Title: Dreams and Realities
Disclaimer: I own Brigit Nemain. I don't own CSI. Hear that? Me no own. You no sue.
The tiny girl tore down the gaudily lit Strip, followed closely by two men, both carrying handguns and firing wildly after her. Many people stopped and gawked, some even asking stupidly if they were filming a movie in Vegas. Tourists and locals alike dived out of the way when they realized that it was no movie, that those guns were real. Her heart sinking as she saw she no longer had anywhere to hide, the girl peeled off to the left and into one of Vegas' many casinos. Her two pursuers followed her, shoving people out of the way. But they shoved the wrong man. Warrick Brown staggered slightly, his jaw dropping and his green eyes widening as he was first shoved by a little girl, then again by… what the hell!
Warrick's CSI training took over as he was shoved by a guy, running, with a gun. Ignoring the blackjack dealer's startled cry as he shoved the table back, the African-American CSI was off and running. His long legs let him easily catch up with the first of the two gunmen. Throwing his shoulder into the man's back the two went down in a tumbling heap. Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick could see security hauling ass over to him. Putting his knee in the small of the man's back he disarmed him and hauled him to his feet, flashing his badge at the disgruntled looking security guard before taking off after the second guy.
Cursing foully as he got to the balcony over looking the slot machines on the floor below, Warrick scanned the area around him turning a complete circle before he admitted defeat, thumping his hands on the railing.
"Damn it! Shit!" the normally reserved CSI swore.
A shot rang out to his left and Warrick's head snapped towards the sound with an almost painful speed. He heard a child scream, then saw the girl come tearing around the corner on the opposite side of the casino, heading towards the balcony, her eyes wide with terror, her breathing harsh with exertion. Warrick's own eyes widened as he saw the gunman follow her then stop, leveling the gun at the girl's retreating back when he realized she had nowhere to go. Warrick saw defeat register on the tiny girl's face. She glanced over the balcony to the slot machines 40 feet below. Grim determination flitted across her face as the gunman trained his gun on her. 9mm revolver, no casings the CSI in Warrick's head opined clinically. She placed her hands on the railings of the balcony.
"Oh, no, no, no. Sweetheart, don't do it," Warrick said in sick realization, tears he didn't even feel running down his face.
Almost as if she'd heard him, the tiny girl turned her huge eyes onto Warrick's face, gave him a sweet, cherubic smile...
...and jumped off the balcony.
Warrick's eyes flew open, his scream muffled by the pillow corner stuffed in his mouth. He spat out the cottony fabric and gagged. Still sobbing he ran for the bathroom barely making it before sinking to his knees and throwing up everything he'd eaten that day. This dream was getting worse and worse every time. Every time he slept since they had pulled Nick out of that coffin, the little girl was there. Sometimes it would just be the two of them, sometimes Nick was with them, sometimes doing mundane things like eating ice-cream at his kitchen table. But most of the time, he watched her fall. In his dreams she never hit the ground, and she always gave him that smile. The one that said 'I'll be fine, it's ok', when Warrick knew exactly what would happen to her tiny body when it had plummeted the forty feet and impacted with the slot machines below. Warrick sighed shakily, swiped a hand across his eyes and stood up, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.
"You look like crap," he told himself, frowning critically at the bags under his once luminous, but now dull, green eyes.
Walking back through his kitchen in his pajama pants, resolutely refusing to look at the table, Warrick opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Taking a few swallows he screwed the lid back on and leaned his head against the cool metal of the fridge. Unable to get either the picture of Nick trapped in the plexi-glass coffin or the little girl falling over the balcony out of his mind, Warrick began to bang his head lightly against the fridge. A soft giggle made him spin around, his eyes wide. The water bottle fell from Warrick's limp fingers as he stared at his kitchen table in a mixture of shock, horror and morbid curiosity.
"Hi," said the little girl from Warrick's dreams, sitting at his kitchen table, one leg tucked underneath her, the other swinging gently, toes not touching the floor.
"Oh hell no..." Warrick said, his eyes like dinner plates.
"Hell's a bad word," the little girl told him cheerfully, her voice a lilting Irish brogue.
"Yeah..." Warrick agreed, not taking his eyes off the little girl sitting calmly at his kitchen table.
The two sat there for what seemed like forever, just looking at each other. Warrick wondering if he'd finally lost the plot. The little girl looking like she was doing nothing more interesting than watching the Saturday morning cartoons. Finally Warrick's curiosity got the better of him.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Brigit Nemain, what's yours?"
"Warrick Brown... I don't mean to seem rude... how the... how on earth did you get into my house?"
"Same way I got into your head. Like this..."
Warrick's jaw hit the ground and he let out a low moan as the tiny girl... Brigit... simply disappeared. He leapt about six feet in the air and yelped in shock as she reappeared on top of his refrigerator.
"Shit!" Warrick swore as he landed, smacking his elbow on the benchtop.
"Now that one... that's a really bad word, I can't even say that word," Brigit told him from her perch on top of his fridge.
She held out her hands and looked at Warrick with her huge dark eyes, her dark curls framing her face gently. Warrick moved over to the fridge and hesitantly lifted Brigit down. He set her gently on the floor and took two quick steps back, looking at her as if she were about to explode. Brigit looked back up at him. Warrick looked at the clock, three hours before shift. Oh no. Work. How was he going to explain how he suddenly acquired a little Irish girl? Was she even a girl? Was she even human? He stopped that train of thought before it got started. Shaking his head, Warrick tried to organize his thoughts.
"So, Brigit, now I know how you got in my house, do you reckon you could tell me why you're in my house?"
"You needed my help."
"Wonderful. So I am going crazy. Well, at least I finally know for sure."
"You're not crazy, Mr. Warrick, you just need my help."
"You keep saying that. Why do I need your help? What do I need your help with? What exactly are you? I'm sorry, Brigit, that last one wasn't nice."
"S'ok, Mr. Warrick, you're a new one, you'll get used to it."
Warrick stared. For a girl who looked no older than 7 or 8, she spoke like she was much, much older. Warrick pushed his mind away from that thought. He really would go mad if he kept going with that idea. Sighing, he supposed he would have to get used to having Brigit around, at least until he worked out what the hell was going on.