Chapter 9, where we begin to understand Cassidy, where she starts to unknowingly open up to Spike.
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I don't own Flashpoint
I also don't own the Italian song, Farfallina, or Butterfly, as is translated into English. I'll put the English lyrics at the end, but Spike simply sings them in Italian.
Praying this isn't New York Cheesecake…
Spike strode into the SRU building, glancing around to see if Cassidy was there. She'd been avoiding him for the last three weeks. To tell the truth, he'd been avoiding her, too. He wasn't stupid, despite Lew's joking. He could tell that he was getting too close for her comfort, too close to knowing who she was.
"Spike." Greg leaned against the counter, looking concerned.
"Yeah Sarge?" Spike stopped his mad dash for the weight room and turned his attention to his boss.
"Have you heard anything from Cassidy?"
Spike raised his eyebrows. "Um, no. Why?"
Greg shook his head. "She was supposed to be in at 6 this morning for her evaluation, just to see how she's settling into the job. But it's," he checked his watch. "8:15 now, and she's still not in. She hasn't called or anything. And that's not like her."
Greg was right. In the short time he'd known her, one thing was incredibly obvious to Spike. She was serious about her job, really serious. There was no way she'd purposely miss a meeting with Greg unless something was wrong.
"I want you to go check it out. You know where she lives, right?"
Spike nodded. "I've driven her around a couple times."
"Good. Go see if she's ok."
Spike winced at the thought of having to show up at her door and check on her, but he also couldn't exactly refuse Greg, since he'd then have to explain what was going on between them.
He wrestled with how exactly he was going to talk to her when he got there, without her chasing him off with a metaphorical shotgun.
He was so the wrong person for this.
This thought resonated with the Italian as he stood at her white front door, trying to build up the courage to knock. He finally sighed and simply rang the doorbell.
"Go away!" he heard her shout. He noticed that her words were slurring, not as sharp as they normally were. She sounded...
'What the heck?' he thought. 'Who gets drunk at quarter to 9 in the morning?'
"Cassidy?" he called tentatively. "It's Spike. Are you ok?"
He heard a low curse and the clinking of bottles. He ran his hand through his thick blonde hair and sighed. How had Greg figured this would be a good idea?
"Cass?" He said gently, but loud enough so that she could hear."Can you open the door?"
There was no answer.
Spike was getting worried, now. What if she had passed out in a state of overdose? Or had hit her head on the counter while stumbling around? Assuming she was drunk, of course. Which seemed pretty obvious at this point.
He glanced at her door. Typical older lock, which made him smirk. People never took into account that anyone with a little know-how could break into these things. As long as she didn't dead bolt her door or anything…
He returned with a hammer from the toolkit that he always kept in the back of his car. 'Sorry about this,' he thought. 'I'll buy you a new lock.'
He smacked it down on the old brass knob, which popped off easily. Then he removed the rest of the mechanism and swung the door open.
Spike slowly peered around the corner of her entrance. What he saw made him sick.
Cassidy was passed out on the couch, snoring off what he assumed was a bad hangover. At least a half pack of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and a whole bunch of tequila had been consumed. She looked pale, neglected, and downright drunk. The smell of liquor in the room was overwhelming.
But beyond the alcohol and the passed out woman, Spike saw something else. She had her arms wrapped around a little teddy bear. It was ratty, and one of the ears was missing, but she clung to it. As if she would never let go.
Since when did the tough little cop sleep with a teddy bear?
A large box in the corner caught Spike's eye. He glanced over at Cassidy, and content that she was completely passed out, stepped over to it. He lifted the flaps, not exactly sure what to expect.
He definitely wasn't expecting to find a miniature Brett Lawrie Blue Jays' jersey.
Nor was he expecting to find a small baseball glove, or a picture of Cassidy and the little boy at a baseball game. Cole was in it, and was holding up a baseball with a huge smile, while Cassidy beamed behind him.
More pictures. Of birthdays and Little League Baseball Games, of Christmastime and carnivals. Hundreds of pictures. A couple small sweaters, and a pair of matching Dallas Cowboys' hats.
Spike reached down to the bottom of the box, seeing if there was anything under the toys and baseball cards that occupied the rest of the space. He wasn't sure what he expected to find.
'A newspaper?' thought Spike, as he pulled it out from beneath a replica of Lightning McQueen. 'What's a newspaper doing in here?'
He flipped it open, and the front headline made his heart stop.
"Boy, 4, killed by former gang member."
The date confirmed what his heart knew. The paper was published on May 16th. Today's date.
He put the paper down, and turned to look at her. She was still passed out.
Spike stared at the headline again. He had a feeling that he could find a lot of answers within that article, a lot of answers that Cassidy wasn't prepared to give him.
He put the paper back in the bottom of the box, slowly and carefully putting the toys in their place on top of it. Then the sweaters and hats, and the boxes of pictures, and finally, the baseball memorabilia.
He sat beside her on the couch, and gently brushed a damp curl from her face. If she wanted to tell him her story, she would. It wasn't his place to try and force his way into her life.
She whimpered at his touch, and he pulled back immediately. Her eyes fluttered open, reminding him of butterfly wings.
"Spike?" she whispered.
"Hey." He tried to give her what he hoped was an easy smile.
"What're you doing here?"
Spike gently touched her shoulder. "You didn't show up for your meeting with the boss. He got worried."
She tried to sit up, and immediately fell back. "Ohhhh…"
Spike chuckled. "Yeah, about that. You might want to take it easy. You're lucky you don't have alcohol poisoning right now."
She looked towards her entrance. "How'd you get in?"
"Um, yeah. Let's just say I owe you a new lock." He stared at her. Dang, she was beautiful. "Is it something with Cole?"
Immediately, she winced. And then, of all things, she started to cry. "It was my fault Spike. It was all my fault."
Spike Scarlatti was a man who was incredibly calm under pressure. Give him a bomb, and he could diffuse it. He would face a terrorist holding an automatic rifle with coolness that gave Captain America the chills. But a crying woman?
Not so cool.
Suddenly, she stood up and stumbled over to the sink. Spike winced at the retching as she emptied the contents of her stomach down the drain.
Then she crumbled to the floor in another sobbing fit, leaving Spike flabbergasted. Now what?
He walked over to the kitchen and knelt down to the floor. Slowly, unsure, he wrapped his arms around her,, cradling her against his chest. No words came, so instead he started to sing. The only thing that came to his mind was an old Italian song he sang growing up.
"Farfallina
Bella e bianca
vola vola
mai si stanca
gira qua
e gira la
poi si resta sopra un fiore
e poi si resta spora un fiore.
Ecco ecco
a trovata
bianca e rosa
colorata
gira qua
e gira la
poi si resta sopra un fiore
e poi si resta spora un fiore."
He rocked her gently, and realized that the trembling had ceased. He pulled away a little bit, and realized that she was sleeping. A smile traced his lips.
He gently slipped his hand beneath her knees and lifted her up. She was lighter than he'd imagined. He checked the doors down the hallway until he found her bedroom. Spike placed her on the bed, pulling the nearby blue fleece blanket over her shoulders. On a whim, he planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Sleep well, my farfallina." He whispered.
Spike walked over to the nearby office chair and sat, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. He texted Greg to let him know that he wouldn't be back today.
No, he would be here. And when she woke up, he would be right beside her, ready to help his wounded butterfly face a world that had somehow broken her wings.
English translation of Farfallina:
Butterfly
Beautiful and white
Fly and fly
Never get tired
Turn here
And turn there
And she rests upon a flower
And she rests upon a flower.
Here, here,
I have found her
White and red
Colored
Turn here
And turn there
And she rests upon a flower
And she rests upon a flower.
Thank you to for providing the lyrics!
So, what do you think? Was it a cheese fest? I actually like it better than I thought I would…What about you?