I don't own any of the CSI:NY characters.

I always enjoyed the bits and pieces we had of Reed and Mac. This is just a one-shot of my view of Mac and Reed's second meeting. It's from Reed's POV, and some is stream of consciousness. I'm just seeing if it works - would love your feedback.

Twenty-Four Days

I try to tell myself that blood is the only thing that truly makes one a father. I try to convince myself that the man who signed the papers and brought me into his home at the tender age of five weeks was never really my father. We didn't share DNA, after all. If I had a therapist, he would probably tell me that I tell myself these lies to blunt the pain. He left me, and it hurts.

But I'm a realist and I know DNA doesn't make a parent; My mother doesn't share my DNA and I have the best mother. But I wanted a father too and so I went digging. In my quest for answers, I found out about my biological-mother (I refuse to use the term real mother). I learned that she was very young. That I was the product of a teenage relationship. That she wasn't ready to raise me. That she had no other option. That I shouldn't hold it against her. She was desperate, after all. Besides, she thought of me often over the years. I was glad to learn of my biological-mother, but she would always be a hyphenated figure for me. I have a mother. My mother is the lady who raised me from infancy, who kissed my skinned knees, smoothed my curls under her hands, sat in the bleachers while I sat on the bench during my soccer matches. She loves me, despite not sharing a single allele with me. And I love her.

But I don't have a dad and that's what I want.

The man who had agreed through adoption to be my father left me and my mom when I was four. He packed a bag, kissed my forehead, and gone to work. That night, he moved into an apartment. That weekend, he picked up his stuff. That month, he took me to McDonald's twice. After that, I saw him three, maybe four times. I don't remember those visits. My mother tells me he wasn't ready to be a parent. I shouldn't blame him for being scared. Maybe some day, she tells me, I'll find it in my heart to forgive. Maybe. But I'm angry. DNA or not, he was supposed to be my dad.

I have a mom. I used to have a bio-mom. I have a dad who left me. And I don't know anything about my biological father. The knowledge that someone out there shares my DNA, is my flesh and blood, spurns me forward. So, I agree to meet the husband of my bio-mom again. He thinks I want a connection to her. Maybe I do. A little. Mostly I want information about the man who came before him. The adoption agency has a name, but they won't give it to me. He didn't sign the same waiver that my bio-mom did. Maybe the husband knows.

Tonight I'm going to ask. I need to know who my father is. I watch the husband enter the restaurant. He tries too hard, I know that, but I tolerate it because I like the information he gives me. I like him too. I can't help that. It's hard for him to talk about her, but he does, and I appreciate that. He's doing it for me, or maybe for him, but mostly likely for her, but he's still doing it, so I don't question his motives too much. He smiles this time when he sees me. He tells me I look like her, and the first time he laid eyes on me, he felt like he was looking at a ghost. I don't know how that makes me feel, but I sense that, difficult as it may be, he'll talk this time. He'll tell me what I want to know, if I can only ask.

So I ask the easy, softball questions to warm him up. We share the same eyes. He smiles when he says that. I'm built like her, he says awkwardly. I'm a little short, but so was she, he says. Her hair was curly, and mine is too, he notes. She liked to straighten it. I nod and play with my straw wrapper.

He asks about my parents, so I think about my mom, my real mom, the one at home alone tonight. It feels strange to talk about … your wife, I say awkwardly. He nods. I think he agrees. How does your mother feel about you being here? he asks. She says I should learn about her, I answer, but I know it pains her too. It embarrassed her, but I could see she was relieved to learn that my bio-mom had died. I don't tell him that last part.

He claims she was kind and generous – or maybe that's just how a grieving husband views the love of his life – but I'm comforted by that anyway. He brought pictures for me. Again. He tells me I can keep these too. I have more than a dozen photos now, and I do appreciate them. But I want to know about my father, and he's never talked about him. Not even once.

I finally ask. He seems surprised by the question, startled almost. He looks away and he chews his lip. He shakes his head. He doesn't know anything, he says. She never talked about him. I don't really believe him. If I know anything about my bio-mom and this man, they were soul mates. She talked about him. She had to.

I try another way. When did you meet my bio-mom? How old was I?

You were 24 days old, he tells me. The answer surprises me in two ways. I'm surprised he knows my birthdate. I say that, and he tells me that my bio-mom always commemorated it. It was important to her. I'm also surprised because I was only three and a half weeks old. I tell him that I wasn't adopted until I was five weeks old, and now it's his turn to be surprised. He didn't know that. And his response tells me that my bio-mom didn't know that either. I lived in a foster home, I tell him, just outside a Marine base in North Carolina. He tells me he had been a Marine at that base. That's where he met my bio-mom, he tells me. Then he nods twice. He tells me that my father had been a Marine too.

It's the first piece of information I've ever known about him, and I soak it up. A Marine! He was a Marine! Then I look at the man across from me. He looks queasy, and he's looking at the door, like he wants to bolt. He doesn't though. Instead, he takes a deep breath and sips his coffee. He tilts his head sideways and he quietly gives me a first name. Tim. He has her journals. They're boxed up in a storage unit, but he'll look. If I want a last name, he'll see if he can find it. I nod. I want it.

He's stuck on the fact that I was five weeks old when I was adopted. He asks again. "Are you sure, Reed?" Of course, I'm sure. I know my adoption date as well as I know my birthdate. My mom celebrates my "Gotcha Day" every year. He seems unsettled, and I don't know why. He doesn't say anything for a long while. I give up trying to figure out his brain. Instead, I think about whether Tim-the-Marine wants to hear from me.

I don't have a dad, I suddenly blurt. He left me when I was a toddler. I cringe as the words leave my mouth and the husband nods slowly. He tells me to think carefully. You have a mother, he says. Maybe that's enough, he reminds me. I shake my head. It's never been enough. I need more. He tells me that Tim-the-Marine was relieved to relinquish his parental rights. He signed the papers and my bio-mom never, ever heard from him again. He might not be receptive.

Twenty-four days, he repeats. He can't get over that I was in a foster home. He sounds like he doesn't believe me. Yes! I tell him. I'm annoyed now. He mumbles something, and I thought I heard, "Claire would have kept you." I ask him to repeat what he said and he shakes his head. I ask again. Please. Tell me. He shakes his head again. "You have a family now, Reed. You don't need another."

I don't understand what he's saying. I have a mother, I tell him. It's not a family.

He smiles wistfully now. He repeats that I have a family. "She loves you, Reed. Don't forget that." I don't disagree, and he nods, satisfied for the moment. He's looking at me strangely, and I feel awkward. Then he decides to tell me what he was thinking before. "We didn't know. Claire and I didn't know," he tells me. "She thought you were already gone when we met."

I understand suddenly.

Twenty-four days separated me from him. If he had met my bio-mom twenty-four days earlier… If she had known I was in a foster home… If … Oh my god, he was almost my father. The reality takes my breath away. I forget about Tim-the-Marine and I think about Mac-the-near-stepfather, the husband of my bio-mom, the one who had never had a child, the one who still grieves. He's the one who's here with me today, sharing a Coke and a coffee on a Friday night. I've known him for less than two hours, but he's the only man I've ever known who takes the time to tell me to love my mother, to value my family, to be grateful for what I have. I don't think about alternatives, how if they had known I was in a foster home, I wouldn't have my mother. Instead, I think about how life works out because my mother is my mom, and my bio-mom gave me that gift, and maybe it's good that my father left me because that's why I know this man. And my life is undeniably better because I know him.

He'll look and try to find me a name, he repeats, moving back to Tim-the-Marine. The connection we have is too strong, too intimate, too strange. It feels safer to talk about Tim-the-Marine. I look at him carefully now. He's nervous. His eyes flit away. I shake my head. I don't want a name anymore. I tell him that and he looks relieved. He nods and then our eyes lock. He smiles and I smile. Then he grabs a menu. What do you want to eat? he asks.