delga | { Commentary: Take Little Steps }

Take Little Steps (CSI: NY)
PG; Hawkes fic!
"Boy, you gotta learn to walk and not run."

This is the story of Hawkes’ discontent. It’s sort of a five-things fic (because I have a thing about the numbered format) and it’s something I had too much fun writing; also, I love backfic so there’s that in here, too. Unfortunately, it also pretty much says everything I want to say about Hawkes for now so there probably won’t be more Hawkes-fic from this arena.

[ one. ]

Once, when he was little, he fell over and grazed his knees. The skin split open, revealing pink flesh to the hot summer air. His grandma had lifted him onto the table and pressed a wet cloth against the wound, making it sting. “Boy, you gotta learn to walk and not run. Take little steps; quit throwing yourself at the floor, d’you hear?” But he was too busy watching the blood seep through the lines of his knee caps, and blossoming through his grandma’s white cotton cloth to pay much heed to her words.
I have this notion that Hawkes’ grandma raised him a-la Warrick. The blood thing is supposed to be a hint that his fascination with medicine started early; the title appears in this section because I am a lazy writer. The idea is that Hawkes never really thought out his decisions; also, it took “little steps” to heal. Or something. I am Teh Pretentious, yo.

[ two. ]

—and it’s the way the life passes through your fingers that makes you feel sick. You feel it disappear, brushing your fingers as it makes for the door, and you tally up all the errors you made and all the chances you missed to make things right. The numbers pile up in your head, beating in the feeling that you’re not cut out for this life.
Second person, huzzah. I love switching voices in a fic; I can’t even work out why. Second person is just cool. Also, starting mid-sentence is trick writing and something I do far too often. Note the numbers. That is a classic “You know you’re reading delga’s fic when…” move.

You leave the ER, burst out the doors and retch emptily. Your pulse drums out a heavy rhythm in your ears; the lights in the ambulance bay blur in your vision making you dizzy, and you sit down on the rain drenched floor, head in your hands and scrubs covered in blood. Too much, too much, too much.
Just so you know, I was totally thinking of the ambulance bay in ER when I wrote this.

Nobody comes for you. You’re just another burnt out intern. You’re just another mess of a kid who couldn’t cut the pace. You’re just another failure.
Hawkes is depressed. Delga projects her issues onto fandom.

[ three. ]

“—the left, Hawkes! Man, what is you trauma today?” Tyler’s a loud mouth, but there’s nowhere Sheldon would rather be than this down beat ball court in the middle of what is turning out to be a ridiculously languorous Saturday. Taking the ball up, he swings down the court and misses the hoop for the third time that day, and Tyler’s all up in his face for it but Hawkes knows it’s all in jest. Well, mostly. “Man, you losin’ your touch, doctor-man.”
This OC is Tyler Curtis and I am so in love with this character, you have no idea. I don’t even know where he came from but he appeared fully formed in my mind and I adore him. Little details – he has HIV from his birth mother, he was orphaned, and the first person to adopt him was a slightly demented old man who taught him Latin. Hence Sheldon’s next line. He and Sheldon have been best friends since elementary school.

“Shut up, Latin-Boy.”

“Whoa, straight for the gut!” Tyler punctuates the sentiment by slamming the ball into Sheldon’s chest and he feels the air leave him with a smack. He’d protest but Tyler’s been his best friend since before time began; he’s a little cocky, a lot loyal and heading on to bigger and better things.
Vain, I know, but I love this paragraph. It came together really well, the first half all sounds and pictures and the second half clumsy, the way I picture Sheldon and Tyler to be.

“Yeah man, I got this gig down in Orleans with this forensic group. Said if I pass my prelims here in-city, it’s all a go. It’s going to be awesome, man.”
To clarify: Tyler is a CSI-in-training.

Tyler’s had this goal, clear and bright, ever since he was a kid and some criminalist came to the school to talk to them about fighting crime in the neighbourhood. He’s known what he’s wanted and he’s worked hard to get it, too. Sheldon had a goal, too, once upon a time, but in the end it just wasn’t enough just to want it.

The ball totally blindsides him; next thing he knows, he’s on the ground, Tyler running across to him from the distance. He throws himself on the floor next to his friend, and hauls Sheldon up so that he’s not lying dead on the floor. “Quit worrying about it, man. Look, if you want, I can ask around in the city and see if the ME’s office needs anyone. Those people are all up in anatomy, man. For real. Other day? I saw this dead guy with a mallet shoved through his skull. Totally awesome.”
Had to force myself back to the story so the ball comes out of nowhere – for Sheldon and the reader (I hope). Tyler comes across a bit over-jokey here, which is shame because he’s not an ass, he’s just trying to cheer up his mate.

Sheldon thinks about it. Wonders if it’s worth the effort. Then he takes a look at his best friend and figures, yeah, why not? Maybe this is the second chance he needs. “Through his skull?”
I make myself laugh. It’s pathetic, I know.

“Hell yeah.” Tyler nods, “Not pretty. All I’m saying is that dude ain’t not getting an open casket, if you know what I mean.”
And again. If I ever write Sheldon again, Tyler will reappear.

Sheldon laughs. He jumps up, grabs the ball. Second chance. Maybe.

“Five dollars says I can get to ten hoops before you.”

[ four. ]

You like this space; it feels safe. The cool stone is solid and reassuring; the blue New York light filters through high windows and brushes past the wide arches. It’s comfortable here, safe. You don’t care that it’s removed from the hustle and bustle of city life; that pace holds no charm for you, not anymore. Here in the depths of the morgue, you are in control; you are in command.
Back to second-person. The thing I loved about Sheldon in the morgue (and the thing that surprised me about his move to CSI, outside set renegotiations) was that it was completely his space. I remember Blink when he emerges from his little bed, glasses on, book upside down on the mattress. He was a recluse and everyone forgets that; the morgue was this monolithic space, a solid environment.

The pace here is workable, and never a dull moment, either. You snap on a new pair of gloves; pull the next body out of cold storage and onto your table; swing the light around until the white glare hits the pale, lifeless body. Instruments are lined up, clean and sharp in a tray next to the plateau, as though you’re about to perform a delicate surgery. But this is different. These life-saving measures take more time and occur post hoc. You make the cut, whilst others pieces fragments together. It’s all about evidence, you hear them say. Everything’s connected. Everywhere but in the morgue, of course, where you pull the skin away from the flesh; put parts away to uncover the truths hidden within.
Little dig at Mac, there; longer sentences, methodical actions. Sheldon is in control.

You cut deep and sure; you work quickly and efficiently, noting unusual discolorations, oddities. Stella will want COD within the hour; Mac will be in later for the results on the next body. You collect trace, you pronounce your findings and you sew up the cadaver before moving onto the next one.
Again, semi-colons and commas, rolling sentences. At least, that’s the intention. And yo, I managed to get my OTP in there, too. Go me!

The rhythms here are comforting, if not monotonous; the days roll in and out like gurneys, smooth across the linoleum. But it’s enough. It has to be enough, you make yourself content with your lot. You chose this, after all. Sometimes it can get hectic, especially when the heat flicks a switch and sends the city up in arms. But this is your cold domain, you are the king of the castle and here, at least, you can be of use. Can’t kill a dead man, can you?
I just realised that the end of my David (Numb3rs) fic ends this way; in fact, that fic is fairly similar to this one. I don’t know if I managed it or not but this was supposed to be the paragraph where you hear a little bit of doubt in Sheldon’s ‘voice’; I figure this section comes in mid-season one.

The door swings open; Stella trots in. The world outside is turning still. “What’ve you got for me, Doc?”

[ five. ]

“Did you know that snake is a delicacy in China?” He hovers in Mac’s doorway with a smile.

His boss looks up amusedly. “Really?”

“No, seriously,” Hawkes steps fully into the room, building up the details the way he’s learned over the past few months, trace report secure in his hand. “Eating snake is a Cantonese tradition that goes back to the Han Dynasty.”

“I’m going to assume you have a point?” Mac asks, eyebrow cocked. Sheldon only grins more. He pushes the report under Mac’s nose.

“Vic’s stomach contents. Peanuts, crackers and…”

“Snake?”

“Yes indeed.”

“That’s not likely to be a common dish,” Mac notes.

“My thoughts exactly,” Hawkes replies, taking the seat in front of the desk. He leans forward, excitedly; he loves this part best, delivering the blow, the final knot. “So I made few enquiries. Turns out there’s only one place in Manhattan that serves this particular dish. Guess who owns it?”
This entire section is practically a re-write of that scene when Hawkes comes in to talk to Mac about a case at the beginning of S2 and at some point in the episode Stella tells him to take initiative. This was crazy fun to write and I researched the snake thing, just so you know.

Mac smiles as the pieces of the puzzle come together under Hawkes’ hands; Sheldon is grinning like the cat that got the cream, bursting with energy. He feels good; he feels amazing. He feels like he’s finally making a difference. The OCME position may have been a good life but nothing beats that feeling when all the evidence falls into place; nothing can beat the feeling of that success pounding headfirst through his bloodstream like pure adrenaline.
At least half of this paragraph is me squishing my fic to fit canon. I do that all the time and I have to quit it. This is also where I got lazy and rushed head first to the end. I couldn’t have a sixth section, you see, because it wouldn’t be balanced donotask.

Later that afternoon, after the suspect is brought in and all the evidence is boxed, ready for trial, he grabs his jacket, makes his goodbyes, and makes his way into the evening air; it feels good, cool against his flushed skin. He feels like he can take on the world. He gets home, cooks himself a meal and sits down to watch the game when his pager goes off.

The food goes uneaten. Instead, it’s back out in the field, another crime scene, another corpse, another case. He turns the key in the lock and laughs. Life feels good.
I think I say ‘good’ at least three times in the last three paragraphs. Maybe five. Those are magic numbers, yo. Even though the story ends like it begins – in the middle of everything else – I quite like how it ended up because it’s happy!Hawkes and god knows that makes me smile.

[ fin. ]