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22 August 2006 @ 01:40 am
Theatrical Muse: Week 138: Question 138  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1668


Spirit.


The man was shivering, he was cold, he was sweating, he was shaking, shivering, violently, even, but he was not sick. Silently, almost silently, he tightly gripped the edge of one of the autopsy tables, giving up brief, occasional warble of his throat. Not crying, not grunts, just mere sounds, accompanied by the dripping sound, every now of then, of a drop of sweat, hitting the cool, metal, surface, of the table. He held onto the side of the table, so tight, that his knuckles were a pained, crystal, white.

His glasses fogged slightly, his face shining, his mouth set in a deep, upset, frown, Sid Hammerback, the wonderfully talented, genius level, Chef and Medical Examiner, shook, and shook, and shook, as he held onto the table for all his life. He could not stop the waves of dark, ugly, horrible, terrible, feelings, that washed over him, he simply couldn’t. It had caused him a brief lack of confidence, and, he couldn’t, he, just, couldn’t. He had tried, for the briefest amount of a millisecond, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he, just, couldn’t, move. It was not like a panic attack, yet it was, but, it was more like an attack of grief, that overrode all urges in his body, all control that he had over his limbs, and his mind, and locked everything, every single thing, in place. He could not move, for want of moving, and could not think, for want of thinking, and neither could he call out for help or comfort. He could only breathe, and hear the shuddering of his breathes, and the thumping, pounding noise, of his heart in his ears, and barely nothing else. He felt like death, and was allowed, most briefly, to wonder, if that was what it had been like for Marianne, Christopher, and Michael.

Detective Mac Taylor walked down the barely lit hallway, the one that would, eventually, and, quickly, lead him to the morgue. He needed to do, what he had to do, now, and then, before it was too late. All thoughts of his topic of choice for conversation, vanished, when he saw the lone, live, resident, of the morgue. It stopped the smiling, softly humming man, in his tracks, and his vocal chords fell silent, and still, as his feet, too, stopped walking, and he came to a halt. His eyebrows could not help but dart up in surprise, only one, first, which was soon followed by the others, after which his face returned to normal. Moving forwards once more, he stopped at the door to the room that would lead him to the other man, and peered in at him. Most of the lights in the area were off, because it was near the end of their shift for the day, and everyone else, was already gone. Sid had left a few lights on, and one of the few that were in operation, shone brightly over the greying man’s head.

The Doctor took one shuddering brief inwards, and tried to turn, but, still, locked tightly in place, he couldn’t. Instead, his body allowed him a brief reprieve from being so tightly kept in place, and he lurched forward, his head arching over the clean metal table as he retched, trying to bring anything up, just, anything, that was in his stomach, that would make him feel better. Nothing, of any substance, came up, except flecks of clear spit, that flew out of his mouth as he hacked and dry heaved, and they landed in the table, in little groups, or, in single droplets. As these landed, without audible sound, the whites of his blues eyes, lined themselves with red, bloodshot. He was not sick, but he felt sick, or, at least, that he ought to be sick, to deserve feeling this bad. As soon as muscle use and thoughts were returned to him though, they were snatched away, and he was forced, rigidly, back into his original position of nearly absolute rigor. He was upset, but no tears escaped his eyes, instead, sweat just dripped from every pore in his face humanly possible. It also soaked his shirt, and dripped down his legs, and added to his shivering, but did not serve enough purpose that it shocked him out of his terrified stupor.

Still, Mac did not move from the door, from the doorway. It wasn’t that he couldn’t move, he, just, for the most part, chose not to. He was not being mean, but his instincts, told him, just told him, in absolute, that it was not his time to move yet, and, as such, he would not move, just, yet. Finally, though, it gave him the ok, and he moved, silently, quite silently, through the door. It was not his attention to sneak up on the man, but neither did he want to startle him, either. The man did not feel that there was a pure medical cause behind his extreme paleness and shaking, but, all the same, it paid him good and well, to be careful.

Coming to beside the man, to the Doctor’s left, the Detective laid his right hand on the other man’s shoulder, while his left hand, rested on the top of the table. He shifted quickly, though, using both hands to begin to pry, one by one, the Medical Examiner’s fingers, off the edge of the table.

“Come on.” the man said, as he did so.

“Come on!” he said, loudly, more roughly, a moment later, as he began on the third finger of the man’s left hand. It was not easy, instead, terribly difficult to do so, because, in his state, the man, his friend, his old friend, could not help himself, and could not aid the Detective, in his war, with his tight grasping fingers. The second spoken sentence was loud, and was, rough, but it was not angry. It was simply, oh so simply, powerful, strong, determined and kind, it’s purpose being, that it was meant to help the other man, aid the other man, but not scare him, or upset him, any further, that was.

Eventually, leaning over the mean, he was on to the last finger, the pinkie finger of the Doctor’s right hand. Already, Sid Hammerback’s left hand, gripped firmly, tightly, around the Detective’s own left hand, and, soon enough, so did the other man’s right hand, to his own, right hand. Just as he pried the last finger free of its strong clutch on the metal surface, it wound its way around his own, and, suddenly, after a pause of only a few seconds, the hands let go of Mac’s own, and the two men met in a tight hug, gripping each other’s backs in firm, tight grips. The Detective could feel the other man, shaking violently, against his own body, and this only caused him to hold him closer, tighter, than he had before. He heard him, soon after they had latched onto each other, let out a shuddering sigh, that was almost, so, almost, a sob. He knew the Medical Examiner would shed a few tears, but other than that, he expected nothing from him. After such an ordeal, inflicted upon him by the very body he expected to take care of him, the other man’s body was not all, completely, his, just yet, and nor would it be for a few minutes.

When some time had passed by them, Detective Mac Taylor, held Doctor Sid Hammerback, at arm’s length, and looked him in the eyes, with a brief, barely there, smile, winding its way onto his face. The other man did not smile, just twitched his lips in a quick upwards motion, which soon faded, even more quickly than the Detective’s own smile had. It was all he could do. It was all, they, could, do.

“We need you down at Cozy’s, Sid. It’s Wednesday, and our drummer is sick. We need you to play the drums, in our jazz band, Sid, and, I know you can do it. I trust you.” he said, nodding, his face lighting up, more so, this time, with another smile, which showed his teeth, and, which, just like the one so recently before it, soon, and very quickly, faded.

The Medical Examiner nodded, and tried to smile, but failed, once more.

“That’s ok. I’ll need some food first, preferably a hamburger and chips. I’ll get one on the way, if that’s ok with you, Mac.” he said, his head, now, still.

“That’s fine.” the other man said, following the other man as he went to get his things from where they were laid out, perfectly, on his desk. Mac watched him as he moved, and saw that, aside from being drenched, he was still shaking, quite a dreadful lot.

“You ok?” he questioned shortly afterwards, his eyebrows turning downwards as he frowned slightly.

“I’m fine, vaguely fine, somewhat fine.” Hammerback said, his voice shaking in time with his exhausted, tiring body.

“You just miss her, miss them, that’s all.” the other man said, quietly.

“Yeah.” the Medical Examiner replied, his head bobbing up and down slightly, in a soft nod.

“I’m ok.” he finished, as he picked up his coat and slipped it on, turning, with his things in hand, to see the Detective’s face return to a normal, smooth, calm, comforting, expression.

“That’s good.” Mac said, nodding.

“Come on, let’s go. Day’s over, and the night’s, barely begun.”

And, together, the two people, the Detective, Mac Taylor, and the Medical Examiner, Doctor Sid Hammerback, walked out of the morgue together, out of the building together, and to their own respective cars. They drove, with Sid in the lead, to a small restaurant, where they ate their burger and their chips, after which, they moved on to the bar called Cozy’s, where Mac played the bass guitar, and Sid hammered his stick on the drums, as if their lives depended on it, which, in a way, they quite, really, did.
 
 
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