Atop the Broken Universal Clock

by Kimmychu

In the aftermath of his brother's nearfatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days? DannyFlack friendship.

4. Chapter 4

Atop the Broken Universal Clock

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Run Silent, Run Deep', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Sorry for the late update on this story, everyone. Was writing the last few chapters for my other, cracktastic DD one, heheheh. So, here's a long chapter for you all. Hopefully, it's conveyed the suspense and tension I want it to. Poor Danny and Flack.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Chapter 4

Hawkes was really regretting his big breakfast of ham, sausages and scrambled eggs.

"Sandra Carpenter. Actress. Model. Author. Callgirl on the side." Flack's voice dripped with cynicism and a slight insinuation of disgust. "Neighbor next door called the police when the smell hit."

The ME turned CSI held a hand in front of his nose and mouth as he knelt next to what used to be a young, blonde woman in her twenties. Hawkes had spent years bent over decaying corpses in the autopsy lab, sometimes having to position his face inches away from dead flesh to search for potential evidence, or study tool marks on bones to assess the type of weapon used for the murder. The blood-splashed, mangled body before him appeared to be dead for less than twelve hours, but had the stench of a corpse that had been rotting for weeks.

It was like death itself was still present in the apartment bedroom, weighty and spine-crushing and chilling and sucking the life out of the police officers and detectives there.

She'd been gutted like a fish from the base of her neck all the way down to her groin, her internal organs exposed to the world, opened up like a bloody flower. Her ribs looked as if someone had taken a hammer or some heavy, solid object to them, all broken and shattered. The liver was missing. A chunk of her heart was gone. Bitten off. Her reproductive organs were missing as well. This was no random killing. This was really personal.

Hawkes frowned, gazing at the eerie expression of the dead woman. Her eyes were open wide as saucers, but she was grinning. It instantly reminded him of the Joker, the notorious villain of that comic book character, Batman. Were the Joker real, even he would have fled screaming at the victim's frozen expression. Carpenter's killer had rearranged her face after she died. Just like Mac's case with the slaughtered seven-year-old boy in Central Park.

He shivered, an iciness growing inside him. Were they dealing with a serial killer? If they were, New York city was about to pop out on the world map yet again. This time, for becoming unwilling host to one of the most sadistic murderers whose gory leftovers were the nastiest Hawkes had ever come across.

"Neighbor said she was alone, although he technically didn't see her in the last few days." Flack smirked sardonically. "Seems her man pals were the noisy types, if ya know what I mean."

Hawkes glanced up. The homicide detective was attired in dark colors today, black jacket and trousers with the only element of color coming from his bright pink tie. As usual, Flack had his black notebook out, reading out tidbits of information to whichever CSI he was working with. Hawkes noted the subtle downward curve of Flack's lips, the dark circles around the blue eyes. The lines on the handsome visage Hawkes hadn't spotted before. Flack looked like he'd aged twenty years since Hawkes last saw him at CSI headquarters a week ago. Back then, he'd looked haggard and worn out too.

Something considerable outside of work must have occurred to the guy. Flack was the sort of man who wasn't easily affected by things. That was one of the homicide detective's personality traits Hawkes admired. Flack seemed to have a colossal reserve of energy and strength to deal with the stress and bullshit the city threw at its finest on a daily basis. The guy didn't buckle one bit, not even when it was one of their own who got hurt.

"She probably had a black book of all her clients."

"Combed the place, but no book," Flack replied. His blue eyes persisted in straying to the dead woman's face and shredded torso. Hawkes could clearly see the repulsion in them. "Killer might have taken it with him."

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Hey, guys, I'm going to process the bathroom." It was Lindsay. She had her dirty-blonde, wavy hair tied up, and had on the black CSI coat with the white initials emblazoned on its back. Her equipment case was carried in her left hand. "The murderer left blood everywhere there." Lindsay took one glimpse of the corpse on the floor and noticeably gulped.

Hawkes nodded, mien solemn. "Okay. Danny will be here soon to help me out here."

From the corner of his eye, he perceived Flack perking up at the mention of Danny's name. It was Flack's expression as he did so that caught Hawkes' interest. Hmmm. Whatever happened last week … could it have been something to do with the other CSI?

Lindsay coughed, a hand held over her lower face. "Alright, let me know if you need help later."

She smiled waveringly at both men, then walked out of sight to the bathroom of the victim's apartment.

Less than five seconds later, Hawkes heard her say in the distance, "Hey, Danny."

Flack's head instantaneously snapped in the direction of the open bedroom doorway.

"Hey, Lindsay." Measured footsteps headed their way.

From where he crouched on the floor, Hawkes had the opportunity to study Flack secretly. His head angled to one side. Huh. Was that jealousy he saw in those blue eyes?

"Fuck." Danny didn't make an effort to conceal his revulsion. His face was twisted into a sickened grimace.

Hawkes chuckled. "Yeah, you're not the only one who's regretting breakfast."

Flack was oddly quiet and subdued, staring at Danny with hard eyes. That in itself sent a signal to the former ME his suspicions about some fresh conflict between the two men were not unfounded. It was no shocker to anyone at headquarters that Danny and Flack were very close friends. Stella, in particular, delighted in teasing the two detectives about them waving hands at each other and exchanging fashion tips and bantering like an old, married couple.

Hawkes had to raise an eyebrow in surprise when Danny didn't greet Flack at all, much less glance at the guy. There was a startling tension in the room that made the place more stifling than it already was. Danny probably couldn't see the tightening of Flack's hand into a fist from where the CSI stood, but Hawkes did.

Okay. He was one hundred percent sure now something was going on between the two men. And it wasn't good.

"You get the bed." Hawkes motioned towards the disheveled, blood-splattered bed with his head. "It's not as ugly as what I've got here, but I'm afraid to say the smell's just as bad."

"Gee, thanks, Doc." Now that sounded like the Danny Hawkes knew. If only he looked it too, then perhaps he could believe the fellow CSI was alright. "Where're Mac and Stella?"

"Working on another case in Brooklyn. A hairdresser was discovered in her salon." Hawkes made a face. "Asphyxiated to death with leftover hair on the floor from her customers. And missing her arms."

Danny groaned. "I did not need that image, man."

Hawkes chuckled once more. The bespectacled CSI shambled over to the bed, putting down his CSI case and tugging on a pair of latex rubber gloves. Flack's eyes followed him all around the room. The homicide detective was staring so fiercely at Danny it was impossible the shorter man didn't know it. If Flack's cerulean eyes were lasers, Danny would have two holes going through his skull by now.

The strain in the atmosphere spiked. Hawkes cleared his throat and went back to processing the corpse. He waited inwardly and a little uneasily for Flack to display an open reaction to Danny's obvious disregard of him. Hawkes wasn't as close to the homicide detective as the others were, but … being completely ignored by one of his best friends? Flack had to be angry at that.

"I'm goin' out for a smoke."

Hawkes looked at Flack in surprise. Whoa. He never pegged Flack to be the smoking type.

From the shock on Danny's wan face, he didn't either.

The two blue-eyed men made eye contact for only a second. Danny shifted his gaze back to the bloody bed straight away, expression shuttered. Flack looked as if he was hoping for more, eyes filled with an emotion Hawkes could only define as grief. When Danny kept his face turned away, the taller detective scowled deeply and stomped off, shoving the bedroom door harder than he should.

Hawkes sighed, shoulders slumped. Stella was right about one thing. When these two guys got together, they were like an electric charge that made everyone and everything around them tingle. He studied Danny from the corners of his eyes.

Frankly, he was very troubled by Danny's recent condition, most likely more than the others, with the exception of the homicide cop who just left in a huff. He might be a full-time CSI in the field now, but from the beginning, he was a medical examiner. A physician. A healer. Even a person who wasn't a qualified doctor could tell Danny was not in the best of shape.

The victim's bedroom was becoming hotter and hotter as midday approached. Hawkes, who'd initially worn a thin jacket over a short-sleeved shirt and light trousers, had taken it off long before he entered the apartment itself. Danny was still wearing his thick sports jacket on top of a woolen, circular-necked sweater. Hawkes bet a thousand bucks it was a long-sleeved one too. He couldn't recall when he'd last seen his CSI peer in his beloved tank tops or short-sleeved shirts. Danny's current choice of clothes was cunning and deceiving. It made the man look bulkier than he actually was. If he already appeared frighteningly skinny with the clothes on … what must he be like without them?

Of all the physical clues, it was the bespectacled man's visage that was most telling. The dark bags under the drowsy, blue eyes were stark from lack of sleep. There were deep lines of exhaustion where there were none before, particularly around the eyes and mouth. The face itself was narrower. A face that painfully made Hawkes dredge up the image of starving, skeletal children in Africa.

"Danny."

Danny's gloved hands were visibly trembling as he scanned over the rumpled sheets hardened by dried blood. It took the man a few seconds to respond. He lifted his head.

Hawkes smiled reassuringly at him. "Is everything alright?"

Danny stared at him with blank eyes. The missing liveliness in the blue orbs alarmed Hawkes.

"Danny," Hawkes repeated. "Is everything okay between you and Flack?"

The homicide detective's name seemed to jerk Danny out of his daze. "Huh? Yeah … yeah." Danny shrugged minutely. "Nothin's goin' on between us." Danny glanced away and took his time browsing through his open CSI equipment holder.

Hawkes pursed his lips. Hmm. Okay, Danny didn't want to talk about it. He'd have to wait until later to bring it up again.

"How are you holding up?"

With Danny's back facing him, Hawkes couldn't ascertain whether Danny had even heard him.

There was a minute of silence.

Then Danny swiveled to look at him, giving him a tremulous put-on smile. It made a great part of Hawkes' heart throb with concern.

" … I'm fine. Really."

Hawkes stared pointedly at him. Danny's eyes flitted away and back again. Hawkes detected a strong tinge of self-reproach in those huge, sad eyes. Danny commonly came off as cocky and rebellious and typically inscrutable to people in general. However, once a person got the chance to know him well, he was like an open book. It was simply a matter of learning the right way to read him.

And if there was one thing Hawkes learnt about Danny, it was that Danny found it very difficult to lie to him, of all people.

"Doin' the best I can, ya know? … Just … dealin' with things." The brown-haired CSI's smile grew stronger, but no more genuine than it originally was. "Been better, but … I'm holdin' up, Doc."

Hawkes inwardly sighed in relief. At least Danny was talking a little to him.

"How is he?"

Danny's awkward smile instantaneously faltered. "He's … the same." He shrugged one shoulder. "Doctor says there's still a chance he might wake up … so …"

"There's always hope." Hawkes smiled in encouragement, and squeezed Danny's nearest shoulder. Hawkes was frowning inside. Did Danny's shoulders always feel this fragile? He left his hand there, privately pleased that Danny didn't flinch from the contact.

Finally, Danny shot him a sincere if diminutive smile. "Yeah."

"Danny." The other CSI straightened a bit at the tone of Hawkes' voice. "I'm here. If you want to talk to someone, I'm here, okay?"

Danny's lower lip quivered slightly, and he bit it, bowing his head at the same time. "Thanks, Sheldon."

Hawkes felt some of the heaviness on his chest lift. The first step was forever the hardest. Hawkes hadn't gotten far in getting Danny to open up about his hidden plight, but still, a start was a start. He had to tread very carefully. Their friendship wasn't as personal as it was between Danny and, say, Flack or Mac, or even Stella. There were certain boundaries he couldn't cross yet without forcing Danny to throw up his walls and rapidly shut him out, not unless it was Danny himself who gave the green light for him to do so.

"Well, that's what friends are for." Hawkes made a puppy dog face. "I hope you do consider me a friend, don't you, Danny?"

Danny chuckled faintly. Hawkes smiled. He hadn't heard that patented cackle in a long time. Too long.

"Yeah."

Hawkes patted Danny on the shoulder, then returned to the victim sprawled on the floor.

"Hawkes?"

Hawkes gazed keenly at Danny. "Yeah?"

"Remember what I said about the smell of fish being worse than dead bodies?"

Hawkes smirked. "Yeah?"

One end of Danny's lips curled up. "I take it back."

Hawkes laughed.

He hadn't been uttering agreeable, comforting thoughts to Danny merely for consolation's sake. He had meant every single word.

There was always hope, as long as there was life.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

The cigarette smoke stung Flack's narrowed eyes. He blinked, blowing it away with one long exhalation. The vivid, midday sunshine was hurting his eyes too, so he backed up a couple of steps into the shade of a tree outside the DB's apartment building. He couldn't be bothered to put on his sunglasses. He was going to go inside soon anyway.

Damnit, he quit smoking about five years ago. It was a lousy habit he picked up from his dad, who, in fact, literally encouraged him to do it when he was only fourteen.

Real men drink and smoke, Donny. Only fags worry about their health and are afraid to die.

Flack scowled. Yeah, Pop, whatever. Goddamned New York legend and all, evidently he must know everything under the sun as well.

He puffed on the lit cigarette for another minute or two, glaring at nothing in particular. There were other police officers at the scene. Flack recognized Jensen from the 32nd precinct, chatting with two other cops while they leaned on their squad car or stood on the pavement. All three of them looked spooked out of their skin. They were probably waiting for the coroner to arrive like he was.

Jensen, a twenty-six year veteran on the city streets, was the one who responded to the call and set out for the victim's building early that morning. From the sound of things, Jensen and his partner, a young rookie called Mahn, assumed they were answering one of those regular domestic calls where a family pet died in the vents or something.

That is, until they broke down the apartment door and stumbled upon what remained of Sandra Carpenter.

Mahn couldn't stop vomiting for over ten minutes outside the victim's apartment. Jensen himself had to take a few minutes to recollect his composure before calling up homicide. That was where Flack came in.

He was, weirdly enough, more put off by Mahn's icky spew on the floor than the dead body itself. Something in his skull was warning him it was a good time to start wondering whether he was becoming way too indifferent to death and grisly sights for his own good. The very same something also told him his brewing indifference was the sole thing that saved him from going permanently fucking insane.

Flack took one last puff, then sauntered over to the trash bin next to the apartment building entrance, tossing the cigarette butt into the ashtray on top. His stomach suddenly churned at the intruding vision of the dead Carpenter's face frozen in its vile death mask. It made him recall yet another similar death mask, that of the little boy found in Central Park nearly two weeks ago. Flack closed his eyes. He was so sick of death. He couldn't for his own life fathom why he chose to be in the homicide department anymore. He jostled the wince-inducing memories of arguements with his dad into a mental chest with ten thousand locks on it, and shook his head once to forget about it. He had enough crap to fret about as it was.

"Hey, Flack."

Flack opened his eyes to see Jensen next to him, his matured, brown face dour. Jensen stood beside him, so they both faced the street. There were only some pedestrians walking past the apartment building. As there were no noticeable yellow police tape or anything of the likes in sight, no one stopped at all for crime sightseeing. The third cop whom Flack didn't know was now standing at the open doors of the main entrance, but New York's finest was a common sight. Heck, to all outward appearances, it was simply another day in New York city, and a guy in a black suit and another cop in police uniform were having a smoke outside an inconspicuous apartment building. Flack saw the rookie Mahn had gone to sit in the patrol car, looking quite green at the gills. Poor kid.

"How's yer old man?" Jensen had been on patrol and in the force for so long, he practically knew everybody who was in law enforcement. Including Flack's father.

"Same old, same old. Asshole with a capital A."

Jensen hooted. "Yep. Sounds like good ol' Don, a'right."

Flack liked Jensen. He was about the only cop Flack knew apart from Danny who dared to candidly joke with him about his father and laugh along when others were cowed simply at hearing Don Flack, Sr.'s name. For crying out loud, his dad was a man with flaws like any other guy. He was damn glad Jensen saw beyond the glorified crap and viewed his father for who he truly was.

"Here." Flack chucked the almost-full pack of Marlboro's at Jensen. The middle-aged cop nimbly caught it with calloused hands.

"Wha, ya don't want it?"

Flack made a face. "Nah. Smokin' kills."

Jensen guffawed.

"You're a funny guy, Flack. Thanks." The policeman put the pack into his trouser pocket. Jensen continued to puff on his cigarette. "Never saw ya smoke 'fore, kid."

"Heh. Used ta smoke now and then when I was a teenager. Quit for good five years ago."

The statement, along with the smoke emitting from Jensen's cigarette, brought lucid reminiscences in Technicolor to the forefront in Flack's mind.

"Okay, tell ya what. Let's see who quits smokin' first." Danny's smirk made his own lips twitch.

"Hell, Messer, I'm aaaaalways smokin'." His comment earned him a punch in the shoulder.

Danny snickered. "C'mon, I'm serious here! You quit first, I'll pay yer tabs here at Sullivan's. I quit first, you do the same fer me."

Both of Flack's thick eyebrows shot up. "Whoa there, we've only known each other a couple a' weeks. We already movin' up to payin' tabs fer each other here? I think we're missin' the dating bit or somethin'. Aren't ya supposed to be buyin' me chocolate or flowers first?"

The bespectacled man's laugh rang clear in the cozy confines of the pub. "Ya think you're real funny, don'tcha?"

"I knooow I am." Flack grinned. "Okay, Messer. You're on."

Jensen coughed. Flack's blue eyes widened, and here he was, fast forward five years from that evening at Sullivan's where he drank beer together with Danny for the first time. Who would have thought that much time could pass in the blink of an eye.

"Why'd ya start smokin' again?" Jensen's brown eyes concentrated on his face.

An image of Danny when they first met popped up. As Flack looked on, the natural tanned shade of Danny's skin faded to an ashen, unhealthy color. Lines of distress and age gradually emerged. The brash smirk morphed into a hesitant, downturned expression. The light in those cerulean eyes were replaced with a bleakness more opaque than the darkness of night. Now, Flack saw in his mind the altered Danny of the present day. And even in his own mind, Danny stared at him with that tormented gaze. And then turned away.

Flack was gritting his teeth so hard it hurt. No, Jensen was hardly the guy he could talk to about what really compelled him to smoke once more.

"Did ya see the body upstairs?" Flack smirked mirthlessly at the cop.

"Oh, fuckin' hell. That's one damn good reason to start smokin' again." Jensen rubbed at his face, as if he was trying to erase the ghastly vision from his brain. "No friggin' baked beans and red meat for me for a month. At least."

Flack snorted. He took a step forward.

'I'm goin' back in, check on how the CSIs are doin'."

"Sure thing, Flack. I'll see ya 'round. And thanks for the cigarettes."

Jensen gave a short wave goodbye and headed for his patrol car to look in on his partner. Flack smirked again. Hell of a way to begin patrol the way the rookie did. He was thankful his years of being trained under his former mentor Gavin Moran were less … graphic.

Flack went through the open doors into the apartment building lobby, nodding at the fellow police officer. The guy nodded back civilly. Although the main entrance had a newly installed electronic security lock that required a card and code, it was an old building, and therefore didn't have an elevator service. He felt sorry for the tenants on the highest floor. He hoped they were fit folk.

A long flight of stairs was situated directly in front of the lobby entrance. It led up to another flight of stairs perpendicular to it, and another and another until they reached the top floor. It was made of dark, polished wood, with a Victorian design to them. As much as he respected the fine art and the variety of designs of stairs, he still preferred an elevator over staircases anytime. One of the reasons he liked visiting Danny at his place.

There were echoing footsteps from above. Someone was coming down.

Flack waited quietly at the foot of the staircase. The thumps became more audible. He could feel the listless cadence of the steps through the wooden banister. Man, this was one ancient building.

A slender, familiar figure came into view at the top of the stairs. Flack's hand involuntarily constricted around the dark wood under his hand.

"Danny."

Danny was caught by surprise, going immobile on the highest tread of the staircase. The CSI's large eyes stared at Flack for a moment, then tore away.

"Hey," Danny replied in a small voice.

There was nowhere else for the shorter CSI to go except down, if he wanted to get out of the place. Flack stared at his friend with a deadpan expression.

"We gonna talk or what?" Flack asked in a mild tone. He permitted his disappointment to show in his blue eyes. "Or is this high school snubbin' business gonna go on, buddy?"

Danny seemed to brighten up somewhat when Flack called him by his usual appellation. It made Flack's brain ding like a bell.

Shit. It never occurred to Flack Danny was avoiding him because he told Danny himself he didn't want to deal with Danny's dilemmas anymore. Shitshitshit. Flack had the impulsive urge to take his gun and hammer his thick skull with it. Flack, you stupid asshole.

"Danny, I …" Damnit, he was never good at apologies. "I didn't mean what I said. That night."

Danny kept his gaze on the stairs before him, shuffling one foot in silence.

Flack didn't even give a damn the cop at the main entrance could hear everything. He had to tell Danny now, while he still had the opportunity.

"I was angry, a'right? And you were scarin' me." Flack maintained a pacifying resonance to his voice. "I don't like it when I see people I care 'bout suffer, ya know?"

Danny looked up at that. His lower lip was sucked under his upper one.

"Yeah, that hasn't changed, Danny. Not one bit." Flack sighed. "'Course I still care 'bout ya. You're my friend." He gesticulated with his hands. "Wha, ya think I'll just break our friendship over a trivial thing like one quarrel? C'mon, ya know me better than that."

The bespectacled CSI fidgeted with his jacket lapel. "I was … in the wrong too. I just … ya don't hafta worry 'bout me. You have your own problems too."

Flack made an annoyed face. "Like what? Pickin' out my ties and shirts?"

Danny's lips twitched. "Yeah. That polka dot tie on top of that checkered shirt? That was one grave offense against every decent human being's fashion sense, man."

Flack burst into a cheery cackle. Now this was the real Danny Messer.

"Hey, you bought me that tie, remember?"

Danny flashed a grin at him, and opened his mouth in a retort. The CSI started down the staircase, one foot on the tread below.

Abruptly, all the color drained from Danny's already sallow face. His features went slack, eyes wide like saucers. His thin figure swayed treacherously.

Flack tensed, breath gone from his lungs. "Danny?"

Danny's knee buckled.

The smaller man went down hard, knees and shins smacking brutally with a sickening crack against the unyielding timber. Momentum forced him forward, plummeting head over heels towards Flack. There was a fountain of bright red as Danny's temple rammed into the edge of a tread. A crackling sound as his glasses broke. The silver, durable case Danny carried in his right hand made loud, crashing noises as it tumbled down the stairs.

Flack's jaw sagged.

"DAAAANNNNNNYYY!"

The CSI landed in a crumpled heap on the floor at Flack's feet, upper body coiled inwards in a semi-fetal position on its side, hips and legs still sprawled on the steps. A small pool of blood instantly began forming beneath Danny's head, the red liquid trickling steadily from the bleeding gash across his left temple. There was another smaller cut on the left side of Danny's face, near his eye where the shattered frame of his spectacles had injured it. His CSI equipment holder came to rest upside down two feet away from his head. It stayed closed.

It had barely taken three seconds for the horrific fall to unfold before Flack's panic-filled eyes.

"Holy mother of -" It was the cop who had stood at the main entrance.

"Danny, oh my God, Danny …"

Flack frantically ran his hands all over Danny's body, checking for broken bones. When he found none, he fumbled through his pockets and yanked out a handkerchief, pressing it against the gushing wound. It was bleeding profusely by now, covering his friend's face with red, wet trails. Flack gently removed the damaged spectacles and wiped the blood away from Danny's eyes, nose and cheeks. His fingers and palms quickly turned crimson.

"Call the fuckin' EMS. NOW!" Flack roared. The other cop whipped out his mobile phone and dialed 911, barking terse details of their situation and address to the dispatcher.

A thunder of footsteps on the staircase above reverberated in the apartment building lobby.

"Flack! What happened!"

Flack looked at the man rushing down the stairs towards them. It was Hawkes, thank God. The former ME squatted opposite Flack behind Danny's back. They flanked the unconscious man and instinctively formed a protective periphery around him.

"He - he just … I dunno what happened, Doc, he just keeled over and fell -" Flack's mouth suddenly couldn't work properly. It moved, but no sounds came out.

Hawkes' sturdy grip on his shoulder grounded him. The CSI looked him straight in the eye. "It's going to be okay, Flack. Help me lay him flat on the floor, okay?"

Flack nodded unsteadily. "Yeah … yeah." The homicide detective watched his white handkerchief gradually turn a scarlet shade under his stained hand.

"Okay, you hold on to the compress and his head and shoulders, I'll carry his legs."

"The ambulance is on its way," the unidentified police officer said to them, observing matters with anxious eyes. The man stood at a distance to give Hawkes and Flack space to shift Danny off the staircase and position him more comfortably on the tiled floor.

"Thank you," Hawkes replied in a heartfelt manner. After checking thoroughly that Danny indeed had no broken or fractured bones, he tried to examine the head injury. Hawkes gripped Flack's wrist, the one attached to the hand holding the bloody handkerchief.

"Flack, I need to see the wound. Please, let go."

Flack's hand wouldn't budge. Instead, the tall detective's clutch around Danny's shoulders became tighter.

"Flack, please. I can't judge how serious it is until you let go."

Flack stared blankly at Hawkes. Huh? He was letting go. He peered down at Danny slumped against his chest, the flowing blood from his head soaking into his jacket and dress shirt. Danny's sunken eyes were closed, mouth slightly agape. The CSI looked like he was sleeping. Flack saw his hands were stiffened talons around Danny's shoulder and over the hurt temple. They wouldn't move. Couldn't move.

"Okay, buddy, c'mon, let the doctor help." Burly hands grabbed him from behind.

No, wait …

"No, the bleedin' hasta be stopped -" Flack's blood-red hands waved uselessly in front of him. The cop restraining him had pinned his upper arms to his sides, hauling him away from Danny.

"It's okay, the ambulance is comin'. Your friend's gonna be alright."

When Hawkes peeled away the saturated handkerchief, Flack filled up with an overwhelming amount of rage. He roughly elbowed himself free, breathing heavily and glaring at the policeman. The cop held up his hands in a mollifying fashion. The emphatic expression on the guy's face indicated to Flack he understood on some level what Flack was going through.

There was a sharp gasp.

Lindsay was halfway down the staircase, mouth open in alarm. Her hand partially obscured her lower face.

"Lindsay, your coat, please."

Once Lindsay reached the foot of the stairs, she immediately took off her CSI coat and handed it to Hawkes, who rolled it up and tucked it under Danny's head as a temporary pillow. She crouched next to Danny, touching him on the arm like she presumed Danny would be fine with it. Somehow, that made the fury within Flack flare up to phenomenal proportions.

Flack growled low in his throat. Fuck this.

His tunneled vision was as crimson as the blood all over his hands and jacket. He stormed out, inhaling deeply and feeling as cold as ice even in the open under the hot sunlight. Some of the pedestrians striding by gave him a wide berth the moment they saw the blood stains on him. Standing on the pavement, he directed his gaze onto the opposite side of the street.

Vacant, green eyes gazed straight back at Flack.

The homicide detective's breath choked. Sonofabitch, it was him!

"NYPD! Don't MOVE!" Flack sprinted across the road, narrowly getting struck down by a yellow cab that honked him. "DON'T MOOOVE!"

The green-eyed, long-haired man whom he'd smacked into that day at Central Park was motionless, calmly watching Flack flying his way until Flack was almost on his side of the street. Then … he was gone.

"Motherfucker!"

The guy was already dashing a couple of dozen feet down the concrete, agilely evading the other pedestrians. Flack wasn't as cautious, knocking into some of the people and even forcibly pushing them away while he pursued the creep.

"NYPD! STOOOP!"

The man made an unexpected turn into a narrow alley between two bricked buildings. Flack slammed back first against a wall next to the entry to the alley, wrenching out his gun and unlocking the safety. His harsh breath and hastened beating of his heart resounded deafeningly in his ears. Goosebumps rose all over his body. He shivered.

Flack spun around, weapon brandished before him.

The alley appeared to be empty, apart from a hefty dumpster and some dented trash bins.

"NYPD! Come out with yer HANDS UP!"

The homicide detective's blue eyes darted wildly over everything in view. He saw no one, but his gut instincts alerted him that the other guy was definitely close by. Flack warily slinked into the narrow alley, gun swerving from side to side as he checked out any nooks and crannies for the perp.

There was a sudden, intense pressure in his left shoulder.

Flack blinked.

"Detective Flack."

Flack stared at the green-eyed, striking man with a bewildered expression.

What? But … how …

"So you're the one he's so … fascinated about."

The nameless man stood before him, so close Flack could see the fine pores on the man's skin. One powerful hand was clenching his left shoulder, a thumb digging into a specific part of his flesh. Flack dimly wondered if the guy was putting pressure onto some special bundle of nerves there, because he was beginning to realize he was utterly paralyzed.

And at the complete mercy of this disconcerting stranger.

"Drop it."

Flack's arms were at his sides. The fingers of his left hand slowly unwrapped themselves of their own accord. His gun plunged to the ground and hit it with a sharp clank.

"Yes. He believes you're the one who'll be strong enough to stop him."

The two men stared into each other's eyes. Flack was perplexed. This was certainly the same man he'd encountered at Central Park near that hotdog vendor. Same long hair, same height, same facial features. Except, something didn't feel the same. Something was different about him.

"You're not strong enough yet. Not by a long shot."

Flack stood there like a mannequin, unable to even move a muscle. He was … numb. There was no pain. Whatever the guy intended right then and there, it seemed it wasn't to hurt Flack, much less kill him.

"You don't have much time left."

That was it. It was his eyes. They weren't blank or snake-like anymore like they were before. It was as if it was a wholly different person who was speaking to him.

"And there's only so much time I can buy … on your friend's behalf."

Flack's breathing hitched.

What was he saying? Was he implying what Flack thought he was?

The man's face drew nearer. There was something very similar to compassion in those magnetic, green eyes.

"My name is Abel. You will remember it in the days to come."

He released Flack's shoulder. All the muscles in Flack's body prickled as feeling came back.

In a single second, Flack swiftly seized the gun from the ground, pointed it forward.

Into nothing but thin air.

The man who called himself Abel had vanished like a ghost.

Flack staggered in shock. He took a few moments to center himself, then sheathed his gun. His rattled brain informed him he should return to the apartment building and check on things there. See if Danny was being cared for his injuries. If the coroner had been there to collect the DB. If everybody hadn't already been totally freaked out by his actions.

Flack exhaled, body shuddering with an unexplainable trepidation.

Whoever Abel was, the man had just given him an ominous forewarning of death. There was only one friend he knew right now whose life would be threatened for reasons even Flack may not know yet.

Danny.