Author's Note: The second in a continuing series series of unrelated fics, each focusing on a different member of the team. There is no connection between each fic, other than the general theme of the piece, which is first times. Betaed by both the lovely elmyraemilieand ilovemycsi. Any mistakes you find are my own.
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, CBS does. I'm only playing in their sandbox .
Warning: For implied violence and rape.
You Never Forget- Nick
With a grateful little moan, Claire Darcy drops her purse and jacket on the couch and slips off her shoes. Wiggling her toes, she pads barefoot into her tiny kitchen and liberates a diet Pepsi from the refrigerator.
"One, two…" she doesn't make it to three in her customary count, before a small, warm body is wrapping itself around her ankles. "Hey, sweetie. Did you miss your momma today? Do you want your din-dins?" Reaching down, she picks up the little furry body and gatherers her to her chest. She takes a moment to hug the little cat, before her fingers find their way to sensitive ears, scratching and tickling them, much to its delight. After a couple of minutes, she lowers her little companion to the floor, before setting herself in motion, fetching cat food from the cupboard and putting out fresh food and water. Once that important task has been accomplished, she turns her attention to her own meal and the rest of her after-work chores.
Almost two hours have passed before Claire finally sits down to rest her weary body. After a small meal she had set to work tackling her laundry and the dreaded ironing, and then generally tidying up the apartment. Not that it really needs it. She is a very tidy person. Years spent in foster care and other people's homes have taught her to value her own space and her privacy and she guards them both passionately. She places a very high value on her little apartment. It isn't just a place to live, like so many of the foster homes that she had resided in while she was growing up. No, this is her place, her sanctuary, her home and she treasures it. Turning on the TV, she stretches out on her worn, but comfortable couch, and breathes a sigh of satisfaction for a job well done. No sooner has she settled herself, than another body joins her on the couch. Taking her time, the little cat ponders on the best resting place, before climbing into Claire's lap and with very small amount of fuss, curls up and promptly falls asleep.
After an hour or two of watching the TV, reality shows and home improvements, Claire reluctantly puts her little friend aside and heads into her small bedroom. Reaching for her backpack, she removes her schoolbooks, running a loving hand over the crisp covers and feels a little rush of pride and achievement. She worked hard to be able to afford these new books. She sacrificed her few creature comforts in an effort to be able to have the best, but then, what price could you put on a future? That's what these books represent; her future; her pathway to a better life, a life with value and prospects, and hopefully some meaning.
Settling herself on the bed, she spreads her books around her and begins to work her way through her assignments. She doesn't have class in the morning, in fact, she doesn't have a class until the day after, but she likes to take her time and make sure that she is well prepared. A slight vibration of the bed alerts her to the incoming feline distracter and then she finds herself the focus of some feline fury. Sophie does not take kindly to being abandoned on the couch, nor does she like being ignored. However, ten minutes of belly tickles and baby talk assure her of her place in Claire's affections and she finally settles down, content to watch as her human goes about her business.
A little while later, thirst prompts Claire to make a trip to the kitchen in search of a quick drink and as she passes the refrigerator on her way back to her studies, she comes to a stop. Temptation calls to her from the depths of the salad crisper, where hidden in the back, behind a head of lettuce and some tomatoes, lays a bar of her favourite, Godiva chocolate. She has given up a lot to be able to afford to go back to school, but everyone needs a little something to get them through the day and chocolate is her one indulgence, her secret vice. Deciding to save herself the trouble of a battle of wills with her conscience, and also the inconvenience of another trip to the kitchen, she admits defeat, reaching inside and snagging the enticing candy.
Deciding that she had done enough for the night, she gathers her books together and sets them carefully on her bedside table. Then she sets her alarm and lays out her clothes for the next morning, hanging her waitress uniform on the back of her bedroom door, before settling back down amongst the pillows. Popping a piece of the cool treat into her mouth, she allows it to melt, savouring the taste and sensations that flood her taste buds. It's ecstasy, pure unadulterated ecstasy, but mindful of the pennies and the calories, she rations her pleasure and wraps the remaining chocolate back up, reminding herself to put it back in the refrigerator in the morning. Then with a contented sigh, she turns out the lights and to the sound of mellow purring, drifts off to sleep.
In the course of our lifetime, we meet many people. Most of those that we meet, if we are honest, mean nothing to us. They are strangers, acquaintances, and workmates. Some, if we are lucky, we call friends. Some, by virtue of random chance and genetics, we call family. Others, by choice, we call lover. However, only a very select few really touch our hearts. Sometimes people, unknown to themselves, make us love them or hate them. Sometimes they can shake our world to its very core and we are never the same again.
Some people we can never forget.
Claire Darcy was twenty-two years old, when Nick Stokes first met her. A quiet, somewhat shy young woman, she spent her days working in a local diner, The Bon Appetit, waiting tables, and her nights studying to become a teaching assistant. Dark haired, slightly on the plump side, she was not the kind of girl that Nick usually found himself attracted to. Still, there was something in her brown eyes, a quality of kindness and vulnerability that drew him to her and he found himself wanting to know more about her.
At first glance, her life was unremarkable.
There was nothing unremarkable about her death.
He has been on the Dallas PD for two years now. Two years of relentless, unforgiving frustration as he watches the guilty walk free from court because of technicalities and legal loopholes. This isn't why he joined the force. He wants to put the guilty away and make life better for the innocent in society. He wants to help people. He wants to be out on the streets making a difference, not be a babysitter for some science nerd and their chem kit.
Shifting slightly to relieve the tension in his lower back, Nick tries not to let his displeasure show. After all, the CSI guy is only doing his job, but man, this sucks. He should be out there looking for the person who killed this poor girl, not standing around in her tiny apartment, watching as a CSI pours over her meagre possessions.
The apartment is spotless. Claire Darcy may not have had much, but what she had, she took care of. From the worn second hand sofa, to the homemade drapes that once shielded her from the prying eyes of the world, she obviously took pride in her home and her possessions. Hardy surprising based the rudimentary information that he had on her. She had been brought up in foster care, an environment where privacy and having your own space was considered a luxury. She had been making her own quiet claim on the world, staking out her own little corner, and someone, had taken that from her, as brutally as they had taken her life.
Watching the CSI as he moves diligently around the room, Nick wonderers what hidden meaning he will find in the scattered schoolbooks, and the bloody sheets that lie twisted on the floor. Evidence of the struggle that had taken place mere hours before; a visual reminder of the battle over life and death, a battle that sadly, Claire had lost. The girl's body is gone now, taken away by the coroner and Nick is glad. Glad that he does not have to see again the broken, violated body or the dead eyes that cry out to him for justice.
Looking around, he spots the other victim, who lies unattended on the floor, awaiting removal. Pictures of the second victim are scattered around the tiny room, taking pride of place in the limited space. Claire too, is in those pictures, looking happy and content, her little tortoiseshell cat snuggled close to her chest or curled up on her knees. On the kitchen floor there are two little bowls emblazoned with the name, Sophie. Now she too lies broken on the blood stained floor, another victim of an unfeeling monster.
He feels his throat begin to tighten as he thinks of the final moments of this young woman's life. Beaten and raped, she had lain in her own bed, slowly bleeding to death. The beast who had done this to her, added a final violation, a final act of cruelty to her already painful end. He had taken her beloved Sophie and slit her throat, before throwing her body to the floor. Now she lays, a little lump of sodden fur, thrown away.
Nick feels tears prick at the back of his eyes as he takes in the tiny body. It was only a cat, but to Claire she had obviously been so much more. Was she Claire's only friend, he wondered? He didn't know, but he grieved for her loss too and for the horror of her final moments.
The sounds of the CSI moving from the bedroom to the minuscule kitchen bring him back to the present and he again turns his attention to the man's meticulous inspection of the crime scene. To his eyes, he can see no sign that the killer has left anything of himself behind. There is no evidence of forced entry, nothing that looks out of place and no immediate suspect to question.
A quick poll of the neighbours has turned up no boyfriends or spurned lovers. There seems to be no reason for this ordinary woman to have been the subject of so brutal an attack. With so little to go on, it seems that they will have to rely on the evidence gathered at the scene to find out exactly what happened here and who is responsible for it.
Now babysitting the science nerd doesn't seem to be such a bad thing. He wants to catch the man responsible for the destruction of so innocent a life and he will do anything, use any means to do it. What does it matter if the tool that helps him nail the guy is a DNA match and not a gun? As long as the guilty are made to pay for their crimes and the innocent protected and avenged, he will be happy.
They caught Claire's killer using DNA found on her body. It matched that of a man pulled over on a routine traffic stop a few months after her murder. The arresting officer found drugs in his car and that allowed them to take a DNA sample. The man had no connection to his victim. He had picked Claire's window at random, as he had driven aimlessly through the city. In his mind, someone was going to die that night. It had just been Claire's bad luck that it was her.
That had been the first time he had ever really given criminalistics a thought. He had gone to the cemetery where Claire Darcy had been laid to rest and told her the news.
"We got him, Claire. We got the bastard who did this to you and your Sophie. He won't ever be able to hurt anyone again."
Standing before the modest stone, he again saw brown eyes filled with kindness and the hope of a better tomorrow. He saw bloodstained sheets and the fragile little body of a lonely girl's only friend, carelessly cast so aside. Together they lived, and together they had died.
The rest of the world has forgotten them now. The reporters that clamoured to cover the case and the subsequent trial have all moved on to other things. A new waitress serves the customers at The Bon Appetit and another term has begun in school. The world has turned, the sun still rises, and life carries on, but not for them.
Yet they are not forsaken.
One man remembers them still. Nick Stokes, once a Dallas cop, now a criminalist for Clark County, Nevada, remembers. In that simple act of human kindness and decency, he finds his reason for enduring the horrors of his working life. Some of his fellows try to forget; some distance themselves from the victims and from their own emotions, but not him. Claire Darcy showed him that both the living and the dead have a voice and that he could make that voice heard.
He will not forget.