Author: Me, Fi. Or fc2001
Fandom: CSI (inc. CSI: Las Vegas, CSI: New York and CSI: Miami)
Characters: Greg Sanders, Sara Sidle, Danny Messer, Lindsay Monroe, Mac Taylor, Peyton Driscoll, Calleigh Duquesne and Ryan Wolfe. (But, not necessarily in that order, I’ll leave that to you to figure out)
Prompt: “Still Love” – Holly Brook
Disclaimer: Without prejudice, the recognisable characters used herein are the property of Anthony Zuiker and CBS and a whole lot of other people with more money and power than I’ll ever have. Please don’t sue – unless you want a handful of coins and some discount vouchers that are about all I have to my name. I own nothing – not the characters I’m playing with, the house I live in, the car I drive or even the laptop I’m currently typing on, even the ownership of my beloved toaster is under negotiation currently :). I have massive student debts too, so a lawsuit would be a real waste of money.
Spoilers: Very very vague allusions to episodes up to and including CSI:NY episode 3.18 “Sleight Out Of Hand”. No spoilers for either of the other CSI shows.
Content/Warnings: Nothing. How unusual for me.
Summary: It may be complicated, dark, unrequited, unexpected or even downright terrifying but it’s still love….
Authors notes: So, I know it’s not one fic as such, it’s a series of interconnected drabbles on the same theme, so I hope it’s OK. The short format just seemed to work with the title I had somehow. Oh, and I have some of my own interpretations of the way things are on these shows, things that never were quite canon but never were quite not canon if that makes sense (particularly with reference to CSI: Miami, which is the one I know least well).
It may not be returned, and it may even be hopeless. It may be viewed as pathetic or even obsessive – nothing but a bad case of the first-time-around puppy love. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s still love.
He defies anyone to argue the point with him. It’s been nearly 6 years, all told, he defies anyone to tell him it’s still just a crush.
The declarations may lie, shattered so many times, at his feet, but he holds onto them. Carries them like a broken bird in his pocket, hopeful one day persuasion and perseverance will win the day, and get him the girl.
Yes, it’s still love. Broken and battered, but definitively still love.
It might be crazy, it might be wrong. It might be a chemical reaction designed to blow up in his face before very long, but it’s still love.
Even with the doubts, surely there’s enough reason to try. Because he actually thinks he might be losing his mind this time. He has found the “someone” whose absence actually gives him physical pain. Who he would protect with whatever it takes. Every nerve ending, every heartstring, every damn stupid butterfly is telling him that.
She’s complicated, and he’s never been good with complicated women. He’s not sure he’s strong enough not to run away again. He’s not sure that he can make this work, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
So he may be crazy, and it may very well be a mistake, but it’s still love.
He’s lived a life defined by acronyms, by names given to things he does, things he can’t control. A life of walking lines and ticking boxes, a life with borders and boundaries to it.
Love has always been a neat little compartment in his life, a box of carefully defined proportions, taking up no more space than deemed necessary.
That is, until her. Here is a girl who is everything her exquisite exterior says she shouldn’t be. All sweeping, languid curves and yet unbearably brittle, she’s got contradictions in her character so extreme she shouldn’t make sense to him, but she does.
Through her, he knows that love, even unconfined by his normal boxes and boundaries, is still love.
There is life after love and love after death, and he’s never really believed in either until now. When you lose the love of your life the way he did, the world seems so completely blank it’s hard to believe you will ever feel anything again.
Let alone that there might be someone else out there for whom your heart could learn to beat.
He’s not sure when he started to live again, but he knows he has. He knows that he has done something he swore he could never do again and opened his heart to another human being.
It’s good to be alive that way. It’s good to realise that he can still love.
Too much, too young can make a person, or it can break them. She long thought it had been the making of her, but recently, she isn’t so convinced.
Recently, she wishes she had a few less walls around her heart. That her need for self-protection didn’t overrule anything and everything in her life that might just turn out to be good. She wishes she were better at being loved.
She’d sure have hurt a lot less people if she were.
It isn’t because she doesn’t feel love, because she doesn’t know what love is. It’s because she’s frightened of it, of what it means to know another human being, of what it means to have them know her.
Love, even walled in by neuroses, is still love
It doesn’t matter which way you squint at it, she’s decided, whatever tilt the universe has decided to put on her life on any given day, there’s one thing that doesn’t change. The way she feels is love.
Upside down, back to front, looked at through every microscope and every pair of tinted spectacles she can think of, she’s still fallen in love with him.
When she decided to change her life, she didn’t want to do it this way.
She no longer wanted any reliance on another person to get her through the day. She didn’t plan on falling in love with him; because he’s everything she swore to herself she never wanted.
But denied or not, wanted or not, she is resigned to the fact. It’s still love.
She hasn’t had a love she can be proud of. Her life hasn’t exactly been full of grand love affairs, and that’s only the ones other people know about.
It’s the ones she can’t put into words, the ones she’s never managed to define, those are the ones she finds haunting her. Those that never really consisted of anything more than the kind of low down, shameful sex lonely people have to ease their loneliness.
It was her way of keeping him close; being someone he could fall back on. That’s reality. She can’t be proud of it, but that doesn’t remove what it was.
She knows from bitter experience, that even when you’re ashamed of it, it’s still love.
Even when you know you’re giving all of yourself, and they never really can. Even when you’ve never been open this way before and they have, even then, it’s still love.
It can’t be anything else, this feeling that’s got her pinned to the spot.
It’s difficult to be in love with a man who’s been so in love before. It’s a worthwhile sort of difficult. It’s exactly the kind of difficult she’d normally run for cover from.
But this man, who is halfway between a puzzle and an enigma, is enough to make her walk into walls, despite the frustration that she’ll never quite have a handle on exactly who he is.
Even given that, even given the mystery and the uncertainty and the difficulty, it’s still love.