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kathierif_ficTitle: Wild Wild West, or: A Perfectly Ordinary Day
Author: Kathie
Fandom: CSI:NY/His Dark Materials
Rating: FRT-13
Content: AU/Fusion with HDM/Crossover
Word Count: 1018 words
Summary: A perfectly normal day in the life of Don Flack. Only with cats.
A/Ns: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mer5. Who was feeding the evil bunny :) For those not familiar with the books, or the movie "The Golden Compass", brief explanation at the bottom.
Disclaimer: Not a work of profit and not, in any way or form, true. HDM belongs to Philip Pullman and CSI:NY belongs to Anthony Zuiker and CBS and probably a ton of other people I can’t think of right now.
Don Flack looked up into the clear blue sky, his eyes narrowed against the relentless glare of the sun. He lifted the hand that was not currently gripping his notebook and his pen and shaded his eyes with it against the brightness.
He knew exactly what he was looking for, but still, it took him a moment to spot the small dark spot of the hawk in the sky, circling the crime scene.
The prick of sharp claws into his shoulder told him that he should focus his attention back to the things that happened on the ground level and around him before he would get reprimanded, and he shook his head amusedly and glanced down, at the notes he’d already jotted down.
A small sound made him look up again, and he managed to twitch his lips into something almost resembling a smile, despite the crime scene behind him, when Mac Taylor stepped up to him, the hawk he’d watched just moments ago now perched comfortably on his shoulder.
“Mornin’, Mac,” he greeted, “Welcome to the Wild Wild West.”
“Wild Wild West, huh?” Mac replied and tilted his head slightly to the side. The hawk rubbed its beak against his cheek and spread its wings, to take a second look at the scene from above.
Again, Don’s eyes followed her until the glaring sunlight brought tears to his eyes. “You think Ally can spot something from up there?” he asked.
Mac raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me Nessie didn’t check out the scene on her own?” he asked amusedly, his eyes flickering to her. Kytamnestra uncurled herself from around Don’s neck and sat up, her tail trembling slightly as she looked down at Mac as if she wanted to scoff at him. Don knew she wouldn’t – they both respected Mac too much for that; besides, he was right.
He shook his head. “Are you kidding me, of course she did,” he replied. “Anyway, your scene is in this warehouse.”
He waited a brief moment, until Alhamaia was back on Mac’s shoulder, and then turned and lifted the crime scene tape that was fluttering in the gentle breeze. Nessie, used to this from years as a cop, just tightened her claws in his shoulder, to keep her balance as he ducked under the yellow barrier.
She knew just as well as he did that the crime scene mustn’t be contaminated. Mac had a quick tongue, and Alhamaia a sharp beak, and both of them never hesitated to use what they had to make everyone around them aware of crime scene protocols.
Nessie already knew what was coming, and she curled herself back around Don’s neck and purred quietly as they stepped deeper into the empty warehouse that was now bustling with cops, CSIs and the ME.
Mac gave him a quick glance. Wild Wild West, huh?” he said and put his kit down, to pull on latex gloves and crouch down next to the body on the ground. Ally spread her wings and gracefully landed on top of Mac’s kit, her eyes drawn to the body with a disbelieving snort, but she kept quiet.
“Pretty much,” Don confirmed. “This is a regular shoot-out at high noon, only at dawn and in the wrong century. This is James Jesslin, also known as –“
“Jesse James?” Mac interrupted him and nodded at the silver star pinned to the man’s leather vest.
Besides the vest, Mac noted, the man was dressed in dusty boots, jeans and a flannel shirt now crusted over with blood. His gun was still in his hand, his fingers loosely wrapped around it.
“Yeah,” Don said and twitched. “The other one is over there.” He pointed across the warehouse, to its opposite end. Before he could add anything else, he sneezed, his face instinctively turned away from Mac and the body and his entire body convulsing with it, almost enough to dislodge Nessie from her spot on his shoulder.
“Bless you,” Mac said absent-mindedly and stood. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Don sniffled. “Allergies, you know that.” He grimaced, and Nessie purred soothingly into his ear, her rough tongue flickering out briefly to lick his cheek.
Mac gave him an amused glance. “You’re saying there’s cats in here?” he asked.
Nessie’s entire body tensed, and when Don glanced at her, he saw that her ears were pressed tightly against her skull and her lips were pulled back in a snarl. Her tail twitched against his back, and he just shook his head and grimaced.
“I’m not allergic to my daemon,” he said, not for the first time and not for the last time in his life, and reached up, to run his fingertips against the soft fur of her shoulder. “But yeah, there are cats.”
He was used to it, and so was Nessie. Nobody thought twice about him having a cat daemon until they found out that Don was allergic to cats. Since the day Nessie had settled, Don had heard every joke under the sun about the irony of this, and it had grown old really quickly.
Mac nodded. The amusement was still twinkling in his eyes, and Ally chuckled quietly, clearly not impressed by Nessie’s glare, but they quickly moved on. “The other one?”
“You can’t make this stuff up, Mac,” Don said as they walked over to the second body.
“Let me guess, Billy the Kid?” Mac said dryly.
“Yeah. William Kidley,” Don replied. Nessie on his shoulder snorted quietly.
“Irony,” she muttered, almost too quietly for anyone but Don to pick up. She was thinking the same thing he was about the cat jokes, Don knew, and he reached up and ran his hand against her shoulder again.
Mac shook his head as he stopped next to the body.
He, too, was lying on his back, his eyes still open. He was dressed similar to his opponent; his gun was in his hand.
Mac sighed.
One thing was for sure, and Ally voiced it perfectly when she flew over and sat down on his shoulder again.
“This job never gets boring.”
~end.
Additional Notes: Stolen from “His Dark Materials” is the concept of a daemon: a human individual's soul manifests itself throughout life as an animal-shaped "dæmon" that always stays near its human counterpart. Dæmons usually only talk to their own associated humans, but they can communicate with other humans and with other dæmons autonomously. During the childhood of its associated human, a dæmon can change its shape at will, but with the onset of adolescence it settles into a single form.
(yes, I admit, I stole that part from wikipedia. It's 1.24 am in the morning and I'm incapable of summarizing that myself right now.)
Author: Kathie
Fandom: CSI:NY/His Dark Materials
Rating: FRT-13
Content: AU/Fusion with HDM/Crossover
Word Count: 1018 words
Summary: A perfectly normal day in the life of Don Flack. Only with cats.
A/Ns: for
mer5. Who was feeding the evil bunny :) For those not familiar with the books, or the movie "The Golden Compass", brief explanation at the bottom.Disclaimer: Not a work of profit and not, in any way or form, true. HDM belongs to Philip Pullman and CSI:NY belongs to Anthony Zuiker and CBS and probably a ton of other people I can’t think of right now.
Don Flack looked up into the clear blue sky, his eyes narrowed against the relentless glare of the sun. He lifted the hand that was not currently gripping his notebook and his pen and shaded his eyes with it against the brightness.
He knew exactly what he was looking for, but still, it took him a moment to spot the small dark spot of the hawk in the sky, circling the crime scene.
The prick of sharp claws into his shoulder told him that he should focus his attention back to the things that happened on the ground level and around him before he would get reprimanded, and he shook his head amusedly and glanced down, at the notes he’d already jotted down.
A small sound made him look up again, and he managed to twitch his lips into something almost resembling a smile, despite the crime scene behind him, when Mac Taylor stepped up to him, the hawk he’d watched just moments ago now perched comfortably on his shoulder.
“Mornin’, Mac,” he greeted, “Welcome to the Wild Wild West.”
“Wild Wild West, huh?” Mac replied and tilted his head slightly to the side. The hawk rubbed its beak against his cheek and spread its wings, to take a second look at the scene from above.
Again, Don’s eyes followed her until the glaring sunlight brought tears to his eyes. “You think Ally can spot something from up there?” he asked.
Mac raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me Nessie didn’t check out the scene on her own?” he asked amusedly, his eyes flickering to her. Kytamnestra uncurled herself from around Don’s neck and sat up, her tail trembling slightly as she looked down at Mac as if she wanted to scoff at him. Don knew she wouldn’t – they both respected Mac too much for that; besides, he was right.
He shook his head. “Are you kidding me, of course she did,” he replied. “Anyway, your scene is in this warehouse.”
He waited a brief moment, until Alhamaia was back on Mac’s shoulder, and then turned and lifted the crime scene tape that was fluttering in the gentle breeze. Nessie, used to this from years as a cop, just tightened her claws in his shoulder, to keep her balance as he ducked under the yellow barrier.
She knew just as well as he did that the crime scene mustn’t be contaminated. Mac had a quick tongue, and Alhamaia a sharp beak, and both of them never hesitated to use what they had to make everyone around them aware of crime scene protocols.
Nessie already knew what was coming, and she curled herself back around Don’s neck and purred quietly as they stepped deeper into the empty warehouse that was now bustling with cops, CSIs and the ME.
Mac gave him a quick glance. Wild Wild West, huh?” he said and put his kit down, to pull on latex gloves and crouch down next to the body on the ground. Ally spread her wings and gracefully landed on top of Mac’s kit, her eyes drawn to the body with a disbelieving snort, but she kept quiet.
“Pretty much,” Don confirmed. “This is a regular shoot-out at high noon, only at dawn and in the wrong century. This is James Jesslin, also known as –“
“Jesse James?” Mac interrupted him and nodded at the silver star pinned to the man’s leather vest.
Besides the vest, Mac noted, the man was dressed in dusty boots, jeans and a flannel shirt now crusted over with blood. His gun was still in his hand, his fingers loosely wrapped around it.
“Yeah,” Don said and twitched. “The other one is over there.” He pointed across the warehouse, to its opposite end. Before he could add anything else, he sneezed, his face instinctively turned away from Mac and the body and his entire body convulsing with it, almost enough to dislodge Nessie from her spot on his shoulder.
“Bless you,” Mac said absent-mindedly and stood. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Don sniffled. “Allergies, you know that.” He grimaced, and Nessie purred soothingly into his ear, her rough tongue flickering out briefly to lick his cheek.
Mac gave him an amused glance. “You’re saying there’s cats in here?” he asked.
Nessie’s entire body tensed, and when Don glanced at her, he saw that her ears were pressed tightly against her skull and her lips were pulled back in a snarl. Her tail twitched against his back, and he just shook his head and grimaced.
“I’m not allergic to my daemon,” he said, not for the first time and not for the last time in his life, and reached up, to run his fingertips against the soft fur of her shoulder. “But yeah, there are cats.”
He was used to it, and so was Nessie. Nobody thought twice about him having a cat daemon until they found out that Don was allergic to cats. Since the day Nessie had settled, Don had heard every joke under the sun about the irony of this, and it had grown old really quickly.
Mac nodded. The amusement was still twinkling in his eyes, and Ally chuckled quietly, clearly not impressed by Nessie’s glare, but they quickly moved on. “The other one?”
“You can’t make this stuff up, Mac,” Don said as they walked over to the second body.
“Let me guess, Billy the Kid?” Mac said dryly.
“Yeah. William Kidley,” Don replied. Nessie on his shoulder snorted quietly.
“Irony,” she muttered, almost too quietly for anyone but Don to pick up. She was thinking the same thing he was about the cat jokes, Don knew, and he reached up and ran his hand against her shoulder again.
Mac shook his head as he stopped next to the body.
He, too, was lying on his back, his eyes still open. He was dressed similar to his opponent; his gun was in his hand.
Mac sighed.
One thing was for sure, and Ally voiced it perfectly when she flew over and sat down on his shoulder again.
“This job never gets boring.”
~end.
Additional Notes: Stolen from “His Dark Materials” is the concept of a daemon: a human individual's soul manifests itself throughout life as an animal-shaped "dæmon" that always stays near its human counterpart. Dæmons usually only talk to their own associated humans, but they can communicate with other humans and with other dæmons autonomously. During the childhood of its associated human, a dæmon can change its shape at will, but with the onset of adolescence it settles into a single form.
(yes, I admit, I stole that part from wikipedia. It's 1.24 am in the morning and I'm incapable of summarizing that myself right now.)