I didn't really intend for this to be a 2-parter, since it's short (for me) even at one, but I woke up 30 minutes before the clock this morning, too close to it to really have time to get back to sleep, and this is as far as I got in 30 minutes. I'll finish it tonight. This is not to be confused with an actual story, just a short, frivolous, final exorcism of a few very frustrating days at work. If the italics don't carry over, which I expect they won't, just imagine the letter pieces in italics. It will be right on Lonely Road. Laeta, I'll send you another copy. Enjoy the first bite, and computers, I'm not finished with you yet. Part two tonight.
Title: Fatal Exception
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own the CSIM characters. I do, however, own a computer that does all of these tricks almost daily and many, many more. While my patience is greater than Calleigh's, I have promised it ceremonial execution at some future date when I can afford to replace it. Still, I can't complain, since it was free. It was, in fact, snatched from the jaws of the dumpster where a real computer person who knows far more about them than I do was discarding it in disgust.
A/N: This is my answer to my own revenge on computers challenge.
Summary: ". . . not responding. It may be busy, waiting for a response from you."
Dear Horatio,
Instantly, the animated paperclip appeared and fastened itself to Calleigh's screen, batting its animated eyes, assured by all of its programming that its cuteness was indisputable. "It looks like you're writing a letter. Would you like help writing your letter?"
"NO!" Calleigh snapped. She clicked on the X with the mouse, and, unrepentant, the paperclip rolled itself into a bicycle and pedaled off the screen. "One of these days, I swear, I'm going to commit clipicide. That thing is just asking for it." She, as well as others, had tried turning the paperclip off, but it resurrected regularly and always inconveniently.
Calleigh collected her scattered thoughts. They hadn't scattered far. The frustration of the congenial but useless paperclip fit in perfectly with the frustration of her mood. She stared at the two words. Was the dear too much? She edged her cursor back up and deleted it, leaving the opening as simply his name. Every ounce of her longed to attach that dear, to claim him as more than her boss, her friend, her hero, her worry, her inspiration, her longing, her frustration, her . . . She took a firm grip on her mind; he wasn't dear Horatio. At least, he was only dear Horatio in her private thoughts. There had been Yelina; there was Rebecca. Four years of watching him, longing, drawn and burned by the fire between them yet afraid to go closer and powerless to turn away. Four years of writing letters after work, with the debate over the dear only gaining volume. She always started with the dear, but most of the time she deleted it. She never sent the letters, though one day, she told herself, she would. She knew she was lying.
At the moment, she had to decide what sort of letter tonight's version was. There were two varieties, the first of which could be summarized as, "Open your eyes, you idiot, and see what we could have," and the second as, "To hell with you. I quit." They both, at the core, said the same thing. In four years, she hadn't yet run out of words.
Calleigh gave a sigh of frustration. She couldn't annihilate him tonight, not even in her thoughts. He had looked so discouraged, so vulnerable when she had left CSI. She'd found him standing in the parking garage, watching Yelina and Stetler leave together, and something about the droop of his shoulders, the extra crinkles around his eyes, made her wonder if he really was regretting what he wouldn't let himself have, or if there was more going on here. He was so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed Calleigh's approach, something quite rare. "You okay, Horatio?" she had asked, then regretted it the second the words were past her lips. She knew what he would say.
Sure enough, he did. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, removed a few of the extra lines around his eyes by pure force of will, and said, "Fine. Just a long day. Are you going home?"
Where did he think she might be going? "Yes. It's high time you left yourself. There's nothing here that won't wait until tomorrow. You've been driving yourself hard all week on that case."
He nodded and then shifted the focus to her, the diversion carried out with the smoothness of long habit. "Nice work on the case, Calleigh. We've got him cold, thanks to you."
"And you," she smiled.
He shared the smile, enjoying with her the mutual satisfaction at taking another criminal off the streets, but he turned the conversation away from himself again. "It was the team. Get some rest tonight, Calleigh; you've earned it. See you tomorrow."
"See you. Goodnight." They went to their separate vehicles, then turned to look at each other for one last glance before driving out of the garage to different destinations.
Calleigh made up her mind. Tonight would be a "why won't you let someone in" letter, one of the gentler but just as heartfelt ones. She started typing and stared at the screen, where the cursor was refusing to follow her. It was totally frozen. She smacked the computer on its side, but nothing happened. "Damn, and I forgot to save, too." Not that there was much to lose yet, but the oversight annoyed her. The computer froze so often that she saved her work at the end of every line, not even trusting autosave. She should have remembered. Nothing quite bothered Calleigh as much as her own inefficiency. Well, almost nothing.
CTRL-ALT-DEL. Three vicious stabs on the keyboard, a tactic that worked about 50 of the time to unfreeze it. The box chose to cooperate, cheerfully telling her that Word was not responding. She clicked to end it, and another box opened. "This program is not responding. It may be busy, waiting for a response from you, or it may have stopped running." Here the screen froze again, her mouse refusing to move and select End. Resigned, Calleigh stomped on the surge protector switch, shutting the computer down in the one way it couldn't refuse.
"It may be waiting for a response from you," she muttered as the computer rebooted. "It's going to get one, one of these days. Make it my fault, why don't you? Somebody seriously needs to rewrite these error messages. Start it out with 'We apologize for our computer's obstinacy and sincerely regret that it has interfered with your day. It is completely our fault. When rebooting is successful, you will receive a 50 gift certificate to compensate partially for your justified frustration.'"
Scan Disk lit up as the computer started. "Because Windows was not properly shut down, one or more of your disk drives may have errors on it. To avoid seeing this message again, always shut down your computer by selecting Shut Down from the Start menu."
"I would if you'd let me, you electronic beast," she snarled. She stalked to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, and the computer was fully rebooted and looking innocent by the time she returned. She opened Word again and, this time, immediately chose to save. "The file 'Horatio' already exists." Yes, of course it did. She had to clean off this disk drive, but she hated to delete anything with his name. No one else ever used this computer; here alone, she could think about him in true privacy. She skimmed the list of documents, named the current one Horatio 168, and started again.
Dear Horatio,
Zing! "It looks like you're writing a letter. Would you like help writing your letter?" The paperclip rolled its eyes hopefully.
"NO! I would like for Bill Gates to be haunted by animated paperclips in his dreams." She executed the paperclip, deleted the dear, and returned twice.
I stood there tonight by my car, looking back at you beside the Hummer, and it suddenly struck me how
Calleigh frowned. The program had changed font. She selected the whole document and set it back in the same font, then took a sip of tea before she continued.
how much like that vehicle you are. So powerful, so noticeable in the world, so admirable, yet lonely. There's so much space there, more than is being used. It's like a metal shield between the driver and the others, carrying him through all terrain safely yet behind darkened windows, keeping him apart. So lonely to be the only person in a Hummer, but even when someone is with you, you are alone. You, too, have your shield, Horatio, your
The font had changed in mid sentence again. Calleigh changed it back.
your sunglasses of your soul that hide you from the world. Why won't you ever let someone share it? Even Yelina and then Rebecca, you never really seemed to let them in. Why won't you let me inside your sou
The cursor froze as the computer locked up again. Calleigh hit CTRL-ALT-DEL, and this time, it allowed her to close the program after telling her it was not responding. However, when she opened Word again, the keyboard was suddenly not attached. All mouse functions present, but it would not acknowledge any typing. With a curse, she backed out and shut down. As it shut down, the computer helpfully listed four more programs that were "not responding." Calleigh killed them all in turn. Damn it, it was Horatio who wasn't responding. So much chemistry, the connection so strong that she often thought it was visible, stretching like an anchor between them, holding them both steady through the various storms of life. Yet always, at the point of revelation, he would back away. Maybe he was waiting for a response from her, her mind suggested, but Lord knew, in four years, she had given him everything but a signed invitation. Dignity and her own whispers of doubt insisted on some restraint in their work interactions, but he should know by now that his feelings were shared. Calleigh finished her tea while the computer rebooted, then re-entered Horatio 168.
soul? Why won't you reach out? It can't be that you don't see it – I've seen that look in your eyes, heard that tone in your voice. You know what there could be, and you never quite push it completely away, but you never claim it. Why, Horatio? What is it that is keeping us apar
The entire screen went blue. "A fatal exception has occurred." Calleigh abruptly snapped. Even if Horatio wasn't hers, this computer was, and it had been pushing her closer to the edge for months each time it froze in the middle of her baring of her soul, each time that paperclip intruded on the cries of her heart. At least one of her problems, even if a minor one, could be eliminated tonight. She opened the desk drawer, removed her gun, and stepped safely back, taking dead aim on the one word. Fatal.
"You said it yourself, computer," she reminded it, and her finger closed on the trigger with the strength of all of her frustration. The shot was startlingly loud, echoing around the room, and the monitor shattered with a satisfying electronic death-scream.
Behind her, something else shattered, and Calleigh spun, instantly on guard, gun coming up to ready, as Horatio burst through her locked door, his own gun out. "Freeze!" he shouted.
They stared at each other for an eternal second, then mutually lowered their weapons. "Calleigh?" He could always roll an entire question into a name. He looked behind her to the screen, where a few dying circuits still glowed feebly inside, like fireflies, before they extinguished.
"I was executing my computer," she informed him, chin up, shoulders stubborn.
The corner of his lips quirked, and the smile crept up his face to light his eyes. Calleigh standing there in front of him, gun in hand, stubborn determination in every line, was suddenly the most beautiful sight in the world. Calleigh saw the full smile and abruptly was annoyed by it. She looked at the clock. He had no right to be standing there in her living room looking so handsome at 1:30 a.m. and doing nothing more. "Actually, Horatio, a better question is, what are you doing here?"
The smile faded.