DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS

THANKS TO THOSE WHO ADDED ME TO ALERTS AND FAVES!

THIS IS A DANNY/FLACK CENTRIC CHAPTER FOR ALL OF THOSE WHO WANTED A LITTLE MORE FRIENDSHIP STUFF BETWEEN THEM


One Good Friend

"Well my Daddy used to tell me
Any man can be a king,
it ain't that complicated,
it's a very simple thing.
You don't need no castle or throne for sitting in,
All you need is one good friend.

If you find yourself somebody who will meet you at a stump,
on a rainy sunday morning before the sun is even up.
Who'll stand right there beside you and fight any fight you're in,
then you've got one good friend."
-One Good Friend, George Canyon


Danny's POV

I've had a lot of sleepless nights.

Bouts of insomnia brought on by the years I've spent on the job; seeing and hearing horrific, disgusting things that despite convincing yourself that you've shut yourself off emotionally and can hide behind that protective barrier you build around yourself, that haunt you in the dead of night and make your skin crawl. I know that Flack suffers from the same fate. The big bad homicide detective, who has mastered the appearance of calm, cool collectedness but has admitted to me on more than one occasion that the his time on the force has caused him more internal, psychological issues that even an army of therapist can't repair. He puts up a damn good front; but there's been many a time where our eyes have met during an interrogation and I've see the horror that exists in his soul, the sheer disbelief at both what he's hearing, and the thought that human beings can be that evil. And the realization that monsters and boogeymen do exist. Only they're not the demons and ghouls and goblins that our children think are living under their beds or in their closets amongst their clothes and toys; they're out on the street lurking and preying on innocents. Killing for nothing more than the rush and sense of control they get when they take a life. Stalkers and rapists, pedophiles and druggies cracked out on their poison of choice. The most dangerous of all are those that look just like you and me. You never know who the hell you're sitting beside on the subway or who's brushing past you on the sidewalk. The most deadly criminals are the ones who don't fit the part, who blend in so easily and never raise suspicion. Who live relatively mundane lives; nine to five jobs, a mortgage, a wife and a couple of kids. The ones who smile at you in passing and shout hello while you're both on your front porches collection the morning paper. The upstanding, law abiding citizens, members of the PTA, soccer moms and hockey dads, who seem so normal that you're completely stunned when something dark inside them rears its ugly head.

This job changes you. You can convince yourself time and time again that it doesn't bother you anymore. You can tell yourself that the gruesome details you're hearing and the disgusting crime scene photos you're looking at aren't real, that that DB and that pool of blood and that smell of decomp are nothing more than props for a weekly television crime drama. And you can walk out of the crime lab at the end of the day with your head held high; knowing that you've done your best to help bring down the heavy hand of justice and you've managed to give a grieving family some closure. You can reassure yourself that you're shaking hands and your knotted stomach aren't by products of the job itself, but nothing but rattled nerves from insomnia and the stresses of balancing home with your career. I guess the more you tell yourself all of that, the more you buy into it. But what you don't let yourself think about and what you don't reveal to your family is that you're a goddamn mess. That every morning when that alarm clock goes off or each time that phone rings dispatching you out into the field, you're cooking up a million and one excuses for why you want to call in sick that day or what reason you can't give for not answering the phone. But you always end up dragging your ass out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other, and you plaster a smile on your face when you step off that elevator onto the thirty-fifth floor and you spend your day lightening moods by cracking jokes, issuing smart ass comments or sharing lame ass personal anecdotes.

Or you leave the warmth and security of your home and the arms of your wife and haul ass to a crime scene a borough away. And you stand beside your best friend in the middle of the driving rain or you shiver alongside of him in the blistering cold, a stoic twosome shaking their heads in disbelief at not only the crime scene that lies in front of you, but at the realization that this is your life. That the job is no longer about serving and protecting, it's become a matter of survival. You've got bills to pay and little mouths to feed. You're eternally fucked; unfortunately, you're both blessed and cursed because you're disgustingly good at what you do. And in the midst of the madness and the stark realization that you're stuck in this job for the long haul, you know that the guy that's standing next to you, who you love like a brother and whose kids are part of your family, is in this God awful shitty mess until he too is ready to apply for his pension. You're a team; you know that your buddy will have your back no matter what and that you can trust him with your life. And that's the one thing, and sometimes the only thing, that gets you through the day. Knowing that you've got him beside you every step of the way. That he too bears the weight of the world as it sits squarely on his shoulders.

I'd broached the topic of alternate career choices with Flack a couple of weeks ago, as the two of us sat on the top landing on the backyard deck as his place, sipping a couple of beers and watching Lucy and Collin as the latter entertained my three year old daughter with a bottle of bubbles that his mother had given to him. Lucy had been fascinated; her eyes riveted on her little friend as he dipped that plastic wand into the soap mixture and proceeded to raise it to his lips and ever so gently blow on it to create a floating masterpiece that sparkled in the late afternoon sun. I can still hear those kids giggling as they chased those bubbles around the yard, jumping as high as their little legs would allow them, attempting to snatch those glittering orbs out of the air. So precious and innocent, awed by the simple things in life. Completely and blissfully unaware of the inner demons that their old men struggled with on a daily basis and kept expertly hidden from everyone around them. Never would we burden or kids with our problems; once we stepped through our front doors after a shift, we did everything in our power to shut down the cop sides of our personalities and turn on the daddy ones.

We let ourselves be easily charmed and entertained by the excited ways they recount their busy days for us, we praise them on the masterpieces they've created at day care -or in Collin's case, kindergarten- and we gush endlessly about Popsicle stick picture frames and the water colouring paintings or magic marker scribblings that they shove in our faces. We keep a straight face when we're asked to identify something on the paper: sure we know that that's mommy and daddy and the rest of the family- and we give apologetic smiles when we're way off the mark: no we weren't aware that that was suppose to be a cow because it makes such a great dog. And we get down on the floor and play with our precious bundles of joy -all of them- because the time we spend with them and all the sloppy kisses and the hugs we receive and the endless times they say "I love you, daddy" in their tiny voices makes the nightmare of our jobs so much easier to bear.

"What you think you'd be doing if you never become a cop?" I'd asked, as I took a swig of my beer and Flack repeatedly dribbled a colourful Finding Nemo ball on the wood beneath us. To a kid, that ball would have be considered pretty damn big; Flack was able to lay a hand over the top of it and nearly cover it from top to bottom with his fingers. Behind us, our wives had been laughing and joking around in the kitchen, sipping glasses of wine while caring for the babies off our families.

"Honestly?" my best friend had given a little frown and shrugged his broad shoulders. "I have no goddamn clue."

"Come on Flack…" I'd prodded. "There must be something else you can see yourself doing. Another job that you wouldn't mind having. Something nine to five maybe…"

"Nine to five requires an education Messer," he had reminded me. "And I don't have a degree behind me. And unless I can swing a solid forty hours at a security company or Denny's or McDonald's is hiring for afternoons and are willing to pay me more than minimum…"

"Okay…so maybe not nine to five," I had said. "But there's got to be something else you could see yourself doing."

"If I wasn't a cop…" he'd sighed as he'd considered his options. "If I wasn't a cop I'd probably still be working for the city. Maybe in sanitation or public works. Or transportation. I don't know…maybe even construction."

"You ever think about quitting?" I'd asked. "You ever think about leaving the department and doing something…I don't know…normal?"

"What's normal?" he'd laughed. "And why the hell would I leave? I've been there since I was nineteen. I've already got a decent amount of pension money stocked up. And it's full benefits, Dan-o. Medical, dental. I've got a wife and three kids I have to think about, to take care of. You know how damn expensive it is to have a family. No way in hell would I be able to do it without all the extras that come with the NYPD."

"So getting attacked by perps, shot, treated like shit by the general public and in your case blown up in a building is all worth it 'cause we get full benefits?"

"No," he'd shook his head. "What's worth all of that is knowing that I can provide for my wife and my kids. Knowing that they have a roof over their heads, clothes on their back and food on the table. Knowing that each scumbag I put away is one less on the street for them to worry about. One less douche bag lurking around playgrounds, preying on little ones just like ours. Each time I slap those cuffs on someone, I'm making this city a little safer for them. And that's what makes it all worth it. My family is what makes the doubles and the triples, the aches, and the pains seem a little easier to bear. 'Cause when I get on my car and head home…well I know that my wife and my kids…the kids we created together…are going to be here waiting. And they're going to be happy to see me and thankful that I've managed, for another day, to come back to them."

"That's deep Flack," I'd said, in awe that my normally surly, brash best friend would even admit all of that in front of me.

"I guess…" he'd cracked a slow smile. "And then of course ten minutes after I get in and I've gotten all the hugs and kisses coming my way, my wife's on my ass about helping out with dinner or bitching at me about forgetting to put the garbage out or wanting me to change a diaper or take the dogs for a walk."

"Way to ruin a good moment," I'd snorted, then had glared at him as he not only jumped to his feet, but had drilled that Finding Nemo ball off the top of my head. "And speaking of my wife," he'd said, giving a stretch that had made his back and shoulders crack. "I'm going inside and getting a hug and kiss and maybe an I love you to remind me just how damn happy I am to be having to work nights for three weeks straight."

He had disappeared into the house and I'd sat on the deck, watching Collin and Lucy as they sat together side by side on the grass, my honorary nephew's tiny fingers working feverishly as he tied together a handful of dandelions. Fashioning a crown made for a princess that he'd proceeded to place delicately on the top of my daughter's head. And I had been able to keep the smile off of my face as Lucy giggled; her eyes full of awe as her hand explored the treasure adorning her curls before she leaned sideways and planted a kiss square on Collin's mouth. The kid hadn't seen it coming and certainly hadn't known what hit him. A cute girl is a cute girl even if she's only three and you're just pushing five. And his cheeks had gone a brilliant shade of red and he stared at her in disbelief before she'd scampered to her feet, tousled his hair and cried, "You can't catch me!" before bolting across the yard.

Behind me, I had been able to hear Flack teasing his wife mercilessly about the fact that two days ago she'd turned cake she'd been attempting to make for his father's birthday into charcoal and how she could 'burn cereal' if she was given the chance. And she'd reminded him about the time he'd thought it was a good idea, during a state wide hydro black out last winter, to use a Coleman camping stove to try and make the family dinner and had singed the wallpaper on the backsplash behind the kitchen sink. Linds had laughed hysterically and Flack had given her shit for being on his wife's side, and just when things had died down and silence reigned supreme, my best friend had decided to bust out his game. One that had drastically improved over the years. And before I'd known what was happening, he was singing Keith Urban at the top of his lungs.

"I wanna kiss a girl, I wanna hold her tight, maybe make a little magic in the moonlight…"

"Oh I think you've been making more than just a little magic in the moonlight," Breezy had laughed.

"And in the early morning light, and in the afternoon light, and another other light that exists in this world," Linds had added.

I hadn't been able to stop myself from chuckling at the antics going on behind me. Or at the sight of my baby girl and Collin chasing each other around the swing set near the back fence, their giggles dancing on the air.


Flack had been right -even if it was getting terrifying to think of the number of times he was spot on about things these days- the personal lives that we had managed to create for ourselves did make the long hours and the torment of the job easier to bear.

Even if I do currently find myself sitting in the passenger seat of his squad car at three thirty in the morning, my head resting against the window and the glow of the streetlights burning my weary eyes. I'd attempted to catch a bit of shut eye while my best friend had ran into the Starbucks across the street to not only procure us some caffeine and use the john, but to call home in private, only to find that even the tiniest bit of rest is evading me. And my eyes flicker open and I glance to my left as the driver's side door pops open and Flack's right hand offers me a carry tray of take out coffee.

"Took ya long enough," I grumble, as I accept the drinks and he slips in behind the wheel.

"I got held up in the bathroom," he retorts. "I call home to check on things and my wife ropes me into phone sex."

I frown. "Way too much goddamn information," I complain, and he gives a chuckle and that charming bastard smile of his. "Things are good?" I ask, as I set the carry tray on my lap and pluck out the cup that has the letter M scrawled on the top. It can either stand for Messer or milk; either way it's mine.

"Things are good," Flack confirms. "She's having a hard time sleeping. Says she heard about this case on the news earlier and it's giving her the creeps."

I nod in understanding; a cop on administrative leave after shooting a suspect six months ago had snapped three hours earlier and had used his service pistol to murder his entire family. Wife and three kids; including a three month old baby.

"She's worried about me," Flack admits in a quiet voice, and gives an appreciative nod as I hand him his coffee.

"Worried as in worried about you getting hurt by this scum bag or worried as in all the things you've been struggling with since Jess died and you…"

"A little bit of both," he says, and snaps open the tab on the lid and takes a sip of the brew. "Kinda bothers me, you know. That she's almost comparing me to this other guy. I would never hurt her. Or the kids. She knows that."

"She's just concerned is all," I reason. "She loves you and just wants you to be okay, that's all. She knows you've been through a lot and she doesn't want to see you see you fall back into hold habits. She's just worried, Don. That's all."

He nods, then falls silent; eyes riveted on the empty street in front of us. "I worry about myself some time too," he says after a few minutes. "Most days I feel really good, you know? Other days…other days I feel really shaky and I start wondering if something is going to set me off. If something is going to happen and I'm going to go back to the way I was. 'Cause I don't want to go back to the way I was."

"Your wife would never let that happen," I tell him. "I'd never let that happen."

He manages a small smile.

"Look, you ever feel like…I don't know…if you ever feel like you can't handle something, like you need to just step back and clear your head…like you need to safe yourself? You just do it. You just tell you need to take a few and you just go ahead and do it. I've got your back, Don. I've always had it. And if you ever feel like you're in danger of slipping…I'll make sure you don't fall, a'right?"

He nods slowly, then sets the cup of coffee in the holder between our seats and reaching for his seat belt, draws it across his body and snaps it in place. "We should get this show on the road," he says, and starts the ignition.

"Ready when you are," I tell him, and clap him on the shoulder with my left hand.

No more words need to be said. I don't need to push the issue even further and he doesn't need to thank me.

We're here for each other. Flack and I make a great team and I never have to worry about him turning his back on me or selling me out. Our 'bro-mance' as Linds and Breezy call it, has honestly been the most successful, longest and productive relationship of my entire life.

I guess it's almost like a work related marriage. We're committed to protecting each other's asses. We support each other through thick and thin. In sickness and in health.

Till death do us part.

Or at least retirement.


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