Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens

A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins

I will never ask if you don't ever tell me

I know you well enough to know you'll never love me

Why can't I feel anything for anyone other than you?

Cute Without the 'E' (Cut From the Team), Taking Back Sunday

The deliciously vicious cycle had long ago ceased to be delicious and proved only to be vicious. He realized that the only thing worse than Don leaving when they finished was Don not coming over at all. Mac was left pacing his apartment wondering where Don was, who he was with, if he had messed up the fragile something they had been building. He didn't understand why Don had freaked out, a week had passed and they barely spoke at work and Don definitely did not stop by anymore. He couldn't comprehend why it was that Don had acted the way he did, why he wouldn't let himself be touched. Maybe Don was worried that skin on skin contact would mean there was something more going on than just friction. But then Mac would start to wonder if Don actually made conscience decisions like that, or if he just didn't want Mac to touch him because he was getting everything he wanted from their couch sessions. Maybe all he had wanted was someone to get him off; maybe Mac really was just a means to an end. That stung deeper than Mac had intended to let it.

He knew that he was going to have to put his feelings for Don up on that proverbial shelf in his closet. He had hoped that Don would be the one person he could unpack that shelf for. That he could tell Don about Corporal Stan Whitney, about what it's like to have the one person you loved more than yourself die in your arms. About drinking yourself into a stupor every night because you couldn't get the mental image of your dying lover out of your head. He remembered their nights together vividly, it had started when they manned the same post during the graveyard shift. It had started out innocently enough, simple touches lasting a little longer than they should have. But he was young and in a foreign country and he craved human contact. The way Stan had touched him reminded him of home, their passion reminded him of what he was fighting for. They didn't have time to experience anything slow and sensually, it was quick, awkward, silent; he knew if the platoon found out, they wouldn't have to worry about the Lebanese. If Mac concentrated hard enough he could still taste the sweat and cigarettes, he could still feel Stan's stubble against his face. The day he died Mac thought of deserting, thought of walking away from everything he had held so sacred. But then he remembered he was in a strange country, the only tie to home was lying in a body bag. When Stan had died Mac had left one of the dog tags on his body for identification, but the secondary tag he slipped into his pocket. On nights when he couldn't sleep, which was often, he'd still pull it out of his bedside drawer and run his fingers over the letters. When he was exhausted and his brain had shut down from too much of everything, he'd imagine Stan in his bed; sometimes he talked to him softly about things he was missing. About things they could have experienced together. But then Claire had come along and he packed up all the memories of Stan, both physical and emotional and put them in their respective closets.

Claire had been a savior; she had seen him at his worst and loved him fiercely for it. She was compassionate but strong; she had no qualms about scolding him for drinking away days, chastising him for wasting a precious gift. "You're alive and they're not, you can sit here and mourn for them or you can get out and make something of your life. Don't let them die in vain Mac, they deserve better than that, better than this." She leaned in and kissed his cheek, she whispered softly against his skin, "Make 'em proud, Mac."

And so he had, he received an honorable discharge and signed up for the police academy. Make them proud he would. But not in Chicago. Not with the dark memories that haunted every street corner. Those memories he didn't even think about when he couldn't sleep, those were deep on the closet shelf. Waiting for someone to share them with, he was tired of guarding them himself.

So he and his new bride moved to New York City, away from the ghosts of his past and into a new beginning. Things were great, better than they had ever been, occasionally he still got the dog tag out, and still traced the letters, but mostly he was content. He moved up the ranks quickly, Claire got a good job in the towers; they wanted for nothing, had everything they needed within each other, within the confines of the city. The only thing he was lacking was someone to share his secrets with, it couldn't be Claire, he had to protect her from such things. Protect her from everything that could make her frown, he had promised her that on their wedding day.

He knew he'd remember that day until he met his own demise. For a split second he thought there was an eclipse, nothing else could block out the sun like that. Nothing but a low flying plane. He ran outside and watched as the second plane hit in slow motion, the sound of the glass shattering echoed in his head for days. He just stood in the street, ash falling into his face; he knew Claire would be okay, he knew because he still believed in God. God was good, God wouldn't take away someone else, God didn't give you more than you couldn't handle. But God had more faith in him than he had in himself. God thought he could make it through the death of another loved one.

So the day after her funeral he packed up everything that belonged to her and dropped it off at the Good Will, he couldn't believe that her life could fit into a few cardboard boxes. With Stan he had been able to say good bye, but with Claire he had nothing. A quick kiss as he ran out the door and a promise of dinner later in the week. Then she was gone.

But he couldn't dwell on it long because he had work to do, he knew there were others that didn't have the closure he had, so he went to work sorting out pieces of debris, anything he could do to help. He had been doing well, or well enough to be expected, until he reached up into the closet for Stan's dog tags and his fingertips brushed against a beach ball. He inspected it and remembered Claire blowing it up on the way to Coney Island. He couldn't believe that her breath was contained inside, even though she was gone, her air still remained. Now he had two ghosts following him, he was sandwiched in between two people that weren't even there. With the beach ball and the dog tag on his dresser he imagined Claire curled into his chest and Stan curled behind his back, arm draped over his ribs. He wondered how he could outlive everyone he had ever loved. A fear trembled through him that maybe he was jinxed, maybe he was the reason that people seemed to disappear.

The next morning he knew that he had to push pass the pain, he heard Claire's voice in his head, "Make 'em proud, Mac." He put the ball and the tags back in the closet, closed the door and never opened it again. If he had company their coats went in his bedroom, couldn't open the door, that was where the ghosts had resided.

It was weeks before he felt like himself again, he remembered looking up at a scene and his eyes stared right into Don's. A chill ran through his body, he gave Don a warm smile and returned to the sea of shell casings. That was the first night that he had been able to sleep without the nightmares, the first night he could sleep alone, without the ghosts.

It wouldn't be until years later that he would take a chance and invite Don into his home. He wanted to wait until the ghosts were silent, couldn't risk him hearing the rattling chains, didn't want to scare him away. He wanted to take things slow with Don, wanted him to know that this was more than physical contact, that he wanted to make Don part of his life. That he was ready to open the closet door and make the introductions. But all of that came crashing down around him with Don's hasty departure from his apartment. He hadn't meant to startle him; he just needed something more and not necessarily something physical but he'd take it if that was all Don could offer.

Mac wanted nothing more to call him, to explain to him that he wasn't trying to push him into something that he wasn't ready for. That he just wanted to see his eyes again. But he didn't think Don would understand, that he'd be able to comprehend the way those eyes made him feel. But he knew Don was better off.

Now each time he caught Don's eyes at a scene he was reminded of the times when he couldn't catch them. It cut him to the core that he'd never be able to get what he wanted from Don, he was sure that if anyone could sleep in an apartment inhabiting the dead, it'd be Don. That he would be strong enough to face the spirits with Mac. But he knew better, or at least he was learning.

So he packed up his memories of Don and slid them into a folder, filing them behind Stan, behind Claire, behind Chicago. He took a deep breath before opening the closet door, putting five remaining glass bottles of Guinness on the shelf with the beach ball and the dog tags. Part of him was glad that things between them had ended before anything had actually started because it quelled his fears. He couldn't risk Don condemning himself to that fate, to him becoming another ghost in his closet. Before he shut the closet door Claire and Stan looked at him with tragic eyes and Mac shook his head, no one else would be joining them, not tonight anyway.

He wondered if it was selfish of himself to keep trying, maybe things were supposed to end up this way. Just him and the memories of things he once had, things that had slipped away. He was surprised how much easier it had been with Stan and Claire, he had no choice but to forget them, they were gone forever save for the few times Mac could conjure them up, when he was brave enough to open that door. But with Don, he caught those eyes on a daily basis. And that was worse then the rattles in his closet and all the ghosts in the Windy City.