Disclaimers: All characters from CSI: Miami are property of CBS. I own nothing connected with CBS or with CSI: Miami, I don't know anyone connected with CBS or with the show. I gain nothing from posting these stories save self satisfaction.

Title: Mutual Valor

Pairing: Horatio Caine/OC

Rating: NC 17 I know, 'M' is an accepted rating, but this is just in case you don't know, this is what 'M' means. This is not only for sexual content, but also for violence and references to sexual child abuse well.

Spoilers: There are references to previous episodes through fourth season.

Challenge: For you true experts on all CSI: Miami, the J's I use for story breaks, and the Sorority House, are references to one episode in particular. It will be up to you to figure out which episode and why I used the lines of J's.

Comments: Both negative and positive comments are always appreciated. I learn from the negative and enjoy the positive.

Thank you: Many thanks to my betas, Elena and Tonie. If not for you, this would have been a mess! I am truly grateful for your efforts.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Story: Sometimes the rescuer becomes the rescued.

Chapter 2: The day after Horatio's bad day.

Chapter 2:

For fourteen hours, Horatio slept deeply and dreamlessly, rousing only because a thin shaft of light from a crack high in the curtains crept brightly across his eyes. Waking alone felt odd, somehow, but he couldn't imagine why until some memory of the day before came to him slowly, unevenly, in unwanted bits and pieces. He had a dim recollection that something awful had gone down, but the rest was hazy. Wait! Manuela, from next door! She had been here! Good Lord! Had she put him to bed? Had she been here in bed with him?

Before those thoughts were fully formed, he saw a shadow pass by the half-closed bedroom door and heard a sound coming from the living room. Realizing someone was out there, sure it was Manuela, he sluggishly grabbed clothes and tried to make himself presentable, feeling like he was hurrying through molasses.

Manuela, peering into the open refrigerator, looked down to the floor to see bare feet sticking out of a pair of light brown drawstring slacks. Stiffening, trying not to be fearful of what might happen next, she reached inside for the glass of orange juice she'd already poured, but as she straightened up quickly, she almost slammed the 'fridge door. 'Don't grab for me! Don't!'

"Ah, you're awake." Attempting to sound morning bright, she hurriedly sidestepped his rising hand, leaving him standing, blankly staring at her. She set the glass down on the dining counter and started peeling the banana, which she had ready on the plate, then cut it into four chunks, deftly using a table knife. Done, she picked up the plate and the glass and, moving as promptly as she dared past Horatio, into the living room to the white leather couch. Before securely cradling herself into the cushioned corner, she set the food on the large glass coffee table in front. She tried not to sigh in relief at having reached her goal, untouched, unharmed.

"Come, sit," she offered, patting the area beside her. "I'm betting you don't usually have breakfast, but this time I insist that you do. The juice is for the iron, the energy, and vitamin C, and a banana is for more energy plus the potassium and niacin, which will replenish your nervous system. You had an awful shock, yesterday, you know."

His mind slow, Horatio, found himself having to figure out what she meant before he could get himself to move. The world somehow seemed topsy-turvy, and not understanding how or why, he focused, for the time being, on his neighbor.

"Come," Manuela repeated, softening her voice from the commanding-mother tone she'd been using. "You need this." Gesturing with her hand, as a hostess might do for a guest; she indicated the path around the couch and pointed to the cushion beside her.

Smiling faintly, he shuffled to the couch and plopped down where she'd indicated. This was a new experience for him, this confusion, and slowness, and he wondered vaguely if he had suffered a stroke. The food suddenly looked good, so he took the juice first, draining the glass before he picked up the plate. Leaning back, taking a bite of the banana, he realized he probably hadn't eaten anything at all the day before.

Manuela, turning her back against the broad armrest so she could face her patient, pulled her legs up in front of her and tried to sound cheerfully conversational. "I called the Lab to let them know you weren't coming in today. They said you'd been told not to, anyway."

"Procedure, temporary relief of duty when an officer has shot someone," he mumbled around a mouthful of banana. "I'm not supposed to go in until Monday." His voice sounded dull and flat in his ears. While he stared out the open patio door at the hazy, blue Miami sky, he knew something was trying to come to his mind, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was.

"Yes, Calleigh told me. She also said to tell you not to even think of showing up today, to just stay home and rest. She also said tomorrow, she knew, would be another matter, whatever that meant." She was relieved to see a slight curling of Horatio's lips, knowing anything resembling an emotional reaction, no matter how slight, was a good thing—step two.

She leaned forward, took the empty dish from his hand and placed it on the table before them—intake of food was step three, and so far so good. Turning, drawing her legs up under her, and leaning towards the listless redhead who sat with his hands in his lap, she draped a hand casually over his shoulder. "You're still tired, I bet."

The thick auburn eyebrows knit over his nose and then shot into a scowl; he nodded his head, staring at his strangely inactive hands. "Tired isn't exactly the word for it," he confessed with an explosive sigh.

"I can't imagine anything more terrible than what happened yesterday. What was the boy's name?" She knew she was entering dangerous territory here but she had to start him talking about it. As she expected, he paused for the briefest moment before answering.

"Martin—Marty—Laine. He was the one snatched two days ago from Mira Loma Park." 'Yesterday! Oh, God! Yesterday!'

"And didn't you mention to me, last week, you thought you knew who the kidnapper was, that Junior Soccer League coach?"

"Yeah!" His chin sank into his chest as he began to recall events of the previous day. Today they seemed far removed, like scenes from an old movie.

Manuela shifted again, put her legs down and pushed herself back into the corner, and reached over to pull on Horatio's arm. "Here. I want to hear more, but you're still tired. Relax a bit while you tell me about it."

It was so easy to give in, to lay his head on her soft lap, and pull his feet up. Lying on his side, he stared at the brightness outside while he felt the gentle petting on his hair, the stroking of her fingers on his arm.

She decided to ask the hardest question first. "If you thought you knew who it was before, why didn't you just go get him?"

"We tried, but he'd moved. We had no idea where he was until one of Frank's street informants came in with the tip about where he was yesterday morning."

"And you were out after him like a bat out of hell."

"Five minutes too late."

A pause, then a soft, distant, "True." Another pause, "You did all that you could."

"It wasn't—" he sighed, "—it wasn't enough."

"And in your job, as in mine, too often, it's never enough. You tried with everything you had, as you always do; you didn't miss a beat, didn't take a misstep, your team didn't miss any clues."

Her comments were answered with silence so Manuela decided to change the subject, before his visions came back full force. "Calleigh said everyone at the lab is concerned about you. They send their best and she asked me to tell you, not to worry."

"I'll be going in tomorrow."

"I think she knew that. She also said she'd have your weapon processed by the time you came in."

"Hmm."

The tips of her fingers strayed to his temple, circling slowly as her other hand continued to stroke his hair. She desperately wished he would just go to sleep, not think. Remembering and talking about it was one thing, but if he started to relive yesterday again, she might have to… no, she couldn't even think about that. She wasn't even sure she could go that far, not anymore. A wild thought occurred to her. 'What if—what if he wouldn't even allow her to come that close? What then?' She pondered the idea.

Moments later, a soft sigh from the now-quiet man told her that her wish had been granted, sleep was once more enveloping him. Following suit, she laid her head against the back of the couch and allowed herself to join him.

Two hours later, she was awakened when she felt his head rise from her lap.

Sitting up beside her, rubbing his face, he looked over and raised his hands enough to say, "Hey," and continued to lift them high above his head in a stretch as he yawned.

She blinked and smiled. "Back at you."

"Wow! I don't think I have ever slept so much in my life." He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling and then over at her with a smile. Then his expression changed ever so slightly, telling her he was remembering the events of the last evening.

When she saw his hand start to move toward her, she jumped up. "I must have needed it too, but I feel great, now."

"And, you know what?" he returned, "I'm hungry."

"Me too! I'm starving!" She snapped her fingers. "I have an idea! I'm going to run downstairs and grab some hotdogs from the vendor. By the time I come back you'll be done with your shower."

"Shower?" He looked as innocent as he could, though he suddenly realized he hadn't showered since early the day before.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, trying to smile apologetically and wrinkled her nose. "You could use a shower. What do you like on your hotdogs?"

"Um," he looked around for the right words. "Mustard, relish, peppers on the side."

"Sides of fried zucchini?"

"Share one?"

"You got it! Hurry, because I'm fast."

Congratulating herself for thinking of the shower idea, Manuela punched the mezzanine button on the elevator. Not only would showering keep him occupied while she fetched lunch, but would lend improvement on his current outlook on life, or as the old joke went: "It's not clean mind, clean body, pick one 'or' the other."

Little more than hour later, they were picking up the wrappers from the patio. They'd spent the time eating and commenting on the view of the beach, what the tourists were wearing—or not wearing—and when another hurricane might strike Miami, among other things. Barely being able to finish her own hotdog, Manuela had noted that Horatio hadn't even paused at downing his second dog, nor did he have to be encouraged to finish three-quarters of the zucchini. Appetite was a very good sign; step four.

Now she wanted get to the final step, diversion and relaxation, but the problem was, she didn't really know him well enough to know what he found entertaining, what he liked to do for fun. She had seen him go jogging at times, but that was all. Nothing coming to her immediately, she strolled over to the end of the balcony and leaned out, looking right and left, in search of an idea. Hearing some music in the distance, she realized that Miami was solving the dilemma for her. Somewhere, in one of the many nearby parks, there was some sort of fair or perhaps a festival. There would be booths selling trinkets, distractions of all sorts, and at least one dance floor.

She had no trouble feigning excitement at the sound of the music. "Oh, Horatio! Listen—a fair! I'm getting my shoes. Oh, please come! Say you'll come." She was not surprised her plea worked; he had no reason to say no.

She was pleased to find that Horatio was a fine dancer who moved well to the Salsa beat of the small band and was confident in the few slow dances they played. Between music sets, they wandered the booths, laughed at a bad magician's efforts, and enjoyed a bit of barbequed goat with some fair cerveza. In the food tent, they were entertained by a boy who, using two sticks to set a rhythm, sang in a plaintively clear voice. When he was finished, to Manuela's fascination, Horatio not only tipped him, but even complimented him in a few words of Spanish.

On the way home, he was telling a tale of how, as a teenager in New York, he had once tried singing in public and how the reaction had forced him to run for his life, when they were suddenly drenched in the one of the inevitable mini-showers of the land. Neither, however, headed for cover, but they both stood in the downpour, arms outstretched, with upturned faces, enjoying the refreshing change in weather, and each privately took notice of what the other was doing.

Later, in the hallway, when Horatio discovered he had forgotten his keys, having left through her apartment, Manuela mentally kicked herself. It would have been so much easier to end the night in the hallway, to just finish this pleasant evening with a quick good night as she shut her door. 'Damn'!

Silently she escorted him through her living room and out onto the patio where, if he would have let her thank him for taking her to the fair and just gone through the gate, it would have been so simple, but no, he just had to be the way he was, sweet, thoughtful, and caring.

After her polite thank you, taking it as an invitation, he attempted to take her in his arms, saying, "Manuela, last night... "

Stepping back, away from his hands, she tried to smile, putting her hand up to stop him. "Last night, nothing."

He reached out again and she dodged, almost standing behind the gate now. 'Damn it! Why did men have to make things so complicated?' "Horatio, last night? De nada, nothing. You needed a friend and I was there for you. It needn't, won't, go any further. We're neighbors, friends, and one of these days, we'll be working together. Period. That's all."

He stepped forward, reached for her yet again, a tender look on his gentle features. "I–"

Manuela panicked. She'd tried to remain calm but she couldn't help it. She reminded herself that she was in control of her life, of her body, knew he would never try to take that away from her but… "No!"

Suddenly, she was pushing at the six-foot figure, shoving him through the gate, forcefully closing it as she grabbed the hasp and drew it over the loop, then, yanked at the padlock which had been hooked over the slats, and slammed it home, squeezing it shut. She imagined Horatio was standing on the other side of the latticework, amazed, and probably confused by her behavior, as any ordinary man would surely be. Her nature told her to go back to him, to explain, but her past experience said that she wouldn't be able to stand getting so close to that fear—not now.

Horatio heard ragged gasping over the sounds of the gate being locked, then a brief pause of hesitation, footsteps, and the sound of her patio door being closed, and finally the clunk of the lock. Moments later, he heard what she probably thought he couldn't hear, tearful sobbing from her open bedroom window, the sharp sounds of her pain carrying over the softer sound of the waves.

What his neighbor did not yet know about Horatio Caine was that he was no ordinary man. True he had wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss her and, true, he was amazed at her reaction, but he was not confused. She'd forgotten his penchant for collecting evidence, dissecting it, putting it into perspective, and not making any judgments about anything until he was sure he had all of the available information. All he knew right now was that he had tried to kiss her and she had become upset. He was not confused in the least, but his innate inquisitiveness was aroused.

After about five minutes, the quiet weeping ceased and, with no further reason to stand staring at the locked gate, he turned and went inside. Amazingly, he was suddenly conscious that he was sleepy—not the sick-tiredness he'd experienced that morning—but a good, worn out feeling, in spite of almost sixteen hours of sleep, so instead of relaxing on the couch as he'd planned, he headed for bed where, half an hour later, he drew the sheet up to his bare chest, made sure the alarm was set, and turned out the light.

He tried to think about what had happened at the end of the evening, but before he could analyze what had been said that might enlighten him as to why Manuela had reacted as she did, he drifted off.