A/N: I had this idea for a while. The idea that Stella used to dance was very intriguing to me, so I kind of drew a parallel between two dancers on a stage and the happenings in that warehouse-type environment. I hope you can see some of the symbolism. I recently forayed into the CSI:NY fandom, so I expect there to be tons of OOC-ness. This is character death. That not your thing? Leave. Other than that, please enjoy. Edited because it was originally alternating between italics and normal text. But it seems that whenever I upload that kind of formatting from MS Word, it keeps the first paragraph in italics, and everything else is changed to normal. Odd, eh?
The lights are dim on the stage, barely lit. A form is barely visible on the stage. It is a dancer, dressed in black and scarlet, caught in an opening pose. Her eyes are closed, waiting for the music. It almost resembles death in its ethereal, untouched beauty. The opening notes are slow and unsteady, trying to get a foothold on beautiful melodies and harmonies. Her skin is ivory, pale, completely contrasting the opaque darkness of her eyes. She rises and begins to move. No one makes a sound.
They look at each other, eyes checking, searching. There's no security, no stability. There's no guarantee. The men in black surround them, waiting. A slight nod of the head, and they burst into the building, to complete and utter darkness. Silence is absolutely key. They can't get caught. Not now. The men in black are dispersing. They're still caught in complete darkness. She takes a deep breath to calm herself. They'll be fine. They'll get through this. But she's having a hard time convincing herself that this is just routine. Something will happen.
She moves fluidly, flexing and relaxing each muscle. She's done this so many times, she dreamt the routine. She hops onto her toes, and poses, arms arched above her head. She falls into a cartwheel, and does a pirouette. Everyone releases a breath, and there is muted applause. Don't disturb her. Mustn't disturb her. She closes her eyes as she goes flat against the floor. All she hears are the camera flashes.
It's like poker, she thinks. If you've got nothing, you have to pretend like you have it all. Draw from the environment. Like now. They have no real reason to book this guy. But they will. Once they catch him. And then, they'll threaten him with empty threats and with DNA tests that haven't been finished. They usually cave. They usually give in. And the good guys win. Usually. She suddenly feels claustrophobic, and she clenches her hands around the gun. Weapons should make her feel secure. They only make her feel vulnerable.
The high, frenzied sounds of the violin start up when she does again. There is another round of applause. She smiles, a fake smile. You have to be happy to convince others you're happy too. You have to settle. She does an arabesque, and allows her tired body and weary soul to follow the music, to follow patterns. The lights gradually glow from gray to somber blue and finally rest at restless violet. It's foreshadowing. It's always foreshadowing. The violins start playing a single note. She can hear only anxiety.
She hears a noise. There should be no disruption to the silence. She cocks her gun, and quickly contorts her body. And she's face-to-face with him. He's smiling at her, a malicious smile, a gun pointed at her. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and he still smiles at her. The darkness obscures his face, and all she can see are those eyes. Those piercing eyes of his, darker than oblivion, that seem to stare down his soul. "Hi, Detective," he whispers. He fires before she has time to gasp, time to react.
She stumbles, purposefully, of course. There's nothing to wound an ego than imperfection. The violins stop, and the low brass take over. This is the second act of the routine. This is a dirge. The audience leans forward in their seat collectively, inhaling a breath. They're enraptured. Art imitates life. After all, what enraptures more than tales of death? She reaches for the fabric tucked within her costume. She pulls out the brilliant plume of color, and there are sounds of surprised gasps. She continues, the scarlet fabric moving along with her.
She feels heat, white heat, near her heart that's still pounding at light speed. Her legs fail to support her and she falls, collapses on them. She groans with pain, and shifts them out from beneath her. Her fingers instinctively reach towards it, and she can feel it. The warm sticky substance that she's analyzed so many times. She brings it up in front of her eyes. She can't see it. Maybe if she can't see it, it's not real. She tries to breathe. They're only shallow breaths that satisfy nothing. She can sense figures moving. Someone kneels beside her. Her eyes are slowly going insane, getting lost in the chaos. They flutter open, then closed. She wants them to make up their mind. Maybe she's slowly losing her mind.
Another dancer emerges from the opposite side of the stage. He grasps her forearm, and lifts her to her feet. They perform stunning gymnastics together. It's so poetic, they think. How could they know that she secretly wants to kill him? He grabs her waist securely, and flips her over. She sinks down into a split. There are sounds of awe.
His hands are suddenly pressing against her with a fervent urgency that she's never felt from him. A small smile decorates her face. She can hear him calling for help, and his eyes. So afraid. There's so much fear in his eyes. She clutches his arm. He doesn't say anything, just looks at her. He keeps looking at her with that fear. That's when she truly starts to wonder if she'll survive.
He pulls her up again, and slides her legs in between his. He's still supporting her. She's on a diagonal. Her arm is in pain, magnificent pain, and she wonders if it'll ever go away. But she smiles, because she's supposed to. Dancing is supposed to be poetry. It's supposed to be vivid and pretty, sometimes sad. But there's never supposed to be any transfusion of pain between the writers and the readers. It's all solitary. The curtains slowly begin to close, and the applause begins to fade away.
He's pressing as hard as he can without hurting her, but she still looks weak. So utterly weak, and pale. She's smiling as he's trying to hold back tears. She's still smiling when she dies. The smile is still there as the late ambulance arrives. They don't speak as she smiles at him. Her hair is matted against her head. They begin to zip up the bag. He can't touch her. He can't do anything. Cross-contamination. But he doesn't care. All he can feel is her blood on his hands. All he can see is her smile. All he can hear is Ground Zero.