Title: Found
Chapter 2
Spoilers: "Lost Son"
Warnings: Slash, and well, Tim's a ghost. Also, references to Timmy's demise.
Author's Notes: Yep, still in a weird mood.
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I stand in the doorway of the locker room, staring at the now-empty hallway Eric just disappeared down.
There's no door separating me from that same hallway, but still, I'm standing here like a coward. What am I afraid of? That I might be stuck in the locker room? So what if I am? What? At least I'm here.
On the other hand, if I can get out of the locker room, I can explore, and maybe figure out what's going on.
Letting out a breath, I shrug and take a step forward.
Into the hallway.
Cool. So I'm not stuck in the locker room.
Letting out a breath, I amble down the hall toward the trace lab. Since Eric and Calleigh were heading home, I'm guessing it's time for the graveyard shift . . . the graveyard shift. Cute.
Actually, the fact that I'm stuck haunting CSI headquarters has to be some kind of afterlife commentary on my tendency to work too much. I'm really very amused.
When I finally reach trace, I stand outside and peer into my old stomping grounds at Brett, the nighttime trace "expert." Hack is more like it. We were always having to redo his work on my shift.
I watch with interest as Brett leans against the counter and chats up Maren, the night shift's resident queen of DNA. Actually, she's really good. H has been trying to get her on day shift for years.
H.
Hmm . . . If there's one thing I learned during my life, it's that no matter how long I hung around here, H still left after I did.
Forgetting about Brett, Maren, and their romantic escapades, I wander toward H's office. The door is closed, but sure enough, his light's still on.
When I was alive, I used to wonder what H did in here late at night. I mean, a guy can only have so much paperwork. So I'm thinking maybe I could just go in and sit unobtrusively in the corner. Besides, it would be nice to just hang out with him for a while.
I'm about to walk into the office when I remember the door. Damn. Okay, it's just a door. Then again, I seem to remember something about Patrick Swayze being freaked out by the door because it was so thick. But it's a door. I put my hand through a locker door. Besides, I'm a scientist. When scientist encounters a problem, they experiment until they find a solution. They take risks, plunge into the unknown.
Then again, the last time I took a risk, I wound up bleeding to death on the floor of a jewelry store.
Shutting my eyes tight, I remember walking into the store. I remember seeing a guy hiding under a table. I remember pulling my gun. Then it's all a jumbled mess until I hear H talking to me, soothing me, trying to will me into the world of the living. But I just couldn't fight it. It all happened so fast.
I died, and H was with me.
Taking a breath, I walk straight toward the door, and suddenly, I'm on the other side. Well, that was easy. I didn't feel a thing. Clearly, the movie exaggerated a bit.
H is behind his desk, leaning bonelessly back in his chair. My God. He looks so alone.
Walking around H's desk until I'm behind him, I gaze over his shoulder. He's thumbing through a photo album—a scrapbook, really—with lots of pictures of his brother Raymond, his nephew, and Yelina. There are also pictures of a few people I don't recognize. Hmm . . . H and a woman. And they look happy.
Just then, the door to H's office swings open, and I jump slightly. I'm ghost, and still, I jump.
"Hey, H." It's Frank Tripp.
"Hi Frank," I say exuberantly, "Hey, did you come to my funeral?"
"Hi, Frank," H says. He's trying to sound cheerful, but he's failing miserably. I wonder if H is always like this when no one is around.
Frank points over his shoulder. "You about ready to get out of here?"
H flashes a thin smile. "Actually, Frank, I think I'll hang around here."
"I just ran into Delko in the parking lot," Frank says, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Asked him if he wanted to get a beer, but he took off like a shot. H, I hate drinking alone. It's either you, or I have to go home to my wife."
Cocking his head at Frank, H nods dutifully. "Give me a minute, Frank."
Absentmindedly rapping the doorframe with his knuckles, Frank says, "I'll be by the front desk."
H watches the door swing closed. Shaking his head, he reaches into his desk, pulls out a handful of newspaper clippings, and then opens the scrapbook to an empty page.
When I lean closer to get a better look, I feel my breath hitch.
It's me.
The clippings are about me.
Squinting, I read the headlines: "Officer Killed in the Line of Duty;" "Tragic Loss for Miami Law Enforcement;" "One Son Found, Another Lost"
Staggering backward, I pick up the nearest object—a pen—and I hurtle it toward the wall, all my fear and anguish and rage pouring out.
When the pen lands with a thud against a window, both H and I look up, startled.
H narrows his eyes and glances around the room. After a moment, he raises his eyebrows, and then returns to the clippings.
While H works on his scrapbook, I slowly walk toward the pen. Squatting beside it, I gingerly reach down and try to pick it up again. But no matter how much I try, my fingers just go through it. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Standing up, I turn to H. "Hey, H," I say, my voice shaking slightly, "I don't suppose you can hear me."
H doesn't answer. Instead, he lets out a breath and stands up. Opening the top drawer of his desk, he gently places the scrapbook inside.
"Well, Speed," he says as he opens the door to his office, "That's another day."
"H," I choke, "Don't leave me here alone."
As H steps out of his office and closes the door, my knees give in and I collapse onto the hard surface. "H," I say again, "Don't leave me here alone."
