chapter twenty five
The city had calmed slightly in the dark, even though traffic still rushed by like waves in the ocean. The sidewalks were mostly empty, pools of water decorating their hollows. The mist was so thick Flack could feel it saturating his hair and eyelashes as he ran. His feet ached in this dress shoes, and his chest heaved with exertion and panic. He stopped at Sara Roosevelt Park, lungs on fire. The playground was deserted at this hour, and he stumbled to the swing set, water seeping through his pants as he sat down.
Hands gripping the chain, he pushed himself back and forth aimlessly, letting his thoughts run wild, until he couldn't stand the clutter in his head anymore. His fingers were wet and going numb, and smelled like rust when he uncurled them.
Flack took a deep breath, stood up, and walked on unsteady legs through the emptiness, lost in the sound of water dripping from the trees overhead, the playground equipment, and the iron railings. His chest ached like his ribs were being forced apart. As he reached the street, he broke into a run again. When he was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the mental chaos quieted. He didn't stop until he reached the front steps of the Rusty Shamrock, its warm yellow lights glowing like a beacon, haloed in mist.
He pulled open the doors, and found himself in a warm, familiar oasis.
"Don, you look like hell. Is everything okay?" Tom O'Reilly asked, eyeing the younger man with concerned eyes, as he slid onto a worn leather barstool.
Flack wasn't sure quite how to explain to the owner that he wasn't sure anything would ever be okay again. "It's been a rough day. Can I get a double Jameson, please?"
"Coming right up." With another worried sidelong glance, Tom pulled down the green bottle, deftly pouring an extra finger of the amber liquid into the glass, and slid it across the bar.
Flack reached for it with the desperation of a traveller dying of thirst in the Sahara, and gulped it down. It burned his throat, warmed his belly, and left a lingering sweetness on his tongue. Once the last drop was gone, he ordered another, and another, as the fog turned to drizzle again outside, and the moon began to sink towards the horizon.
Juliana was wheeled out of surgery, and into the post-anaesthesia recovery room, and then into the ICU.
Stella and Adam arrived shortly after, toting cameras and evidence bags. Neither said a word, although they each took steadying breaths before entering the room.
Her skin was ghostly pale, contrasting starkly with the gash on her cheek, a sliver of crimson with neat dark stitches. Adam caught his breath at her black eye, livid purple staining her lid, and seeping down to her cheekbones. The tips of her hair were still pink with blood, and every inch of skin they exposed seemed to be scraped or bruised.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, as Stella moved quietly around him, taking photos. He held one of her limp hands, as Stella scraped under her fingernails, and swiped a q-tip gently across the cut on her cheek. Adam could have sworn Juliana winced just slightly.
When it came time to go for the stab wounds, Stella cast him a sidelong glance. "You okay to do this?" she asked, green eyes concerned.
Adam swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah."
Gently, Stella moved the thin hospital blanket to the side, and pulled Juliana's gown up, trying to uncover only what needed to be photographed. As the gown slid to the side, Stella caught her breath, and Adam let out an audible gasp, and they looked at each other for support.
Her skin was stained dark with betadine, and there were so many stitches they seemed to be holding her together. Stella swabbed around the wound, while Adam took photos.
Once they were done, she smoothed the gown back in place, and with a nurse's help, rolled her over, peeling back the gown's flaps to expose the wound that had deflated her lungs.
Adam let out a low whistle. "Any higher, and that would have been a lot worse."
Stella nodded grimly. "She was lucky, if you can call any of this lucky."
"What did the surgeon say?" Adam asked, finger on the shutter button, lens too close for comfort to her stained and swollen skin. He felt out of place, like a voyeur, as Stella held the paper-thin gown out of the way with gentle fingers.
"Things aren't looking good," Stella admitted reluctantly. "He said the next few hours are critical, and if she makes it through the next day or so, she'll have a good chance at recovery. We just have to wait and see." There was silence for a few seconds, punctuated by beeps and the whirr of the ventilator. There were bags of fluid dripping into IVs in each hand - one unmistakably blood, the other a clear cocktail of antibiotics and pain medication.
He nodded, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth, and helping the nurse to settle Juliana back on her back. He squeezed her cold hand gently around the IV, before tucking it back over the blanket. He had considered himself lucky to get away with a nightly stay, and the drips and beeps were giving him flashbacks, blood starting to roar in his ears.
Stella slid her camera back into its case, and picked up her kit. She took in Adam's sudden pallor, and handed him his kit. "Let's get coffee and a donut on the way back to the lab," she offered, and when he turned to nod his assent, he noticed her cheeks were equally pale.
With a lingering backwards glance at the figure in the bed, so far removed from the lively colleague they knew, Adam and Stella closed the door, and headed back into the damp chill.
It was past 11 by the time all the evidence had been filed, and the flurry of activity in the lab had slowed. Gerard was still on the loose, having vanished into the mist like an apparition, and Mac could feel the desperation thick in the air. When it was one of their own, it was personal, and he could feel the hunger for justice from all sides. He looked up at the sound of heels on the floor, breaking the silence of the 34th floor after hours. A few more clicks echoed against the glass, and Stella stepped into view, trailing Adam like a shadow.
"How'd it go?" Mac asked, voice gravelly with exhaustion.
Stella shrugged one shoulder. "We got some useable evidence. I was just going to take it to the lab."
Mac nodded. "After that, go home and get some sleep."
"Are you going to?" Stella inquired, mustering the energy to shoot him a pointed glance.
He grunted, trying not to glance longingly at his couch. "Eventually."
"I'll hold you to that," Stella replied, adjusting her camera bag, and turning for the door.
"Did you see Don?" Mac asked, and she froze, hand hovering above the doorknob.
"No," she replied, frowning, and they exchanged a look over the top of Adam's curls. Mac was normally pretty good at keeping his emotions hidden, but there was no mistaking the worry that flitted across his face.
"I think you'd better come with me." Mac led them to the bullpen, which was nearly empty, except for Danny shrugging into his jacket. "How did the hospital go?"
"It went alright. I talked to the surgeon, trauma team, and paramedics. I processed the ambulance, but didn't get much except a lot of blood. I also picked up the evidence from the surgery, swabbed it, and I'm running GC right now," he replied.
"Good. Did you happen to see Flack?" Mac asked.
It was Danny's turn to stop dead. "I thought he was with Jules," he said, eyes narrowing. "Is everything okay?" The visions of a few hours' sleep curled up next to Lindsay's comforting warmth were fading rapidly.
"So you didn't see him?" Mac gestured to Stella and Adam. "And neither did you." He exhaled, pointing to Danny. "That means I was the last person to see Flack." He checked his watch, and visibly deflated. "Christ, that was nearly five hours ago."
Danny reached for his keys. "I'll find him," he offered, phone out in a flash. He dialled Flack's number, and they waited in silence as it rang out. "I'll keep you updated." He tugged his jacked on the rest of the way, and disappeared down the silent hallway.
The rain had died to a heavy mist as he emerged into the dark, chest tight with anxiety. Don could have been anywhere. He could be injured, or worse. Gerard didn't have friends, but he sure was good at getting others to do his dirty work, and Don was vulnerable.
Danny stood in the glow of the streetlights, calling every bar he knew his friend haunted, each one coming up empty. He buckled his seatbelt, about to make the drive to Queens, when his phone vibrated in his pocket, scaring the living daylights out of him.
"Danny Messer," he answered, resting one hand on the steering wheel.
"Sorry to bother you so late, but I've got your friend Don Flack here, and I thought I'd call a friend before I called a cab." The voice on the other end was deep, accent an intriguing blend of native New Yorker, and southern Ireland.
"Yeah, I'll be right there. Which bar?" Danny asked, barely managing to suppress a yawn.
"The Rusty Shamrock," the barman replied, giving him the address, and Danny plugged it into this GPS.
Alphabet City wasn't that far away, and Danny drove on autopilot, the relief he'd initially felt melting into deep anger the closer he got. Months of department-mandated therapy clearly hadn't given Flack any better coping skills, and instead of being asleep with his wife and child, Danny was out scouring New York City, only to find himself rescuing his friend from yet another attempt to drown his emotions in whiskey. He'd really thought Flack had left that chapter behind, but clearly the wound was wide open, and alcohol was his antiseptic of choice. Danny slammed his palm against the Avalanche's steering wheel, trying to wrestle down the rising tide of frustration.
The lights were dimmed, but he could see a familiar figure slumped over the bar. Sighing deeply, he knocked on the door, and there was a rustle of footsteps, and a man emerged from behind the bar, where he had been polishing glasses. He filled the doorway as he unlocked the door, and let Danny in.
"Thanks for coming. He's in rough shape," he said, jerking a thumb towards Don's ragdollish body. "I don't know what's going on, but he hasn't had a ton of drinks."
Danny looked over at the practically untouched glass of water sweating on the wood next to Don's head. "I don't think he's eaten since lunch. Don't worry about it." He shook his friend's shoulder, in an attempt to rouse him, and Don cracked a bleary eye, and trying to sit up, struggling to find his balance.
Rolling his eyes, Danny looped an arm around Flack's shoulders, and tugged him to his feet. Tom helped them to the door, Flack still swaying like Bambi, and Danny tried to guide him towards the SUV, as the door swung shut behind them, and they were alone in the night.
"What the hell, Don?" he started, unable to keep the bitterness in. His voice sank to a whisper. "I thought we were past this. We need to talk about your coping mechanisms."
"Oh, come on, Danny, that's a bit rich, coming from you," Flack sneered, with a mirthless laugh. "What, it didn't count when you fucked Rikki because you weren't drunk?"
Danny stopped dead, as though he'd thrown a punch. His jaw twitched, and he swallowed hard, swallowing the torrent of vitriol back. "You're lucky you're too incapacitated to fight back, or I'd punch your lights out, Don Flack," he growled, as Don stumbled, and he jerked him roughly upright.
Flack wished immediately he could take back the words so bitter they left a caustic trail creeping up his throat, stomach churning in protest. He put his hands on his knees, breathing deeply, as the streetlights swirled around him like some Van Gogh masterpiece.
Danny watched impassively as Don's eyelids rolled under pale lids, as he tried to control his breathing. "Come on, I have better things to do than wait all night for you to get it together," he snapped, snatching Don's arm again, and trying to shove him towards the Avalanche. He jumped back as Don doubled over and puked what smelled like straight whiskey and bile into the gutter.
When he was done, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and looked up at Danny through red-rimmed, regretful eyes, his friend looking on in disgust.
"You're a mess," Danny snarled, opening the door, and pushing Flack into the passenger seat. He ducked around to the driver's side, and glanced over to fix his him with a steely gaze as he buckled himself in. "You better let me know if you're going to hurl again." He handed him a half-empty water bottle, and eased the car into traffic.
They crawled back to Queens, and Don was a little steadier on his feet by the time they spilled into the night, and upstairs to his apartment. Don dragged himself into the bathroom, and Danny could hear him retching miserably. Rolling his eyes again, he poured a glass of a lukewarm water, kicked the door open, and placed it pointedly on the sink. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, feeling a tiny niggle of sympathy.
"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to get some sleep, and I'm going to pick you up later in the morning, and take you to the hospital to go see Jules," Danny said, running his fingers over his tired, burning eyes.
"She's dead, Danny," Flack whispered hoarsely, looking up with flat eyes.
"What? Christ, no, she's not. She's in critical in the ICU, but she's alive." Danny's stomach sank like a stone. That explained a lot of things.
Flack frowned, brows knitting. "Don't fuck with me, Danny. I saw her flatline. I saw the surgeon who - who tried to save Jess go into her OR, and I knew." He propped an elbow on the toilet seat, and sighed shakily.
"I'm not, I promise. She's alive. It was touch and go for a while, but trust me, she made it through. I saw her in recovery. She's alive. Now, it's almost 1 am. I'll see you at 9," Danny said, handing him the water, and turning on his heel.
"No."
Danny stopped, and turned around slowly. "What?"
"I said no." Flack's voice was a little stronger, and he sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his upper lip.
"Why not?" Danny asked, genuinely both curious, and concerned.
"I - I can't. It's not fair. Juliana made it, and Jess didn't. God, Danny, I was going to propose. We were going to get married. We were supposed to be happy. It's not fair." His words caught in a sob, and his eyes were glistening under the harsh bathroom lights. "I bought a fucking ring, and I had to return it, and now it's on somebody else's finger."
Danny's knees turned to jelly, and he sat on the edge of the bathtub, trying to process what he'd just heard. Nothing about this day made sense, and his entire body ached from hauling Flack's deadweight around, but worst of all his chest was aching with a grief he hadn't experienced in a long time. He took a few deep breaths before he responded, and there was silence in the bathroom, broken only by Flack's intermittent sniffling. He cleared his throat. "Okay," he said, anger all but gone. "Take your time. If you ever need a ride to the hospital, let me know. I've gotta go, and you need to sober up."
Flack nodded, sipping at the tepid water. "Thanks."
"Yeah. Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I'm not going to breathe a word of this to Mac."
"I, um, I appreciate it," Flack mumbled, standing wearily, and shoving his toothbrush into his mouth. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier. It was a low blow, and you didn't deserve that."
"That stung, Don, but I'll get over it. Go to bed, alright?" Danny said, smiling faintly, and letting himself out.
The lab was an eery liminal space after midnight. Most of the lab techs had gone home, except for a few night shifters, and the frenzy of activity had died out after the search for Gerard was called off.
Stella emerged from her office, about to check on Mac on her way home, mulling over the conversation she'd just had with Danny, who had called to let her know Flack was safe. He hadn't said much, but what he hadn't said spoke volumes. She detected some residual anger, and a lot of worry, although he hadn't gone into specifics, but one phrase stuck out in her mind.
"Stell, he's drinking again."
She sighed deeply as she rounded the corner, making a mental note to recommend him for some counselling. She'd promised not to divulge the drinking to Mac, and speaking of, he was asleep on his couch. His face was smooth, and looked years younger. One arm was drooping over the side of the couch, legs propped up awkwardly on the arms, and a suit jacket folded up underneath his head as an impromptu pillow. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she bent down, gently shaking his shoulder. "Mac? Mac, sweetie, wake up."
His blue eyes flew open, then he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"
"Time for you to sleep in an actual bed," she replied, hand warm against his cool one, as she pulled him to his feet, and handed him his jacket. "I'm driving you home. And no arguments." She held up an elegant hand to stem the protest on his lips, and he nodded in acquiescence, feeling her warm but firm tone stirring something long-buried in his belly.
They walked in silence to her car, where she drove to his apartment, and parked on the street. He hesitated getting out, looking over at her tired face. "Stay."
Stella stared out at the rain dripping lazily down the windshield, and when she turned to look over at him, he leaned in, and his lips were against hers, his stubble deliciously rough on her skin. She was bone-weary, and missed him, so she nodded, against what was probably her better judgment, and followed him up to his apartment, falling easily into step with him. His building was quiet, all its other denizens long since asleep, and the click of his lock was loud in the silence. She could hear him breathing in the darkness, before he reached for the light switch, and their lips met again, hands roaming.
He slid his hands under her blouse, hands gentle against the plane of her stomach, and she pressed even closer, breath hitching as he sucked gently on her pulse point. Clearly he had been energized by that power nap, and she was melting in his arms. Stella let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, body aching for more.
Mac scooped her up, and she laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her into his bedroom and laid her on his bed. "If you want to sleep, we can pick this up later," he said, tenderly tucking a curl behind her ear.
"I can sleep later," she replied, breathlessly. This hadn't been exactly how she'd imagine the first culmination of stolen kisses and years of tension, but as Mac leaned in again, fingers on the buttons of her Oxford, she wasn't going to complain about it. He was comfortingly warm and solid on top of her, during a day where nothing had quite felt real, and she reached out and pulled him closer, her fingers splayed against his chest, and one of his hands in her curls. The world outside may have dissolved into mayhem, but they could ignore it for just a few sweet minutes.
a/n: hey pals! thanks a million to any of you who are still here. sorry for the delay in updating, as always. i went back to school in january, which has been great for overall life, but not so great for my free time, but now finals are over, so i've got some time to keep on moving forward with this. i'm going to try to get the next chapter done before summer classes start up next week, so stay tuned!