Girl, It's Alive in You
Disclaimer: The ensuing lawsuit would sink me like a stone, so: Not mine.
Spoilers: Slight reference to Yelina/Stetler (vomits)
Pairing: H/C (loosely)
Feedback: Whatever gets you through the night.
Summary: Her alarm announces the arrival of another beautifully sunny Monday morning in Miami, bodies dropping, or sometimes falling, by the dozen.
Sometimes she had a thought, although it was fleeting, she'd wish she were dead. Too much alcohol and a guy she should've never gone out with fueled it, but in that one moment, she was very sure where she wanted to be. Like her hair when windblown; the thought surfaced once in a while. Long enough to whip her in the face, and remind her it was still there. She knows she's alive; sunshine on her back and crying at movies, but thinks this might be some joke, 'The Living Dead: Foreword by Calleigh Duquesne'.
When she was younger she never felt this way. Sure, her parents drank like most people breathe. A mother to her father and a father to herself, all the anger in between reminded her how alive she was. Seventeen, she left one night accompanied by an angry summer thunderstorm. She'd taken an old photo of her brothers, buried hastily among her clothes, but not her parents. They gave her enough memories she never wanted and she wasn't going to add another one to the almost toppling stack. While her father had been sleeping off his latest, she took all the cash from his wallet. She peeled eight feet of rubber pulling out of the driveway, with Patti Smith pouring from the car's cheap speakers into her veins. She thought she might be going to hell. Regardless, she was going to get there fast.
Now she has this, her job. Handling firearms and little plastic bags, clearly marked. Futures nicely catalogued (for their convenience). It's all about proof. Here's a hair, and you killed someone. Here's some sweat, proof that you beat the shit out of him. There's a nice one-way trip to jail in it for you. Hope you're not too fond of your ass. She sees the worst in people everyday, and in the people around her. It's not a flattering color, but everyone wears it well.
Horatio always, always stays the night. Why, she doesn't know. He loves her, she's pretty sure. But she knows he doesn't come over to make sure she's sleeping well. Every mark he leaves on her is another one that she can't wash away in the shower. If anything, the hot water causes the marks to become red and angry; she can relate. Delko flirts with anything in a skirt, or as of late, in a pair of pants. It usually doesn't amount to anything because he's still got high school hands and walks around the building like a kid crossing the street without his mother. Valera doesn't seem to mind too much, but the way she's been looking at Calleigh you'd think Delko would be curious. Or at least offended. Yelina and Stetler is a punishment for something both have done in another life. Stetler hits her, because he loves her; she repays the favor by denying him sex while she's in love with her dead husband's brother. Alexx … she doesn't look too hard at Alexx. She's the closest to a mother she's ever had, and you only see your mother in one light. It's a good light, and it never goes out.
Her alarm announces the arrival of another beautifully sunny Monday morning in Miami, bodies dropping, or sometimes falling, by the dozen. Her fingers already itching for latex, she slides out of bed. In the kitchen she realizes she's been standing by her anchor, the coffeemaker, for fifteen minutes. Now she's officially late. In the interest of being screwed, her period is early. Finally dressed and in her car, she's out of gas. No breakfast and no gas. Third time's a charm, no patience. Stops to get gas, and something wrapped in plastic that may pass as breakfast. Doesn't think her patience will return for 1.49.
She doesn't even have her things in her locker when into the room walks Eric. Wearing the grin he gives his 'friends-that-are-girls-but-definitely-not-girlfriends'. As close to a leer as he gets.
Loudly, "You ready?"
"For what, Eric?"
Looking at him, "No shit. Care to elaborate?"
"Young guy," slightly annoyed, "looks like a carjacking."
"Don't they all?"
He stands there. Not used to cynicism from her. Finally decides to leave.
"Hurry, I'll meet you out front."
He was gone before his voice had left the room.
"The corpse doesn't have any immediate plans," she says, to no one in particular.
Shutting her locker, she walks out of the room, and tries to ignore the tingle in the back of her head that tells her this will be just like all the others.
The tingle was right. Some stupid guy killed some other stupid guy for talking with his girlfriend. Evidence processed, statements given, tears shed, and case closed. By the end of the week another body will be in the ground while she'll have another paycheck in her pocket. Someone always pays.
Home, finally, she's been sitting on the edge of her bed for ten minutes. Wearing only one boot. Eleven minutes now.
'I don't even like these boots', she thinks.
Staring at the boot on the floor, she wills it to catch fire. Or to walk without her. It does neither. With a sigh, she picks up the boot, walks to the kitchen, and throws it into the trash. Minutes later it's joined by the other one.
The rest of her day is spent barefoot. Watching old X-Files reruns (tells herself the gunplay is laughable but Mulder in a Speedo makes up for it). She falls asleep on the sofa, the local news reading her script in the background, as she tries to remember the last time she's eaten a meal that wasn't on a paper plate.