Umm...This is my first CSI: NY story...all disclaimers apply, of course.

This story takes place after Claire Taylor, Mac Taylor's wife, dies. Since the show only refered to this once in the series, i thought i'd try to explain some of the stuff surrounding it...so here you are.

Please read and review (even if u dont like it or think it sucks...tell me why so i can make it better)

Thanks

LOST

Chapter One

All he could see was smoke. Black, billowing smoke, pouring from the high windows, discoloring the bright September sky. And it was everywhere.

It was so thick and choking, he could barely see the towering building before him, and the flames and smoke he knew was billowing forth from it. But he could picture it in his mind's eye-the millions of times he had been there, and the millions he had been inside. Times before, when they had stood tall and strong against the New York sky.

Before the planes had hit.

He ran blindly through the fog, pushing aside people running the other direction. They called to him as they ran, telling him to go back, to get away. Far away. But he didn't listen. He just kept running, his feet scraping the dusty streets, his heart pounding against his ribcage harder than he had ever thought possible.

Someone shoved him aside, and he stumbled forward and fell, his knees scraping the pavement that was littered with debris. Pain shot through his leg, but he knew pain, and this was nothing. He got back up, and kept running. He had to get to her. He had to get to her, before it was too late.

Debris rained down around him, and a great roar made him look up, and see the Trade Centers, shaking and rumbling in their foundations, begin to crumble.

"CLAIRE!" he screamed, but his voice was lost among the others, lost among the crumbling of cement and the breaking of glass, lost among the smoke and flames.

Lost, just like her.

Detective Mac Taylor awoke with a start, his heart pounding and breath coming out in ragged gasps.

The smoke. It was choking him, all over again.

He jumped up from where he had fallen asleep on his desk, ignoring the pain in his knee as it cracked against one of the desk's hard corners.

… he stumbled forward and fell, his knees scraping the pavement...

The pictures in his head were fresh and piercing, enhanced by the nightmare that had just plagued him. The smoke, the fire, the screams-they were all embedded deep in his mind, too deep to erase. And they weren't pictures he wanted to remember.

Mac squinted at the clock on his desk, and could blearily read the blinking numbers. 9:45 am. The last he had remembered, it was 11, and the team was just finishing up a case they had started in the weeks before 9/11. He must have fallen asleep on his desk…again.

Shaking his head, he massaged his temples with his hands. The dream, the nightmare, had kept him up nearly every night, making dark circles underneath his eyes, giving them an even hollower look then they had before. It kept replying over and over in his mind, and he saw it with such clarity that it was as if he was there all over again, with the smoke and the debris and the fire surrounding him. The giant, towering Trade Centers that once stood so tall and proud, collapsing as he watched helplessly.

And his Claire, trapped inside.

His breathing became even shakier as he thought of that morning, the New York skyline scarred with the charred remains of the Trade Centers. And Claire, buried somewhere beneath the rubble.

Mac stood, placing his hands against the hardwood desk, leaning on it. He didn't trust his knees any more-they were bound to buckle at any moment. When he finally steadied his shaking legs, he made his way over towards the window, the shade pulled down over it, keeping the bright September sunlight out of his dim office. Very slowly, he pulled open the shade, and peered out over New York City, scanning the buildings and microscopic people wandering through the streets below. It had only been 2 weeks, but it seemed like the city had begun to slip back into a shaky routine. Some people went on with life, curbing the disaster of the 11th like a bad memory. But for others, Mac knew life would never be the same. He knew people had lost friends, family, and more in the terrorists attacks. Life would never be routine again.

Sighing deeply, Mac placed his forehead on the cool glass of the window. Tears threatened to sting eyes, and he closed them so they wouldn't fall. Claire…

Mac couldn't stop the dry sob from catching in his throat, but he tried to make it go away. He didn't want to cry, he hated it. He had seen so many tears, so much pain in the past few days, in the past few years, to last him a lifetime. He didn't need to add to it now.

But he couldn't stop the tears from brimming in his eyes.

God I miss you, Claire…

A slight knocking at his door shook him from the window, and he rubbed a quick hand over his eyes, trying to erase any evidence that he had been crying from them. Mac Taylor didn't cry.

"Mac?"

"Come in," he called, settling himself back at his desk, quickly organizing the disheveled papers on his desk. From the doorway, his fellow CSI colleague Stella Bonasera peered in, taking in his appearance in one sweep of her amber eyes.

"Hey, Mac. You look exhausted," she said bluntly, but softly. For a moment, Mac almost smiled-Stella never missed the chance to get to the point. But his lips didn't seem to want to move in that direction, and the rest of him didn't feel like following.

"I'm fine, Stella," he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "You got another case for me?"

Stella looked at him for a moment, then walked closer to the desk and kneeled down to his level.

"Mac, why don't you go home? No one will blame you. Hell, no one even expected you to come back this early." Mac shook his head stubbornly. He hated being pitied, especially from his friends. They had all been treading on eggshells since the attacks, trying to get him time off, trying to get him to go home. But they didn't understand. He couldn't go back, even if he tried. He hadn't been home since the funeral-and that had been days ago. But he couldn't go back, now that Claire was gone. There was too much of her there.

"No, I'm fine," he snapped, a little more short than he had intended. "Do we have another case or not?" Stella sighed, defeated.

"Yeah," she said. "Body found just outside Madison Square Garden. Flack just called it in."

Mac grabbed his jacket, hanging off the back of his chair, and pulled it on, and walked past Stella to the door.

"Alright. Let's go."

"Mac." Her tone stopped him in his tracks, and he didn't move, his back still facing her.

"Mac…I'm sorry." For a minute, he was frozen, his back stiffening. Then:

"I know." He muttered hollowly, and before Stella could say anything else, he continued out the door and disappeared.

Stella watched Mac go, and sighed deeply. She didn't understand why he was still working-it had only been weeks since Claire had died, and she knew it affected him more than he let on. They were married, and that was a bond that Mac couldn't hide, even if he wanted to. Stella hadn't known Claire for long, but she knew how much Mac loved her.

Burying himself in his work wasn't helping, either. She knew that he spent nights at the CSI building, she had watched him lock himself in his office every night, and still be in the same place the next morning. He looked lost, a mere shadow of the man he had once been.

Secluding himself wasn't going to help take away his pain. But it was how he was dealing with it; there was nothing Stella could do to help him.

Mac reappeared at the doorway, a confused look on his face.

"Aren't you coming?"

Stella took in the dark shadows under his eyes, the haggard look fixated on his face, and the pain he tried to keep hidden in his eyes. She wished she could do something to take away his pain, but she knew the only person that could had fallen with the towers on that September morning. Reluctantly, she nodded.

"Yeah," Stella sighed, following his lead from the office. "I'm coming."

The car ride to Madison Square Garden was a long and uncomfortable one. Mac sat stiff as a board in the passenger seat, staring out the side window expressionlessly, his eyes skimming over the people and cars passing them on the streets and sidewalks. Passing them on the way to their jobs and schools, on the way to their homes and families. Mac wondered how they could go back to normal, just like that. After everything that had happened, how could they slip into their lives again so easily?

Yet, wasn't that just what he was doing? Going back to work, and burying himself in it? Mac shook his head. It was different, he told himself. Different.

The car turned a corner, and instantly found itself faced with the empty sky and street that the Trade Centers had once stood. Mac stared, transfixed on the empty space in the sky, and found his hands shaking slightly. The fire, the smoke… He closed his eyes, and could imagine the screams and breaking of glass, embedded in his memory forever; it was like it was happening all over again. He quickly opened his eyes to ride himself of the memory.

In the reflection of glass, he could see Stella staring at him. He knew she was worried about him, the fact hadn't escaped him. But he didn't need her to see him like this. Mac Taylor wasn't one to wallow in self pity.

"You don't have to watch me, you know," he informed her, still facing out the window as he spoke. "I'm not going to jump out," he muttered bitterly.

Stella's reflection looked startled, maybe because she hadn't expected him to say anything so suddenly, but it quickly reverted back to her normal look of interrogation.

"I didn't think you were going to jump out, Mac," she said pointedly. "I'm just-

"—worried about me," he finished, still staring out the window. "Well, you don't have to be."

Stella just stared back at him in silence, and he could see hurt and pity written all over her face. Instantly he wished he could take back his tone, and tell her how much he really appreciated her being there. At the funeral, at the office-he knew she cared about him. He wanted to thank her for being there, thank her for being a friend-but nothing came out of his mouth. He was never good at expressing his feelings…except with Claire. And now she was gone…

So the car continued on, its two passengers not saying a word as Ground Zero faded in the distance behind them. But Mac knew his memories could never fade.

Stella glanced at Mac, keeping one eye on the road as she did so. The detective was staring aimlessly out the window, not really seeming to focus on anything he saw. Stella wasn't even sure if he was aware that the car was moving-his eyes never moved from the one spot on the glass window.

Until they passed Ground Zero, that is. Stella could visibly see his shoulders sag as his eyes scanned what was left of the Trade Centers, what was left of his life. In the reflection of the glass window, she could have sworn she saw tears glistening in his eyes before he closed them.

He had said she shouldn't be worried about him, but it didn't stop her from doing so. She had known Mac long enough to know when he was lying, or hiding his feelings. He had a crazy idea that it would make him look weak-but no one would blame him. He had lost his wife, and he couldn't pretend that it wasn't bothering him. Not even to a total stranger.

Stella sighed lightly, and turned back to the road. What Mac really needed was a break. To go home, to rest-he had jumped right back into work after the funeral, and hadn't missed a beat. Stella was no psychiatrist, but she knew he needed time to recuperate. Burying himself in everything else and alienating himself wouldn't make his pain go away, but he didn't seem to want to listen to anyone. She understood his need to be alone…but he needed to talk to someone. And none of the CSI's could think of anything to help him.

Mac kept staring out the window with a vacant, empty expression, his head resting against the glass, and closed his eyes.

Oh, Mac…Stella thought sadly. How can we help you if you keep pushing us away?

will update soon, i promise

-breakthehabit