Disclaimer: If I claim these characters as my own, may I be blinded by the blaze of a thousand Miami suns without protection from the Sunglasses of Justice; hell hath no fury like Ann Donahue (and Jerry Bruckheimer, Anthony Zuiker, CBS, etc) improperly credited.
Notes (8/28): Yes. Yet another one on this theme, at least to begin with, but I'm hoping it will turn into a multi-part collection of one-shots from different points of view. If I manage to get this much off the ground, next scene is Eric's.
Spoilers: This is the first thing that popped into my head when I read spoilers for the season premiere, but it makes direct references only as far as the season 4 finale "One of Our Own." Everything else is purely my imagination
Word Count: 490, give or take
Moonlight in Brazil
In sleep, he shifted facedown, arm draped out across her stomach, as he often did when it was too hot to hold her properly. Something was wrong this time, though. His hand groped through the darkness, seeking what he could not be found, until the movement woke him up. Horatio's eyes snapped open; disoriented, he tried to fathom the reason for the empty space before his mind filled in observational details – the bed was facing the wrong way, these weren't his sheets, the moonlight filtering in through half-closed blinds outside the window shone over Brazil, and Marisol was still dead.
The realization hit as hard as it always did, no matter how he tried to avoid it. His eyes closed once, only to slide open once more, knowing sleep wouldn't return. Wearily he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, gray T-shirt clinging limply to his body from oppressive heat that refused to relent even in this post-midnight hour. Shoulders hunched forward, he perched there for a minute trying to gather his thoughts before deciding it wasn't worth the effort, and dropped his head in his hands.
He'd been dealing with demons since the age of 17,trying to right the world while guilt dogged his footsteps and tragedy lay in ambush.Neither left him for long.They were enemies he couldn't confront, and consequently couldn't vanquish; the best he could do was keep the shadows at bay by pursuing some semblance of justice.
After a long minute, he raised it again and looked at the bedside table. Slightly bleary eyes skimmed over the glowing numbers on the clock, the standard-issue hotel lamp, his keys and gun, before settling on the one personal touch, the framed picture capturing her irrepressible smile. Sinking back, he stared at it with hooded, haunted eyes, then reached out and plucked it from its spot, bringing it in for closer study, remembering details the photographic image couldn't capture. It failed to provide anything close to comfort. Abruptly he turned away, cutting the memories off, and the picture frame was replaced without regard for the direction it faced.
Settling back on thin pillows with hands clasped behind head, Horatio watched a crack on the ceiling twist and reshape itself, forming optical illusions in the darkness, and contemplated what dawn would bring. Frankly, he didn't really have a plan. It had been important to get here first - act now, think later. They could make up the rest as they went along. Any rules were subject to change without notice; Riaz didn't play by them anyway.
Brain overloaded with grief and exhaustion far beyond jet lag, he found himself oddly transfixed by the way a small moth fluttering near the ceiling, so pale in color, kept vanishing into the dark corners. Couldn't help but wonder if the relentless reminders of the lives he didn't save would eventually swallow him the same way.