was severely charming. "Oh? May I ask who the other three are?"

"My ex-wife, Alexx on her wedding day, and the woman who taught me – my mother."

"I'm being accepted into this elite group?"

Her arm was around your neck, and you pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear. "Calleigh, come home with me."

She smiled into the collar of your shirt. "After this next song."

"Calleigh." Your voice is suddenly hoarse, and you find yourself being hurled back to reality. You reach for her, but you grasp the cold air instead and then the emptiness beside you on your bed.

It hits you then, the weight of all you have lost crushing your chest. You can't breathe; your soul is calling her name. Your voice is choked in your throat, and then, you're choking on your tears.

You stare up at the ceiling, and in the darkness, you wonder when you'll get to dance with her again.

November 2004.