Notes: Same structure as before. No real spoilers that I can think of. Once again, a special thanks to Crimelab.nl and to my beta. Without either, I could not have been able to write this fic. Thank you, Olly, for all your hard work. As always, reviews are love. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me.
Castaway Dreams
Section Four: Death
By Duckie Nicks
"Tolstoy said that happiness is what gets families together. I think what really connects human beings is what makes us miserable." -- Alejandro González Iñárritu
Horatio
The gun shakes in the man's hands, and Horatio recognizes, understands, the look of desperation and despair in Ethan's eyes. It's a look that is, the redhead thinks, mirrored in his own blue eyes.
"You don't know what it's like to lose everything."
But the lieutenant knows differently – knows that by standing in front of an armed man with no way out, he is willingly walking towards death. Horatio is not someone with anything left to lose. Other than the last remaining veneer of life.
"Ethan…" He stops momentarily, his voice laced with the unbearable sadness that has cloyed at him for months. "Ethan, I do. I've lost everything."
There is no lie in that, unfortunately, and the man understands that Horatio isn't exaggerating, and the gunman is arrested. The situation is resolved neatly, the kind of unmemorable case that passes through the CSI labs every day. But this does not leave Horatio's mind easily. The never before uttered truth doesn't go away, doesn't disappear into the recesses of the redhead's mind, and at the end of the day, Horatio is unable to let it go.
He had let his guard down, the lieutenant thinks later. And now, having been given a tiny taste of truth, having allowed the world to ever so briefly see his face – to see him, Horatio finds that he cannot keep up appearances. He cannot deny what he knows to be true in his heart: he has lost everything.
His family tree is splintered, dying, almost gone, and a mental list of relatives seems to be etched in blood. Mother, brother, and wife all murdered out of the same senseless violence he has fought against for three decades to no avail. His ability to lose has been seemingly endless; each time he thinks he's reached a new low, someone else he loves has died. And similarly, every time Horatio believes he has exacted justice, something else goes terribly wrong.
It had happened in New York, Miami, and Rio too. His mind narrowed onto the goal of finding the murderers, bringing them to justice, and that was supposed to make things better. But life has rarely modeled itself after his plans. Even when he'd had his revenge, even when he'd achieved what he set out to do, the world hadn't magically righted itself. In the end, Horatio was – is – still the man without a mother, brother, or wife. And he's concluded, finally, that maybe he's not the right warrior for this task; after all, his own father was… murdered. By him.
Horatio is surrounded by death, by the never-ending blood pool that threatens to drown him. And the redhead is more than aware that he's not alone in this last part. The two family members he has left are bound to the same fate as he, and though alive, they don't seem to be much better off.
Yelina is different – he fears irreparably so. Since his trip to Brazil, the brother-in-law has noticed that she is quieter, colder. Her normally verdant eyes have dulled, never seemingly in the moment. Even when he stands mere feet away from her, Horatio feels as though she is still in Brazil. He knows something is wrong, can tell in the way she doesn't like to make eye contact anymore, but she tells him nothing.
It makes him uncomfortable to know that she is keeping something from him. A year has passed, but that time apart has whittled away at their friendship, their bond. Yelina holds the cards close to her chest now, refuses to let him in, and though the truth seems to be just beneath the surface, he can't put his finger on it. The answer remains elusive.
And just as Yelina has slipped away from him, so too seems the fortune for his nephew. Ray Junior is falling into the same madness that killed his namesake. What was supposed to be a happy ending for his brother and family has quickly devolved into chaos. Horatio likes to fix things, but this, he has accepted, may be beyond his control.
Control is, he's decided, all but gone from him now. The lieutenant had once believed that science coupled with guilt had rooted him, had made him, in the end, sharper. Better. But maybe that was never the case. Perhaps it had all been a lie to keep him going, to help him avoid the one truth he has come to know: it's all his fault.
Because, as he knows that patterns exist even in chaos, that nothing is truly random, the only link he can find in the disarray and destruction is himself. Horatio isn't so selfish as to believe he is the sole cause of their shared misery; of course, his family has had a hand in it too. But without a doubt, he knows he could have done something: come home sooner to save his mother, fought harder to protect his little brother, never let his sister-in-law and nephew out of his sight, pushed Marisol away.
He could have done more, done something to save his family. And so… he really has lost everything, he believes. But worse than that, Horatio finally understands – he never deserved to have them in his life in the first place.
Calleigh
No one says anything, but the confused look every CSI in the building has adorned says it all. The people who don't know her at all whisper when she's not in sight that they knew all along nobody could be that chipper. The ones who know her keep quiet, understand that this is more than John. This is three decades of trying to outrun the simple reality: she can't fix everything.
Calleigh took some time off, had removed her name from the on-call board, thinking that it would help. And Horatio had given her a small smile then. He didn't push or pry. The redhead didn't insist she see the shrink. She told him she needed a break, and his lips had turned up, his blue eyes bright and sad in understanding.
She'd been grateful then – that he hadn't forced her to… do anything. Her boss had given her space, and when she'd left his office, Calleigh had felt relieved. She could – and would – handle this her own way. She would heal herself. But now, she's not so sure that's what has happened.
In childhood, the blonde absolutely believed her actions had an effect on her friends and family. If she behaved, then maybe they would too. Maybe things would be normal. And perhaps, she realizes now, she had never really grown out of that until Hagen had pulled the trigger.
The suicide, Calleigh has accepted, was the final blow to an already dying system.
And the question becomes: what now? What does she do? What does she believe? Her body feels unbearably light; everybody else's burdens are finally lifted off her shoulders.
She'd taken the time off to heal, but she feels more horribly fractured and broken than before. The ballistics expert would rather her melancholy be the result of losing John, but this sadness comes from a deeper wound.
Even after she returns to work, things are… not right. And that too she wishes she could blame on the outside world. But the change is within her, one that will not fix itself.
She spends her time solving crimes and trying to give answers to the victims' families, but one question refuses to be answered, plays on endless repeat.
What now?
Speedle
Clouds, misty and gray, stretch threateningly over Miami. Bright flashes of blue and red burst from the lights on each car surrounding the hearse. And while everyone else is inside, hiding from the oppressive storm, it seems like every police officer in Miami-Dade remains out, their uniforms and black clothes heavy with rain.
Alexx, Calleigh, Horatio, Eric, Yelina, and even Stetler. All there but one. Except the colleague whose body is entombed in dark mahogany and an American flag. The team stands there shoulder to shoulder, but words go unsaid – even when the funeral ends. They dare not look away from the casket, even as the ground swallows it whole.
They are here, and maybe in a way, they understand, he is too – but each has come to accept Tim is gone. Their team is broken, missing a link. And each friend, each unspoken family member feels the loss keenly.
No one has the nerve to cry.
Their eyes are heavy with tears, but they dare not fall. It's a sentiment discouraged by the police force and one Speed wouldn't have wanted. The rain falls in an arrhythmic chaos for them, washing the city clean.
The casket reaches the bottom of the grave, and what once was is forever gone. And without that link in the chain, everyone's place feels off. Speed is dead, buried. His team changed forever, has morphed so much that to one another they are mere strangers.
But they do not cry; the tears do not fall.
Yelina
Her feet pad down the hallway, only briefly pausing at her son's open bedroom. Ray Junior's still out, she realizes, and mindlessly, Yelina starts to walk again, heading towards the kitchen.
Normally, her son's absence would cause more of a stir. But very little in the past few months could be considered routine – especially when it came to her son. He was angry with her and every so often, afraid of losing her. It was an awful combination of emotions (as if dealing with a teenager wasn't difficult enough). Some days, they'd go through the motions of arguing, and others, the house would be filled with a palpable silence. The only constant was that on any given day, Yelina wasn't sure what she'd encounter.
Other than the inescapable knowledge that her home was – is – torn apart.
Last night had been one of those nights she'd had to desperately pray that the cops wouldn't come. They'd yelled and screamed and fought over every last detail of his childhood until he bolted out the door.
She didn't chase after him. Didn't call the police. The mother hadn't done anything at all. Because the curly-haired woman knew in her heart something that eventually anyone would see: nothing she'd done up to this point had had its intended effect. She had tried to be a good mother, but in the end, what had it gotten her?
Nothing. No love or loyalty. Not even the slightest hint of compassion.
Yelina had tried to let him grow up, had tried to set him free to avoid being the kind of mother she hated. And when her sweet boy so willingly began to throw his innocence away, she had tried to cling onto those small reminders of childhood, had tried to save him.
But all of her actions had been futile. Pointless – unless to direct her to some greater truth she had never wanted to see: she is a bad mother.
Within three days, when she wakes up in the sticky warmth of blood, it's a conclusion she can no longer ignore. She is a horrible mother, a failure – the crimson on her hands inescapable proof. She is a bad mother – a statement she knows to be true with every fiber of her being. A parent of two souls seemingly lost, if for different reasons, permanently.
And Yelina doesn't know what she should have done differently. Her mind races for an answer, for a reason. Was it working when Ray was little? That extra cup of coffee she'd had last week?
She needs an answer, something to silence the loud WHY coming from within. Because at least if she did something wrong, there is hope in making sense of this. At least then, she can focus, fixate, obsess over that mistake for the rest of her life.
Yet for all her wondering, she has no silver bullet to her question. Her babies, her husband… they have all deserted her. Her family has fractured, crumpled around her feet, and she cannot understand why. There are no answers, and Yelina fears that there isn't any logical reason for any of it.
And that terrifies her – to have no protection against the darkness that surrounds her. She is on the edge of a cliff, she thinks, with not even luck on her side. Without anyone to guide her back.
Eric
Revenge is supposed to be sweet, Eric thinks, but this leaves him feeling cold. There should be some relief in kicking a man's head – he should feel something. Even guilt or remorse would work. But at the end of the day, he feels empty.
The headstrong CSI had wanted this trip to Brazil to bring him closure or at least… the knowledge that justice had been done. Perhaps he accepts that that has happened: a murderer is dead, has been brutally, but fairly, taken out.
Riaz is gone, but, as Eric sits on the plane next to a silent Horatio, the younger man wonders if any good has come from this trip. Marisol is still dead, and nothing can change or will change that.
Leaning back in his seat, he closes his eyes and wonders: would Mari have wanted this?
And it's odd, Eric thinks, that this is the first time the question has popped into his head. Since the phone call, his thoughts have been caught in a whirl of emotions, his mind never relaxing for more than a minute.
Until now, he's been so focused on revenge that Eric has barely had the time to think about her. And it's that unwanted realization, which helps him decide: No. This isn't what Marisol would have wanted her husband and brother to do. She'd never said it, but the young woman had already hated the fact that her brother had to break the law in order for her to fight the cancer.
And this – what they've done – is far worse than drug possession. For the first time since this whole thing began, the dark-haired man thinks that maybe it would have been better to let the legal system, which he had always cherished being a part of, handle Riaz. Perhaps he should have stayed off his sister's case entirely.
The youngest Delko opens his eyes. The coal orbs slide over once more to his brother-in-law (former brother-in-law? he wonders), whose own icy eyes remain fixed on his hands. Eric says nothing, but he's beginning to think that Horatio has come to the same conclusion.
They shouldn't have done this.
But out of the corner of his eyes, Eric sees the briefest of glints. The sunshine is beating down on the airplane, the light bouncing off the wing brightly, and the emptiness Eric has been feeling seems to widen, deepen into a cavern of unbearable guilt.
He stares at the way the bluish-white light reflects and refracts into a blinding flash. It's identical, he thinks, to the one he saw that day. And he screws his eyes shut once more, not wanting to face the truth.
If he had been doing what he should have been doing, Eric would have known the flash was sunlight hitting gun metal. Had he not been so concerned with unbalanced Gloria and his usual lady drama, he could have saved her.
But his head was so far up his ass… he had shirked his duties. After all, hadn't his whole approval of Horatio and Marisol's relationship come from the desire to not take care of her? And this obsessive need to care for her – that had been born solely out of his inexcusable childhood hatred of his own sister.
Eric thinks that he's finally gotten what he wanted when he was a kid. He is, after all these years, the Mari-free, gun-toting cop, but it's meaningless. Decades of hard work, but he feels like he's achieved nothing at all.
Alexx
Four more sick days used. That's three more than she has ever taken, but… it's not enough. And without an end in sight, Alexx isn't sure what will be enough. The ME doesn't know when she'll feel the pull to go back to work.
It's funny to her – that what started out as a job she considered beneath her abilities became her passion. She's not sure when it went from just a job to something else. And it feels oddly appropriate that her career as a medical examiner has been seemingly book-ended with death.
She can't forget – will never forget – those two life-altering cases, the most recent only days old. Alexx was young with the first. Young but a dedicated resident, nonetheless, and being from a family where she usually took charge, she had no clue that anyone might see her as an insufferable know-it-all. Perhaps opinionated, she'd conceded then, but apparently the doctors in charge had felt that it was more than spunk.
And it had been hard to hear that, but she wanted to help people – wanted to be a doctor and so she kept her glossless lips shut when she saw the mistake in the chart. The error that ended her career with living patients. The problem blamed on her, all resulting in death.
Alexx hadn't wanted to be an ME then, and a decade later, she's back to square one. With no resolution in sight. And she begins to wonder if it was ever worth it. If she'd ever helped anyone at all.
End 4/5