(I realize this is procrastination, but I'm getting this out of my head so I can go back to Grissom & Co.)
I don't like making busts at night, it's too easy to miss a shot or make a mistake, but there are some benefits to it.
We’re almost on the guy when he glances up, and his whole body language changes. He’s made us. Crockett’s a couple steps ahead of me. “Stop right there. Miami Vice!” He jumps forward, closes with Raoul. I go for my gun, but there’s no room to use it–they’re tussling too close together, and Raoul’s got height and weight on my partner.
The bastard jerks his arm sideways, and all the fight–-and breath--goes out of Crockett in a gasp. He slips, his shoulder thumps against the wall, and Raoul bolts down the alley.
I hang back for a second. “Sonny?”
Crockett’s bent forward, hands on his knees, but he waves me onward. “Go, move!” The words are choked, breathless; that was definitely an elbow to the stomach.
This guy may have a lead, but I’m faster than he is. At the end of the alley, I catch him up, tackle him to the ground. Raoul’s a mean fighter, but it’s hard to argue with a gun pressed to your skull. “Get up, asshole.” I manage to cuff him, but man, I don’t want him slipping away. Don’t want to have to chase him all over again. I hail a uniform headed our direction. Between us we get this ass to the car before I realize I haven’t seen Crockett anywhere.
I let the uniforms take over. Turn and have a look for my partner.
It’s not until I drop my gaze from head height down to the ground that I spot him. Still where I left him, sitting with his back to the alley wall, eyes closed.
He blinks at me when I kneel next to him. “Y’ get him?” Still no force behind the words, and his tone is too casual for how he flinches at making the effort.
“No thanks to you,” I say, reaching for the hand he’s got clamped across his middle. “Whatcha doin’, sitting down on the job like this?”
He huffs a laugh. “Just catching my breath. Guy really landed one.” And he looks like he believes it; there’s no fear, no oh, shit, on his face. He even lets me pull his hand away.
It’s red as cherries--there’s blood all over his shirt, his pants. Couldn’t have been a gun, no report, and the angle was all wrong. “Hell, Sonny. He have a knife?”
Crockett looks at his hand, then down at his stomach, like he’s noticing the wound for the first time. “Damn. Guess–-guess he did. No wonder I can’t–-get my breath. Aw, man....” Now he’s feeling it, or knows what he’s feeling. His eyes squeeze shut and his grip on my hand is tight, frantic, even.
I don’t have to see anything else to know how bad this is. “Hey! Hey!” One of the uniforms turns. “We got an officer down! Get the medics over here!”
You know, I'm always nervous writing new character voices. But often? It turns out that my ear for them is good enough that I really shouldn't have been worried at all. I don't know if people would agree that my narrative voice here really sounds like Rico Tubbs, but it's close enough to my inner ear that I felt okay posting it. And the dialogue I think I got nicely. Sonny has a really distinct voice. (<3 Sonny)
But the bit that made me kinda stop on a re-read of this was the description It's red as cherries. That's not at all the sort of line I've used in fic before. Usually my h/c people are either not really aware of what's going on (and if they're the victim, it usually gets described non-visually), or they identify blood without using a simile.
I think it's just right in this case. I'm just curious where my muse came up with it.