A/N: Well, I've got a CSI fic, a CSI: Miami fic (however little action it has seen lately)... I figure it's about time to round out the trifecta. I am a fan of writing OCs, mainly because they give me a little more freedom to play with personality without changing too much in established characters. I do try desperately to make them believable and not "Mary Sues" or whatever they're called, so I hope you end up liking her as a character. I am trying a few new things this time around, first and foremost, I'm going to try first person a bit with this one. Secondly, I'm centering it on an existing character that is not necessarily my favorite (I'm more of a Hawkes kind of girl), so that alone should pose a nice writing challenge. Lastly, instead of being episodic like my others, I am really going to try to keep this as one continuous story instead of a whole bunch of vignettes smashed together.

This begins in Season 6, somewhere between the episode 6X4 - Dead Reckoning and episode 6x8 - Cuckoo's Nest. Probably closer to Cuckoo's Nest. CSI: NY seems to like to play fast and loose with the time continuum, so let's just say 6 months after "Pay Up"

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to be affiliated with CSI: New York, or anything associated with the franchise. I do own my character, but nothing else.

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My neon striped socks looked out of place against the worn brown leather of his couch. I squeezed my knees tighter to my chest as I reached down and began to pick at a stray thread over my toe. Anything to avoid looking across the coffee table and into those eyes. I knew what I'd find there, and I didn't want to see it. I'm the one who should be worried about him, not the other way around, and it made me feel guilty.

I really don't know what made me come over here in the first place. The second I heard his voice float through my phone speaker with a peace offering of pizza and beer, I knew what would be waiting for me. And yet, here I was, crunched into a corner of his couch, his eyes following my every move, concern swirling in electric blue.

I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't have even hinted. He was a detective for Christ's sake. I knew better than to think he wouldn't immediately look up my file to find out what I had referenced. It's not like I wouldn't have done the same.

"Emmie..."

My name sounded odd in his voice. He had never used my first name before, not even to mention shorten it from Emilia. I had been "Petrov" to him since we started working together three months ago. No matter how many times I used his first name, tried to foster a friendship, a proper partnership, it was still always my last name. I had expected the resistance, I guess, considering everything Danny had told me had happened.

"Emmie..."

There it was again, more insistent on my attention. It sounded bizarre. I tried to ignore it and instead continued to be fascinated by my socks.

"Emmie, I'm so sorry."

"Why would you be sorry? Did you shoot him?"

My voice had had more of an edge than I had intended it to. God, what was wrong with me? The last thing he needed to deal with right now was a pissy partner. I risked a glace over as I was met with silence. My abruptness had startled him: his mouth was hanging slightly open.

After a second, he answered. "No... I guess not." he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head for a moment. "I did act like a royal douchebag though."

I sighed. "No you didn't. You had no way of knowing."

"Still."

"Still, nothing, Don." The thread I was playing with finally came free. I began rolling it in between my fingers. "Its part of the process. I guarantee you that I said far worse things to people while I was working through everything." I heard the soft deflation of the chair as he thudded back into it. "I was just lucky enough not to have said them to anyone who actually did understand. Or I guess I was unlucky enough."

I paused, placing the little threadball on the coffee table and swinging my legs down into a proper sitting position. "It would have been nice to have someone to walk me through, you know?" I looked up, pointedly catching his eyes. My breath hitched. The raw emotion I found threw me a little. As if his eyes didn't do that normally.

He broke eye contact and looked towards the window. "Yea..."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped in front of me. "Listen, Don. I get it. I really do."

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with me shifting the focus onto him.

I continued anyway. "If you ever need someone to talk to, I won't judge. I've been there. I know."

His eyes remained fixed on the window. I had pushed him too far. Too much too soon, I suppose.

After a moment of silence, I stood up, grabbing two empty beer bottles and my sock string ball from the table and made my way to the garbage.

"I should get going. We've got early shift in the morning."

He stood, grabbing the two remaining bottles and placing them on the counter. We finished tiding our mess in silence.

When the bottles were disposed of, and the pizza box thrown away, he followed me to the door, ready to see me out. It wasn't until I had my coat on that he spoke. His voice was barely audible. "Do they ever go away?"

I stopped mid-step. "Do what go away?"

"The flashbacks."

I took a deep breath. Muzzle flash. Crimson on white. One empty green eye. I couldn't lie to him.

"No, Don. They don't."

Our eyes met again, the pain in those big beautiful orbs of his making me wince. God I wished I could make it all better for him somehow. But there was nothing I could do or say that would fix this. All I could do was be there if he wanted to talk, offer assurance that this was normal, do what he would let me. I spoke again, breaking eye contact and looking down at my now shoe covered feet. "They just hurt less over time."

We stood in silence for about a minute before one side of his mouth quirked up. It couldn't be called a smile, and my heart broke at the sight.

"Thanks, Emmie, and I'm sorry."

"No need for thanks or apology. It's simply what partners do." Another pause. One last look into those eyes, and I felt that familiar prickle behind my own. I knew I had to go. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yea. See ya..."

As he closed the door behind me, I heard the sound of his body thudding against it and sliding down to the floor. I almost turned back, wanting so badly to go in and throw my arms around his huddled, lanky form. To go in and let him cry on my shoulder, get all of the hurt out. To help him go back to the Don Flack that the labbies had all told me about.

But I didn't. And he wouldn't. Greif just didn't work that way.

So I plodded home through the rain, burdened with new tragedy; his hollowed, devastated eyes added to the list of images that would never leave me.

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please, please, please let me know what you think in a review!