>>>> jump directly to warnings/disclaimers etc. <<<<
A Crack in the Wall
#1 - Prologue: A Confession in a Graveyard
"I wish I could see behind the story,
Behind the two dimensions,
Wish I could see behind the façade."
"I'm finding it strangely therapeutical talking to you, Evan, and, man, does that scare me." Sonny Crockett stopped speaking and looked up at the sky. It was brilliantly blue, cloudless, promising a wonderful day. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves to his left and lifted strands of his short, dark blond hair.
He swirled his sunglasses between two fingers of his left hand, crouched low, and finally, almost tentatively, reached out with his right hand and touched the sun-warmed grey stone in front of him. His fingers ghosted over the indentations, a row of letters he knew so well.
'Evan Terrence Freed', the gravestone read, 'In loving memory'.
It was around 8.30 a.m. in the morning, and the graveyard was virtually empty. Families would come here in the afternoon, and the old men and women looking after the graves of their spouses were already home again, having been here hours ago.
Otherwise, Crockett would have collected at least one or two disapproving glances - his light summer clothes in pastel weren't exactly the right style for a place of mourning. He was wearing things he hadn't worn for a while now: soft, pink pants, a light blue tank top and a white jacket thrown casually over his shoulder, not really concealing his holster, the same way his RayBans hadn't really been hiding the lines of exhaustion around his green eyes or the weariness in them.
It wasn't his first intimate talk with a certain gravestone in this month -- not by a long shot.
"Hell, Evan, you're just damned good at listening, pal." Sonny said roughly and pressed the heel of his right hand against his forehead, willing away the headache he'd already awoken with, an hour ago.
Castillo awaited him, Rico Tubbs, Gina Calabrese and Trudy Joplin in his office at 9.00 a.m. "A special assignment," the lieutenant had said, calmly, coolly, controlled as always, as always giving nothing away. They all were used to this by now. Marty wasn't what you'd call communicative.
Stan Switek and Larry Zito were, with Noogie's help, working the leather bars on the south side of the strip, looking for Denny Lopez, a small time dealer who might lead them to his distributors. In the last two or three weeks, they'd only seen each other at OCB twice. But they weren't the reason Sonny felt out of step with the rest of the universe. It was because of his partner.
"I miss the old times, Evan. Bet you'd never have thought me to be the nostalgic type, eh, pal? You, Mike, me... practically living in each other's pockets, working together, spending our free time together... The 'Three Musketeers', we called ourselves. Inseparable, the best of friends..." Crockett's uneven voice broke a little, but he resumed speaking: "You'll think me crazy, but I miss this closeness. Never had it again. Not even with Caroline. In the end, I think that it was that that drove her away - we lived together, but there was always this -- distance. This invisible wall between us she couldn't break down, no matter how hard she tried. At least that's what she told me."
He gazed at the handful of flowers on the grave he'd brought, fresh and startling with their bright, lively colors, and rubbed his temples.
"There was no such distance between the three of us, my friend. I always thought we could tell each other whatever there was, without overstepping some invisible boundaries. Until the night Mike told us..." The pain in Crockett's voice was still evident, although he'd forgiven his friend and himself months ago. "... we were there for each other after failures at the academy, bad busts and bad women. Hell, you've both seen me cry, and I've seen you and Mike break down, too. But Rico... see, he's my partner, my best friend, but I've never, never, seen him cry."
The sound of children drifted over from the other side of the graveyard. The air smelled of summer.
"Never. Not once. Not after Angelina left him, and not even the day she and Rico's baby son died. Not after Laura's death. Not once. I tried my best to be there for him. Each and every time. The day Calderone got away, the day we had to arrest Valerie, the days Angelina and Laura were killed... Oh, he went fishing with me, we killed a couple of six-packs together, but he never let go of his control, never let me see how much he had to be hurting. And the wall between us - I think I finally give up. There's just no use trying to break it down."
He swallowed painfully, but the truth finally had to be said aloud: "Evan - I don't think Tubbs trusts me enough to let me see behind the façade."
He gave one last pat to the warm stone, wiped at the corners of his eyes and rose to his feet. He put on his sunglasses and made his way back to the sleek white car waiting in the sun, leaving behind a silent park and the promise of summer, in his mouth the taste of ashes.
"Miami Vice" ficlet by allaire mikháil, 887 words, pre-slash, Crockett POV, rated G, so far unbeta'd. This was written as the prologue to a (hopefully longer and plot-driven) Miami Vice story that so far hasn't made it from out of my brain to paper.
Miami Vice is a very disappointing fandom if your OTP is Crockett/Tubbs, since there is not very much readable fic sporting that pairing out there, the notable exception being fanfic written by Flamingo.
A word of unrelated advice: Don't ensure that you get one of the ten new desks your bureau is expecting when your boss is away. Or it might turn out later that he's already promised to give the last one to one of your colleagues. Who'll be thrilled to find out that you got it instead of her. Not. And your boss might just kill you tomorrow anyway, so there. Furthermore, don't cuddle with your rabbit in the living room when it's losing its winter coat. Then your dad might kill you.
Anyone who'd like to see this story finished -- please, either bribe me with high-quality Crockett/Tubbs fanfic, or agree to become a co-writer. Otherwise, I'm afraid this prologue will never develop into more. No matter how much Don Johnson looks like sex on a stick in the Burnett-triology. Yumm.
|Please consider leaving feedback.|
read comments | post comment | e-mail
|<<<< back to allaire mikháil's fanfic||back to the main index >>>>|
|back to Storyteller's Campsite >>>>|