with a violin and a song to sing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
origamiflowers) wrote2008-12-27 12:58 am
origamiflowers) wrote2008-12-27 12:58 am
fic: CSI-Miami: "In the Waiting Line" - Calleigh, Frank
title: in the waiting line
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Characters, Pairings: Calleigh, Frank
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: for 7x09, "Power Trip"
Rating: PG13 (swearing)
Word Count: 541
Notes: For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
philosophy_20 challenge. Prompt #03: "Ends Justify the Means." See the whole table here. Calleigh and Frank commiserate over drinks. Spoilers for "Power Trip."
She finds him, unexpectedly, in her favorite bar. There aren't many people there - it's a bona fide hole-in-the-wall - and he's sitting in the corner at a shabby table, lowball already in hand. And, if she was a betting woman, she'd say it wasn't his first.
Not that she can blame him.
She orders a beer from the girl at the bar and pauses there, turning to watch him for a moment, while he still doesn't see her.
Both his hands are wrapped around the glass. Whiskey, she guesses; that seems appropriately Frank, somehow. His eyes are narrowed, staring down into the amber liquor intently, as though it holds the keys to understanding the world (a losing enterprise, to Calleigh's mind; that's never a search that produces any real answers).
His knuckles are almost white with the pressure, and his jaw is clenched; it makes her afraid for him, all of a sudden.
Distantly, she hears the hiss of a bottle cap snapping off.
Beer in hand, she makes her way to his table but doesn't sit down.
"Hey, Frank," she says by way of greeting.
He looks up, startled but not (she thinks) really surprised. "Hey."
She waits. "Can I sit down?"
Frank waves a pudgy hand, a vague gesture that doesn't seem to mean anything. "Oh, sure."
They're quiet for a few minutes, and Calleigh finds herself drinking faster than usual, sucking down her beer in an effort to fill the silence with something - anything - even if it's just the cool clink of glass on the wooden tabletop.
His fingers tap out an erratic rhythm on the table.
"I knew Reggie Mastow for more than ten years," Frank said. "We worked a couple'a cases together."
Calleigh stays silent; she doesn't want to shatter this, and a careless word could.
"Never thought he woulda done that. Kill a girl just to solve a case." Frank shakes his head. He's still not looking at her. "But it makes you wonder, you know? What do you think, Calleigh?"
She takes a sip of her beer first, lets it slide down her throat while she thinks. "What do I think about what?" she says finally.
"You think the world is divided into a few kinds of people, you know?" He squints across the room, his gaze somewhere near her shoulder. His voice sounds a little slurry. "Maybe not two kinds of people, not just two, but there are some things you think good people don't do. And you think Reggie's a good guy, he wouldn't ever do those things. But he does."
"Mmhmm." Calleigh's voice is carefully noncommittal.
"You ever do something like that? Could you ever?"
This is what she wants to say: Yes, Frank, we could all do something like Reggie did. We're not black-and-white creatures, things aren't as simple as that, and desperate people fuck up. Yes, we could all kill. Yes, we could all become desperate. She takes a breath, the stale, suffocating air of the bar coating her throat.
"No," she says out loud, grasping his forearm with fingers strong from pulling triggers. "No, Frank, you could never do something like that." Because it's what he needs to hear. Because they both need to hear it.
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Characters, Pairings: Calleigh, Frank
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: for 7x09, "Power Trip"
Rating: PG13 (swearing)
Word Count: 541
Notes: For the
philosophy_20 challenge. Prompt #03: "Ends Justify the Means." See the whole table here. Calleigh and Frank commiserate over drinks. Spoilers for "Power Trip."She finds him, unexpectedly, in her favorite bar. There aren't many people there - it's a bona fide hole-in-the-wall - and he's sitting in the corner at a shabby table, lowball already in hand. And, if she was a betting woman, she'd say it wasn't his first.
Not that she can blame him.
She orders a beer from the girl at the bar and pauses there, turning to watch him for a moment, while he still doesn't see her.
Both his hands are wrapped around the glass. Whiskey, she guesses; that seems appropriately Frank, somehow. His eyes are narrowed, staring down into the amber liquor intently, as though it holds the keys to understanding the world (a losing enterprise, to Calleigh's mind; that's never a search that produces any real answers).
His knuckles are almost white with the pressure, and his jaw is clenched; it makes her afraid for him, all of a sudden.
Distantly, she hears the hiss of a bottle cap snapping off.
Beer in hand, she makes her way to his table but doesn't sit down.
"Hey, Frank," she says by way of greeting.
He looks up, startled but not (she thinks) really surprised. "Hey."
She waits. "Can I sit down?"
Frank waves a pudgy hand, a vague gesture that doesn't seem to mean anything. "Oh, sure."
They're quiet for a few minutes, and Calleigh finds herself drinking faster than usual, sucking down her beer in an effort to fill the silence with something - anything - even if it's just the cool clink of glass on the wooden tabletop.
His fingers tap out an erratic rhythm on the table.
"I knew Reggie Mastow for more than ten years," Frank said. "We worked a couple'a cases together."
Calleigh stays silent; she doesn't want to shatter this, and a careless word could.
"Never thought he woulda done that. Kill a girl just to solve a case." Frank shakes his head. He's still not looking at her. "But it makes you wonder, you know? What do you think, Calleigh?"
She takes a sip of her beer first, lets it slide down her throat while she thinks. "What do I think about what?" she says finally.
"You think the world is divided into a few kinds of people, you know?" He squints across the room, his gaze somewhere near her shoulder. His voice sounds a little slurry. "Maybe not two kinds of people, not just two, but there are some things you think good people don't do. And you think Reggie's a good guy, he wouldn't ever do those things. But he does."
"Mmhmm." Calleigh's voice is carefully noncommittal.
"You ever do something like that? Could you ever?"
This is what she wants to say: Yes, Frank, we could all do something like Reggie did. We're not black-and-white creatures, things aren't as simple as that, and desperate people fuck up. Yes, we could all kill. Yes, we could all become desperate. She takes a breath, the stale, suffocating air of the bar coating her throat.
"No," she says out loud, grasping his forearm with fingers strong from pulling triggers. "No, Frank, you could never do something like that." Because it's what he needs to hear. Because they both need to hear it.