A/N: On Friday night, a friend and I went to see Goo Goo Dolls play live. It was one of the best nights of my life to date and a night I will never, ever forget. I've loved them for years and years so seeing them live was so special. They played 'Better Days' and it reminded me of the fanfic I wrote inspired me that song. Then they played this song and I knew what I had to do. It's been a long time since I've written anything at all, never mind CSI NY fanfiction - but in the spirit of good music, company, inspiration and the impending fun and rush of Christmas, here is my first fanfic in a long time - entirely unbeta'd and written wholly as an attempt to satiate my own anger and indignation.
not broken.
morning comes & life moves on, but when it changed you didn't know where you belonged
Her letter is the first thing he notices when he walks into his office. The plant on the corner of his desk needs watering and he forgot to close the blinds when he left, but those things are secondary to the unmistakable scrawl on the front of the envelope.
He reads the note twice. His feet are numb, he couldn't move if he tried. By the time you read this, I'll already be in New Orleans, it says. I was pissed off and I couldn't stay. I know this wasn't your fault, but please don't blame me either.
The rest of the day is uneventful. He longs for a case, something big, something to distract him from his own self-loathing and constant replaying of events; how did he let this happen?
when the world is insane, you get used to the pain & you don't even know what you feel
He listens patiently to the stories of her new life: her team, her lab, her city. He's sick with regret as her stories consist of 'my' and not 'our'. He feels even worse when her voice cracks and she sobs down the phone because the city's devastation is now hers. He knows how that feels.
Except, he's not sure what's worse: feeling the pain himself or knowing the pain she's in and being powerless to help.
time won't ever steal my soul & we're not broken, so please come home
It has been a long four months. Her voice rings clear and true from the speakers of his computer. He sits stiff and straight in his chair and their conversation is stilted. Her face is weary, her eyes devoid of sparkle; she jitters, pixelated, across the screen. Conversation sticks strictly to safe topics: work, the weather, a current affair or two. Their conversations changed when she moved away.
She leaves her seat for a moment and he's left with an empty chair and a front row seat to New Orleans through her window. The destruction breaks his heart. He sits back and rubs a hand over his face. He's as tired and weary as she looks.
By the time she returns, his mind is made up.
"No one would think less of you if you came home," he says. He could always read her like a book. She frowns in response.
"I have a job to do," she insists. He has hit the nail on the head and they both know it.
"You don't have to prove anything, Stella." His voice is softer than she has ever heard and for the first time, she realises he's just as tired as she is.
and if the world has worn you down, I'll be waiting, so please come home
He meets her at the airport. The smile on her face when she sees him is the first real smile to grace her features since the week before she left New York. He takes her face in his hands, kisses her cheek and pulls her into a bear hug, so tight she feels frozen in place.
He carries her bag and leads her out to his car.