A/N: I know you're all SHOCKED, I tell you… The honest truth is that my muse abandoned me for a while and then my kiddos are home for the summer and my job is hectic. I don't have much time to write. But there are still a few ideas running around in my head for this couple. (If anyone is left to read about them!) I don't own any of the CSI:NY characters…

Blood, Sweat and Tears

November sucked. Period. The wind was always biting, the sky was always a mushroom grey, and the streets were always wet. Smart commuters began to wear snow boots and fleecy hats and mittens, and the smell of wet wool overcoats permeated public transport. The lobby of the Lab, never a bright and welcoming place, grew muddier and slipperier as the day progressed. Yesterday Mac made a special trip to the janitorial staff, informing them that they needed to pass through the lobby more than once a day. He couldn't have his employees – or worse yet, some mother about to ID a dead child – slipping on the floor and breaking a wrist. They were annoyed at the task being added to their list, but Mac noted the floor was clean at noon. Within an hour, you couldn't even tell they had been there.

The suckage factor, however, increased exponentially when trudging through a vacant lot in the middle of the night and one of your key employees was missing. Mac's shoes made squishing noises as he made his way through the mud. Pasty dirt covered the bottom of his pant legs, and beads of icy water clung to his navy blue CSI:NY jacket. His old friend Detective Flack – counting the days until retirement – stood beside the dead body and finished a handful of notes. He held his flashlight in his mouth to illuminate his memo book. Mac frowned at the three dim streetlamps that barely cast any light into the lot. Flack removed the flashlight and stuck the pen and memo book in his overcoat. He blew onto his hands to keep them warm. Mac greeted the older man with a question disguised as a statement. "Messer's not here yet."

"Haven't seen him," Flack replied. He shook his head. "I called in and asked for some lights twenty minutes ago. I don't know where the hell they are." Mac crouched beside the body, but didn't answer. "How's he working out otherwise?" Flack asked quietly. Mac blew air out of his mouth as he hesitated. He reached inside his overcoat for a pair of latex gloves. He snapped them on, and then he reached over and turned the victim's head. A pool of dark scarlet blood expanded with the movement. He blinked a few times as he took in the head wound. Flack shined his flashlight so Mac could see better. He muttered, "Christ. Look at that, Mac. I'm done with this gig. You hear me?"

Mac gently replaced the head on the ground and looked towards the night sky. He chewed his bottom lip and then answered Flack's question from a moment ago. "Aside from his punctuality, Messer's … okay."

"Well that's a ringing endorsement." The sarcasm dripped off Flack's tongue. Mac shrugged and looked backwards over his shoulder at the sleet beginning to hang in the air. Flack placed his hands on his hips and said quietly, "He should be here. He was paged an hour ago."

Mac stood up and brushed the icy precipitation off his pant legs. It was a cold night, and the weather, well, it sucked. She was going to hate him for this but he really had no choice. "You mind having Detective Bonasera paged for me?" he asked Flack.

"Sure thing." Flack shook his head as he began to walk to his car. "Stupid kid. He should be here by now."

With his teeth, Mac pulled off the cap of the Sharpie marker. He closed the small envelope containing samples from underneath the victim's fingernails, and he initialed the seal. His body was angled in an awkward position so he didn't block any of the dim light from the streetlamps.

He glanced around. Messer still wasn't there, and neither were the lights. The work of processing this scene was slow, and he needed more help. His hands were numb, so Mac took frequent breaks to warm them up in his pockets. Since his newest CSI appeared to be a no-show, Mac resigned himself to doing the work of two, all the while reminding himself to compartmentalize his irritation with the younger detective so he could do the job without making a mistake.

At least Stella had been on time, Mac noted. Without a single complaint at being paged on her night off and without acknowledging the despicable weather, she simply knew what to do. She was collecting Trace, a task he had intended to give to Detective Messer. She was puzzled by Danny's tardiness, commenting to Mac that Danny had always been on time. When he thought about it, Mac agreed. Despite his words to Detective Flack, punctuality had never been an issue before.

He looked up when Flack approached. "Where are the lights, Don?"

"Well," Flack said, hands on his hips. "You don't want to know what's happening at central dispatch tonight. Some new computer system, fucking up everything." Mac chuckled a little. "So I rattled some cages. Our lights are on the way." Flack crouched down and his knees cracked beneath his waist. He rest his memo book on his thigh and nodded. "You sleeping good now?"

"You checking up on me?" Mac asked defensively. He smiled, though. Flack was his friend.

"Absolutely." Flack's eyes sparkled. "Someone's got to. And who's gonna do it when I'm retired? In eleven days, by the way." He tapped Mac's shoulder with his memo book and waited. Like a father addressing a son, he still expected an answer.

Mac chuckled a little and ran a hand through his hair. He realized how disturbing it was to have this conversation beside a dead body. He also realized how common it was. The twisted lives of CSI's and Homicide detectives. "I'm sleeping good now. Except when I get a call at 3:30 in the morning on my day off."

"Yeah. I hear ya," his friend replied.

"And what about you?" Mac pressed, serious now.

"What about me?" Flack replied, looking away.

Mac waited for him to look back at him. "You've lost weight." Flack was surprised Mac had noticed.

After a beat, Don exhaled. "They're running tests." Mac nodded. Flack looked towards the street and said quietly, "I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating like a pig. And I'm tired. So, they say it might be my thyroid. They don't know. Might be somethin' else too." Mac shook his head and was about to say something else when Flack stood up. A truck was pulling up at the street. "There's our lights, Mac. Let me get those guys over here so we can get out of this cold."

Claire turned over in bed, her hand searching for her husband. When she felt nothing but cool sheets, she opened an eye. She frowned and pushed up. She blinked a few times to get her bearings in the surprisingly dark room. "Really, Mac?" she muttered to herself. "Where are you?"

She padded over to the window at looked at the damp fog hanging in the sky. She ran her fingers through her hair, detangling it as she pulled it into a messy twist. Her baggy pants hung low on her hips as she shuffled to the coffee maker. The pot was nearly full. She poured herself a generous cup and sipped, grimacing at the liquid. It was cold. Mac was long-gone. She placed the coffee mug in the microwave and flitted her eyes sideways to the refrigerator where Mac had tacked a note. She didn't need to read it; she knew where he was.

Still, she couldn't resist. She allowed herself a tired smile as she read his printing.

The weather is nasty, the bed is cozy, and there's no place I'd rather be than beside you in bed. I suppose you know where I am … Sorry I won't wake up with you. Call you later.

Mac held a clipboard in his hand and looked towards the entrance for at least the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. Not seeing what he wanted, Mac returned his attention to the pages under the clipboard. He paced the small office as he did so, making a handful of notes in the margins. He clenched his jaw as he made the walk from his desk to the door in three paces. He glanced through the glass wall and made brief eye contact with Stella. She looked away as quickly as possible.

Mac knew his irritation was apparent. Nobody had bothered him in the last twenty minutes, giving him a wide berth to work out his anger. That was fine. It allowed him to get something done. But, two hours late – and counting – was unacceptable, and he intended to speak to the younger detective as soon as he walked in. Sure enough, with the next swing of the door, Mac saw Danny slink into the lab as surreptitiously as possible. He greeted the receptionist with a casual "how ya' doin'" and reached for his time card. He punched it and slid it back into the antiquated card holder and finally dared to look towards Mac's office.

Mac was staring, eyebrows raised. The boss gestured with his hand. I want to see you. Now. It was a clear message. Danny swallowed and looked both directions as if he was checking for traffic. No one, except Stella, was looking at him. Everyone else was too busy doing their assigned tasks, a feat of which Mac was exceptionally proud. His lab was efficient and he liked to think his employees had good work ethics.

Danny stopped in the doorway. "You want to see me?"

"You're late," Mac greeted.

"Sorry, boss," he began. "I ended up getting –"

"I don't care," Mac interrupted quietly. Danny blinked, understanding instinctively not to say anything else. He still wore his coat, and Mac noticed a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. "It was a bad scene, the weather was bad, and you were paged two hours ago. Did you call and tell me that someone died? Because that's the only excuse I'll take." Danny looked away, but clenched his jaw. "It's unacceptable, Danny."

"Sorry boss," he repeated. "Like I said, I –"

"There's no excuse," Mac interrupted coolly. "I called in Stella."

"But she –"

"Had the day off," Mac finished. "Now you do."

"What?" Danny said, his chin lifting.

Mac's eyes bored into Danny as he explained, "You have the day off. Stella's here. I'm not paying both of you. See you tomorrow." Mac turned around, effectively dismissing Danny.

She might be a tomboy at heart, but Claire knew how to sex it up when it mattered. She knew her calves were accentuated by heels that were precisely 2.75 inches or higher. She knew that skirts that landed just below – or above – her knee did more for her legs than the skirts that hit mid-calf. She also knew that modest v-neck blouses were more flattering on her build than the ones that buttoned up to her neck.

Still, Mac never noticed her work clothes, whether it be a fitted skirt or a sexy heel. Frankly, she didn't get it. He didn't have a wandering eye, but he was a man, and Claire noticed when her man noticed other women. Short skirts and high heels on an athletic build caught his eye. But not on Claire.

As she stood in front of the mirror putting the finishing touches on her I-didn't-try-too-hard outfit, Claire knew exactly what Mac liked. He liked it when her faded blue jeans hugged her hips exactly the way this pair did. He liked it when she wore an old pair of Converse sneakers that let her walk for miles holding his hand. He liked the way her white t-shirt stretched – just a bit – over her chest and clung to her sides, emphasizing her narrow waist. When in public, his hand often fit into that space just to hold her close to him. He liked it when she teased him with a hint of the girl beneath– amber perfume, luxurious lingerie, pale pink nail polish. And she never left home without her signature look – lipstick just a shade too dark.

She appreciated it. Mac was happy with practically nothing except a comfortable Claire. As she had gotten older, she saw her friends struggle with the dating scene, convinced that if they could just lose that last five pounds or afford those designer shoes or attend that trendy party, they would find the perfect man. She didn't worry about any of that. Her Levi's were good enough for Mac and that made him perfect for her. She pressed her lips together and released them with a pop, her creamy red lipstick now coating her smooth lips. She was ready.

She looked outside at the weather and wrinkled her nose. She quickly swapped her sneakers for her snow boots. Now, she was ready.

It had been a tough day for Danny, and it wasn't getting any better, Mac noted as he glanced sideways. Stella followed his gaze and arched her eyebrows. Mac's detective was laughing with the young lady waiting in the lobby. Mac frowned, his eyes moving back to the clipboard in front of him. He flipped pages and scrawled his signature on the second page and handed it back to Stella. "I sent him home hours ago. He's not supposed to be here." Stella nodded. "But if he's gonna be here, he should be working. Not talking." Stella nodded again, agreeing with him. They saw eye-to-eye on nearly everything, which was why, Mac determined, he and Stella had a tight working relationship. "Good night," Mac concluded sharply.

Stella interrupted his steps. "Can I say something?" Mac turned back, surprised. She lifted her chin and then hesitated. Mac narrowed his eyes, recognizing that Stella was about to challenge him. She never challenged him. In fact, one of the things that Mac was most proud of in his role as Chief Investigator of the NY Crime Lab was that no one challenged him. He had established a fair and necessary – and very effective – chain of command. Everyone followed orders quickly and without question. In exchange for that loyalty, Mac was certain never to abuse his authority and in turn, he expected the same of each of his employees. As far as he could tell, it worked perfectly.

Stella took a deep breath. "Danny can't do anything right today so you're especially annoyed that he's talking with your wife." Mac blinked. Stella met his gaze. "He didn't even know that was Claire," she continued.

"I don't care," Mac snapped quietly. He took a step closer to Stella. "It's not his job to greet people in the lobby. The receptionist takes care of that. Danny has a different job." He looked at Danny again, just as Claire's laugh echoed against the walls. "It's a job that he's not doing when he's hanging around the waiting room," he added.

Stella grasped the clipboard more tightly and hesitated. She nodded, and looked to leave. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks and looked around. Content she had enough privacy, Stella leaned forward. Her voice was sharp, and she asserted, "You've been riding his ass all day long, and it's time you cut him a break."

"Cut him a break?" Mac repeated incredulously. He was surprised Stella was arguing with him at all, but even more so that that she had decided this issue – Danny's sub-par job performance – was worth jeopardizing an otherwise perfect working relationship. Mac's voice was louder as he explained slowly, his index finger in the air, "He showed up late and I sent him home. Then he stayed here anyway to hang out in the lobby."

"No, Mac," Stella said, angry now. "He received the wrong address from Dispatch so he was late. And you wouldn't even let him talk. So, instead of going home, he came to me and asked what you would do if he stayed anyway and worked for free. I told him you'd appreciate the effort because you're fair." She practically spat the last word. Mac opened his mouth but Stella held her hand up. Mac closed his mouth, too stunned by her outburst to speak. "I put him to work, and he spent the day on the most mundane fingerprint evidence. He did a good job." Mac folded his arms across his chest. "A great job, Mac. And the only reason he's here at all is because he's distraught over disappointing you earlier." Mac ran a hand over his mouth and looked away. Stella's voice was quieter as she allowed, "You're a good boss, Mac, but you missed the mark today."

Now, Mac thought. Now was the time to tell Stella that she was his employee and that her speech amounted to nothing less than insubordination. He could write her up even, and place a black mark in her personnel file for talking to him like that. He was entitled to do it too, even though (and it killed him to acknowledge this) even though he knew, deep down, Stella was right. But he was still new at this job, and his authority meant everything and right now his subordinate was calling him out. Mac did not appreciate it. He was about to unleash an ass-chewing rivaling nothing she had ever seen before.

He turned back to her and suddenly stopped. Her wide green eyes pierced into his, fearless and dauntless. I dare you, they said. You know I'm right, they said.

He waffled. "Anything else?" Mac asked sarcastically. Stella tilted her head, not amused. Mac looked away and then nodded. "Fine," he said, irritably. "Don't you have anything to do?" he snapped at his second-in-command.

"You're impossible," she muttered under her breath, turning away from him.

Mac stood on the deck, his hands folded and resting on the metal barrier that kept passengers safely away from the edge. Claire stood beside him, her windblown hair falling across her eyes and blocking her view. He watched as Claire tossed her head and then finger-combed her hair to pull it off her face. She secured it with a utilitarian elastic band that solved the problem. Her cheeks were ruddy, and her eyes watered a bit from the sting of the wind. She wiped a few errant tears off her cheeks before they froze. Claire shivered, but it was a temporary inconvenience. The waiting room was too warm, bringing out droplets of sweat on her forehead within moments of finding a seat. Claire leaned forward against the railing, and Mac rest his hand on top of hers. Her fingers were ice cold, and her nails were wet, holding onto drops of rain that drizzled from the sky. It was far too blustery to be standing comfortably on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry, especially in the dark. "You're cold," Mac commented, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her tight. She shrugged a single shoulder but didn't reply. "Thank you for doing this with me."

"You know," Claire began. She turned away from him to catch the strands of hair that the wind had shaken loose from her ponytail. "When I asked you what your deepest fantasy was, this was not at all what I thought you'd say."

Mac smirked. "You asked me what I wanted to do tonight," he clarified. "You said nothing about fantasies."

"I assumed it was implied," she said. Claire checked the zipper on her jacket, tugging it a millimeter closer to her chin. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and jumped twice on her feet. "My feet are cold."

He shook his head, answering the silent question. "We're standing out here for the whole ride. That's all I wanted to do. To check out the skyline from the view of the ferry."

"And all the while, your beloved, the love of your life, freezes to death." Mac nodded, not smiling at her joke. Claire reluctantly leaned her head against his shoulder. Mac chewed his lip. "What's wrong?" she asked. Mac shrugged. Claire arched an eyebrow.

Mac's gaze didn't leave the black water. Finally, he explained. "Stella called me out at work today."

"Did you deserve it?" Mac didn't answer. "Oh Mac," Claire sighed. She squeezed his arm. "Did you say you're sorry?"

"I don't really owe Stella an apology." Claire arched a single eyebrow. "Okay, maybe I do." Claire smiled. "But it's Danny I really need to talk to."

"Oh," Claire said with a nod. "I met him today." Mac nodded. "He high-tailed out of there when you showed up. You intimidate him." Mac just shrugged. The couple was quiet for a long moment. Claire commented on the ship lights. She pointed out some buildings. Their heads were close and they shared an occasional kiss. Claire shivered, and Mac pulled her close. Later, Claire said softly, "I bet you're a hard boss."

"I try to be a good boss. But, I didn't listen to Danny today. I was too angry at him for something that wasn't his fault."

"You have high standards," Claire acknowledged. "But sometimes your standards are so high that you forget that everyone else is just doing the best they can. And sometimes things go wrong and it's no one's fault. You have to accept that."

He chewed a thumbnail and acknowledged, "I really screwed up with Danny today."

"You better fix it then." Her voice was soft and her grasp on Mac never loosened.

After a beat, and just as the ferry pulled into lower Manhattan, Mac said, "I probably should do that tonight."

Claire smiled. She would pass another night alone. She leaned up and kissed his lips and then pushed his shoulders. She whispered, "Go."

At just after midnight, Mac unlocked the door to his apartment. He stepped lightly, not wanting to wake his wife. He stopped just as he crossed the threshold. An open bottle of wine sat on the coffee table beside three lit candles. Sultry jazz filled the apartment. Claire, wearing only a black negligee, sat on the sofa, sipping at the dark red wine. Her hair was wet, but held off her face with a barrette. "I took a bath," she announced. "I'm not cold anymore." Mac nodded, and pulled off his overcoat. He dropped it on a chair, and he sat across from her. "Lose the tie," she ordered, a gleam in her eye.

Mac loosened it and pulled it out from under the collar of his shirt. He set it down on the coffee table as Claire poured a second glass. She handed it to him while Mac stared at his beautiful wife. She arched an eyebrow. "Is everything good at the Lab?" He nodded. "You fix things with Danny?" Mac nodded. "So he didn't quit because he has an asshole for a boss?" Mac laughed now, but he shook his head. "No calls tonight?" He shook his head. "So you're mine?" He laughed softly and nodded. "Then cheers," she said, lightly clanking glasses with him.

Mac took a long sip but Claire set hers down on the table. She leaned forward, forcing him to swallow quickly. She placed her hands on his cold cheeks and kissed his lips tenderly. She whispered, "You're cold. I can fix that."

Mac moved forward as she began to unbutton his shirt. Her warm hands pulled it off his shoulders, and then she stood up. She pulled him to his feet and led him towards the bed. He sat on the edge, reached down to take off his shoes as Claire began to massage his shoulders. "This is the type of fantasy I expected." Mac laughed and leaned back on the bed, pulling her down with him. He kissed her deeply and Claire ran her hands through his hair. When he pulled back for air, she whispered, "Happy birthday. I love you."