A/N: This muse came to me when I listened to U2's song, 'Walk On', which reminded me of 9/11. I thought of Mac, and then after I watched the series premiere, I decided what the hay, I'll give it a shot. There currently are no pairings. Just Mac/Claire glimpses. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: CSI:NY belongs to CBS.

Chapter one: Blink

Tuesday. September 6th, 2004. 8-10 P.M.

"Mac."

Her voice was all he ever heard now that she was gone. He'd sit in his office and stare at a file, hoping it would take his mind off her. He avoided his apartment on purpose. Every inch of what he used to call home was filled with her memories. He slept on the couch in his office, and he ate whatever food Stella left in the break room fridge for him.

Sometimes, if he didn't sleep enough, he'd start to hallucinate. He'd see her sitting in his chair, twirling in it as she waited for him to come into his office. He'd see her skipping down the street, see her laughing at someone in the lab.

She only visited the lab twice, but he still saw her wandering the halls. He figured it was better than sleeping, though. Because whenever he slept he had nightmares. The nightmares were worse than seeing her wander the lab. He would dream of 9/11. He'd dream of all the horrible ways she could have died. Did she give up and jump out of the 14th story to her death? Did the plane actually hit her? Did she catch on fire? Did she get stuck in an elevator? Had she taken the stairs? Did those collapse underneath her feet? Had she survived the first day? Did she suffer?

All questions he'd never be able to have an answer.

September 11th, 2004 was easing its way into Mac's calendar. Just five more days until he'd come across the 3rd anniversary of Claire's death.

His hands were shaking as he sat down at his desk. He lifted up the manila folder that sat in the center, waiting to be opened. He pushed it to the side, and picked up the black pen that lie in front of his computer. He looked at the calendar that lay on his desk, and blinked once, twice, three times before he made an X on the block with the number 6 sitting neatly in the left hand corner.

"Five more days," he mumbled to himself, brining his attention to the manila folder once more. He set it in the center of his desk, and with one swift movement, opened the case file. A serial case, it looks like. Two women brutally killed, and a third one never to leave the hospital, caused by a Russian "doctor".

The ones with the women were always the ones that got to him. Sometimes, he could see Claire's face in them. He knew when he didn't sleep this would be the result, but he was scared of sleep. Some doctors would say he had chronic insomnia. Maybe they were right. His opinion? He just didn't want to see his wife dieing as he watched helplessly in his nightmares.

There was a knock at his door. He looked up from the file, and nodded his head for Stella to come into his office. He knew by the look on her face she was going to make him go home and sleep.

"Go home," she demanded.

"No," he shook his head. "I'll take five in a few."

Stella nodded her head. "Take five in your home, Mac."

"Claire's home," he corrected her. "Take five in Claire's home. No thank you, Stella. My couch is comfy enough."

"I've got a spare bedroom."

"No thanks." He stood up from his desk, closed the folder, turned off his computer, and headed out of his office, leaving Stella in the dark.

His destination was Angel of Mercy hospital, where Jane Doe lie brain dead. He found himself spilling his guts to a woman who couldn't hear him. As he sat in the cold hard plastic chair beside her bed, he became vulnerable. She was about to know all of his secrets. This was a first for him, dead or alive, that he would tell someone how he was coping with his wife's death.

He let out a sigh of desperation. Something in this woman made him see Claire made him think of Claire. Made him realize he still needs Claire.

"I'm so tired," he told Jane Doe, as he watched the machines move her chest up and down. "I used to sit like this with my wife. Her name was Claire." He bit the inside of his cheek before he continued.

"She died. On 9/11. No body saw it coming…I was cleaning out the closet, and I found this beach ball. I remembered it was my wife who blew it up. I got rid of everything that reminded me of Claire. Too painful. One thing I couldn't throw away was that beach ball. Her breath was still in there."

A moment later, a doctor came in, and asked if he was ready to let the woman go. He nodded his head, and left the room, only to find himself climbing into a cab leading him to Ground Zero.

He leaned against the metal bars barricading Ground Zero. He let the coldness of them run against his hands, his cheek, his nose, and he closed his eyes.

Claire.

Her body would be cold right now wherever she was in that wreck. He wished he could wrap his arms around her like he always did when she complained she was cold. He wished he could offer her hot chocolate with marshmallows. Her favorite.

"Carmela."

His voice was always dancing in her mind. It was so angelic. If she closed her eyes, and squeezed them tight enough, she could feel his fingertips running up her spine, his breath lingering in her ear, the feel of his hands playing with her long dark hair.

She could still see the creases in his face when he smiled. She could feel his cheek press against her belly in an attempt to hear the baby. She could hear his laugh whenever she got a paper cut opening the cereal box, or when she repeatedly stubbed her toe on the corner of the bathroom door.

"Te amo, clumsy baby," he always laughed, and he always kissed her in the same spot on her neck.

As she stood looking at Ground Zero, she couldn't help but cry. Her fiancé, her amante, was somewhere in there.

In five days, she'd be standing in this exact spot, thinking the same thoughts she was at this very moment. Why'd you have to go? She reached into her pocket, pulled out a note, and reached her hand through the metal bars that acted as a fence. She dropped the note, and walked away, tears flooding her vision.

She headed towards home, but stopped at a bar called Cozy's. The name had caught her attention. She slipped inside, and sat at a table. It seemed to be some sort of place to perform. A man stepped onto the stage in front of her, and began singing. Jazz. She thought about bringing her guitar and singing a few songs when she could get some free time.

After a few beers, she headed back out onto the streets. She needed to get home. The baby was probably getting anxious without her there, and the babysitter was probably pulling her hair out by now.

He opened his eyes, and noticed a piece of paper on the opposite side of the bars. He knelt down, and reached his hand through the bars, grabbing the paper. When he unfolded it, he noticed the words were written in Italian.

Amo e manchi, il mio eroe. Sempre nel mio cuore. La vostra figlia è bella, amante.

He didn't know Italian, but he knew a little bit of Spanish. The words amo, and amante, were love in some form. Bella meant beautiful. Danny had said it before. He guessed it was a note to a loved one lost in 9/11. Someone, somewhere else was feeling the same thing he was at this moment. He knew that because this note was fresh. It had just been put down on the cold ground.

He refolded the note, and placed it back where he found it. "Amante", he said out loud. "I love you," he whispered. A single tear dripped from his eye, down his cheek, and landed on the folded sheet of paper that lie by his feet.

The Italian Translations:

Te amo: I love you

Amante: Lover

Amo e manchi, il mio eroe. Sempre nel mio cuore. La vostra figlia è bella, amante: I love and miss you, my hero. Always in my heart. Your daughter is beautiful, lover.