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iluvroadrunner6) wrote2007-07-14 03:24 pm
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2007-07-14 03:24 pm
Flack - Falling Back on a Constant
Fandom: CSI:NY
Title: Falling Back on a Constant
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iluvroadrunner6
Rating: FRT
Characters: Don Flack
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
csi50 Prompt: 038. Death
theatrical_muse Prompt: Topic #186
Content Warning: Spoilers for "Heroes."
Summary: Flack liked constants. He liked for some things to stay the same, especially when the whole of his world was turning upside down.
Author's Note: I never intended for this to be as long as it was. It kind of exploded. This also has a lot of my personal canon beliefs regarding Flack, so if you don't share them--this is just what I think.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of CSI:NY. They're owned by CBS. However, any and all original characters are mine, so please do not use them without my permission.
Flack liked constants. He liked for some things to stay the same, especially when the whole of his world was turning upside down. He ate certain places certain days, followed the same paths as he traveled throughout the city. He even called his mother at the same time every day (which while the fact that her son called her every day thrilled her to no end, it drove her up a wall that she had to wait until the same time every day to call her, even when she had left him a message three hours before), so it was safe to say that he was a man of routine. He wasn’t going to throw a fit if something happened that threw a kink in his daily schedule, but there were certain things he didn’t skip, not for anything. And one of them happened to be church.
He wouldn’t consider himself a religious person, and he wasn’t sure what the hell he believed in. He didn’t have the luxury of time or education to debate the existence of God in his mind, and figure out exactly which of the beliefs he could choose to adhere to or really sit well with him—in fact, the idea of doing that just made his head hurt. He left debates like that up to those with doctorate degrees who were getting paid to do so. He did know two things though: one—with the job he did, he had to believe that there was something out there trying to counteract all the hate and anger that seemed to be in the world today, and two—if he didn’t go, his mother would pour on the guilt. And he hated it when his mother poured on the guilt.
Every Sunday morning since he was five years-old, at ten AM, he would pull on his suit (“and with a tie that doesn’t make you look like a clown, Donnie—for me, please”) and make his way to Angels of Mercy for early mass. He would sit in the pews of the old Catholic church, and while the priest delivered his sermon, he wouldn’t really listen, just let his eyes wander over the faces of the other people assembled there. He probably should have grown up a little since he was five, and tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t help it. It was a habit he couldn’t shake, and he liked watching the people.
If Sullivan’s was a cop’s bar, than Angels of Mercy could really be called a cop’s church. Almost every face in the room was a cop or cop’s family member, with the exception of the few elderly couples who had probably been there since the parish was founded. He knew almost every cop on the force had some kind of religion—most of the ones he knew were Catholic like himself, but he knew that everyone was raised differently, and their own belief systems—and to them, that religion was their constant. Any religious behavior they might have exuded was confined to the four walls of that building where they did their weekly worship, but it was that behavior that kept them grounded. Comforted them, thinking that there was something bigger watching out for them. It didn’t necessarily make their work—work filled with destruction, malice and death—easier, but it did make them feel like if something happened to them, everything was going to be OK.
The first time he had ever listened to the words that were being said, though, was at Aiden’s funeral. He couldn’t really focus on the people then. He knew all the faces and while he had gone to other cops’ funerals before—this one hit him hard. He wasn’t in a suit either. It was dress blues in the middle of a cemetery, damp from morning rain. They were all crowded around a small hole in a patch of green, and Flack’s eyes were focused on the gold urn sitting shining back up at him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that ashes were supposed to be scattered over an ocean or something, but there was a louder, more stubborn voice, Aiden’s voice, from a day when they had been feeling particularly morbid, telling him that there was no way in hell she was going to be cremated. She wanted a big funeral, and she wanted to be worm food. That sonuvabitch Pratt had put a slight dent in that, but Aiden’s father had stood firm on the fact that he was giving his baby girl—his only girl—her big funeral.
But he was dwelling, and he didn’t want to dwell. He didn’t even want to think. He just wanted to zone out, send his mind elsewhere, and not be in the here and now. It was then that he fell back on one of his constants, and tuned his ears to the soft, melodic voice of the priest, listening for the words he had heard time and again before:
“The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I lack. In green pastures you let me graze; to safe waters you lead me; you restore my strength. You guide me along the right path for the sake of your name. Even when I walk through a dark valley, I fear no harm for you are at my side; your rod and your staff give me courage…”
Title: Falling Back on a Constant
Author:
iluvroadrunner6Rating: FRT
Characters: Don Flack
csi50 Prompt: 038. Deaththeatrical_muse Prompt: Topic #186Content Warning: Spoilers for "Heroes."
Summary: Flack liked constants. He liked for some things to stay the same, especially when the whole of his world was turning upside down.
Author's Note: I never intended for this to be as long as it was. It kind of exploded. This also has a lot of my personal canon beliefs regarding Flack, so if you don't share them--this is just what I think.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of CSI:NY. They're owned by CBS. However, any and all original characters are mine, so please do not use them without my permission.
Flack liked constants. He liked for some things to stay the same, especially when the whole of his world was turning upside down. He ate certain places certain days, followed the same paths as he traveled throughout the city. He even called his mother at the same time every day (which while the fact that her son called her every day thrilled her to no end, it drove her up a wall that she had to wait until the same time every day to call her, even when she had left him a message three hours before), so it was safe to say that he was a man of routine. He wasn’t going to throw a fit if something happened that threw a kink in his daily schedule, but there were certain things he didn’t skip, not for anything. And one of them happened to be church.
He wouldn’t consider himself a religious person, and he wasn’t sure what the hell he believed in. He didn’t have the luxury of time or education to debate the existence of God in his mind, and figure out exactly which of the beliefs he could choose to adhere to or really sit well with him—in fact, the idea of doing that just made his head hurt. He left debates like that up to those with doctorate degrees who were getting paid to do so. He did know two things though: one—with the job he did, he had to believe that there was something out there trying to counteract all the hate and anger that seemed to be in the world today, and two—if he didn’t go, his mother would pour on the guilt. And he hated it when his mother poured on the guilt.
Every Sunday morning since he was five years-old, at ten AM, he would pull on his suit (“and with a tie that doesn’t make you look like a clown, Donnie—for me, please”) and make his way to Angels of Mercy for early mass. He would sit in the pews of the old Catholic church, and while the priest delivered his sermon, he wouldn’t really listen, just let his eyes wander over the faces of the other people assembled there. He probably should have grown up a little since he was five, and tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t help it. It was a habit he couldn’t shake, and he liked watching the people.
If Sullivan’s was a cop’s bar, than Angels of Mercy could really be called a cop’s church. Almost every face in the room was a cop or cop’s family member, with the exception of the few elderly couples who had probably been there since the parish was founded. He knew almost every cop on the force had some kind of religion—most of the ones he knew were Catholic like himself, but he knew that everyone was raised differently, and their own belief systems—and to them, that religion was their constant. Any religious behavior they might have exuded was confined to the four walls of that building where they did their weekly worship, but it was that behavior that kept them grounded. Comforted them, thinking that there was something bigger watching out for them. It didn’t necessarily make their work—work filled with destruction, malice and death—easier, but it did make them feel like if something happened to them, everything was going to be OK.
The first time he had ever listened to the words that were being said, though, was at Aiden’s funeral. He couldn’t really focus on the people then. He knew all the faces and while he had gone to other cops’ funerals before—this one hit him hard. He wasn’t in a suit either. It was dress blues in the middle of a cemetery, damp from morning rain. They were all crowded around a small hole in a patch of green, and Flack’s eyes were focused on the gold urn sitting shining back up at him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that ashes were supposed to be scattered over an ocean or something, but there was a louder, more stubborn voice, Aiden’s voice, from a day when they had been feeling particularly morbid, telling him that there was no way in hell she was going to be cremated. She wanted a big funeral, and she wanted to be worm food. That sonuvabitch Pratt had put a slight dent in that, but Aiden’s father had stood firm on the fact that he was giving his baby girl—his only girl—her big funeral.
But he was dwelling, and he didn’t want to dwell. He didn’t even want to think. He just wanted to zone out, send his mind elsewhere, and not be in the here and now. It was then that he fell back on one of his constants, and tuned his ears to the soft, melodic voice of the priest, listening for the words he had heard time and again before:
“The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I lack. In green pastures you let me graze; to safe waters you lead me; you restore my strength. You guide me along the right path for the sake of your name. Even when I walk through a dark valley, I fear no harm for you are at my side; your rod and your staff give me courage…”
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I'm glad you liked it.
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Who's the girl with Flack in your header?
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Technically it's Alyssa Milano, but I use her to portray one of my OCs, Hilary McCallahan.
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