4.
"Lost in your thoughts again, consciously you think of me
Focus your perfect words with a pen you write me in
I can't be reached, so far from here, I need you near."
"The blood on the napkin dispenser doesn't match the blood at the scene," Sid revealed tightly to Danny, trying to keep his cool. "The napkin dispenser blood matched Blackwell's, and it was Stella's blood on his hands. The blood at the scene is male."
"Have you told Mac yet?"
Sid closed his eyes. "I can't find him. Even if I could, how am I supposed to look at him?" he sighed, defeated. "All I can see is agony in his eyes."
Through his fury, Danny found a way to smile sadly. "He loves her. It's tearin' him apart, knowin' she's hurt. Knowin' she's shot."
Sid looked away. "Thinking she's dead," he added bitterly.
Stella dreamed of bats. Well, not at first. The dream started out happily—she had shown up at the office like a normal day. They'd checked out a few bodies, and by the end of the day, slain a few bad guys. Just as she had walked home, the warm summer breeze perfuming her curls, and laid down peacefully in bed, the bats had swarmed into her room, awakening her from her slumber.
When she opened her mouth, a scream leaked out, but then a hand silenced her and held her to the ground. "Pretend to sleep," Seth's calm voice demanded in her ear. "Trust me, please."
And then he was gone, back to his place presumably.
The basement door flew open, and the bats were gone. "Did you get your present?" came Isaac's voice, a drunken roar that shattered the calm essence of the night. He navigated down the stairs quickly, which admittedly impressed Stella. He kicked something off the floor—there was the bat noise—and it hit the ground again, sliding a few inches.
A notebook, she deduced. The pages had sounded like a bat's wings when they rippled through the air.
Taking no heed to the fact that Stella was "sleeping," he stumbled loudly next to the boy. There was a shockingly loud smash—so loud that Stella nearly cried out again—and Seth groaned painfully. Isaac laughed and moved again, the glass crunching beneath his feet. The air smelled of alcohol and blood.
Had he smashed the bottle over his son's head?
Rage flooded Stella in a sea of red, but she focused on keeping her breathing steady. Think it through. Don't screw it up now, this is your chance. He's off-guard.
"Lookit that," he laughed again over the sound of his son's choked breaths. "Looks like your pencils won't save you here!" There was the sound of light tink-tink-tinks, what Stella assumed to be pencils dropping to the floor as he overturned a bucket of some sort. "But that cop girl, she could get you out of here. If she wanted to. But she just loves me too much!" he cackled wildly. "She'll be mine eventually, you know. She will! You just wait, I told you so, I tooooo—"
In one fluid motion, Stella flew to her feet, throwing a blind punch into the darkness. Seth staggered out of the way, a hand pressed to the top of his head.
The drunken monster fought back with frightening expertise while intoxicated. Stella shouted for Seth to run to the door, to break it down, to do anything at all, but his body didn't move from the place it lay on the concrete.
"Think you can get away from me, huh?"
Stella noticed he was cleanly shaved now with dark stubble growing back. His beard must've been dyed white. Maybe it had been fake.
A knife was pressed to her neck now, cold and angry. "You can't get away from me," he breathed heavily, almost laughing. "It can't happen. Not in your memories, anyway."
A shove. The ground. Then: nothing.
"So," Flack began, stepping into the interrogation room, "are you going to tell me what happened, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?" He stepped forward to lean against the back of the chair. "Either would be great, but I'd probably have more fun with the second.
This was why Flack loved the detective life—it was a full-course meal that he ate everyday. The appetizer was the adrenaline in his blood as he chased the killer. The main course was doing what he was doing now—verbally beating the shit out of men twice his width and nearly a foot taller than him—with a side of blood and sometimes frustration. The dessert was the most satisfying feeling one could ever possess; success in the name of justice.
But now the food had gone sour, replaced with nothing but a tornado of absolute rage and an emotionally distraught, pissed off Flack.
Orvan Blackwell sat back in his chair across from the Detective, his arms crossed smugly over his chest. He hadn't demanded a lawyer yet, but he hadn't spoken a word. The pleasure he had with himself was tangible, and Flack was centimeters away from gathering into a ball, lighting it on fire, and forcing it down the man's throat mercilessly.
"You're a bartender there, hm? Your blood was found on the napkin dispenser, so don't try to screw with me there. Stella's blood was found on your gloves."
Blackwell didn't move.
Motive, Flack thought. What could motivate someone to want to hurt Stella.
He sighed when he realized he didn't have an answer for that.
He looked Blackwell up and down—he must've been two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. Tan, tall, massive. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
"How old are you, Dragonboy? Do you mind if I call you that—Dragonboy? You just kind of remind me of one. Large. Lethal. Easily slain by men less than half their size." He leaned in closer. "That'd be me in the metaphor," he whispered acidly. "Tell me your age or you'll regret it."
Though in any other situation he'd be terrified of this man, Flack was surprisingly unafraid. His anger was flooding over, spilling into every other emotion.
That was when he lost control.
The chair in his hands took flight and flipped in the air, hitting the wall and chipping the paint. He leant over the table, his voice potent with fury.
"God dammit, you had better open your mouth and start telling me what the fuck you know or you're going to regret ever setting foot in that bar and ever even looking at Stella Bonasera! I'll kick your ass myself. You're done! Open your mouth, and fucking tell me what I want to know! That's a cop out there! If we have to beat information out of you, your life is going to become so much more miserable than it needs to be!"
When he stopped, he was panting, his lungs trying to catch up but his heart not allowing it. This man knew what had happened to Stella. He knew.
And he wasn't talking.
Flack gritted his teeth.
"She's prob'ly dead by now, jus' sayin'," Blackwell shrugged his shoulders. "Tha's what he planned, anyways."
Donald Flack exploded.
Letting out a cry of anger, he threw himself at the suspect, punches flying like darts through the air. The man easily threw him off with a slight grunt and rose to his feet, kicking Flack as he tried to get up off the floor.
Drawing in a breath, Flack rolled and jumped up, getting Orvan in the cheek from behind. Aggravated, the giant turned and socked Flack in the jaw and then the stomach again. Flack fell to his knees. Stella is counting on you. Stella is captured somewhere, being tortured, or hurt, or bleeding. Dead. And you can't get the only person who knows shit to talk. You try to fight him, jeopardizing your position in the case. And you can't even win.
And in a flash, he was on his feet again. The pain was nothing, and his clenched fists spoke for him. He didn't look up as he screamed, delirious. "Where the fuck is she?" he shouted uncharacteristically, his teeth tight though his jawbone disliked it. Incomprehensible babble sputtered from his lips. Orvan hadn't let up on hitting, either, but Flack was in such a hysterical state that he couldn't understand anything anymore.
Mac burst through the door, launching himself between the two. Danny and Hawkes trailed quickly, the two of them restraining Blackwell. Mac tried to calm Flack down, but his fellow CSI only sank to his knees and began to cry, softly at first, gradually building up to a bawl.
Somewhere inside, beneath the rage and strong exterior, Flack knew Stella was dead. He was positive. He'd heard the gunshot. He'd heard her scream instantly cut off through the phone. He'd seen her blood on a man's hands.
"She's dead," he choked out brokenly, shaking his head. "She's dead. The son of a bitch killed her already. And I couldn't do a thing."
Mac froze where he'd been rubbing the other man's back and rose to his feet.
Danny and Hawkes were unable to process the expression on Mac's face—it was one he'd never had before. Confusion. Torturous pain. Revenge. But mostly, like he was slowly but surely losing all traces of life remaining inside him.
Without another look to anyone, Mac turned and walked briskly out of the room, speeding up as Danny called to him, following him out the door. "Mac!" he called. "Mac, we don't know that she's dead!"
Blackwell was led out of the room, and Danny turned to see Hawkes helping Flack to his feet. Though he could tell Flack was embarrassed, Danny knew nobody would judge him for it. He'd known Stella the longest, aside from Mac. He cared for Stella. His exterior had been chipped away, leaving him vulnerable.
Danny stood idly. His team was falling apart around him. Now he felt heavy—if Stella was dead, where did they go now? What was supposed to happen?
But she wasn't dead. No matter what, he couldn't believe that. Stella didn't just die without warning.
Turning back into the room, he eyed Flack. "She's alive," he said simply. Two words that kept him going.
When he pivoted, he headed back to the evidence room. He wouldn't sleep tonight.
It made Seth bitter to realize that his creativity would always remain, even if his eyesight didn't.
The thoughts, the ideas, the artistic ability he possessed would never leave him. Without vision, he was a useless artist. But now, as he squinted at his sketchpad, he hoped it looked okay. While he was sure she was passed out, he'd felt the contours of her face—memorized how she must look, surveyed her curls. That was all he needed.
She'd been an easy draw—a sketch so simple, but hopefully beautiful. He drew her lying down, only much more comfortable than she must be—a feathery down pillow rested beneath her head and her eyes were open, a pleasant but knowing smile across her lips. The multiple blankets draped over her fell limply at her neck. The bruises and blood spattered across her was eliminated in the drawing. She looked happy.
That was when she stirred. Seth's pencil stopped.
She moved her legs first, and winced as she did it.
My eyes caught something discernible from the black blanket—a flash of tanned skin emerging from beneath it. As she shifted more, he discovered that both her calves were bare.
Next to her feet, there was a blob of dark blue.
Her jeans.
Something had happened after he'd been bashed on the head with the bottle.
When he looked back at her, she was grimacing. "What's up?" she asked, trying to sit up dizzily.
It didn't take her long to make the connection.
"I..." she closed her eyes and shook her head. "S-Seth?"
"Stella, what happened?"
She opened her mouth before she spoke. "I... I don't know," she forced out. "He pushed me to the floor and I blacked out, and then..." tears spilled from her eyes.
"That son of a bitch," Seth growled. "That sorry son of a bitch."
I realize this is the second of two serious CSI: NY stories of mine that involve sexual assault on Stella. I know it's an overused plotline, but I really like to see/create how Mac helps her through this, which is what I'm trying to create here.
So I'm sorry if anyone finds it offensive.
Songcred: "Sleep" OneRepublic.
Btws; I know Flack was wikkkid OOC, but then again we never see him like this. Or at least I haven't. Sorry about that.
I really hate how this chapter turned out.