Title: Their Love, Her Murder

Disclaimer: Serious slash. Slightly violent. Language. Character death.

POV: Danny

Chapter One: So It Begins

A few days before...

The sun rises on another day. I'm the first one in the lab, aside from Mac, of course. I don't believe he actually leaves at night. He just hasn't been the same since his wife died. Love becomes an important part of your life once you have it. You never want to let it go and you don't care what happens when you find it. When people bad mouth the love of your life, you argue with them, defend your lover. Love is precious. Something to hold on to.

So why am I avoiding my feelings? Why am I keeping it all in? Is it the fear of rejection? My mother asks me every single day if I've found a girl yet. If I have found someone that I'd like to settle down with. I have. Sort of.

Nothing is going to happen if you keep it all inside. Make a move. Give it a shot. Who knows what might happen, I think.

"Morning, Danny," Mac greets me. There's already that air about him, the one he gets when we have a new case.

"Good morning, Mac."

"Not for all of us." He hands me the case file in his hands. "Take this. Flack will meet you at the crime scene."

"Alright."

So much for the morning coffee. Guess it will have to be noon coffee. What kind of case have I been given? I open the folder as I redirect myself toward the company SUVs. Reports of gunfire lead to the finding of a young man, dead in his bedroom. I grab my kit and make my way out to the scene.

I park behind a police cruiser. Most likely the one belonging to Flack. I shut off the engine but don't get out of the car. I can't. This is too hard. I should turn around and ask Mac to reassign me. To find me a new case. There's just one small problem with that, he'll ask me why. And he'll want a real answer. He'll know if I'm lying. I can't tell him why. I don't even like telling myself.

Grow a backbone, Danny Messer. You can do this. Just ask him.

"Alright, I'll ask him," I say aloud to myself.

Someone taps on the driver side window making me jump. It's Flack. He moves back a step and I open the door. It's time to get out and get this done. I need to act normal.

"Do you talk to yourself often?" Flack asks me.

Damn, he heard me. "Only when I get board. I've had full conversations with myself."

He smiles at my slight joking. Oh, why did it have to be that smile? Why is it that he makes me feel this way inside? Couldn't it have been someone else? That smile, the way it makes his eyes sparkle. And those eyes, such a deep and beautiful blue. How could you not love them? They make his black hair even darker. Tall, dark, and handsome, all in one.

"Who were you talking about? The person you wanted to ask something of?" He questions.

By now we're half way to the crime scene. I can clearly hear the interviewing of other officers. Someone has to have seen something. Right? I don't answer him right away. How can I? I need to think up a convincing lie. There's one out there, I know there is. We finally make it to the guy's floor. All his neighbors are out in the hall. It's a freakish array of some seriously scary looking bathrobes.

I can feel their eyes following me as I walk to the taped off area. Or are all girls checking out Flack? The apartment of the deceased is extremely bland. The walls are white. The carpets are brown. A ratty couch sits in front of a not-too-expensive TV. Nothing hangs on the walls and there are no books or magazines.

"What a house keeper. He has a great design style," I say offhandedly.

Flack chuckles. "Maybe he can come do my apartment. It needs that extra special touch."

I ignore him. Again. It's the only way to get it done. The only way for me to act normal. I don't want to slip up and let him know that he's on my mind.

You can't keep it up forever, Messer. He'll eventually notice. You know that.

"Which way to the bedroom?" I ask. I look around the room again to avoid looking at him.

"That way, through the door behind you." He doesn't seem to notice my slight indifference toward him. That's good.

I make my way through the sparse living room, pass a bathroom, and into the only bedroom.

"Wow," I say surprised. "What do you know? The guy does have some taste."

I can feel Flack behind me. He stops at the doorway as I enter into the room. The walls are a still white. Probably an apartment rule. But the bed is king-sized and covered in silk sheets. A large painting of an airplane is hanging on the wall over the headboard. Basic lamps are accompanied by tons of jewelry boxes on a small table to the side.

This seems to be the place to start. I make my way over. I open ten of the numerous boxes to find necklaces, bracelets, and rings of gold, platinum and silver with various gemstones.

"Guess we can rule out robbery," I mutter.

I go to the dresser. The mirror above it is surrounded by an engraved wooden frame. The clothes inside are Armani and Abercrombie.

"He obviously had money. So why the bare living room?" I ask aloud.

"Maybe he didn't want people to know that he had money," Flack suggests.

"Or the money wasn't his. Where's the body?"

Flack points to a light wooden door on the right side of the room. Is he kidding me? I make my way over to it. Inside is a closet full of suits. Boxes of who-knows-what sat upon the top shelf. On the floor, where they should have been shoes, sat the deceased. In his boxers. Hand and feet bound. Blood had colored the carpet a disgusting brown-red.

I grab my flashlight from my kit and shine it in. The wounds are in his head. Most likely bullet holes. I shine the light over the rest of his body. There's blood on his hands. Maybe he didn't die so easily. I'd have to ask the coroner to scrape under his nails. However, just to make sure; I took a scraping myself. You could never be too safe.

Grabbing a jar and a brush I checked out the light switch for the closet. Fingerprint free. I flicked it on.

"Someone had it in for him. By the way, what's his name?"

Flack flips open his little notebook. "Says here that it's Jim Jackson. I have an officer running checks on the guy right now."

I begin to snap photos of the scene.

"You usually don't fly solo on these things, where is everyone else?" Flack inquires.

"I was the first one into work today. First one Mac saw, anyway."

After a few more minutes I place the camera back in my kit. It takes another hour and half to finish collecting evidence. Flack doesn't move the entire time. I don't like working while he watches me. It makes me nervous. Why? Yet, I'm thrilled that he has stayed. That means something, doesn't it?

He's just here keeping an eye on me. Cops keep the CSIs safe. Don't you know anything? Remember what happened a few years ago in Nevada?

"Done," I declare as I close-up my kit. Flack steps aside as I leave the room. He follows me. Why does he always have to follow me?

"I'll tell the ME's to disturb the body position as little as possible while transporting it," Flack says.

"Thanks. That will make Mac's day."

He follows me back to my car. Why is he escorting me everywhere? This is a tad weird. I place my kit and the little bit of evidence in the trunk of the SUV. The keys are in my hand and I unlock the door when Flack stops me.

"Hey, you want to get a drink tonight?"