The Things We'll Do
by: Solitaire42

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the rights to use them. They belong to Anthony E. Zuiker and CBS.

A/N: Hey! This is my first (posted) story, so tell me how you like it? Please? This was written as a brother-esque love fic, but if you want to you can interpret it otherwise, I suppose.

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Don Flack leaned against the brick facade of the scummy Brooklyn bar, playing with his phone and nursing a smoke. He let his head fall back onto the wall and shrugged his aching shoulders to get rid of the kinks from another hard day of playing Good Cop.

The clock on his phone told him it was just after midnight-thirty, and if he knew these streets as well as he thought he did (and he did), he'd be getting his first customer of the evening any time now. No sooner had he thought it than headlights shone on the wet pavement from around the corner and Flack swiftly put the phone up to his ear as the perfect misdirection if the car happened to be an officer on the beat. Instead of a cruiser, though, a beat up blue Oldsmobile rounded the bend and, upon reaching where he was standing, creaked to a stop.

There was that feeling in his stomach again. That "Oh God, oh God, I can't do this" feeling that threatened to paralyze him every time. He dropped his cigarette into the bucket of sand by the bar's side door and let his phone fall to his side as he sauntered up to the passenger-side door, doing his best to look sexy and unthreatening at the same time. Just one, he felt, was hard enough for him.

The window rolled down as he reached it, and he focused on its gaskets instead of trying to make eye contact first. This part was always the worst, he knew, swallowing the bile in his throat. He placed one hand over where the window had gone and stared at it steadfastly as he placed his left on the side of the door, leaning over so the person in the car could hear him over the Aerosmith streaming quietly from the radio.

"You lookin' for a date?" he asked after steeling himself, and then made his eyes roam over the passenger seat to meet the eyes of the driver. The familliar blue eyes he met were so unexpected, though, he would swear he felt his heart stop in fear.

Danny.

He had just propositioned Danny fucking Messer.

He blew out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and ran a hand through his hair as Danny, his best friend, just stared at him with his mouth half open and his eyes uncertain, wide.

"I-" he tried to find someway to explain it and FAILED, utterly and miserably, and just ended up stuttering.

"I was comin' over to ask what the hell you were doin' out here so late, Flack," Danny finally spoke. "And- this? You're doin' this? What the hell, Flack?!" Now that the CSI had found his tongue, he seemed to the power of speech back at full volume. Don recoiled from the outrage that the other man seemed to be broadcasting, and the loud, angry voice that just hurt for so many reasons other than its proximity to his eardrums.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, suddenly sure of the trouble he was in, and oh my GOD, he was going to get fired and he'd end up on the streets 24/7. "I'm sorry, Danny, please. Please don't tell anyone," he begged. He couldn't bring himself to look at his friend again and just backed up until he felt himself pressed against the wall where he'd started, fumbling to get a new cigarette out of his pack. He lit it quickly, taking in a few deep breaths through this wonderful nicotine-filter and letting them out slowly, sinking to the ground and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. No one was supposed to find out, this isn't the way things were supposed to happen.

Danny wasn't supposed to get out of the car, either, but he did. He should have just driven away and forgot about it (but Don knew he would never be able to completely forget - and then, there went any future hanging out, because Danny would know that Don was a whore), but the car got turned off and a door got slammed and then Messer was crouching in front of him, waiting for the younger man's panic to blow over a bit before trying to talk.

"Oh, God, Dan, I'm so sorry- oh, God-" he could feel himself threateneing to dissolve into tears, and he just would NOT add that to the list of things Danny had found out about him tonight. A thirty year old man, crying on a sidewalk? If there was one thing other than him being a pro that would alienate all his friends, it would be him crying on the fucking sidewalk.

But, no, he could feel himself shaking harder and, at this point, was just praying that Danny would leave him there. But, no, Danny Messer did their ex-marine father-figure proud and would never leave a man behind. Even if that man was a cheap pile of blubbering goo.

"Hey," he heard, much quieter than the initial reaction. "Hey, Don, you gotta talk to me here." Flack looked up from his hands and Danny had to duck a little to catch his eyes, but he did before he went on. "How long you been doin' this, Donnie?"

"A month an' a half," he croaked out. "Almost two, I guess."

Danny just stared at him for a moment. "Why, Don?" he continued, sadness permeating the question.

Don looked at him squarely, now. "Maybe I wanted to, Dan, alright?"

"I don't believe that for a second, Flack," Danny shook his head. "Stop bullshitting me."

The look in his friend's eyes was so the opposite of judgemental that Don lost all his fire and let out a heartwrenching, despairing sigh, before whispering, "It's Sam, Danny." Danny cocked his head and Flack made himself tell the truth. "Samantha's real sick, Dan. And Dad cut her off a few months ago, and it isn't like the bar she works in has a full cover insurance plan or anything." Don saw Danny settle himself better, kneeling now on the cement. "And, these fucking treatments or whatever, they just take so much out of her." He looked at his friend again, and could see a sad sort of sympathy in his eyes. "And now, cause she's got no insurance, she's gotta pay all of the cost, before they'll give it to her, and she-" he broke off, the first in what he was sure was a long line of sobs ripping itself from his throat. "And she ju- just can't, Dan, and I told her I'd take care of it. And- and I tried, so much. But I, I just coul- couldn't get it fast enough. And I-" he couldn't say anymore; wasn't sure that there was anymore to say. He just sat there, biting back a wail and waiting for Danny to leave or hit him, or tell him he was being stupid.

Two strong hands suddenly cradled his face and he found himself being forced to look into Danny's tear-filled eyes.

"You shoulda come to me, Don," he shook his head, disbelieveing. "You shoulda told me, so I could help. You know-" he broke off, uncertainty battling sadness for dominance in his expression. "You know you can come to me about anything, right? Don?"

He started to nod, he did nod, but the intense love and understanding in Danny Messer's gaze and touch broke down the barriers he had been trying so vainly to keep up for last few minutes, and he started sobbing, all-out sobbing. He tried to squirm away so that Danny wouldn't see him like this, wished he could burrow into the wall at his back. But, then, there was a hand on the back of his neck. And then his face was buried in Danny's chest, and he could hear him whispering something as Danny rocked him back and forth, holding him tight like he was worried he'd lose him, but gently, like he was afraid he'd break.

Don twisted his hands into Danny's shirt after a minute, trying to get enough sorrow out so he could put the barriers back up. But just as he was feeling a little better he understood what Danny was whispering.

"I'll fix this, Don. It's alright, it'll be ok." And Don was almost strong enough to keep rebuilding those walls. But then Danny kissed him, right on the top of his head, and he lost what little strength he'd kept in the first place and let himself cry. Because he knew, he knew, that if Danny said something he meant it. And if Danny meant it, then it was true.

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tbc

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