These stories are still part of Horatio's Harem, but they are now being listed separately.
CSI: Miami
Horatio/oc
Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.
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"Tandolayo. My name is Tandolayo."
Hedy Lamar had leaned back and spoken seductively in the 1942 'B' movie, White Cargo. Her green eyes glowed against makeup-darkened skin, her bleached blond hair curling down her bare shoulders. As a pre-ethnic-consciousness version of an island native, dressed in an unlikely sarong, she'd definitely been alluring to a fifteen-year-old boy. Even though nothing else about the rest of the movie was impressive, Horatio Caine had always remembered that pronouncement from when he'd seen it on late night TV.
Standing at a counter in the lab's firing range, he mused over why he always thought of those words when cleaning his pistol? 'I don't call my pistol Tandolayo. Never have.' Though men often named their weapons, as a matter of personal policy, he hadn't.
The parts of the glock lay before him on the yellow cloth on the gun lab counter; the barrel, the grip, the magazine of bullets, the screws, all arranged in a specific pattern. The small case of cleaning tools was placed at one side. As he picked up the barrel and peered into it, he knew he wasn't going to see anything in there, he never did. Minute bits of gunpowder residue and oddments of dust motes couldn't be seen with the naked eye. Perhaps he'd find a burr he hadn't seen before, something the last bullet had left or pulled up in its rapid passage. He knew it wasn't likely, but still, he looked.
The only remains that could be seen from use were in the dark smear on the treated pad, after it had been drawn through the barrel. He'd never liked pulling that bit of material through the internal parts of his weapon. Somehow, it seemed like he was getting a little too personal with this thing, and lately, having to get personal with his weapon had been a far too frequent occurrence.
He cleaned his gun every week and, again, after each time he had to shoot a man. His heart faltered at the thought of how many times he'd cleaned his gun between the weekly maintenance. That was when he paid particular attention to the exterior of the gun, especially after close range kills.
He picked up the body of the weapon. Without the cartridge magazine in place, without the barrel, the butt felt alien in his hand. The CSI Lieutenant wondered if he'd be able to identify the thing in this condition if he were blindfolded. He'd know it, were it ready to fire; he'd used it too many times not to, both on the shooting range and on the job.
His thoughts were interrupted by the consideration of time comparison of use; enough practice on the firing range, too many times fired on the job.
Slowly easing the cleaning tool along the creases of the exposed firing chamber, making sure any accumulated debris was removed, Horatio's mind went to his memories of the creases between a woman's labia and her inner thigh. The cleaning tool became his finger. Instead of digging into the crease, though, he usually just drew gently down the tender area as he thoroughly enjoyed the woman's reaction. Like now, sometimes he blew a puff of air into the feminine crease, but for entirely different reasons.
A quick sigh brought his wits back to the task at hand and he reflected on why it was so important to keep this part of the gun clean. "Gun failure," was too often linked to dirt in the firing chamber, causing the firing pin to hit the bullet incorrectly. The worst sound in the world is a dead click from your gun aimed at someone holding a gun aimed at you.
'Damn it!' His thoughts hit that loop again. He and Tim Speedle were in the jewelry store; he saw the men with pistols, called out a warning; saw Tim looking at his gun just before the kid took a bullet. Again and again, he looked into those dark eyes that slowly lost their focus; urged him to hang on while trying to staunch the blood flowing freely down from the bubbling mouth; again put his ear over that outrageously huge hole in his chest, listening for a heartbeat that was no longer present. That loop, where he remembered the same thing again, and again.
And why did he endlessly remember? Was he still trying to figure it all out? Any fatality should contain a lesson, but where was it in the horrible exercise of Tim's death? Tim had died because his weapon had misfired because he seldom cleaned it. Even as a rookie cop in New York, Horatio had always kept his sidearm clean. For Tim's replacement, he'd hired hyper-conscientious Ryan Wolfe, who'd assured him of over cleaning his piece, if anything. So why did servicing his own pistol always bring up Tim's death, years after the fact? Was it that Tim's death was senseless? Had no lesson to teach?
'And what do I learn from those I kill?' Automatically, the cardinal's voice sounded in his mind. 'You're past due for confession.' His throat bobbed in a dry swallow.
His thoughts switched paths. 'Sometimes I wish…' Had Hagen been right? 'Turn this baby on yourself; slip it under your chin, pull the trigger, and meet oblivion. Use the very instrument that helps you end the miserable lives of so many others.' He didn't let the thought get any further. A short nod, a slight bob of his chin, he came to the same answer he always did; too easy. Besides, wishing for death was against his religion, was a sign of being crazy, and a really good way to get bounced off the force.
Somehow, the pistol grip in his hand seemed to croon comfort to him, swearing that he'd never die with this to rely on. To be sure, there were conditions; 'You have to kill to assure me of life, don't you? Are you then my teacher or the instrument through which I teach? ' There he was, doing it again! Assigning this thing a personality!
At the same moment, he recalled the times when he'd attributed even more character to his gun. How he'd stripped off his clothing; how he'd rubbed it across his naked skin, up his arms, slowly across his bare belly, and down his swollen penis. How, each time, his muscles had gone tense in the dark bedroom and how it brought a rumbling groan of pleasure out of him. He'd practically made love to the damn thing! 'Be honest. You'd allowed it to make love to you.' Horatio's groin twitched pleasantly at the guilty memory. Then, always, he'd drawn it back under his flaming stick, and reaching from behind with his other hand, took the black thing and moved it gently across his balls, that were tight with desire, and, grip up, firing chamber down, pulled the muzzle back until it was even with his anus. At this point, his breath would be coming in short, uneven gasps. Suddenly, it was a lover of a different sort! Each time, what he was doing repelled him, compelled him. At the same time, his eyes would inevitably travel across the room, to where the magazine of bullets lay. Each time, he'd stop and think, 'Not this time, baby. Not this time.' After that hesitation, he'd draw the gun barrel slowly up the crack of his butt then across the back of his waist, and lay the side of the gun flat against his hip, nose pointed down to the floor. He'd tap it reassuringly against his pale skin and take a deep breath, knowing it, whatever it was, was over, for now.
Raising his eyes briefly to assure himself that he was alone, he allowed his lips to widen slightly at the macabre humor of it all. 'But, doesn't it prove that, among other things, this thing 'is' my lover?' Another voice in his mind hissed, 'Perhaps, but not your sweetheart.'
Absentmindedly stroking the side of the crosshatched grip, he suddenly realized that the feel against his fingers always reminded him of stroking a woman's thigh when she'd neglected to shave recently. That rough-smooth quality was nearly the same in an oddly sensuous sort of way. And it was different too; this damned gun didn't appreciate his touch. His usually serious expression relaxed slightly as he remembered the quiver of flesh at his touch, the sighs of pleasure.
He had to admit, of the trappings of a police officer, the gun was certainly the most active part, internally as well as externally. Of his gun, ID and gold badge, he gave little thought to his ID, took pride in his badge, but he had a bunch of thoughts and feelings about the gun, to say nothing of interactions. On the other hand, there were the times he wondered if he thought at all, when he used it. How many times had he drawn and fired before he'd even realized what he was doing? How many times had he questioned, in retrospect, whether it had been necessary? Brandishing it sometimes seemed to stop the thought process. When he had the grip in his right hand, propped on his left hand, sighting down the barrel, was he looking to protect himself or was he looking for someone to shoot? Afterwards, he could always say why he'd made the shot, but was that by-the-book police-officer-speak or was he really reporting his reasoning? Was there any reasoning with a man carrying a gun?
Yet, how pleasing this little beast could be! 'She's compact, fits perfectly into my hand, good balance, sweet to hold.' She? 'This thing has no life! Yeah, and without her, you'd have no life. I'm grateful for the protection, envious of her power. You hate this thing.'
His eyes traveled to the reassuring sight of the bullet magazine, lying on the cloth, safely out of its chamber. "Rule one; never handle your weapon for casual purposes unless emptied of bullets. Your own personal gun, of course, is another matter," is what the man, who'd first trained him at the police academy, had always cracked. Wojohoeiutz, a former Marine gunnery sergeant, adhered to strict military protocol about never referring to a weapon as a gun. Whenever anyone in class would make the mistake, he'd be called to the front and Wojohoeiutz would take the guy's pistol, hold it high and then would roughly grab the victim's groin. Looking at the kid as if daring him to show pain, he'd say, in a loud, clear voice, "This, gentlemen, is your pistol." He'd wave the revolver in the air. Jiggling his other hand as it squashed the kid's nuts he'd continue, "And this is your gun! Try to remember which one to use when facing the enemy!"
Laying the grip into the empty space on the cloth, Horatio surveyed the rest of the parts, making sure the pattern they made was complete, that no parts were mislaid. While his thoughts had followed the familiar paths, his hands had gently finished the cleaning. He'd noted he needed to buy another pad of oil treated tissue for his kit; maybe, he thought, it was time for a gift, a new kit.
Slowly, almost reverently, he picked up the grip once more and reached for the barrel. The snicking sound, as it slid to rest in the cradle, was reassuring. He reached for the first screw.
Moments later, Horatio stepped up into the room with the firing well, laid the reconstructed gun down on the table beside the bullet magazine and placed the bulbous ear-protection gear over his head. 'And, just how many times have you fired without ear protection? If you're hearing isn't ruined already, one more time isn't going to do it.' 'It's protocol. End of story.' Inserting the magazine, pleased at the completed familiarity in his hand once again, he fired the test shot required every time the gun was reassembled. A moment later, he placed the dried, bagged bullet, labeled with the date and reason for discharge, into the file of his pistol's exemplars.
The collection of bullets in the tray, as always, looked like small eggs. The anomaly of thinking of the bullets as eggs and yet of bullets as being equated to men's semen wasn't lost on him. He, personally, never thought of his semen as bullets, never equated his penis to being a weapon. He'd never told anyone but, in spite of Wojohoeiutz' efforts, he'd no problem with calling his weapon a gun. Equally, unlike with his pistol, Horatio never had any conflicting feelings over his penis. It was a useful thing for relieving his bladder quickly and efficiently, was a wondrous source of pleasure and he also tried to make it a gift of pleasure, when he could, but it was hardly a weapon. Yeah, it could also be a baby-making machine, but wasn't, on purpose, by choice!
Closing the drawer, his pistol safely buckled into her holster, lying securely against his hip, Horatio turned and, as he always did, after cleaning his weapon, went home.
The End.