Emily (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-09-13 08:28 pm
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-09-13 08:28 pm
Mac - The Need to Belong
apparently, i never posted this over here. which i find slightly strange, but then again this piece is kinda strange, so there ya go. and i've edited it slightly since i first wrote it. because i can never leave things alone.
Title: The Need to Belong
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iluvroadrunner6
Rating: FRM
Character: Mac Taylor
Prompt: Amanda's (ashields124) Fanfic challenge from ages ago.
Content Warning: Drugs. And drug references. And drug use.
Summary: He needed to get out, get some air. Get his head on straight. What the hell was he even doing here?
Author's Note: 1) Amanda's challenge was to write a story about one of the CSIs when they were teenagers. I put all the CSIs in a bag and pulled out Mac. Therefore the timeframe for this story is 1972. 2)I did this based on Gary's age as, at the time, I did now know Mac's actual age. 3)This was spawned from a conversation that I remembered Mac and Stella having during "Tanglewood," about how Mac sympathized with the vic's need to belong, so this is my interpretation of why Mac joined the Marines.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mac. Mac is owned by CBS. But everything else is mine, so please don't steal it.
June 23, 1972: Chicago, Illinois
Seventeen year-old Mac Taylor wandered aimlessly around the party, trying to find the back door. The pot smoke was so thick in the room, that he could barely see. He needed to get out, get some air. Get his head on straight. What the hell was he even doing here?
The pot smoking/drug scene wasn’t his. At least not yet anyway. That would come later, when the bombs were falling around him and his companions, and they couldn't do anything, couldn't move out or fight something so they would sit there and try and smoke and drink away the horrors they had seen. But as if right now, hallucinogenic drugs scared the hell out of him, and smoking pot just seemed stupid. He didn’t understand why he came to these damn things. None of these people were his friends. He didn’t talk to them and they didn’t talk to him. He didn’t belong here. And he didn’t feel the need to belong here. But he wanted to belong. It wasn’t until he had finally found the backdoor and gotten a breath of fresh air in his lungs that he remembered why he came here.
Her.
She was sitting there, leaning on the shoulder of one of her friends, completely stoned out of her mind. There was a joint between her fingers, and she was giggling and talking with those around her, and she just looked so tragically beautiful. Tousled brown hair, eyes heavily-lidded, completely and totally on another plane, yet still stunningly gorgeous in his eyes. He wanted to save her and take her away from whatever her drug of choice may be. He wanted to show her that there were other options. Other ways. Other highs. Highs that weren’t risky or dangerous or deadly. But she wouldn’t listen. Never had, never will.
“Mac!” she giggled softly, getting up and stumbling her way over to wrap him in a hug. The smell of the pot smoke was so thick on her that had become what he most nearly associated with her. When the beatniks were smoking on the floor above he and his mother’s apartment, the smell wafting through the rafters always brought him to thoughts of her.
Yes, it was just seventeen year-old puppy love. But then again, he was only seventeen. He didn’t know any other kind, or that there could be anything more. He just knew that this girl, this fallen beauty, meant more than the world to him, and he would travel to the ends of the earth if he knew that was what it would take to save her.
She pulled back from the hug, and started to step away from him, when she stumbled and almost fell. Would have fallen if it wasn’t for him catching her. “Whoa,” she whispered with a soft giggle, “I’m so stoned.”
“You need some sleep, Willie,” he sighed. Her full name was Wilma, but she hated the name, and insisted everyone call her Willie.
A devilish glint crossed her hazy eyes, and she grinned, “Yup yup. I need some sleep. Come up to tuck me in?” She gave him a cute little kid look, and he could never say no. Even though he knew that there was absolutely no innocence in what she was suggesting. That wasn’t what was worrying him. It was her.
He had seen her plenty stoned before. He tried getting stoned with her once. It had only been once, and only been pot. Nothing had happened for him, but she had been all over him. But something about this was different. She could barely keep her head on straight. She was wobbling all over the place, she was very light-headed, and she kept complaining that she was dizzy. Well, it wasn’t complaining. More like mentioning. Yet somehow they managed to make it all the way upstairs.
“What were you doing tonight?” Mac asked, balancing her as she fell against his chest.
“The usual. Mary J and booze. And a little of this new stuff. Acid,” she whispered, “You should try it, Mackie. You really fly on that stuff.”
Mac could feel her heart racing against him, but it didn’t give him an good feeling. It was going to fast. Way, way too fast. That couldn’t be normal.
“C’mon Mac,” she whispered, before pulling his face towards hers, “Kiss me, already.” She started to kiss him, devouring his lips in hers.
She tasted of pot smoke and hard liquor. She was intoxicating yet deadly, just like the hits and highs she loved so much. He could feel himself slipping away in her kiss, pinning her against the wall of her bedroom, wanting to touch her in too many ways to count, but couldn’t. Because almost as soon as he kissed her, she stopped kissing him back. She had passed out on him. But there was something about her breathing. Something about her heart rate. Something just wasn’t right.
“Willie,” he whispered, shaking her lightly. But she didn’t move.
“Willie,” he said again, a little stronger this time, a little more fear in his voice. She still didn’t move. Shit.
***
Hosptial was the only sane thought that had rushed through his mind. Between the bedroom and the waiting room was all a blur for him, but somehow he managed to get her through the rooms, into a car, and to the hospital without dying in an accident or getting pulled over. He tried to give the doctors as much information as he could, but God only knew what else she could have been doing that she hadn’t admitted to him. He knew they stood a slim to none chance of fixing this. And they didn’t.
When Willie’s parents were informed, Mac was there. He had been sitting in the waiting room, and watched through the glass doors as her mother collapsed against her father, sobbing over and over about their little girl. When it came time for the funeral, Mac and a few other people who had known her came. None of her stoner friend showed up, and secretly, Mac was glad. Willie’s father may have killed them for doing this to their daughter.
It was after the funeral, when they were leaving the cemetery, that Mac felt a strong hand on his shoulder. It was her father.
“Don’t make the same mistake Wilma did, Mac,” the tall, gruff man replied, “Don’t screw your life up. Do something for yourself. Make sure you matter.”
A year later, Mac joined the Marines. He had finally found the place where he belonged. And he didn’t need to get himself high to do it.
THE END
Title: The Need to Belong
Author:
iluvroadrunner6Rating: FRM
Character: Mac Taylor
Prompt: Amanda's (
ashields124) Fanfic challenge from ages ago.Content Warning: Drugs. And drug references. And drug use.
Summary: He needed to get out, get some air. Get his head on straight. What the hell was he even doing here?
Author's Note: 1) Amanda's challenge was to write a story about one of the CSIs when they were teenagers. I put all the CSIs in a bag and pulled out Mac. Therefore the timeframe for this story is 1972. 2)I did this based on Gary's age as, at the time, I did now know Mac's actual age. 3)This was spawned from a conversation that I remembered Mac and Stella having during "Tanglewood," about how Mac sympathized with the vic's need to belong, so this is my interpretation of why Mac joined the Marines.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mac. Mac is owned by CBS. But everything else is mine, so please don't steal it.
June 23, 1972: Chicago, Illinois
Seventeen year-old Mac Taylor wandered aimlessly around the party, trying to find the back door. The pot smoke was so thick in the room, that he could barely see. He needed to get out, get some air. Get his head on straight. What the hell was he even doing here?
The pot smoking/drug scene wasn’t his. At least not yet anyway. That would come later, when the bombs were falling around him and his companions, and they couldn't do anything, couldn't move out or fight something so they would sit there and try and smoke and drink away the horrors they had seen. But as if right now, hallucinogenic drugs scared the hell out of him, and smoking pot just seemed stupid. He didn’t understand why he came to these damn things. None of these people were his friends. He didn’t talk to them and they didn’t talk to him. He didn’t belong here. And he didn’t feel the need to belong here. But he wanted to belong. It wasn’t until he had finally found the backdoor and gotten a breath of fresh air in his lungs that he remembered why he came here.
Her.
She was sitting there, leaning on the shoulder of one of her friends, completely stoned out of her mind. There was a joint between her fingers, and she was giggling and talking with those around her, and she just looked so tragically beautiful. Tousled brown hair, eyes heavily-lidded, completely and totally on another plane, yet still stunningly gorgeous in his eyes. He wanted to save her and take her away from whatever her drug of choice may be. He wanted to show her that there were other options. Other ways. Other highs. Highs that weren’t risky or dangerous or deadly. But she wouldn’t listen. Never had, never will.
“Mac!” she giggled softly, getting up and stumbling her way over to wrap him in a hug. The smell of the pot smoke was so thick on her that had become what he most nearly associated with her. When the beatniks were smoking on the floor above he and his mother’s apartment, the smell wafting through the rafters always brought him to thoughts of her.
Yes, it was just seventeen year-old puppy love. But then again, he was only seventeen. He didn’t know any other kind, or that there could be anything more. He just knew that this girl, this fallen beauty, meant more than the world to him, and he would travel to the ends of the earth if he knew that was what it would take to save her.
She pulled back from the hug, and started to step away from him, when she stumbled and almost fell. Would have fallen if it wasn’t for him catching her. “Whoa,” she whispered with a soft giggle, “I’m so stoned.”
“You need some sleep, Willie,” he sighed. Her full name was Wilma, but she hated the name, and insisted everyone call her Willie.
A devilish glint crossed her hazy eyes, and she grinned, “Yup yup. I need some sleep. Come up to tuck me in?” She gave him a cute little kid look, and he could never say no. Even though he knew that there was absolutely no innocence in what she was suggesting. That wasn’t what was worrying him. It was her.
He had seen her plenty stoned before. He tried getting stoned with her once. It had only been once, and only been pot. Nothing had happened for him, but she had been all over him. But something about this was different. She could barely keep her head on straight. She was wobbling all over the place, she was very light-headed, and she kept complaining that she was dizzy. Well, it wasn’t complaining. More like mentioning. Yet somehow they managed to make it all the way upstairs.
“What were you doing tonight?” Mac asked, balancing her as she fell against his chest.
“The usual. Mary J and booze. And a little of this new stuff. Acid,” she whispered, “You should try it, Mackie. You really fly on that stuff.”
Mac could feel her heart racing against him, but it didn’t give him an good feeling. It was going to fast. Way, way too fast. That couldn’t be normal.
“C’mon Mac,” she whispered, before pulling his face towards hers, “Kiss me, already.” She started to kiss him, devouring his lips in hers.
She tasted of pot smoke and hard liquor. She was intoxicating yet deadly, just like the hits and highs she loved so much. He could feel himself slipping away in her kiss, pinning her against the wall of her bedroom, wanting to touch her in too many ways to count, but couldn’t. Because almost as soon as he kissed her, she stopped kissing him back. She had passed out on him. But there was something about her breathing. Something about her heart rate. Something just wasn’t right.
“Willie,” he whispered, shaking her lightly. But she didn’t move.
“Willie,” he said again, a little stronger this time, a little more fear in his voice. She still didn’t move. Shit.
***
Hosptial was the only sane thought that had rushed through his mind. Between the bedroom and the waiting room was all a blur for him, but somehow he managed to get her through the rooms, into a car, and to the hospital without dying in an accident or getting pulled over. He tried to give the doctors as much information as he could, but God only knew what else she could have been doing that she hadn’t admitted to him. He knew they stood a slim to none chance of fixing this. And they didn’t.
When Willie’s parents were informed, Mac was there. He had been sitting in the waiting room, and watched through the glass doors as her mother collapsed against her father, sobbing over and over about their little girl. When it came time for the funeral, Mac and a few other people who had known her came. None of her stoner friend showed up, and secretly, Mac was glad. Willie’s father may have killed them for doing this to their daughter.
It was after the funeral, when they were leaving the cemetery, that Mac felt a strong hand on his shoulder. It was her father.
“Don’t make the same mistake Wilma did, Mac,” the tall, gruff man replied, “Don’t screw your life up. Do something for yourself. Make sure you matter.”
A year later, Mac joined the Marines. He had finally found the place where he belonged. And he didn’t need to get himself high to do it.
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I can identify with the need to belong part, I've always been socially awkward.
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I really like that you had young Mac shy away from doing drugs at a party, but added that he would later drink/smoke pot as a Marine, to forget what he'd seen/experienced.
I also liked that even as a young man, Mac was trying to save people. That's just so Mac.