Sleep
By Dimgwrthien
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: NY or affiliates. I own Marie.
Mac Taylor hasn't slept in three years.
He's fallen asleep, yes, but only for short naps. Occasionally, he manages to drink just enough that he has to sleep off the effects for a few hours, but he doesn't let it show. He hides the fact that he feels numb in a different sense than usual and that his eyes burn from looking at the computer.
And sometimes, he prefers to work himself until he has to collapse. It's a perfect balance of being exhausted enough that he can't manage to do more than check his mail and put on pajamas, but awake enough to get home by the subway or his car. He doesn't like the idea of being half-asleep outside of his own bedroom, but it's the only way to get through the day.
Stella realizes what he's doing to himself. She's the only one who can read him - or cares to read him - well enough to understand why, too. It's no longer a way to keep away the images of Claire from his sleep, but to keep everything out of his mind. He knows that he's weakening, taking more personal notes on his cases, looking at the victims and finally realizing that he's looking at the rotting body of someone's son. Someone in the world just lost a person, and it's his job to find out who and why and how -
At night, when he thinks he's in a dungeon because his mind recreates the sound of the creaky opera song on a CD player from one case, and the sound of dripping water in the basement of a another. The victim from one case lay sprawled over the bloodied corpse from a completely different one.
Then there's Claire. Sometimes, she stands over the bodies, staring at him like so many murderers had, her eyes saying everything: I know I did it, but I'm innocent. Sometimes, she sits with the bodies, her own arms bloodied with claw marks, her fingernails holding the torn skin of the murderer.
And then there are the days when he sees her as he last saw her - in a hospital bed, still some blood coming from her numerous cuts, the type of breathing you can only get when the person is in a coma and watching death dance.
Once or twice, he's sat in front of the cases, their files spread around his desk, his computer moved so that they can all fit, and he types quickly, then his fingers start to slow down. This is the automatic time, the time that his brains realizes that there's no running away from itself, so it starts to sleep. Images replay over and over again, showing his memories he could barely remember he had.
It takes him a few minutes to get out of automatic, and when he looks, he realizes that he's typed Claire's name over and over again rather than the report on the case. He highlights the entire message, looks at it, and deletes it.
This is automatic time, he reminds himself. This is the time when he has no control.
Mac doesn't like not having control. He likes to know that he can work his body and mind until he needs to sleep a dreamless sleep. He likes to know that he can control every moment of his life with the accuracy he's shown around weapons half of his life. He likes to know that, even if he can't have perfection, he can have the closest thing.
When the automatic time comes, Mac shakes himself awake, just enough to get out of his desk and get into the break room. From years of practice, Mac knows that, to properly stay asleep at night, he needs to recharge his battery and run it low again and again until he knows the acid can't rise. He takes a cup of coffee, not bothering to sweeten it, then downs half of it without leaving the room. He finds himself staring outside the large glass door, thinking about nothing.
Once he finishes his coffee and realizes that he can't go on any longer, Mac takes his first look at the clock. One in the morning. Better than last week. He wants to regain his complete control, get back to his routine - bed by eleven.
He takes his jacket from his office, finishes the coffee, packs up the cases, and looks around. The building is dark, and he's never realized it before. Maybe his brain added in the lights and people that came near his shield during the day, tried to make his night normal.
Mac finally leaves the office, knowing that he'll collapse soon.
The streets are blue. Mac's never seen it before. There's a haze that seems to follow New York at night, a dust that shines in the headlights of the passing cars. Mac watches it as he walks, his feet knowing the way better than his mind. He can feel out the cracks in the pavement, feel the garbage on some of the streets. He wonders about how awake he is, and decides not to chance driving. He heads for the subway.
Florescent lights make the world a brighter place. They have a dull shine to them, and the subway is yellow. He can't remember if the subways run this late, but he waits, blinking as the headlights near him. Oddly enough, he's too tired to feel like a deer.
The subway car pulls nearer, and Mac boards it, taking a survey of his surroundings. Without the exits, he feels more contained than ever. He breathes once he sees the emergency ways out.
A woman sits across from him, watching him over her magazine. She's a young girl, maybe just out of high school, back from a night partying. She doesn't look drunk, though, but she looks tired.
She stretches out her hand, and Mac sees several of the bracelets that so many people wore with "LiveStrong" written on them, along with other phrases. Her nails were obviously painted peach sometime ago, but the polish has worn off.
"Marie Wiesner," the girl says, introducing herself. Mac has never spoken to a person on the subway that he didn't know. He leans forward slightly, feeling his mind rock from a headache, and shakes it.
"Mac Taylor."
She watches him carefully through blue eyes. He can tell that they're contact lenses from the strange color and glint. If he hadn't looked so close, he would have wondered what the girl was thinking. There's no emotion in false color. Her hair is a real color, though - a dark auburn that's been pulled back into a ponytail. Her hair looks curly, though, and half of it escapes the binding.
"What're you doing out so late?" she asks.
Mac closes his eyes for a moment. He's too tired to argue. "Working."
Marie nods, and Mac sees that she has a bit of pity written on her face, but nothing touches the false eye color. "My friends and I were out watching a movie, but the subways closed on that side of the city. Took forever to get here. They thought this one was closed." She smiles faintly. "I wonder where they are now."
Mac thinks about home. Home is a four-walled apartment with all traces of Claire locked away. Home has his neatly-made bed. Home has bottles of sleeping aid pills in his medicine cabinet.
Her eyes moved up to the post above Mac's head. It advertises a play that he knew was in the city - "Little Shop of Horrors".
"I saw that when I was a kid," Marie tells him as though it's something he ought to know. Mac doesn't quite care, but he listens anyway. "My father took me to it, an' I loved it. My friends always promised to come to a play with me. Have you ever acted? I love acting."
Mac shakes his head, then realizes that she has a strange accent. He's heard it before, and it takes him a minute to place it to New England. He guesses she's from Maine or Delaware. "Is that why you're here?"
Marie looks pleased. "Yeah. I came for acting. I love acting."
Mac takes a full minute before he realizes she's said it before. He blinks and shades his eyes for a second, digging his fingers into his temples.
"You look like you could act," she tells him. "I bet you have."
"I haven't," Mac snaps back.
Marie glances at another post and listens to the intercom. "This is my stop," she tells him. "I live a block or two away at the apartments. They're nice." As she gets up, fixing a tote bag she had been carrying with the name of a theater on it, she adds, "I bet you've acted sometime, even if not for a theater."
She leaves, and Mac watches the final trace of her tight red shirt and eccentricity to leave with her.
He makes his way home from the next stop, glad that he lives so close to the subway. It's only a block until he reaches the front of his apartment building and enters. He watches the elevator lights tick on the different floors until it reaches him, and he steps in. It moves slowly, almost mocking how behind his brain was.
Was he acting?
When he reaches his front door, Mac unlocks it, heading straight for the bed, falling on top of it without taking off his clothes. He fights off his jacket after a moment's pause, then wraps his arms around the pillow, closing his eyes. He takes care not to cross onto Claire's side of the bed.
He knows he'll be awake within four hours, and the buzzer rings.
Groaning, Mac gets out of bed, finding his way back where he came from, opening the door.
Stella watches him from the hallway. "You look terrible," is all she says, and Mac knows he does. "I never saw you leave the office, so I wanted to make sure you're sleeping."
Mac groans again, shading his eyes from the lights in the hallway.
"I'll take that as an invite," Stella whispers, walking in past his arm. She closes the door for him, and Mac leans on the wall.
"It's midnight, isn't it?" he asks, finally uncovering his eyes. All he can see is the shine of Stella's white shirt and the glint in her eye.
"It's almost two in the morning," she tells him. "Get to bed."
"I was in bed, but you came." Mac lets himself be ushered into bed, and is confused when he finds Stella next to him, taking off her shoes, touching his arm lightly.
Mac Taylor finally falls asleep.