A/N: I don't own the CSI:NY characters

Last Night of the World

Claire leaned back in the waiting room chair and flipped through the latest issue of Glamour magazine. The dental office smelled of antiseptic and fluoride and she knew Mac would hurry out as soon as he was done. Just a quick checkup, he had been assured. Eight visits after his ordeal in the South Pacific and Mac had a full set of teeth that looked better than his real ones. He cringed, though, every time he stepped foot in the office. Claire found it amusing. He had a strong stomach. Blood, sweat and other bodily fluids fascinated him and brought out the scientist in him. Yet, one mention of the dental chair and he was wincing like a frightened toddler.

It was the beginning of August – a hot, steamy time in North Carolina – but Claire had finished her summer school course and she and Mac planned to take a long-awaited trip to Chicago before she began her senior year at Duke. His father's health was declining. Chemo was ineffective. Breathing was labored and he was no longer able to eat. A feeding tube had been inserted, and Mac was preparing for his death over the winter. His primary concern was his mother, who would be alone for the first time in her life. Claire wondered how that would impact Mac's serious contemplation of future prospects.

He liked being a Marine so, understandably, Mac had mixed feelings when thinking about new opportunities. Claire had suggested the police force. To her, being a police officer was the closest thing to being a Marine officer. Mac had smiled and nodded. It had crossed his mind too, he admitted. Plus, jumping into a police department with significant military experience would put him a notch or two higher on the pay scale and ease the promotion grid.

Blithely, he had mentioned grad school, but he seemed hesitant about limiting his income-earning potential, even temporarily, particularly when an MBA was Claire's logical next step. She was applying to Duke and Chapel Hill in North Carolina, but if Mac would retire, she would go elsewhere: NYU, Columbia, University of Chicago, or, maybe even Wharton at Penn. All were good schools, but they depended on Mac. For his part, he preferred not to hold the trump card, suggesting that, this time, Claire should pick the school and he would follow. She liked that idea, and if left to make a unilateral decision, she would pick a New York school. Still, given that Mac's only living relative would be in Chicago, U of C was now a front-runner. Give it time, Mac said. There's a lot to sort through.

Claire lifted her head, startled to see Mac standing in the waiting room, his hands resting on his hips. He had exited the examination room, but instead of high-tailing it out of the building, he stood immobile, his face trained on the television mounted to the wall. It was interrupting with breaking news. IRAQ INVADES KUWAIT, the screen said. "Mac?" Claire asked, setting the magazine down on the table. "You okay? How are your teeth?"

"My teeth are fine," he replied quietly, his eyes not leaving the television.

She stood up and crossed the room and stood beside him. She looked up at the television and asked, "What's that mean?"

"It's not good," Mac said quietly. He broke away from his reverie and nodded towards the door. He smiled now and said, "Let's get out of here. My teeth are fine. Let's eat something crunchy."

Something was in the wind, Claire could sense it. She stood in Mac's bedroom folding freshly-laundered jeans and t-shirts and setting them into a suitcase. A routine action, she realized, and still she waited for the other shoe to drop. Mac had some clothes piled on top of the dresser, ready for their trip, but a second laundry basket was full of whites that needed folding. Chagrined and embarrassed, he had asked her gently if she minded finishing his laundry. He had been called unexpectedly to a series of meetings on base. Vacation or not, he needed to attend them.

Claire was smart. She watched the news too, and she heard the implicit threat in President Bush's statement on Monday: This aggression will not stand. She knew that meant the United States would be putting boots on the ground in Kuwait. She had asked Mac if he thought he would be among them. He had avoided her gaze, answering with a cryptic, It's hard to say. His body language said it all, and she had already begun to brace herself for the announcement. This one would be a true deployment on foreign soil.

She had loads of questions. Some of them were long-term like "What does a deployment mean for your plans to retire from the Marines?" Others were short-term like, "Can we still go to Chicago tomorrow?" She hadn't asked any of them, though, because Mac hadn't even uttered the D-word. She also felt selfish. With everything going on – like basic human rights being trampled on the other side of the globe – how could she ask about their little world here? So, she stayed quiet, hoping Mac would answer them without being asked.

She heard him enter the apartment and she called, "I'm back here." She zipped her suitcase and looked up when he appeared in the doorway. "Your laundry needs to be folded," she said, pointing at the basket on the floor.

"Thanks for washing it," he said quietly, bending over and setting the basket on the bed.

"How were your meetings?" she asked, her gaze firmly on his face. He didn't reply; his jaw was set. Instead, he reached for a matching pair of socks and rolled them up. "Mac?" she asked. "Did you hear me?" He nodded once, but he continued to focus on the laundry. She reached out and took a white t-shirt out of his hands. "You need to talk to me," she said firmly. He exhaled and looked at her with hesitant eyes. She folded the t-shirt and set it neatly on his pile of clothes. Then she arched her eyebrows and waited.

"It's gonna happen," he said quietly.

"You're being deployed," she concluded. He nodded subtly. "When?" she breathed.

"Not sure. Anytime actually. It could be as early as end of next week; maybe the week after." Claire blinked in shock and her jaw dropped. "Probably September though. I don't know really. Timing changes every day."

"But you're going. For sure," she said. He nodded, chewing his bottom lip. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. They're estimating six to nine months. If it goes on longer? They'll rotate us out after a year." Claire nodded, but inside she was deflated. This would be a real war, and it hadn't even started yet. A year from now, she'd be starting grad school. Mac could still be overseas. It sounded like a lifetime to her.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I have a lot to get in order to be gone that long, but I think …" His voice trailed off and then he finished, "But I think we should still go to Chicago." She looked up at him, surprised. His eyes were serious. "I need to get home before I get shipped out. I … I have to see my dad." Claire barely nodded, but reached out and squeezed his hand. He was aware he would not likely see his father again. "Uh …" Mac said, emotion catching up with him. He was lost for words. Claire only waited. After a moment, he swallowed and said, "It's important to me that you meet him." She smiled. "So we should go." A swift nod, and it was decided.

Claire finished packing her suitcase and Mac finished folding the laundry. They didn't speak, each independently processing the news. She turned to leave the bedroom when Mac called, "Hey." She stopped in the doorway. He said, "Claire." She turned. A zipped suitcase, a basket of folded laundry and a double bed separated them. "You know I want to marry you, right?" he blurted. He chewed his bottom lip and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

Claire lifted her chin, more confident than Mac at this moment. She waited until he stopped his nervous ticks. "I know," she said boldly. "And you know I'd say yes, right?"

He smiled a little, even chuckled. He crossed the room and tilted her chin towards him with his thumb. He leaned forward and kissed her, whispering as he pulled back, "Promise me you won't worry, okay?"

She wrapped her hand around his neck and held him close. She took a deep breath, asking for inner strength as she said what she didn't feel. "You listen to me," she whispered. He smiled. Claire didn't blink. "I get to worry because I spend my days in Raleigh-Durham, hardly a bastion for peril and jeopardy. But you, on the other hand, will not spend one second worrying about me. You focus on the mission and get it done so you can come home." Mac looked away. Claire ordered, "Look at me. Right now." Mac turned back and his eyes met hers. "Do I look scared?" He shook his head. "So you remember this face when you start worrying. I got this, Mac." Mac squeezed his eyes shut and then sighed. He shook his head in dismay, overwhelmed by Claire's bravery. "And when you get back?" He nodded, waiting. "You can buy me a ring," she smiled.

They sat at a back table in a dark corner of the pizza joint. An all vegetable pie, with half-sausage, sat on the table, a pitcher of beer between them. Claire laughed brightly, the sound echoed against the walls. Mac took a long drink from his frosty mug and then shook his head, waving his finger at her. "That's not it," he said. "You got it wrong. It is always the same ratio." She scoffed, the smile not leaving her face. "You have a pen?" he asked.

She pulled out a ballpoint pen from her purse and watched as Mac slid a white napkin between them. He drew a grid with four boxes and started to inform, "So Mendel's law of independent assortment says that alleles separate during the formation of gametes, and that separate genes for separate traits are passed independently of one another."

"That's real clear," Claire said sarcastically. He held his finger up. Wait. I'll show you, he said with his expression. Claire rolled her eyes. "Do you think this is sexy?" she asked.

"So," he continued, ignoring her dig, "that's why if purple is dominant and white is recessive, you get these results, which means purple occurs at a 3:1 ratio." She hesitated. "Make sense?" he pressed, sliding the napkin towards her to inspect. Eventually she nodded.

"So add another gene to the mix? Like curly or straight hair. Okay?" She watched, amused as he started to make a bigger grid. "You need sixteen boxes, right?" She rolled her eyes. Mac filled out the grid. "And these results are always found at a 9:3:3:1 ratio."

"Blah, blah, blah…" She pretended to talk with her hands, teasing Mac for his scientific lecture.

"But," Mac challenged, a smile on his face. Claire sighed, but listened. "Each gene within this table is independently inherited with a 3:1 ratio." Claire blinked, now thoroughly lost. "See, purple is dominant and we have 12 purple boxes and 4 white boxes which is …"

"A 3:1 ratio," Claire finished. "Okay," she said reluctantly. "I get it." Mac nodded and slid the paper over for Claire to examine. She took the pen from him and said, "So, if I have curly hair and you have straight hair, and I have perfect teeth and you have –"

"Stop," Mac laughed, reaching for the pen.

She held it just out of his reach and kept going, "So that means, our kids will have … I guess curly hair and perfect teeth are probably both recessive so our kids will be …" She started filling out the grid. After a second, she looked at him. "These ratios aren't good, Mac. All of my good traits are going to get pushed out by yours." Mac's eyes sparkled and Claire couldn't erase the grin on her face.

She folded the napkin and tucked it into her purse. Their conversation quieted while Mac finished his beer. Claire pushed her glass around the table. "You want me to fill yours up?" he asked, his hand on the handle of the pitcher.

She shook her head; she still had a quarter glass left. She sipped at it and held the mug with two hands. Mac filled his halfway. "I do have a question for you, though."

"Is it about genetics?" he replied, his eyes sparkling.

She shook her head. He nodded towards her indicating she should go ahead. "Why don't you want to get married before you leave?"

Mac exhaled and laughed out loud. "Well, that's a loaded question," he replied. "I can't answer that one without getting in trouble.

"Have you thought about it?" she asked.

"Thought about the question? Or thought about getting married?"

"Either one," she challenged.

Mac sat back in his chair and appraised Claire. She was smiling coyly, her eyebrows arched, daring him to reply. He nodded and took a deep breath. "I've thought about both, but the right thing for you is to finish school. Then I'll get you a ring and we'll get married."

"Has that worked out for you well?" Mac creased his forehead, waiting for clarification. She gestured between them. "Doing the right thing when it comes to our relationship. How's that worked out for you?"

Mac leaned forward and said, "Are you daring me to marry you?" She smiled and her eyes shone. The corners of Mac's lips turned up. "Because I don't back down from a challenge." Claire giggled a little. Suddenly, Mac turned serious. "I've wanted to marry you for a long time. And sure … once I found out I was being deployed, yeah, it crossed my mind."

"It crossed mine too," Claire said, biting her bottom lip.

Mac shook his head. "But, you deserve a wedding and a family that's behind this and I can't see that happening if we get married next week." Claire sighed. Mac suddenly reached out with his hand and squeezed hers. "Still." She lift her chin. He hesitated and then forged forward, "Don't misunderstand these words for hesitation. I have no doubt that you're the woman I want to marry, and I don't care where we do it, when we do it, what you wear or who is there. I just think that you need a family around you when I leave, and the last thing you need is to be fighting with them because we elope."

"It sounds like you've been thinking a lot about this." Mac shrugged. "More than I knew." She swallowed and then said bravely, "Well, I've thought about it too." Mac smiled and nodded. "And I want to get married." Mac chuckled a little. "I'm just saying … if you asked me to marry you before you leave, I'd say yes." She set her hands on the table, palms down and said, "And that's all I'm saying about it." Mac ran a hand through his hair and nodded.

It felt like the last night of the world. Mac didn't want to sleep for fear of missing one moment with Claire. She still took care not to hurt his ribs, although he had assured her weeks ago that he was fully healed. Her lips passed over his chest lightly, her fingertips brushed against him, she held her weight off him. Tonight, though, he thought he proved he wasn't injured anymore, and Claire's arms had clung to him tightly.

The emotion was sometimes too intense to describe. He had gripped Claire's hand and whispered he loved her. She had shed a few tears that she didn't try to hide. But she was brave and strong, and Mac had confidence that she would be fine.

He, on the other hand, would be a mess. What kind of man would he be without her? He couldn't imagine it, his identity so wrapped up into being a part of this relationship. Of course, he was only leaving her in the physical sense and that was a very small part of their relationship, he tried to tell himself.

Claire was right, Mac thought as he left the bed for a moment. Nothing about them had ever been conventional. It had been wrong from the start, and that made them right. She was competent and feisty yet warm and soft, all at the same time. He had never met anyone who completed him the way she did. She loved him; he felt it every day. He loved her; he would die trying to show her every day.

"What are you doing?" she asked as he fished through his dresser drawer. "The bed's getting cold without you."

"Nothing," he said. "I just can't sleep."

"Good," she smiled. "I can't either."

Mac returned to bed and she lift the sheet for him. He wore only his sweatpants and Claire wore a stretchy set of rather plain lingerie. She lay on her side, the white sheet draped over her. She reached her hand out and traced the lines around his eyes with her left index finger. He caught her wrist and it made her stop. She tilted her head and he looked at her intently. He pulled out a ring and slid it onto her fourth finger. "Will you marry me?" he whispered confidently.

She looked down at the ruby surrounded by a ring of tiny white diamonds, an unconventional engagement gift for a remarkable woman. She blinked in shock. "You have a ring," she commented, dumbfounded.

"You didn't answer me," he said, smiling at her. "Will you, Claire? Will you marry me?"

"When?" she asked, stunned.

"That's up to you," he said kindly. "Just tell me when and where." She half-laughed as she blinked back some tears. "You still haven't answered me," he said, leaning forward.

"Oh, Mac," she whispered, leaning into him. She brought her hand to her mouth and nodded. "Yes," she said, through her hand. "I'll marry you." She rolled on top of him and hovered over him to kiss his lips. He rolled her around until he was looking down at her. The ruby and diamonds caught the light and reflected against the ceiling. She laughed out loud now, her left hand against his cheek. "It would be my honor to be your wife," she said, entangling her fingers in his hair.

"No, no," Mac smiled, leaning down to her lips. "The honor would be mine."