Title: Simple Words, Complicated Man (1/1) (aka The Kill Zone Challenge)
Author: Andrea (ABCGirl) (abc3969@juno.com)
Rating: PG
Pairing: While I might explore the potential of other duos on occasion, my heart will always return to Horatio/Calleigh; and so, to my own muse I must be true.
Disclaimer: Me no profit; you no sue.
Archive: Is anybody archiving these? If so, just say so. I'll come visit. Eve, Laeta, be my guests.
A/N: In response to Marianne's challenge, I tried for smut, but my muse dragged me, kicking and screaming, in the other direction, all the while cackling madly, something akin to "you must be joking!" So, instead, a character study is what she gave me.
Spoilers: Kill Zone, obviously
Summary: The impact was undeniable and immediate--enough to tilt my world on its axis and make me reconsider a whole host of preconceived notions.
~~~~~
"I beg to differ."
Four little words.
Singly, they are insignificant, barely of any impact or consequence at all; but strung together and uttered by him to me, at that exact moment, well, the impact was undeniable and immediate--enough to tilt my world on its axis and make me reconsider a whole host of preconceived notions.
I.
Me, myself. He, himself.
Two halves of a whole, blindly stumbling through this earthly existence in search of our perfect complements, they who would make us complete and fill the innate void that makes us each human.
The ego, the self-image. He has a healthy perception of himself in his own private storehouse, hoarded away and scrupulously guarded. His character was predetermined the day his mother was murdered. Since then, he has known all too well who and what he is. There are few secrets as to what makes him tick, where his motivation lies. Through it all, though, he exudes confidence, self-assurance and rectitude. A force of nature in his own right, he moves through life with steadfastness and a determination that even his critics are forced to admire.
Those who would stand back and observe him from a distance have sometimes described him as stolid and unfeeling, an untruth in simplest form. He experiences emotions deeply and profoundly, but feels the need to hold back or appear detached to avoid the impression of weakness. He protects his own soul as fiercely as he protects the truth. A face of granite, a heart of gold.
And it doesn't hurt that he strikes an imposing figure on the landscape of criminalistics. Were such things of concern to him, I'm sure he would be honored by his reputation throughout crime scene investigation circles. But he prefers to focus on the work, the science and the results, rather than on the accolades.
He stands tall and proud, all taut muscle and steely concentration. The heat of his penetrating gaze can and does effortlessly transform the smoldering embers of my meticulously contained emotions into a rampant firestorm of unrestrained need and zealous desire.
And yet, for all his professional acumen and his vast array of knowledge, he doesn't know this about me; that I want nothing more than to be swept headlong into that fire, to be cleansed and refined from without, within.
Beg.
To plead. To entreat. To seek.
A noble soul, he is a true warrior. Just thinking of all he has endured, and the grace and dignity with which he conducts himself brings tears to my eyes.
I have watched him plead with the Fates on behalf of those who have become offerings on the altar of senseless violence. He is their voice, their champion. Through him, the silent have their say, albeit only slight recompense for their lot.
He seeks truth and justice, certainly; but moreover, he seeks answers. For it is in the depths of these many mysteries where he finds his life's meaning, his purpose.
I have witnessed him, like a Phoenix, rise from the ashes of utter devastation to soar above the specter of his brother's past. And I have seen him beseeching Heaven with tortured and tearful 'whys' and 'what-ifs.'
He will never rest until he's found the answers he seeks-but until then, he labors for the countless other victims, for those they have left behind. If he can't have his own resolution, then at least someone else can.
To differ.
To be dissimilar. To fail to agree. To contrast with.
We are different in many ways, yet so much the same. I am the light to his dark, the tender to his tough, the silence to his outspokenness. We temper each other's reactions to situations and steady each other on shaky ground. He provides me with what I lack. I offer him back those things he feels he has lost along the way. He is my rock and my guardian. I am his shelter and his comfort.
One without the other, we would survive, but would be nothing short of ineffectual. Without consciously trying, we have become necessary to each other. I can't help but believe that I could survive on his presence alone, should the need ever arise; air, food and water be damned-Horatio is all the life force I need.
But by some mutually agreed upon unspoken oath, we have not discussed our thoughts or feelings concerning each other. Instead, we move through our days contenting ourselves with a steady supply of furtive glances, feather- light touches and secretive smiles meant only for us. I think by giving voice to our true emotions, by admitting recognition of our visceral connection, we both feel that we would be surrendering too much to chance. We each have control issues, and only in losing control to the other will we ever really gain control of what we have-an unquestionably strong pull toward one another. It's as though I am the steel to his magnet, the tide to his shore. And with that one quietly uttered sentence, I felt the waves break over dry land, caress it, embrace it, preparing the way for things to come.
*****
That afternoon we had been working different facets of the sniper case, Horatio on the ground, placing himself squarely in Harwood's line of fire, and me, trudging up seemingly endless flights of emergency exit stairs toward the sniper's lair.
I couldn't help but worry after Horatio's safety. If any one aspect of our little sting operation went awry, Horatio would be the one to pay the price. All the conditions, all the elements, all the possibilities had to be manipulated to our advantage or Harwood's shooting spree would claim another victim-Horatio-and I could not, would not, let that happen.
I have no doubt that Horatio was worrying about me, just as I was about him. His urgent, almost frantic radio calls to me were more than professional communication in the line of duty.they were his attempt at keeping me close to him, anchoring both of us to security even in the face of potential calamity.
But we had work to do, roles to play. Our mutual worrying would have to take a back seat to the job at hand. We fit neatly into our own little niches within the framework of the case, but neither of us was in anything resembling a 'comfort zone.' There was no comfort zone with Harwood-he was good; we knew it, and worse yet, he knew it too. We had one chance to take him down, no room to fail.
That's how Horatio approaches every part of his life-evaluate all the options from every possible angle, take aim and fire. Do it right the first time, because there are no second chances.
I can't help it; he amazes me. His brain works three steps ahead of everyone else's. He can anticipate the outcome of any word or deed, even before its execution. Therefore, every word out of his mouth is calculated- not in a negative way, just as a precaution against future backlash. As a result, everything he says, everything he does, is deliberate and direct. This doesn't mean, though, that he's incapable of spontaneity or flirtatiousness-he merely watches and waits, picks his moments with precise care, then gives it his all-intensity, sincerity, self-confidence and hope all wrapped up in a few simple words and phrases.
So, as we walked away from a job well done, with the criminal apprehended and innocent lives spared, I expected words of congratulations or of praise. I got those and then some.
He removed his sunglasses, those infernal barriers between his true self and the rest of the world, and graced me with the most fantastic sheepish grin and an honestly relieved, satisfied gleam in his eye.
Asking me if I'd ever considered a transfer to SWAT was flirtatiousness a la Horatio. He meant the question as a compliment of my work and as a way to connect with me on a personal level, assuring himself of my safety and offering me proof of his own. Fortunately, I know "Horatio-Speak," so interpreting his words is usually easy for me. I answered his veiled compliment with a flirty comeback of my own. Then, just when I thought I had bested him, he threw me a curveball. I thought my "I don't look good in all black" comment would have caught him off-guard; that he would smile and we would share a tension-relieving laugh, and that would be the end of it. But no, he didn't miss a beat before he tossed back those fateful words, "I beg to differ."
My heart skipped several beats. My mind whirled in all directions at once. If that had been another place and time, I might have gone completely typical Southern female and been overcome with an attack of the "vapors." But instead, I chose the safe, uncomplicated and let's face it, the cowardly way out. I should have stayed there, face to face with the man I adore and explored the issue, or at least played out the conversation a bit longer. Even as Harwood was lead away, I could have stood off to the side, then approached Horatio again and continued right where we left off. But, true to form for us, we let the moment slip away. I walked away from the situation, from the emotions his words had instantly, irrevocably awakened, and most stupidly of all, away from him.
But in my own defense, I'm not so sure I could have managed a coherent conversation just then anyway. When he wants to, he can throw me for a loop with the greatest of ease, and with that statement, he definitely did throw me. That fact didn't escape him, either.
I could tell he thought I didn't see his wry little grin as I walked away. Oh, but I did. And if he thinks this is where we're going to leave things, I have but one comment.
I beg to differ.
~fin~
Author: Andrea (ABCGirl) (abc3969@juno.com)
Rating: PG
Pairing: While I might explore the potential of other duos on occasion, my heart will always return to Horatio/Calleigh; and so, to my own muse I must be true.
Disclaimer: Me no profit; you no sue.
Archive: Is anybody archiving these? If so, just say so. I'll come visit. Eve, Laeta, be my guests.
A/N: In response to Marianne's challenge, I tried for smut, but my muse dragged me, kicking and screaming, in the other direction, all the while cackling madly, something akin to "you must be joking!" So, instead, a character study is what she gave me.
Spoilers: Kill Zone, obviously
Summary: The impact was undeniable and immediate--enough to tilt my world on its axis and make me reconsider a whole host of preconceived notions.
~~~~~
"I beg to differ."
Four little words.
Singly, they are insignificant, barely of any impact or consequence at all; but strung together and uttered by him to me, at that exact moment, well, the impact was undeniable and immediate--enough to tilt my world on its axis and make me reconsider a whole host of preconceived notions.
I.
Me, myself. He, himself.
Two halves of a whole, blindly stumbling through this earthly existence in search of our perfect complements, they who would make us complete and fill the innate void that makes us each human.
The ego, the self-image. He has a healthy perception of himself in his own private storehouse, hoarded away and scrupulously guarded. His character was predetermined the day his mother was murdered. Since then, he has known all too well who and what he is. There are few secrets as to what makes him tick, where his motivation lies. Through it all, though, he exudes confidence, self-assurance and rectitude. A force of nature in his own right, he moves through life with steadfastness and a determination that even his critics are forced to admire.
Those who would stand back and observe him from a distance have sometimes described him as stolid and unfeeling, an untruth in simplest form. He experiences emotions deeply and profoundly, but feels the need to hold back or appear detached to avoid the impression of weakness. He protects his own soul as fiercely as he protects the truth. A face of granite, a heart of gold.
And it doesn't hurt that he strikes an imposing figure on the landscape of criminalistics. Were such things of concern to him, I'm sure he would be honored by his reputation throughout crime scene investigation circles. But he prefers to focus on the work, the science and the results, rather than on the accolades.
He stands tall and proud, all taut muscle and steely concentration. The heat of his penetrating gaze can and does effortlessly transform the smoldering embers of my meticulously contained emotions into a rampant firestorm of unrestrained need and zealous desire.
And yet, for all his professional acumen and his vast array of knowledge, he doesn't know this about me; that I want nothing more than to be swept headlong into that fire, to be cleansed and refined from without, within.
Beg.
To plead. To entreat. To seek.
A noble soul, he is a true warrior. Just thinking of all he has endured, and the grace and dignity with which he conducts himself brings tears to my eyes.
I have watched him plead with the Fates on behalf of those who have become offerings on the altar of senseless violence. He is their voice, their champion. Through him, the silent have their say, albeit only slight recompense for their lot.
He seeks truth and justice, certainly; but moreover, he seeks answers. For it is in the depths of these many mysteries where he finds his life's meaning, his purpose.
I have witnessed him, like a Phoenix, rise from the ashes of utter devastation to soar above the specter of his brother's past. And I have seen him beseeching Heaven with tortured and tearful 'whys' and 'what-ifs.'
He will never rest until he's found the answers he seeks-but until then, he labors for the countless other victims, for those they have left behind. If he can't have his own resolution, then at least someone else can.
To differ.
To be dissimilar. To fail to agree. To contrast with.
We are different in many ways, yet so much the same. I am the light to his dark, the tender to his tough, the silence to his outspokenness. We temper each other's reactions to situations and steady each other on shaky ground. He provides me with what I lack. I offer him back those things he feels he has lost along the way. He is my rock and my guardian. I am his shelter and his comfort.
One without the other, we would survive, but would be nothing short of ineffectual. Without consciously trying, we have become necessary to each other. I can't help but believe that I could survive on his presence alone, should the need ever arise; air, food and water be damned-Horatio is all the life force I need.
But by some mutually agreed upon unspoken oath, we have not discussed our thoughts or feelings concerning each other. Instead, we move through our days contenting ourselves with a steady supply of furtive glances, feather- light touches and secretive smiles meant only for us. I think by giving voice to our true emotions, by admitting recognition of our visceral connection, we both feel that we would be surrendering too much to chance. We each have control issues, and only in losing control to the other will we ever really gain control of what we have-an unquestionably strong pull toward one another. It's as though I am the steel to his magnet, the tide to his shore. And with that one quietly uttered sentence, I felt the waves break over dry land, caress it, embrace it, preparing the way for things to come.
*****
That afternoon we had been working different facets of the sniper case, Horatio on the ground, placing himself squarely in Harwood's line of fire, and me, trudging up seemingly endless flights of emergency exit stairs toward the sniper's lair.
I couldn't help but worry after Horatio's safety. If any one aspect of our little sting operation went awry, Horatio would be the one to pay the price. All the conditions, all the elements, all the possibilities had to be manipulated to our advantage or Harwood's shooting spree would claim another victim-Horatio-and I could not, would not, let that happen.
I have no doubt that Horatio was worrying about me, just as I was about him. His urgent, almost frantic radio calls to me were more than professional communication in the line of duty.they were his attempt at keeping me close to him, anchoring both of us to security even in the face of potential calamity.
But we had work to do, roles to play. Our mutual worrying would have to take a back seat to the job at hand. We fit neatly into our own little niches within the framework of the case, but neither of us was in anything resembling a 'comfort zone.' There was no comfort zone with Harwood-he was good; we knew it, and worse yet, he knew it too. We had one chance to take him down, no room to fail.
That's how Horatio approaches every part of his life-evaluate all the options from every possible angle, take aim and fire. Do it right the first time, because there are no second chances.
I can't help it; he amazes me. His brain works three steps ahead of everyone else's. He can anticipate the outcome of any word or deed, even before its execution. Therefore, every word out of his mouth is calculated- not in a negative way, just as a precaution against future backlash. As a result, everything he says, everything he does, is deliberate and direct. This doesn't mean, though, that he's incapable of spontaneity or flirtatiousness-he merely watches and waits, picks his moments with precise care, then gives it his all-intensity, sincerity, self-confidence and hope all wrapped up in a few simple words and phrases.
So, as we walked away from a job well done, with the criminal apprehended and innocent lives spared, I expected words of congratulations or of praise. I got those and then some.
He removed his sunglasses, those infernal barriers between his true self and the rest of the world, and graced me with the most fantastic sheepish grin and an honestly relieved, satisfied gleam in his eye.
Asking me if I'd ever considered a transfer to SWAT was flirtatiousness a la Horatio. He meant the question as a compliment of my work and as a way to connect with me on a personal level, assuring himself of my safety and offering me proof of his own. Fortunately, I know "Horatio-Speak," so interpreting his words is usually easy for me. I answered his veiled compliment with a flirty comeback of my own. Then, just when I thought I had bested him, he threw me a curveball. I thought my "I don't look good in all black" comment would have caught him off-guard; that he would smile and we would share a tension-relieving laugh, and that would be the end of it. But no, he didn't miss a beat before he tossed back those fateful words, "I beg to differ."
My heart skipped several beats. My mind whirled in all directions at once. If that had been another place and time, I might have gone completely typical Southern female and been overcome with an attack of the "vapors." But instead, I chose the safe, uncomplicated and let's face it, the cowardly way out. I should have stayed there, face to face with the man I adore and explored the issue, or at least played out the conversation a bit longer. Even as Harwood was lead away, I could have stood off to the side, then approached Horatio again and continued right where we left off. But, true to form for us, we let the moment slip away. I walked away from the situation, from the emotions his words had instantly, irrevocably awakened, and most stupidly of all, away from him.
But in my own defense, I'm not so sure I could have managed a coherent conversation just then anyway. When he wants to, he can throw me for a loop with the greatest of ease, and with that statement, he definitely did throw me. That fact didn't escape him, either.
I could tell he thought I didn't see his wry little grin as I walked away. Oh, but I did. And if he thinks this is where we're going to leave things, I have but one comment.
I beg to differ.
~fin~