Author: Velvetine/Afrikana
Rating: T
Pairing: none
Content Warning: contains swearing
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Though all the streets are crowded
There’s somethin’ strange about it
I lived there bout a year and I never once felt at home
There were people everywhere.
Too many of them in any direction you look except up. But it wasn’t as surprising as last year, coming to Times Square for the first time on the fourth of July. She couldn’t count the people if she tried, and she would readily bet they outnumbered the entire population of her home state, and win. They were all congregated here, taking up every inch available, and this wasn’t even all of them.
They were like rats, all shoved up into the same pit to wallow in their own filth. All of them thinking that they were more important than the other. All completely wrong. They each falsely deemed themselves important, and that annoyed her.
Amidst the myriad of people she felt so alone. In any city or town in Montana she would strike up a conversation with a stranger, but here she thought about it twice. If looks could kill and words could bruise, just about every New Yorker you talk to would murder you or beat you senseless. Small talk wasn’t appreciated in a city of impolite, impatient, egocentric and cantankerous people. Manners were for the weak here, real New Yorkers, as her uncle would say, don’t give a fuck.
It must have been something in the air, or maybe the water. These New Yorkers were true to stereotype: only a handful of people would spare you a moment, the rest of them “don’t have all fuckin’ day.”
Her neighbour was no exception. The only conversation that had carried on from a brief greeting had been when Lindsay had arrived at her doorstep with homemade cookies. The coffee had been awful and the conversation stale and Lindsay understood that in this city, neighbours aren’t friends. She missed the Sunday lunches she used to share with the couple that lived across the hall in Bozeman. She missed the way they’d give each other keys and invite each other over for movies or coffee. Most of all, though, she missed the feeling of genuine kindness.
Perhaps it was the confined spaces that made the people this way. That and the bleak landscape. Her apartment was ugly, ridiculously small and ludicrously expensive by Montana standards. However, in New York, this was translated into cosy, old-fashioned and moderately priced. The fashionably exposed, read unfinished, brick wall and fireplace, were not even worthy of entertaining a fire. The kitchen, if you could call it that, was hardly big enough to cook in let alone eat in leaving the only decently sized room her bedroom. She had a small balcony but she couldn’t bare to go out as it reminded her of what she didn’t have. What she missed most, more than large kitchens and real hardwood, was the scenery.
Here she looked right out of her window into a grey mass that passed for a building. It was a mountain in its own right, but it could never compare to her mountain. The glass, concrete and steel pile didn’t change with the season. There was no healthy green in spring, no golden glow in the summer, no luminescent shades of red and orange in autumn, just a cold sheet of snow in winter which could never be described looking like a layer of icing sugar. Where she saw natural splendour, she now saw monolithic structures, cold and unforgiving, like the city. Yes, Montana had spoiled her.
For the precious hours she was on the job, Lindsay stopped missing Montana. She was doing what she loved surrounded by a small team of good people, almost giving semblance to a family. She loved being part of a world which fascinated her as a adolescent: forensic science. Lindsay was always fervent, bubbly and enthusiastic at new endeavours and experiences.
She had been, and still was, horrified at what people in this city did to each other on a daily basis. Somewhere, in between running around downtown, they seemed to have lost all moral judgement. Finding out who the culprit was and catching them was the best part of the job. She lived for the moments she could tell the victims or their family that justice would prevail, that the bad guy was in their hands, that everything would be okay. Lindsay loved her job because it made her feel like a better person.
Been in so many places
You know I’ve run so many races
And looked into the empty faces of the people of the night
And something is just not right
The seconds bled into minutes before Lindsay noticed she was standing still in the middle of Times Square. There were still as many people, if not more, milling around.
It was easy to tell the New Yorkers apart from everyone else. The city people didn’t have time to lend a hand when a bag was dropped or make small talk. The tourists would all smile, take in the city in awe and talk politely whereas any New Yorker would give you looks to kill and walk off, usually complemented by a “fuck you” or something to that effect.
The New Yorkers were not a people of moderation either. There were the abominably rich and the atrociously poor, the obscenely loud or the damnably quiet. There were the suspiciously curious and the terrifyingly indifferent. Every grey area was classified under black or white, and Lindsay couldn’t figure out where she belonged.
She looked at the people around her, studying them, taking it all in. She observed their attitudes, the false indifference, even their image, which was only a representative of who they were, a refined illusion of the person they wanted to be. Their eyes were lifeless, the tones of voice were strictly business, but it was painfully clear in the subtext that almost each and every one of them was unhappy.
They kept busy all day, the city people. Even those who could afford free time spent their days running around because the idleness allowed them to reflect on how unsatisfactory their lives were, and shattered the illusion they wanted to maintain. Those who didn’t have the luxury of recreation were reminded of the omnipresent sadness as they toiled away on never-ending shifts. Lindsay was persuaded that neither the reasonably well-off nor the poor really enjoyed life in New York.
The few that were happy were the extremely rich, those with nothing to lose and predominantly those who were delusional. Lindsay was convinced that those who perceived themselves as ‘happy’ here had obviously never spent a idle day in the fields of the Big Sky Country. They had never felt the Montana wind on their skin, singing sweet melodies, undisturbed by perpetual traffic and cell phone ring tones. No, the New Yorkers didn’t know what it meant to be happy.
Lindsay hated New York.
She hated it here. From the oppressive air of the city with its imposing hundred-story buildings to the grey colour of everything. She hated that she had become an automaton living a seemingly empty life, devoid of all euphoria because she simply didn’t have the time. She would work through the same routine day in, day out and convince herself it was normal, but to no avail. She hated the feeling of being trapped in a concrete jungle with animals who would stop at nothing for their own gain. She hated having to navigate through the maze to find a place of rest, Central Park, which, for all its beauty and excellent upkeep was too contrived and man-made for her. She hated the way most New Yorkers thought they knew it all, the way they felt they had the right to be unnecessarily impolite and their cynical qualities, as they knew the price of everything and yet the value of nothing.
“Watch where you’re going!” she yelled after someone who had walked into her.
But what Lindsay hated most, abhorred even, was that she was becoming just like the rest of them.
Thing were spinning ‘round me,
All my thoughts were cloudy,
And I had begun to doubt all the tings that were me.
The metamorphosis was slow, and had been painfully imminent since her arrival in New York City. Lindsay had likened it to Darwin’s Theory of Evolution: you adapt or you die out.
There was no place for a cute, zesty country girl with more manners than New York had assholes. She couldn’t expect courtesy to take her anywhere and so, without her knowing, she had slowly been transforming into a New Yorker.
The first change had been subtle. The only person who noticed was her father, and her father noticed everything. Instead of picking up the phone and greeting the caller with incredible joviality and courtesy, Lindsay had started the conversation by saying her full name or, on bad days, straight up asking people what they wanted. Her tone had become indifferent and she spoke a lot faster. Time is money as the New Yorkers said.
“What do you want?” she groaned coldly into the receiver.
“Well... I was looking for my daughter but it seems New York has turned her into something else.” came a sarcastic reply. It was her dad.
“Sorry, Pa. I’m having a bad day. I jus-”
“You’ve been having a bad day this past year, Linds.”
Lindsay sighed heavily. “I miss Bozeman... “ And then she choked on a flood of tears.
After she had hung up, Lindsay let the tears fall freely. She was sure her dad had felt it coming, but she never liked to cry in front of him. Plus, he had been ecstatic about her new job in the Big Apple, although she had seen the sadness in his eyes as she walked past the security check at the airport.
Lindsay cried because she wasn’t in Montana. But mostly because she was becoming like the rest of them. She was becoming cold, rude and insensitive.
The next episode happened one day on the job. Danny asked her if everything was fine after she gave a stranger, what she swore was, the most malicious look she had ever given anybody. It was murderous. It was the ‘New York glare’ down to a T. She dismissed Danny, told him everything was fine and went on with her day. It was only when she was in the safety of her apartment that she erupted into loud sobs and salty tears, letting all the frustration and anger wash out of her. She cried herself to sleep, promising that she would never turn into one of them, that she would remain the way she had always been.
The following morning she had awoken to questions. What happened to the sweet country girl from Montana? Where was the polite, fervent and optimistic hick? Had she died? Had she ever even existed?
The notion chilled Lindsay to the core, freezing her bones into a solid mass of ice to complement her new exterior. What if she had always been a rude, stoic, insensitive, pessimistic stoic waiting to be unleashed and had finally seized an opportunity? Maybe she didn’t know herself. Perhaps she had only known what she would have liked to be. Maybe she had been delusional all these years, believing she was someone she wasn’t and now, now she was confronted with reality. No! No, no, no. It’s not me. I’m not like that...it’s this fucking city.
She couldn’t afford to doubt herself, she knew who she was deep down. I was just trying to fit in. Just trying to be like everyone else...like the rest of them. But I can’t do this anymore...I just can’t. Lindsay had always wanted to fit in, not be an outsider. She didn’t like being singled out, could you blame her? All she wanted was to be a part of this place, but if that was what it was to be a New Yorker, she resigned herself to being a country hick.
Don’t you know that I gotta get outta here,
I’m so alone.
Yeah, I know that I gotta get outta here
Coz New York’s not my Home.
It had been a tough decision, but as with everything else, Lindsay saw it through to the end. She knew that, sooner or later, it was bound to happen, but as it were, lady luck was hovering nearby. The conditions were perfect and she could already taste the ripe, sweet, fruit of her labour on her tongue. Lindsay summed up all her courage and nerve and took the bull by the horns. Rodeo was nothing new to her.
“Mac?” her voice was quiet, unsure, Small white knuckles met the door as she knocked a second time.
“Come in.” emotionless, all business. “If it’s about the Branson case, you don’t need to apologise. Everyone makes mistakes.”
Shit! With everything going on in her head, she had completely neglected her current case and the small predicament she was in.
“Umm... Actually it’s not about that. It’s...personal.” She braced herself for the massive leap she was about to take.
Mac sighed, allowing his eyes to inspect Lindsay before reverting to the file he was leafing through. “Well?” he prodded after a tense silence, his eyes resting on his computer monitor now.
“I quit.” It had been firm but not harsh, practiced to perfection.
The moment the words left her lips, Mac’s undivided attention was on her. For a second, she thought she saw surprise in those grey eyes, but it was gone faster than it had come. His probing gaze dissected her and studying her facial expression, their eyes never meeting.
“Why?” he questioned, still staring but with less intensity than mere seconds ago.
Because it’s what I have to do. Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see? This place is sucking the life out of me! I’m a country girl, I can’t live here. It’s killing me from the inside.
Lindsay allowed her sad, wide, hazel eyes to meet his indecipherable grey ones. Her eyes spoke volumes, depicted a deep lugubrious, heart-rending sentiment. Her eyes reminded him of a forlorn, homesick puppy. She was physically in New York, but this city could never have her. No, this city could never have Lindsay Monroe. Mac understood.
Her eyes were defiantly dry through they both knew she wanted to cry. Mac inhaled deeply, “So, what are you going to do?”
“There’s an opening in the Bozeman forensic team. I’ve already been accepted.” she replied, her voice shaky with happiness now.
Mac nodded his head slowly, a small smile creeping up his lips. “I know you’ll be happy there, but we’ll miss you a lot here.” Happy wasn’t even close. Lindsay was already euphoric and she hadn’t even signed the papers yet. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her skin was glowing, complementing her radiant eyes.
“Thanks, Mac!” Lindsay was ecstatic now, though her composure was still somewhat restricted. “Thank you so much!”
---
Lindsay hadn’t been able to contain herself much longer so she ran out of the door and sprinted down the corridor of the ‘glass maze.’ She felt as if she were six years old again, playing in the wheat fields in late July. And damn, it felt good!
“Where ya goin’, Speedy?” asked a bewildered Danny as she whizzed past.
“Home.” she breathed, turning and giving him the biggest, brightest and most genuine smile she had ever given. Her pearly whites were bared at full view as she started giggling like a child. “I’m going home.”
Fin.
A/N: Okay, so Lindsay isn't really one of my favourite characters on the show but i thought it turned out to be a cute fic. (i gave her a more dignified send off than they did aiden...)
i heard this song (New York's Not My Home by Jim Croce) and thought it'd be perfect for her so i wrote this piece. please review and make me happy!
you can also find this story at ff.net here
Rating: T
Pairing: none
Content Warning: contains swearing
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Though all the streets are crowded
There’s somethin’ strange about it
I lived there bout a year and I never once felt at home
There were people everywhere.
Too many of them in any direction you look except up. But it wasn’t as surprising as last year, coming to Times Square for the first time on the fourth of July. She couldn’t count the people if she tried, and she would readily bet they outnumbered the entire population of her home state, and win. They were all congregated here, taking up every inch available, and this wasn’t even all of them.
They were like rats, all shoved up into the same pit to wallow in their own filth. All of them thinking that they were more important than the other. All completely wrong. They each falsely deemed themselves important, and that annoyed her.
Amidst the myriad of people she felt so alone. In any city or town in Montana she would strike up a conversation with a stranger, but here she thought about it twice. If looks could kill and words could bruise, just about every New Yorker you talk to would murder you or beat you senseless. Small talk wasn’t appreciated in a city of impolite, impatient, egocentric and cantankerous people. Manners were for the weak here, real New Yorkers, as her uncle would say, don’t give a fuck.
It must have been something in the air, or maybe the water. These New Yorkers were true to stereotype: only a handful of people would spare you a moment, the rest of them “don’t have all fuckin’ day.”
Her neighbour was no exception. The only conversation that had carried on from a brief greeting had been when Lindsay had arrived at her doorstep with homemade cookies. The coffee had been awful and the conversation stale and Lindsay understood that in this city, neighbours aren’t friends. She missed the Sunday lunches she used to share with the couple that lived across the hall in Bozeman. She missed the way they’d give each other keys and invite each other over for movies or coffee. Most of all, though, she missed the feeling of genuine kindness.
Perhaps it was the confined spaces that made the people this way. That and the bleak landscape. Her apartment was ugly, ridiculously small and ludicrously expensive by Montana standards. However, in New York, this was translated into cosy, old-fashioned and moderately priced. The fashionably exposed, read unfinished, brick wall and fireplace, were not even worthy of entertaining a fire. The kitchen, if you could call it that, was hardly big enough to cook in let alone eat in leaving the only decently sized room her bedroom. She had a small balcony but she couldn’t bare to go out as it reminded her of what she didn’t have. What she missed most, more than large kitchens and real hardwood, was the scenery.
Here she looked right out of her window into a grey mass that passed for a building. It was a mountain in its own right, but it could never compare to her mountain. The glass, concrete and steel pile didn’t change with the season. There was no healthy green in spring, no golden glow in the summer, no luminescent shades of red and orange in autumn, just a cold sheet of snow in winter which could never be described looking like a layer of icing sugar. Where she saw natural splendour, she now saw monolithic structures, cold and unforgiving, like the city. Yes, Montana had spoiled her.
For the precious hours she was on the job, Lindsay stopped missing Montana. She was doing what she loved surrounded by a small team of good people, almost giving semblance to a family. She loved being part of a world which fascinated her as a adolescent: forensic science. Lindsay was always fervent, bubbly and enthusiastic at new endeavours and experiences.
She had been, and still was, horrified at what people in this city did to each other on a daily basis. Somewhere, in between running around downtown, they seemed to have lost all moral judgement. Finding out who the culprit was and catching them was the best part of the job. She lived for the moments she could tell the victims or their family that justice would prevail, that the bad guy was in their hands, that everything would be okay. Lindsay loved her job because it made her feel like a better person.
Been in so many places
You know I’ve run so many races
And looked into the empty faces of the people of the night
And something is just not right
The seconds bled into minutes before Lindsay noticed she was standing still in the middle of Times Square. There were still as many people, if not more, milling around.
It was easy to tell the New Yorkers apart from everyone else. The city people didn’t have time to lend a hand when a bag was dropped or make small talk. The tourists would all smile, take in the city in awe and talk politely whereas any New Yorker would give you looks to kill and walk off, usually complemented by a “fuck you” or something to that effect.
The New Yorkers were not a people of moderation either. There were the abominably rich and the atrociously poor, the obscenely loud or the damnably quiet. There were the suspiciously curious and the terrifyingly indifferent. Every grey area was classified under black or white, and Lindsay couldn’t figure out where she belonged.
She looked at the people around her, studying them, taking it all in. She observed their attitudes, the false indifference, even their image, which was only a representative of who they were, a refined illusion of the person they wanted to be. Their eyes were lifeless, the tones of voice were strictly business, but it was painfully clear in the subtext that almost each and every one of them was unhappy.
They kept busy all day, the city people. Even those who could afford free time spent their days running around because the idleness allowed them to reflect on how unsatisfactory their lives were, and shattered the illusion they wanted to maintain. Those who didn’t have the luxury of recreation were reminded of the omnipresent sadness as they toiled away on never-ending shifts. Lindsay was persuaded that neither the reasonably well-off nor the poor really enjoyed life in New York.
The few that were happy were the extremely rich, those with nothing to lose and predominantly those who were delusional. Lindsay was convinced that those who perceived themselves as ‘happy’ here had obviously never spent a idle day in the fields of the Big Sky Country. They had never felt the Montana wind on their skin, singing sweet melodies, undisturbed by perpetual traffic and cell phone ring tones. No, the New Yorkers didn’t know what it meant to be happy.
Lindsay hated New York.
She hated it here. From the oppressive air of the city with its imposing hundred-story buildings to the grey colour of everything. She hated that she had become an automaton living a seemingly empty life, devoid of all euphoria because she simply didn’t have the time. She would work through the same routine day in, day out and convince herself it was normal, but to no avail. She hated the feeling of being trapped in a concrete jungle with animals who would stop at nothing for their own gain. She hated having to navigate through the maze to find a place of rest, Central Park, which, for all its beauty and excellent upkeep was too contrived and man-made for her. She hated the way most New Yorkers thought they knew it all, the way they felt they had the right to be unnecessarily impolite and their cynical qualities, as they knew the price of everything and yet the value of nothing.
“Watch where you’re going!” she yelled after someone who had walked into her.
But what Lindsay hated most, abhorred even, was that she was becoming just like the rest of them.
Thing were spinning ‘round me,
All my thoughts were cloudy,
And I had begun to doubt all the tings that were me.
The metamorphosis was slow, and had been painfully imminent since her arrival in New York City. Lindsay had likened it to Darwin’s Theory of Evolution: you adapt or you die out.
There was no place for a cute, zesty country girl with more manners than New York had assholes. She couldn’t expect courtesy to take her anywhere and so, without her knowing, she had slowly been transforming into a New Yorker.
The first change had been subtle. The only person who noticed was her father, and her father noticed everything. Instead of picking up the phone and greeting the caller with incredible joviality and courtesy, Lindsay had started the conversation by saying her full name or, on bad days, straight up asking people what they wanted. Her tone had become indifferent and she spoke a lot faster. Time is money as the New Yorkers said.
“What do you want?” she groaned coldly into the receiver.
“Well... I was looking for my daughter but it seems New York has turned her into something else.” came a sarcastic reply. It was her dad.
“Sorry, Pa. I’m having a bad day. I jus-”
“You’ve been having a bad day this past year, Linds.”
Lindsay sighed heavily. “I miss Bozeman... “ And then she choked on a flood of tears.
After she had hung up, Lindsay let the tears fall freely. She was sure her dad had felt it coming, but she never liked to cry in front of him. Plus, he had been ecstatic about her new job in the Big Apple, although she had seen the sadness in his eyes as she walked past the security check at the airport.
Lindsay cried because she wasn’t in Montana. But mostly because she was becoming like the rest of them. She was becoming cold, rude and insensitive.
The next episode happened one day on the job. Danny asked her if everything was fine after she gave a stranger, what she swore was, the most malicious look she had ever given anybody. It was murderous. It was the ‘New York glare’ down to a T. She dismissed Danny, told him everything was fine and went on with her day. It was only when she was in the safety of her apartment that she erupted into loud sobs and salty tears, letting all the frustration and anger wash out of her. She cried herself to sleep, promising that she would never turn into one of them, that she would remain the way she had always been.
The following morning she had awoken to questions. What happened to the sweet country girl from Montana? Where was the polite, fervent and optimistic hick? Had she died? Had she ever even existed?
The notion chilled Lindsay to the core, freezing her bones into a solid mass of ice to complement her new exterior. What if she had always been a rude, stoic, insensitive, pessimistic stoic waiting to be unleashed and had finally seized an opportunity? Maybe she didn’t know herself. Perhaps she had only known what she would have liked to be. Maybe she had been delusional all these years, believing she was someone she wasn’t and now, now she was confronted with reality. No! No, no, no. It’s not me. I’m not like that...it’s this fucking city.
She couldn’t afford to doubt herself, she knew who she was deep down. I was just trying to fit in. Just trying to be like everyone else...like the rest of them. But I can’t do this anymore...I just can’t. Lindsay had always wanted to fit in, not be an outsider. She didn’t like being singled out, could you blame her? All she wanted was to be a part of this place, but if that was what it was to be a New Yorker, she resigned herself to being a country hick.
Don’t you know that I gotta get outta here,
I’m so alone.
Yeah, I know that I gotta get outta here
Coz New York’s not my Home.
It had been a tough decision, but as with everything else, Lindsay saw it through to the end. She knew that, sooner or later, it was bound to happen, but as it were, lady luck was hovering nearby. The conditions were perfect and she could already taste the ripe, sweet, fruit of her labour on her tongue. Lindsay summed up all her courage and nerve and took the bull by the horns. Rodeo was nothing new to her.
“Mac?” her voice was quiet, unsure, Small white knuckles met the door as she knocked a second time.
“Come in.” emotionless, all business. “If it’s about the Branson case, you don’t need to apologise. Everyone makes mistakes.”
Shit! With everything going on in her head, she had completely neglected her current case and the small predicament she was in.
“Umm... Actually it’s not about that. It’s...personal.” She braced herself for the massive leap she was about to take.
Mac sighed, allowing his eyes to inspect Lindsay before reverting to the file he was leafing through. “Well?” he prodded after a tense silence, his eyes resting on his computer monitor now.
“I quit.” It had been firm but not harsh, practiced to perfection.
The moment the words left her lips, Mac’s undivided attention was on her. For a second, she thought she saw surprise in those grey eyes, but it was gone faster than it had come. His probing gaze dissected her and studying her facial expression, their eyes never meeting.
“Why?” he questioned, still staring but with less intensity than mere seconds ago.
Because it’s what I have to do. Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see? This place is sucking the life out of me! I’m a country girl, I can’t live here. It’s killing me from the inside.
Lindsay allowed her sad, wide, hazel eyes to meet his indecipherable grey ones. Her eyes spoke volumes, depicted a deep lugubrious, heart-rending sentiment. Her eyes reminded him of a forlorn, homesick puppy. She was physically in New York, but this city could never have her. No, this city could never have Lindsay Monroe. Mac understood.
Her eyes were defiantly dry through they both knew she wanted to cry. Mac inhaled deeply, “So, what are you going to do?”
“There’s an opening in the Bozeman forensic team. I’ve already been accepted.” she replied, her voice shaky with happiness now.
Mac nodded his head slowly, a small smile creeping up his lips. “I know you’ll be happy there, but we’ll miss you a lot here.” Happy wasn’t even close. Lindsay was already euphoric and she hadn’t even signed the papers yet. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her skin was glowing, complementing her radiant eyes.
“Thanks, Mac!” Lindsay was ecstatic now, though her composure was still somewhat restricted. “Thank you so much!”
---
Lindsay hadn’t been able to contain herself much longer so she ran out of the door and sprinted down the corridor of the ‘glass maze.’ She felt as if she were six years old again, playing in the wheat fields in late July. And damn, it felt good!
“Where ya goin’, Speedy?” asked a bewildered Danny as she whizzed past.
“Home.” she breathed, turning and giving him the biggest, brightest and most genuine smile she had ever given. Her pearly whites were bared at full view as she started giggling like a child. “I’m going home.”
Fin.
A/N: Okay, so Lindsay isn't really one of my favourite characters on the show but i thought it turned out to be a cute fic. (i gave her a more dignified send off than they did aiden...)
i heard this song (New York's Not My Home by Jim Croce) and thought it'd be perfect for her so i wrote this piece. please review and make me happy!
you can also find this story at ff.net here
