A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

DISCLAIMERS: Characters from Nip/Tuck are the property of Ryan Murphy. Characters from CSI: Miami are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

Lyrics of "The Killing Moon" and "Crystal Days" written by Ian McCulloch. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

"Compline," "The horns of the morning,"and"The moon is full tonight" written by Philip Larkin. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

This story may be reproduced and distributed without charge if proper author credit is given and disclaimers are retained. Feedback is welcome.

THIS FANFICTION MAY CONTAIN SCENES OF VIOLENCE, STRONG LANGUAGE, ADULT SITUATIONS AND NUDITY AND THEREFORE MAY BE UNSUITABLE FOR CHILDREN UNDER 17. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

by wordwolf

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

PART I.

Dr. Sean McNamara hated not knowing what to do. Already it had been three weeks since the memorial service, nearly a month since the terrible night itself, and his friend and partner remained sunk in his stony near-silence. True, far from being affected negatively, his work had been exceptional in that time, their patients benefiting from a new, icy, nearly inhuman focus on the part of Dr. Christian Troy. But almost everything else seemed to have been forgotten – or worse yet, banished – from Troy's behavior. His whirlwind social life had yet to resume at all; his boat and Ferrari languished untouched; he'd even largely ceased visiting with the McNamara family, which its head had so hoped would help support and shelter his bereaved friend. Once in a fit of frustration McNamara had suggested that the two of them go out and get as drunk as two rats trapped in a beer barrel, and even then Troy had turned him down.

But one thing McNamara was determined not to do was say the wrong thing. He remembered too well the sparks that had flown at his clumsy but well-meaning attempt to console Troy for his previous tragedy: the loss of the baby boy he had come to love so much. Their friendship had hit a sharp rock over little Wilbur, and McNamara would not let that happen again. So he held his peace, waiting for Troy to bring up the subject.

Except that Troy did not bring up the subject. He was spending much of his time between procedures alone in his office, endlessly rereading the collected poems of Philip Larkin. McNamara understood that the book was Troy's first and last link to the woman he had lost, but that didn't leave him any less worried to see a man whose taste for reading had lately been satisfied with the daily paper and some professional journals now deeply absorbed in some of the last century's most searingly honest poetry.

But still McNamara said nothing, letting Troy heal in his own way. In the meantime he extended the courtesy of letting his friend choose the music for the operating room. For weeks now they'd been hearing the brief repertoire of Nick Drake over and over again. McNamara trusted that the deceptively simple, achingly sad songs were helping Troy through his loss, but he was concerned nonetheless. No one familiar with Drake's career was unaware of the folksinger's early, tragic death by his own hand.

For this operation, Troy had selected Bryter Layter again. It was his favorite. Until recently it had been McNamara's favorite too, but he wasn't sure how many more times he could handle it without sinking into a depression of his own. He looked down at the pretty young lady, an aspiring singer, whose breasts they were enhancing, and reflected that Troy hadn't flirted with a patient in all this time, but had maintained a cool professionalism with this girl and all the others since the incident. Perhaps that was something to be grateful for.

McNamara found himself remembering the memorial service for Karen Avalon, three weeks and an eternity ago. It had been gratifying to see the size of the crowd that turned out to her local Methodist church: co-workers and neighbors, fellow fencers, what must have been most of the regular congregation, were all there for her; the pastor's eulogy, far from the usual boilerplate, was the testimony of one who had actually known her. In life she might have been deprived of family, but not of love. That at least was a consolation.

And it wasn't just loss of love that had left Troy so deeply broken; something else was involved. McNamara found that out before the service, when he suggested to his friend that Troy ask to say a few words. Troy had flashed him a frightening gaze and said softly and dangerously, "What would you have me say, Sean? That the woman we've all gathered to mourn would still be with us if I hadn't been afraid, and slow, and weak?" McNamara had been too shaken to argue or console. Later at the service, when he'd looked across the church and seen Lt. Horatio Caine, of the Miami-Dade Police crime scene unit, he had realized that the sense of guilt must extend to others who had failed to save her. McNamara only hoped that they would all be able to put it behind them before too much longer. There had been too many losses in the last two years.

This last procedure of their long workday had been completed, the patient transferred to the recovery wing, and the surgeons were soon ready to return home. On the street outside, McNamara paused to take in the sight of a full, golden tropical moonrise, on the kind of clear night only witnessed in the lull following the passage of storms. The experts all said it was going to be a terrible hurricane season, one for the record books. Maybe another storm was rising far out in the Caribbean even now; time to cling to this lovely night as long as possible. "Isn't it beautiful, Christian?" McNamara said as his partner came up behind him.

Troy was silent for a long moment, gazing into the sky. Just as the other was beginning to feel uncomfortable, he suddenly spoke, in a distant voice:

"The moon is full tonight

And hurts the eyes,

It is so definite and bright.

What if it has drawn up

All quietness and certitude of worth

Wherewith to fill its cup,

Or mint a second moon, a paradise? –

For they are gone from earth."

The silence returned as Troy walked away.

XX

Christian Troy was slouched in his living room, wondering whether to try to sleep or pour himself another drink first, when the doorbell sounded. His first instinct was to ignore it. After all, he didn't feel as if he was even at home; maybe the person who was out there would eventually agree.

He made a game attempt to ignore the shrilling doorbell, but whoever stood on the other side was not taking no for an answer. After one particularly grating twelve-second ring, he finally sighed and went to answer it. He didn't bother with the peephole, which was why he stood astonished when he saw the visitor. "Kimber? What are you doing here?"

"So I was right," Kimberly Henry sneered at him, tossing her bleached curls.

"About what?" Troy asked in a stunned tone.

She flounced past him and planted herself on his couch. "About you needing someone to talk some sense into you." She banged her purse onto the coffee table decisively. "Well? Come and sit down. It's about time we talked."

He shook his head wearily. "Kimber, I don't want to talk. I don't even want to talk to Sean. I CERTAINLY don't want to talk to you."

She nodded. "All the more reason why you should. Christian, you've got to get over this obsession with that tattooed girl – what was her name?"

It felt like a bolt of pure grief hitting his heart. He dropped himself heavily into the square armchair. "Karen. Her name was Karen Avalon."

"There! That's exactly what I mean!" Kimber's voice had a distinct tone of "Gotcha!" to it. "I mean, why do you even remember? You forget most of the other names, don't you?"

He glared hard at her in preference to blinking back tears. "Kimber, you're on thin ice. What do you think she and I had, some tawdry one-night stand?"

"Well, you DID only fuck her once."

Irritation became indignation. "You never disappoint, do you, Kimber? Always the same shallow jealous bitch I was lucky to get away from."

Kimber almost hissed. "Because what you really wanted was a frigid little bookworm who played with toy swords because she wanted a dick, and knew a lot of poems that don't rhyme. Yeah, right!"

Troy's eyes darkened and hardened, and his voice went low. "I'll put this as politely as I can. Karen was an educated young lady who loved me. You, on the other hand, are a vulgar, coke-addled slut who demands that I love you. Now do you understand?"

Her voice took on a sly undertone. "How can you be so sure she loved you?"

He stared at her in utter incredulity. "Kimber, she laid her head on a block for a madman to chop off – so that I wouldn't suffer. I think that indicates more than a casual interest."

"Well, how do you know I wouldn't do the exact same thing in her place?"

Troy chuckled. "Oh, maybe because you have all the reckless courage of the spoiled kept woman you desperately aspire to be?"

Kimber's lips pursed into a tight little knot. "Maybe she was just suicidal. How well did you know her, anyway?"

His vision blurred a little, and it was suddenly hard to swallow. "Well enough."

"But did she know YOU well enough?"

He sat up straighter. "Just what the hell are you insinuating, Kimber?"

"Looks like I hit a nerve!" She smirked coldly. "Think about it, Christian. Was it really you that Karen loved, or some fantasy in her own head? Did she really know who you are? Sure, she knew Christian Troy the rich, cool, handsome doctor. What girl wouldn't want him? But what would she have thought of Christian Troy the tomcat who wipes his dick in a different woman every night – with or without a little coke to start with? Tight-assed little Miss Bookworm would have run screaming from HIM, back to her poems and her toy swords! But she never found out about him, did she?" Kimber's hard blue eyes narrowed. "If she had, it could've saved her dull, respectable little life."

The blood roared in Troy's ears; he felt his hands balling up into fists. Through clenched teeth biting back the rage and hate, he growled quietly, "Get out. Get out now, Kimber, before I do something we'll both regret."

She rose, swinging her purse jauntily, the smirk still in place. "Oh, I'm going, Christian. But it's not because I'm scared of you, or anything. It's just that I feel it'd be good for you to be alone for a while. Both editions of you." Her laughter tinkled like breaking crystal as she minced toward the door; then she paused for a moment. "Bye, Christian. If you get lonely later, maybe you can go to the library and pick up another good little girl." He barely kept from launching himself at the door as she slammed it behind her.

TO BE CONTINUED