Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.
A/N: To all the people who have reviewed, or put this story on favourites or alerts, thank you for your continued interest.
Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
Passages
Flight of soul across the barriers of time and space –
Hands touch, spirits meld, the world disappears.
This is the time. This is the place
Where laid to rest are all our fears.
A touch, a breath, a sigh, and it is done.
The journey begun in hope is at an end.
A touch, a breath, a sigh, and all are one.
Companions now are more than friends.
And the light that fills the unsullied soul
Shall spill over, unbound and whole,
And when the time is come at last
To lay down the burden and release the past,
Then vanished will be all the pain
And love is all that will remain.
SMT2007
Chapter 56: In the End, This Alone is True
The machines beeped, monitoring the final moments of life. The bag of saline emptied into the drip, counting out the last drops of nutrients the dying body would take in. Goodbyes had been said; tears had been wrung out of tired eyes. All the discussions had taken place; all the decisions had been made. It was time and more than time. The kidneys had shut down; the breathing was shallow and quick. Every so often, it would stop altogether, and the people in the room would hold their breath until the panting began again. His eyes were sunken; the pupils were fixed and glassy.
She sat at his bedside, holding his hand and praying softly. They had stayed together through everything: tragedy, joy, comfort, and pain. Sometimes she had thought she hated him. Sometimes she had known she loved him. Always she had turned and he was there, standing beside her. There was no shape in her life that did not include him somehow. She could not cry. This was too big for tears.
"Mom? The priest is here."
"Is it Anthony?" She answered absently, stroking her husband's hand.
Flack moved into his mother's line of sight. "Yes, Mom. It's Tony."
Dora looked up into Tony's face; it was set and strained, but he smiled at her, then crouched down beside her and said gently, "Mrs. Flack. It's time."
She nodded thoughtfully, then put a hand on the young priest's face. "I'm sorry that things have been so difficult this past few weeks."
He swallowed hard and glanced at Flack. "It has been difficult," he acknowledged. "But I have to believe that everything will work out according to God's plan."
Dora kissed him on the cheek. "Father Anthony, would you pray with Don, please?"
Tony nodded and sat beside the bed, taking Don Sr.'s hand in his and anointing his forehead and hands with holy oil in the sign of the Cross as he prayed quietly:
"Go forth, O Christian soul, out of this world, in the name of God the Father almighty, who created you; in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered for you; in the name of the Holy Spirit, who sanctified you; in the name of the holy and glorious Mary, Virgin and Mother of God; and in the name of the Angels, Archangels, Thrones and Dominions, Cherubim and Seraphim. May your place be this day in peace: through Christ our Lord."
The people standing around the hospital bed murmured Amen in various tones, with differing degrees of piety and conviction.
Flack looked around the room from the corner where he had positioned himself when Tony had sat beside his father's wasted body. His sisters were grouped around the bed. Marie, the eldest of the girls, was by Dora's side as always. She was a born nurturer; a trained nurse, she managed a busy household with three small children and a husband Flack cordially despised, a carpenter who left ambition and prudence to his wife.
Dark-haired Cat was stroking her father's arm soothingly; they had always shared a special bond. She looked most like Dora, thought Flack objectively, and acted most like Don Sr., although she had chosen business over law enforcement.
Finally, there was Frannie, standing behind her mother: blonde, sweet, feckless, the perennial baby of the family and cherished for it. She worked with children and sometimes Flack wondered how anyone could tell who was supposed to be in charge. She was engaged to a teacher, and Flack predicted her own brood of blonde charmers would start arriving within a year of the wedding night.
He lifted his eyes to the last woman in the room. Stella was standing slightly apart from the family grouping around the bed, although everyone had accepted her without question as soon as Flack had introduced her. So they should, he thought; he had been talking about her long enough.
She looked up as if she felt his eyes on her, and they shared a look that, while restrained by the solemnity of what was happening, was nonetheless filled with the delight of connection. He was dazzled for a moment, and in that moment, his father's eyes flew open.
"Angelica?"
Dora sat forward, her eyes on Don Sr.'s. "Don. I'm here."
He looked at her and said, "Dora. She's come."
Dora was weeping, but she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Then go with her, my darling."
He closed his eyes and his breathing sped up again, shallow gasps that left everyone in the room feeling breathless.
For a long time, several minutes, his breathing would stop altogether, then return in a hurried rush. Father Tony stood up and turned to Flack, who had not left his place by the corner of the room. "Don. You should say good- bye."
Flack started to shake his head, but his sisters were already moving towards his father, each kissing him and whispering a few last words. Reluctantly, he sat in the chair Tony had vacated, and sat beside his father.
"Hey, Dad? I just wanted you to know … I just wanted to tell you … I love you, Dad." He blew his breath out then; that was the easy thing to say. But the next thing had to be the truest thing he would ever say. And he didn't know if he had it in him to say it.
He leaned forward, his lips a breath away from his father's ear. He whispered, "I forgive you, Dad. For everything. I forgive you."
And in that moment, it was pure, blinding truth.
And in that moment, Lieutenant Don Flack Sr., decorated officer and legend of the New York Police Department, stopped breathing.
And no matter how long they waited this time, he would never take another breath.
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY
"Are you sure you will be all right by yourself?" Kathleen fussed as Nasreen stepped out of the car, smiling patiently.
"Kathleen, another night with Miriam and you, and I may never move out. You have made me feel very welcome, but it has been three days. I am fine, and I need to be at home now." She turned to look at her house so that Kathleen would not see the naked longing on her face. She had grown used to being on her own, and much as she loved her partners, they were used to being together. It was time and more than time to return to her own life.
"Call if you need anything," Miriam said briskly, pulling the small bag out of the car and carrying it up the stairs for her. "Don't worry, I'll keep Kathleen from driving you crazy, I promise. I suspectall the phones will magically need to be charged tonight, so call my work cell if you want us, okay?"
Co-conspirators, they grinned at each other before Miriam reached out and hugged Nasreen carefully. "Sleep well," she said as she ran back down the stairs to start the car and drive away before Kathleen could offer to help Nasreen settle in.
With a sigh of relief, Nasreen unlocked her door and leaned against it, looking with joy at her refuge from the world. The walls were painted a light cream, the hardwood floors were covered in rich carpets, and there was a lot of dark wood everywhere. It was warm and comfortable, and there was not a corner that was not welcoming and soothing.
At least, it seemed that way to Sheldon Hawkes when he rang the doorbell a few hours later. He had waited as long as he could, but his impatience finally drove him to her neighbourhood. He had found a market and perused the shelves looking for something suitable, finally settling on mint tea and honeyed almonds, which the storekeeper had assured him were a popular item. Just as he had been getting ready to pay, a flash of cheerful pink had caught his eye, and he had picked up a huge handful of peonies to add to his offerings.
"Ah, a wonderful choice, young man," the store keeper had said, rubbing his hands at the increasing sale on a quiet afternoon. "Did you know that the Victorians created an entire language of flowers based on Turkish folklore? It was called floriography – 'writing with flowers'. A young man would send a bouquet or a 'Persian Selam' to tell his young woman the things propriety would not allow him to say."
Hawkes had lifted an eyebrow. He knew, of course, that flowers had different meanings, but he had not realized it went much beyond the rose and perhaps the lilies. "And what does the peony signify?" he had asked.
The shopkeeper had swept his white hair back off his forehead as he gently took the flowers in long tapered fingers to wrap them in paper to keep them from dropping petals. "In Chinese, its name is sho yu: most beautiful. In floriography, it stands for shyness and beauty. It has healing properties and is used to ward off bad dreams and evil spirits." He had handed Hawkes his purchases with a smile. "I hope your young lady appreciates the gesture, sir."
An irrepressible grin had lit up Hawkes' face. "Have a good day," was all he said.
He walked briskly to Nasreen's house, carrying his gifts unselfconsciously, ringing her doorbell lightly when he arrived. And when she opened the door and he saw the smile blossom in her eyes first at the sight of him, he was warmed to the core of his being.
"Welcome home," he said quietly, handing her the flowers first.
"Thank you. You should not have, Sheldon." She lifted the flowers to her face and breathed in their sweet scent. "Come to the kitchen; I wish to put these in water."
He followed her through the hall into a bright kitchen at the back of the house. Like the clinic, it opened onto an unexpected garden, and Sheldon moved curiously to the window while Nasreen opened a cupboard and took out a tall square glass vase.
He laughed when he saw the multitudes of red stemmed plants just poking through the still hard ground near the back of the house, and turned to her mock-apologetically. "I feel rather as if I have brought coal to Newcastle."
She smiled back at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "Ah, but my peonies will not bloom for another several weeks. And in the meantime, I can enjoy yours!" She was cutting off the bottom of each stem, and within moments had achieved a carelessly lovely arrangement of the bright drooping blooms. She put the vase in the centre of the table and he handed her the tea and almonds as well.
"Tea, Sheldon? Not Persian coffee?" She smiled up at him and he swore he could feel his heart speed up.
"When you are ready for an outing, we'll go back to Fatima's and I'll ask her to read my fortune again. She certainly got the 'trouble for my friends' part right."
He sighed at the memory of Danny's eyes, lost and distant, as his mother had stormed out of his father's hospital room. She had left Danny to nod to the technicians and watch them remove his father from the machines that had kept him alive just long enough to witness the final withdrawal of the wife who had spent as much of the last three decades pushing him away as drawing close.
When the doctor finally looked up and told Danny his father was gone, it was Lindsay whose arms had gone around him, Lindsay who had led him from the room, Lindsay who had stayed with him while he filled out the endless paperwork around death.
"Sheldon?" Nasreen reached a hand out to him; she wished she knew a way to dispel the sorrow in his eyes.
He clasped her hand in his, and she stepped a little closer. Every thought fell from him, and he slowly lowered his head, watching her for any hint of fear or withdrawal.
Her breath stopped for a minute, then she allowed her other hand to rest on his chest, and she raised her face to meet his lips.
The first kiss they had shared had been a soft breeze of promise. This was a gale force wind of passion. All that had stood between them – the attraction, the hesitance, the sheer terror – was let loose in one glorious gust that blew everything out of their heads but need.
Her hands clenched tight against him; his hands moved possessively against her back, pulling her against him.
He could have stopped it, he thought later – could have pulled away, could have recovered his balance – until the moment that she whimpered under his mouth. Then he was lost, and he deepened the kiss slowly, coaxing her into relaxing and opening to him.
When months later, he tried to recreate the scene in his head, he could not remember who had moved first, how they had made it from the kitchen to the bedroom up a flight of curved stairs, whose shaking hand had been first to remove clothing and explore heated skin.
He did remember the moment she pulled off her headscarf, shaking long dark tresses over his bare skin. The moment she gasped, eyes blind and wondering, as he touched her. The moment their bodies fused together, creating one soul in two bodies. The moment that the world disappeared in a flash of light, dazzling them both.
He remembered falling asleep with her in his arms, and waking to feel her soft breathing against his chest in the night, and waking again in the early morning to see her rising above him, eyes sparkling with desire and mischief.
In the days when he could remember nothing else, he remembered her whisper against his neck, "Toujours, mon amour. Je t'aimerai toujours."
