This is an epilogue to Fearful Symmetry. Hope you all enjoy! If you
haven't read that one, all six chapters, you really need to first to
understand this one.
Pairing: Guess.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not my characters, but if I ever find a guy like Horatio, I'll snap him up in a heartbeat. Do you suppose they're really out there? However, since I can't have him, I'm glad I can assist Calleigh in getting him.
***
And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Day Is Done"
***
Calleigh knocked on Horatio's door tentatively, not loudly enough to wake him up if he was still asleep. It was Saturday afternoon, but she knew the toll this last week had taken on him, and it would take him a while to catch up. Still, he had said he would see her today.
The door opened, and she was lost again in his eyes. Compassionate, intelligent, humorous, generous - she could look into them forever, taking inventory and never completing it.
"Are you going to come in, or do you just want to stand there?" He gave her his quirky smile. She gathered her wits and the sack of takeout she had with her and entered.
"Good morning," she said, although it was 2:30 in the afternoon. "Did you sleep well?" She set the sack on the table.
"Like a rock. It was delightful." He looked a thousand percent better than he had yesterday. Still a bit worn, perhaps, a little thinner than he had before this week, but the eyes were clear, the shadow behind them finally gone, and his whole aura was once again perfectly calm, self- assured. "I didn't even get up until an hour or so ago."
"I brought lunch, or brunch, or breakfast, or whatever you want to call it." She sorted out the food from the sack, then smiled privately to herself as he held her chair before sitting down in his own. Such a gentleman, Horatio. It wasn't even a front, or a play for attention, like she had seen many times in Louisiana. There wasn't an insincere bone in his body, about that or anything else.
He pitched in, surprised to find how hungry he was. It was always like that during the aftermath, a reaction to hardly eating at all for days. Calleigh finished her share and simply sat watching him. A week ago, she thought, last Saturday, I had no idea what he was doing. It seemed an eternity ago. So much about him she hadn't known. Her mind had taunted her on the drive over today, telling her that his new openness would not last past the end of the storm, that he had only needed her yesterday, not today.
He looked up to find her studying him and grinned at her, not at all taken aback. "Quite a lot has happened in a week, hasn't it?"
"Horatio, I think you can read minds sometimes." She pushed back from the table. "What do you want to do with the rest of today?"
"I want it to be your turn."
"My turn?"
"I want to know who you are, where you came from, who has marked your life. You know all about me now, so it's your turn."
"Somehow I doubt I know all about you yet," Calleigh stalled. She was never good at talking about herself, but after what he had been forced to admit to her this week, she realized that she didn't have any defense to give him. He stood up and came around the table to her, giving her a hug. He knew it would be difficult for her. She hugged him back, marveling at the openness in him now, challenging herself to match it. Still, part of herself was waiting for some cosmic clock to strike twelve and this dream to shatter, like all her others had.
They sat on the couch but at opposite ends, facing each other. There was no emotional distance between them, but they each wanted to fully see the other, knowing that it would help. Calleigh took a deep breath. "I'll start with my father. You remember that time I got a call at work and asked you if I could leave for a bit?" He nodded. Of course he remembered. "My dad's an alcoholic. I had to go pick him up from a bar." She leaned against the sympathy she could feel from him, drawing strength to go on. "As long as I can remember, he would go off on binges. And he would always apologize later. He's sweet, really, when he's sober, but he never means it when he says he'll quit. He always looked at me like he wanted me to believe him, though. After he would get drunk, after he would beat us, he would always come in later to apologize for everything, like that just fixed it." She stopped for a minute, then diverted. "What was your father like?"
He knew that she wasn't dodging the issue, just taking time that she needed, so he answered. "He was kind. Mom was strength; he was pure compassion. He never could stand to see anyone hurt, and he would try to put himself in everyone else's shoes. He had no enemies. I never once heard him raise his voice or say anything against anybody." He paused for a second himself. "Right after a car ran us off the road that night, while he was dying, the last thing he ever said was, 'I wonder what those people were hurrying to?' And he really did, Calleigh. He wasn't upset at them; he was concerned that something was wrong in their world that led to them being careless. He died thinking of other people instead of himself."
Calleigh suddenly wanted to touch him, but she did not want to lose sight of his face. She kicked her shoes off, pulled her legs up onto the couch, and pressed her feet against Horatio's leg. He reached out and put his hand over them, and they sat there for a minute sharing the silence.
"My mother," she said after a bit, "would believe my dad. Every time, time after time, he would apologize to her, and she would say it was all fine. But she started drinking herself to get away from reality. She would drink at home all the time, and he would drink at nights and come home in a rage." Horatio gave her foot a squeeze. "My brothers left home before I did. I spent as little time there as I could. I learned to shoot instead, spent hours out in the woods with guns." She looked at him to see if he understood, and he nodded.
"Something you could control, something that wouldn't change."
"Right. Then when I was a senior, I met the neatest person at school. He was intelligent, compassionate, a wonderful listener." In fact, she thought, he was a lot like you, only you're more so. "The only thing is, he was black. I never knew how prejudiced Daddy was until that night I said he was my date to the prom. It's the only time Daddy ever beat me when he was sober. He ordered me to cancel the date."
"But you didn't." It wasn't a question. She could see the certainty, and the pride, in his eyes.
"No, I didn't. I went to the prom, but I didn't come home. I stayed with a girlfriend for the last two weeks of school, and then I went to the city and got with the PD. I sent cards and letters back, and Mama answered them telling me how he really had changed, how it was going to be different from now on. He didn't talk to me for years. Then he came to visit Miami, and it was all the same, except he doesn't hit me now. Nothing else has changed." She let out a deep breath. "So now you know all about me."
His eyes met hers. "You're incredible, you know it?"
"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you." She suddenly remembered how hard he had fought for last week's victim, in spite of his own turmoil, and especially how he had walked straight to her that first morning and looked her directly in the face. Such incredible bravery, facing a seeming nightmare come to life squarely, and no one had been there to applaud him, because no one even knew. She slid down the couch now, getting close to him. "Horatio, I'd like to ask you a question. I was thinking about this, and I'm not just being nosy, but you don't have to answer it." She stopped, waiting for permission.
"Ask away," he said, but his eyes had become a little wary.
"Can you remember what your mother looked like?" He looked across to the piano with her picture on top.
"No," he said after a minute. "Except for one second, night before last, when I remembered the last thing she said to me. Most of the time, I just remember her dead." He shuddered slightly, and she slipped her arm around him.
"I want you to describe her to me." She couldn't see his face totally now, but she felt the question mark shoot off of him. "I think it might help, if you talked about her like she was. It might help you see her again." He was silent. "You don't have to; it was just an idea."
He started slowly, his voice even more soft than usual. "She loved music. She would play the piano for hours. I remember Ray and I watching her play 'Flight of the Bumblebee,' and her fingers would almost blur." He grinned at the memory, and for a second, he could see her playing it. "You know, you might be right, Calleigh. I haven't really talked about who she was. Maybe I can see her that way."
"I went out to her grave yesterday afternoon, after you had gone home. I put roses on it. Did she like flowers?"
"She loved them, and roses were her favorite. She said she admired them most because they were like life. The thorns with the beauty, both together."
"Her name was beautiful. Rosalind."
"She was named out of As You Like It. Her mother was addicted to reading and passed it on. Mom read as much as she played the piano, and she named both of us after writers. She always wanted life to be like fiction. Until that last morning, when she told me it was better than fiction." His voice drifted off into silence, and Calleigh shifted around, like she had two nights before, and began working the tension out of his shoulders.
"You don't have to go on," she said. "A bit at a time might be better. But I want you to see her again. I still can't believe you went through this for 28 years alone." She continued massaging his shoulders.
"All right," he said softly. "I'll try to let you in. But the door swings both ways, Calleigh. Do you go around telling people about your father, or do you try to just deal with it yourself?"
"I guess we've both got a lot to learn."
"I guess we have." She could feel the tension draining out of him, but she could also feel that he still was tired. One day wasn't much recovery from the last five. She pulled his head over onto her lap, again like two nights ago, and stroked his hair gently, smoothing his forehead with her hand, tracing the lines of his face.
"One thing I've been wondering for the last few days, Horatio."
"Just one? What's that?" His voice was distant, dreamy.
"Can you play that piano?"
He grinned. "Not like she could, but yes. Sometime I'll play for you. But I don't think I have the energy right now."
"No, not right now. There will be other days. You still need to rest this weekend." She ran her hands gently over his closed eyes, massaging around the edges, and he let out a sigh and relaxed completely against her. She just sat there holding him, still stroking his hair, long after he was asleep again. She knew that there would be no dreams haunting him tonight, but she did not want to let him go. And tomorrow, and the next day, she would keep working on him, until he was freed from the vision of his dead mother and could actually see her again. "There will be other days," she repeated softly, promising him as he slept in her arms.
Tomorrow . . .
Pairing: Guess.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not my characters, but if I ever find a guy like Horatio, I'll snap him up in a heartbeat. Do you suppose they're really out there? However, since I can't have him, I'm glad I can assist Calleigh in getting him.
***
And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Day Is Done"
***
Calleigh knocked on Horatio's door tentatively, not loudly enough to wake him up if he was still asleep. It was Saturday afternoon, but she knew the toll this last week had taken on him, and it would take him a while to catch up. Still, he had said he would see her today.
The door opened, and she was lost again in his eyes. Compassionate, intelligent, humorous, generous - she could look into them forever, taking inventory and never completing it.
"Are you going to come in, or do you just want to stand there?" He gave her his quirky smile. She gathered her wits and the sack of takeout she had with her and entered.
"Good morning," she said, although it was 2:30 in the afternoon. "Did you sleep well?" She set the sack on the table.
"Like a rock. It was delightful." He looked a thousand percent better than he had yesterday. Still a bit worn, perhaps, a little thinner than he had before this week, but the eyes were clear, the shadow behind them finally gone, and his whole aura was once again perfectly calm, self- assured. "I didn't even get up until an hour or so ago."
"I brought lunch, or brunch, or breakfast, or whatever you want to call it." She sorted out the food from the sack, then smiled privately to herself as he held her chair before sitting down in his own. Such a gentleman, Horatio. It wasn't even a front, or a play for attention, like she had seen many times in Louisiana. There wasn't an insincere bone in his body, about that or anything else.
He pitched in, surprised to find how hungry he was. It was always like that during the aftermath, a reaction to hardly eating at all for days. Calleigh finished her share and simply sat watching him. A week ago, she thought, last Saturday, I had no idea what he was doing. It seemed an eternity ago. So much about him she hadn't known. Her mind had taunted her on the drive over today, telling her that his new openness would not last past the end of the storm, that he had only needed her yesterday, not today.
He looked up to find her studying him and grinned at her, not at all taken aback. "Quite a lot has happened in a week, hasn't it?"
"Horatio, I think you can read minds sometimes." She pushed back from the table. "What do you want to do with the rest of today?"
"I want it to be your turn."
"My turn?"
"I want to know who you are, where you came from, who has marked your life. You know all about me now, so it's your turn."
"Somehow I doubt I know all about you yet," Calleigh stalled. She was never good at talking about herself, but after what he had been forced to admit to her this week, she realized that she didn't have any defense to give him. He stood up and came around the table to her, giving her a hug. He knew it would be difficult for her. She hugged him back, marveling at the openness in him now, challenging herself to match it. Still, part of herself was waiting for some cosmic clock to strike twelve and this dream to shatter, like all her others had.
They sat on the couch but at opposite ends, facing each other. There was no emotional distance between them, but they each wanted to fully see the other, knowing that it would help. Calleigh took a deep breath. "I'll start with my father. You remember that time I got a call at work and asked you if I could leave for a bit?" He nodded. Of course he remembered. "My dad's an alcoholic. I had to go pick him up from a bar." She leaned against the sympathy she could feel from him, drawing strength to go on. "As long as I can remember, he would go off on binges. And he would always apologize later. He's sweet, really, when he's sober, but he never means it when he says he'll quit. He always looked at me like he wanted me to believe him, though. After he would get drunk, after he would beat us, he would always come in later to apologize for everything, like that just fixed it." She stopped for a minute, then diverted. "What was your father like?"
He knew that she wasn't dodging the issue, just taking time that she needed, so he answered. "He was kind. Mom was strength; he was pure compassion. He never could stand to see anyone hurt, and he would try to put himself in everyone else's shoes. He had no enemies. I never once heard him raise his voice or say anything against anybody." He paused for a second himself. "Right after a car ran us off the road that night, while he was dying, the last thing he ever said was, 'I wonder what those people were hurrying to?' And he really did, Calleigh. He wasn't upset at them; he was concerned that something was wrong in their world that led to them being careless. He died thinking of other people instead of himself."
Calleigh suddenly wanted to touch him, but she did not want to lose sight of his face. She kicked her shoes off, pulled her legs up onto the couch, and pressed her feet against Horatio's leg. He reached out and put his hand over them, and they sat there for a minute sharing the silence.
"My mother," she said after a bit, "would believe my dad. Every time, time after time, he would apologize to her, and she would say it was all fine. But she started drinking herself to get away from reality. She would drink at home all the time, and he would drink at nights and come home in a rage." Horatio gave her foot a squeeze. "My brothers left home before I did. I spent as little time there as I could. I learned to shoot instead, spent hours out in the woods with guns." She looked at him to see if he understood, and he nodded.
"Something you could control, something that wouldn't change."
"Right. Then when I was a senior, I met the neatest person at school. He was intelligent, compassionate, a wonderful listener." In fact, she thought, he was a lot like you, only you're more so. "The only thing is, he was black. I never knew how prejudiced Daddy was until that night I said he was my date to the prom. It's the only time Daddy ever beat me when he was sober. He ordered me to cancel the date."
"But you didn't." It wasn't a question. She could see the certainty, and the pride, in his eyes.
"No, I didn't. I went to the prom, but I didn't come home. I stayed with a girlfriend for the last two weeks of school, and then I went to the city and got with the PD. I sent cards and letters back, and Mama answered them telling me how he really had changed, how it was going to be different from now on. He didn't talk to me for years. Then he came to visit Miami, and it was all the same, except he doesn't hit me now. Nothing else has changed." She let out a deep breath. "So now you know all about me."
His eyes met hers. "You're incredible, you know it?"
"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you." She suddenly remembered how hard he had fought for last week's victim, in spite of his own turmoil, and especially how he had walked straight to her that first morning and looked her directly in the face. Such incredible bravery, facing a seeming nightmare come to life squarely, and no one had been there to applaud him, because no one even knew. She slid down the couch now, getting close to him. "Horatio, I'd like to ask you a question. I was thinking about this, and I'm not just being nosy, but you don't have to answer it." She stopped, waiting for permission.
"Ask away," he said, but his eyes had become a little wary.
"Can you remember what your mother looked like?" He looked across to the piano with her picture on top.
"No," he said after a minute. "Except for one second, night before last, when I remembered the last thing she said to me. Most of the time, I just remember her dead." He shuddered slightly, and she slipped her arm around him.
"I want you to describe her to me." She couldn't see his face totally now, but she felt the question mark shoot off of him. "I think it might help, if you talked about her like she was. It might help you see her again." He was silent. "You don't have to; it was just an idea."
He started slowly, his voice even more soft than usual. "She loved music. She would play the piano for hours. I remember Ray and I watching her play 'Flight of the Bumblebee,' and her fingers would almost blur." He grinned at the memory, and for a second, he could see her playing it. "You know, you might be right, Calleigh. I haven't really talked about who she was. Maybe I can see her that way."
"I went out to her grave yesterday afternoon, after you had gone home. I put roses on it. Did she like flowers?"
"She loved them, and roses were her favorite. She said she admired them most because they were like life. The thorns with the beauty, both together."
"Her name was beautiful. Rosalind."
"She was named out of As You Like It. Her mother was addicted to reading and passed it on. Mom read as much as she played the piano, and she named both of us after writers. She always wanted life to be like fiction. Until that last morning, when she told me it was better than fiction." His voice drifted off into silence, and Calleigh shifted around, like she had two nights before, and began working the tension out of his shoulders.
"You don't have to go on," she said. "A bit at a time might be better. But I want you to see her again. I still can't believe you went through this for 28 years alone." She continued massaging his shoulders.
"All right," he said softly. "I'll try to let you in. But the door swings both ways, Calleigh. Do you go around telling people about your father, or do you try to just deal with it yourself?"
"I guess we've both got a lot to learn."
"I guess we have." She could feel the tension draining out of him, but she could also feel that he still was tired. One day wasn't much recovery from the last five. She pulled his head over onto her lap, again like two nights ago, and stroked his hair gently, smoothing his forehead with her hand, tracing the lines of his face.
"One thing I've been wondering for the last few days, Horatio."
"Just one? What's that?" His voice was distant, dreamy.
"Can you play that piano?"
He grinned. "Not like she could, but yes. Sometime I'll play for you. But I don't think I have the energy right now."
"No, not right now. There will be other days. You still need to rest this weekend." She ran her hands gently over his closed eyes, massaging around the edges, and he let out a sigh and relaxed completely against her. She just sat there holding him, still stroking his hair, long after he was asleep again. She knew that there would be no dreams haunting him tonight, but she did not want to let him go. And tomorrow, and the next day, she would keep working on him, until he was freed from the vision of his dead mother and could actually see her again. "There will be other days," she repeated softly, promising him as he slept in her arms.
Tomorrow . . .