Okay, this is chapter three, I forgot to put my disclaimers and everything on Chapter two so I have to remember to do them here, I DON'T OWN ANY OF CSI NY PROPERTIES ETC, I simply use them for my own wiles, Thanks again to Melissa my beta reader, she is HUGE help and a wonderfully nice person, warnings for violence and language etc, basically what you would expect from a noodlepie story! Please R+R its more useful than you can know! Oh and I know these chapters are short but I like to think its quality over quantity, so enjoy.

xxxxx

NYNYNY

Mac set the ceramic mug down across from Stella and took a seat in the comfy - if somewhat overstuffed - armchair, picking up a cookie from the plate that had been set down on the table as soon as they had picked it.

Around them, despite the relatively late hour, various people sat at low, normal or high tables some sipping coffee and similar drinks, some tucking into tasty looking meals, others just sitting and talking to one another or alone, reading or working in note or sketch books.

"What's this place called again?" Mac took a tiny sip of his coffee, raising an eyebrow in surprise at the flavour the girl with the numerous piercing's working behind the counter had added; vanilla essence, which Stella had suggested he order, actually tasted good.

"The Retreat. It's one of Danny's little…underground, artist, broody type places…I don't know how he finds them, he just brought me here one day after work when I suggested we get some dinner," Stella shrugged.

It had been difficult to find, the coffee house was more or less built into the corner of a huge basement room which had been converted into a space for a flea market. It was clearly not a yuppie hide out, everyone in there looked like they would happily poor their delicious coffee over your head if you even mentioned a Starbucks or Macdonald's as alternative venues for a caffeine fix or meal. But then Mac would probably do that too if someone asked him to eat at Macdonald's.

"Danny found this place?" Mac took a bite of the cookie-it was ginger, but there was a hint of something else, maybe cinnamon but he couldn't be sure, that gave it an extra something.

"Yeah," Stella raised an eyebrow, smirking as Mac took another cookie.

"He's an odd one," Mac mused, chuckling. "I mean, I can't picture him in a place like this, can you?" He looked over at her.

"I thought that when he brought me, but he seemed right at home, everyone seemed to know him…that's his over there." She pointed over Mac's shoulder.

Mac turned to see a large painting occupying a space on one of the walls. It seemed to have been firstly sketched in charcoal, then streaks of colour had been added to emphasize and highlight certain areas of the painting. Mac didn't know how he could tell but the painting - which was actually a series of smaller pictures almost like a story board, but much more intricately woven - seemed to show Danny's life from his time as a baseball player, through his career ending injury, and into his life as a cop. There was a blurred patch in the middle that Mac guessed was supposed to represent the fight which left Danny with a broken arm, the injury which took away his chance to be a pro baseball player. It was incredible.

"Whoah," Mac looked back at Stella, "He did that!"

"Yup. And he didn't even point it out to me. I noticed it, even commented on it, then a waiter came over and said that people had been asking when there would be another one and some guy had offered to print the painting off as posters so people could have copies to take home!" Stella grinned widely, "Danny's got a lot of little secrets about himself." She laughed heartily, picking up her mug and holding it between two hands.

Mac frowned at that. "Yeah…he does…" he idly crumbled a biscuit between two fingers "I don't like that he's so secretive…I don't mean that in a hard-ass boss kind of way - not totally - but it worries me that he keeps so much of himself obscure…" Mac sighed. "it could land him in trouble one day,"

NYNYNY

Danny lay on his back, vaguely aware he was hurt, fully aware something was wrong. He could hear a distant muffled yelling, as if some one was shouting through a voice distorter, and there was a growing, nagging awareness of a pain in his body, a sensation of liquid fire radiating out from his right shoulder. Danny coughed, once, the movement sending more rivulets of pain coursing through his ribs, rivulets which met the liquid fire and became a gushing current of agony that stole the breath frojohm his lungs and left him gasping as he fought to breath.

"Stupid Bastard," the distorted voice began to drift into something Danny could comprehend. "You shouldn't'a come in here! Stupid fuckin' bastard, look what you made me do!" The voice belonged to Jack, Danny recalled the name - the hulking man who had been battering his own son.

"You're dead," Danny breathed hoarsely, his voice gaining strength as he somehow managed to sit up, "You're dead!" The breath had become a shout.

"What're you gonna do, huh?" Jack, Danny saw - his instincts taking over once again and scoping out the whole room, the whole messed up scene - still held the gun, waving it around as he spoke. He wasn't threatening anyone with it but some how the vague arcs it made as Jack paced back and forth were more frightening than if he had been pointing it directly at Danny.

"You just shot a cop pal, you're dead," Danny's voice dipped again but picked up strength at the end.

He wondered why he couldn't hear sirens approaching, but the thoughts left him as he saw Vincent huddled in a corner, his eyes red from crying, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

"It's okay Vincent, don't worry, it's gonna be okay," Danny assured the boy even as he pressed his left hand to the wound in his shoulder, wincing and feeling sick as more pain coursed through him.

"You're bleeding," Vincent whispered.

Danny looked down and blinked in dull shock at the pool of blood that lay beside him, spreading even as he watched. It was not a lot of blood, the CSI part of his brain noted. Not a fatal amount but I need help. Danny nodded slowly, trying not to panic

" Yeah, I am, but not seriously, not badly, but I do need a doctor…Vincent can you get out of the apartment, is there a way you could escape?" Danny asked as Jack paced back and forth directly in front of the door, distracted by his own drunken stupor.

"Yes," Vincent replied softly.

"When I count to three, show me," Danny struggled to move and found himself able to crouch as Jack stumbled drunkenly over his own feet and thumped against the door.

"Okay," Vincent stood, ducking slightly so he did not attract so much attention. He held out his hand and Danny took it, cursing inwardly at the blood on his skin.

"One…two…" Danny had his eyes fixed on Jack who turned sharply, staggering again and falling to the ground, only just catching himself. " Three!" Danny hissed and Vincent sprang to his feet and ran, pulling Danny with him.

They rushed down the short corridor to the bathroom and Vincent made a bee line for the window, letting go of Danny's hand to push the window open, grunting slightly with the effort. Danny helped with his uninjured left arm even as Jack shouted out behind them and there came a series of thumps as he began to follow them.

Vincent climbed nimbly out of the window and on to the fire escape, into the still falling snow, moving aside to let Danny follow. Danny struggled through, finding it harder to use his injured shoulder, yet was making good progress when Jack appeared in the doorway.

"Come'ere!" he roared, grabbing at Danny.

Danny was momentarily gripped by another moment of paralysis as Jack wrapped a hand around his ankle, trying to drag him back through the window.

In Danny's mind, Jack was not sandy haired and bulky, he was black haired, lean and sinewy, his skin darkened by his Sicilian heritage.

Vincent screamed again and Danny snapped back to the present, reaching back and grabbing at Jack's face, poking his thumb into Jack's eye sharply.

Jack yelled in surprise and Danny pushed him back wards, leaving a bloody handprint on the man's face.

Vincent helped Danny out of the window as Jack groaned resignedly and turned his back on them.

He spun suddenly and threw a bottle at the window, sending shards of glass out after Vincent and Danny. Vincent had clearly done this before as he began to expertly navigate the ladders, directing Danny where the slippery or loose rungs were as they climbed down.

They reached the bottom and Danny's legs gave out beneath him. He hit the floor and stayed there for a second until a shout came from above. " I'm comin for you kid!" Jack's voice echoed down the alley way, sounding almost sad and desperate, as if he were a truly loving father promising to rescue his son from some villain.

"Come on," Danny forced himself to stand, wrinkling his nose at the filthy looking puddle he had lain in.

He grabbed Vincent's hand and pulled him aside as Jack threw another bottle out of the window, the glass shattering and splintering as it hit a ladder rung so that glass rained down over the alley.

Danny looked up the alley and saw the entrance blocked by bags and piles of garbage, creating a barrier that he would have had trouble climbing over even when healthy. Covered in a layer of snow it looked impossible to even attempt.

He turned and looked back, spotting a worn, wooden door at the back of the alley, almost hidden by rotted posters that peeled back from the damp brick like dead skin.

"Where does that go?" Danny looked down at Vincent.

"I don't know," Vincent shrugged innocently.

" We gotta go in there," Danny shook his head, pulling the child along with him.

Jack was moaning above them as Danny aimed a solid kick at the space in the door where the handle should be. The old wood gave way easily and the door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness.

"I don't like it," Vincent pulled at Danny's hand.

Danny nodded grimly but another bottle sailed through the night, this one smashing barely a foot away, a shard of glass zipping past Vincent's face close enough to cut him.

Vincent screamed and grabbed at the bloody slice in his skin, and Danny pulled him into the door way, not through the door, just out of range of the bottles.

"Come one kid, it's the only way, please!" Danny frowned pleadingly.

Vincent nodded and gripped Danny's hand again, tighter than Danny would have thought a child could.

Together, they stepped into the dark as above them Jack screamed for them to come back.

NYNYNY

Jack Theroux groaned as he saw his son and the blonde stranger disappear through the door. Or he thought he saw them go, his vision was less than perfect after more than a few drinks since four pm that day.

He turned back and looked at the now empty apartment, shaking his head wearily, feeling nauseous as he did so. He hiccoughed, which almost became a full blown gag, but a hard swallow ceased any vomit from rising.

"Shit," he muttered, staggering through the apartment to the kitchen where he had dropped the gun. He knew he needed to get rid of it, he remembered firing it at the man-had he claimed to be a cop? Jack recalled the blonde saying something about being NYPD but he was too drunk to care.

He found the gun lying near the door and used the end of his shirt to wipe his prints off it, some half forgotten memory making him do so. As he wiped the gun he wondered if the guy was really a cop. He wasn't watching where he walked so when he tripped over one of his own empties and fell, the gun went off, drilling a neat little hole in his forehead. Unseen by him as he died on the floor, the gun slid across the linoleum and disappeared under the fridge.