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 'Heroes', 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.
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Author's Notes: Whoa, long time no update! In light of the last few episodes of season two, I decided to revise a lot of the storyline. So, the story now officially includes spoilers and scenes for all episodes before the finale. If I add that one in, I guarantee you, Danny'll literally throw himself off a building from all the angst and grief in his life. This chapter's a long one to make up for the lateness. If any of the medical stuff is inaccurate, feel free to let me know. I did try to research it the best I could on the internet. By the way, Mount Sinai really does have such a program. Oh, and expect lots of DannyFlack angsty goodness in the next chapter!
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Chapter 5
Danny appeared extremely young when he was asleep.
Stella brushed her fingers lightly over the unconscious man's brown hair in a preoccupied manner, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. There was something about the younger detective looking so frail and limp on the bed under the blue, heated blanket that made her itch to beat the living crap out of whoever was stupid enough to piss her off that evening. The invariable beeping sound coming from the various electronic monitors displaying Danny's vital signs both agitated and comforted her. It was all but the one clear indication she had he was alive.
Her fingers brushed through the soft brown strands of Danny's hair once more. The long, white bandage stretching across Danny's left temple had more color than his skin, where it wasn't bruised or inflamed. Underneath the dressing, she knew there was a huge gash stitched together by over twelve sutures. She had been there with the injured CSI from the second she burst into the ER at Mount Sinai hospital, and saw his cleaned wound being sewn up by a doctor. She'd gotten the shivers when she realized how similar it was to observing Hawkes or Hammerback stitching up the Y-incision of their DBs.
She sighed. There was going to be a scar. However, it being so close to his hairline, it wasn't going to be that obvious. And if the doctor had done a good job, the scarring would be minor too. She unconsciously fidgeted on the armless chair she sat on, keeping her hand above his head on the pillow, the other hand wrapped around one of the younger man's under the blanket. Even under the generated warmth, his hand was still cold.
Danny's head shifted slightly on the white pillow, and he moaned inaudibly. Stella's hand on his hair stilled.
"Danny?"
The sunken, blue eyes remained closed.
Stella waited for a few moments with bated breath, only exhaling when it was certain Danny wasn't waking up anytime soon. Almost five hours had passed since he was admitted. Five hours of prolonged unconsciousness when he should have come around ages ago. She didn't need to be a doctor herself to know that was hardly a good thing.
Her brilliant green eyes focused through the interior glass windows of the room on Mac and a middle-aged doctor in a white coat in deep discussion, standing just outside in the hallway near the room's shut door. It was the same doctor who'd patched Danny up in the ER earlier that day, a Dr. Koshy with a soft, accented voice and compassionate brown eyes. Dr. Koshy was calmly speaking to Mac, whose troubled frown intensified at whatever the doctor was telling him.
She watched Dr. Koshy hand Mac what looked like a pamphlet from a folder he held. After Mac took a good glance at it, it was as if somebody had punched him straight in the gut. Dr. Koshy continued to speak coolly, gesticulating with one hand at the pamphlet. Her hand tightened on Danny's at Mac pinching his forehead with his thumb and fingers. It was a reflex gesture her CSI partner did whenever he was confronted with dire news that was beyond his scope of dealing with it.
Stella tore her gaze away when she saw the consternation in Mac's hazel eyes. It wasn't necessary for her to be standing there next to him to know how serious Danny's condition probably was.
Her eyes drifted to the nasogastric tube that had been inserted into Danny's nostril and went down his esophagus and into his stomach. It was held in place by beige-colored tape over his nose and one cheek. The tube coiled upwards to a soft plastic container filled with a clear solution, suspended higher than the bed so that gravity siphoned the liquid through the tube into Danny's body in a continuous feeding.
Stella stroked the scrawny bumps of the comatose man's knuckles with her thumb.
No, she didn't need to be a doctor herself to know why the nasogastric tube was there either.
She was most likely the first person on the team to realize what was happening to Danny. Oh, the younger detective was damn good at hiding things, but Stella didn't get her current CSI rank for nothing.
She had to admit some higher power must have guided her to the laboratory where Danny was that warm afternoon over two months ago. She remembered he'd been sitting alone at one of the desks, skimming through some files for an investigation he was working on with Hawkes at the time. She'd barely had the opportunity to chat with him ever since he returned to full-time duty in wake of his compassionate leave. With his back turned towards the door, he wasn't alerted to Stella's entrance until she had an arm around his shoulders, like she always did whenever she was checking up on him to see how he was doing.
The jump, Stella understood. The blatant recoil from her touch, that she didn't. She had been stunned by Danny's reaction, particularly the hostility in those blue eyes quickly wiped out by a blankness that was even more disturbing. She was well aware of how the younger man disliked being touched without permission, but over the years of their friendship, she also knew that she was one of the very few people from whom he didn't mind receiving affectionate contact. In a way, it was a special privilege. Stella could probably count the number of people whom Danny permitted to touch him whenever they wanted on one hand.
When Danny tried his best to pretend he didn't just flinch away from her as if she carried the plague, her instincts yelled at her to make Danny talk to her. Something was undeniably off. She pulled every trick in the book to get him to open up, but it was no go. For the first time since she and the younger CSI became friends, Danny was pushing her away and throwing up those old walls around himself again. The same walls she and everyone else at the labs encountered when Danny was new and didn't know anyone and seemed standoffish.
No, the word you're looking for is paranoid, a voice in Stella's mind said.
Stella reluctantly released Danny's now warmer hand and leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes. One of her legs prickled with the sensation of pins and needles, and she extended it forward, wriggling her toes to drive the tickling feeling away.
She was a stubborn woman by nature. If she couldn't get through to Danny, she was going to get through to the others instead. And of course, the foremost person on her list was Mac. Her boss, partner and, most of all, friend. She somewhat expected his impassive response that Danny was simply going through a tough time with what happened to his older brother Louie. Didn't mean she got any less mad about it. Hawkes was surprisingly as aloof, though Stella suspected it was more because he wanted to look into the situation before forming any judgements. As far as she knew, Hawkes was quite chummy with Danny.
But not as chummy as Flack was with the bespectacled CSI.
The homicide detective's reaction to her concerns was palpable. Stella had been greatly relieved to find she wasn't imagining things in regards to Danny's drastic change in conduct. Everyone at the labs knew Flack and Danny had a close friendship, a bond that people couldn't help but notice the moment the two men were together in the same place. Flack was possibly the only person who could call the other detective Dan or Daniel and get away with it clean. Flack was also possibly the only person these days who hung out with Danny on a very regular basis, and knew Danny's behavior inside out, along with all the guy's quirks and habits.
Despite that, even Flack couldn't get past the impenetrable walls Danny had put up around himself. It had taken at least another month after her afternoon in the lab with Danny before everyone else finally opened their eyes, and began to see for themselves that she wasn't simply being overprotective.
Stella ran one hand through her wavy tresses, bowing her head in lassitude. As cruel as it sounded, part of her was glad Danny was now in the hospital under professional medical care. She was pretty damn sure she would have had to wrestle with the younger man like an anaconda snake merely to get him to seek professional help. Then again, considering how emaciated Danny was these days, she might have won.
And only God knew how long Danny would have gone on the way he was before he collapsed, if it hadn't been for his accident today.
The faint creak of the room door opening made her sit up and open her eyes.
Mac was still outside the room speaking with Dr. Koshy, oblivious to the fact someone else was visiting Danny.
Stella gazed into weary cerulean eyes under lowered, thick eyebrows.
"Flack!" She got to her feet and approached him, furtively inspecting him. "Where have you been?" She squeezed his forearm.
He didn't reply. Instead, he stood where he was at the foot of Danny's bed, staring steadfastly at the unconscious man with a grievous expression.
"Flack?"
His tie was missing. Stella glanced down and saw dark smears all over the homicide detective's black jacket and white shirt where the jacket didn't cover. Dried blood. Danny's blood. She lifted the forearm in her grasp. Flack's hands looked clean, but reddish and raw in patches all over. She also noted the brownish red under the nail cuticles.
Flack was now staring at his hands too.
"Blood wouldn't come off." His voice was monotone, so unlike his droll tenor.
Stella ran a hand down Flack's arm in consolation. She pictured the tall detective standing in front of a sink, scrubbing madly at his crimson-spattered hands to wash away his friend's blood, face screwed up. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him to witness Danny tumbling down those stairs.
"Flack." She pulled at his wrists gently. "Come and sit down."
Flack listlessly shuffled over to Danny's bedside, moving as if he was struggling through molasses. Stella's worry for him increased.
No one had heard from Flack after he fled from the building where the Sandra Carpenter murder had taken place. He never showed up at the hospital, even after Mac and Stella had gotten there and met up with Hawkes at the ER. Hawkes had described Flack's hasty departure as the man running like a bat out of hell, and screaming like one too. The former ME had accompanied Danny in the ambulance, and therefore, had no idea whether Flack ever went back to the scene or not. When Lindsay visited in the afternoon, after Danny had been treated and transferred to a private room in the hospital, the newcomer CSI confirmed that, indeed, Flack didn't return to the building. Neither did he pick up any of Stella's calls, or Mac's.
The homicide detective touched Danny's head with a trembling hand.
"Hey, buddy," Flack whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry I ran off like that ..."
Under Flack's large hand, Danny's head shifted on the pillow for the second time that evening. Like before, his eyes stayed shut.
"So sorry …"
The tall detective stood there by Danny's side, tentatively patting his comatose friend's head for a few minutes, biting his lower lip. Then, he abruptly swayed on his feet. Stella was immediately beside Flack, gripping his upper arm and throwing her other arm around his waist.
"Come on, Don. Sit down with me."
Flack silently complied, letting Stella maneuver him to the chair she vacated. He went down heavily, inclining his torso forwards and resting his elbows on thighs. He buried his face in his hands as Stella walked over to the opposite side of the bed and dragged the other chair there next to Flack.
"You okay?" Stella asked kindly. She ruffled Flack's shorn hair.
It was a while before Flack spoke.
"I couldn't move. Even after he was gone … I couldn't move."
Stella turned on her seat so she was face to face with the homicide detective. "What do you mean? Who's he?"
Flack kept his face hidden in his hands, and she squeezed the back of his neck tenderly.
"Don, come on, talk to me. What happened?" She chuckled humorlessly. "I think you scared the daylights out of Hawkes and Lindsay today."
At length, Flack raised his head and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. The lines and wrinkles on his handsome face were more stark than usual.
"There was this … there was this guy." Flack rubbed his face. "I dunno, the first time I bumped into him, it was at Central Park. The day the Brandon Hall kid was discovered there … Tall as me. Green eyes. Long, dark hair tied into a ponytail." He looked at Stella with tired, bloodshot eyes. "Came outta nowhere … and he … he implied that he had … photographs of me."
Stella stared at the homicide detective with wide eyes. "Are you telling me … you went off chasing a fan boy?" She smirked. "What, Detective Flack has a fan club now?"
Flack cackled. The laugh was utterly devoid of mirth. "Fuck. If only it was that simple, Stel."
"Okay. So … who was he?"
Flack stared into the distance at the floor beneath Danny's bed. "I dunno. But he gave me the creeps like no other perp ever did. The way he said it … trust me, if he was some kinda fan, he was the kind ya hope ya never, ever meet." His hand stiffened into a fist. "And he was there. Right outside Carpenter's apartment buildin' today."
All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Stella's neck was standing on end. "You're sure it was the same guy?"
"Yeah. Definitely. He had the kinda face that stood out from the crowd. Like them model types."
"What if he really is just some crazy fan of yours? You've been getting quite a lot of coverage in the news thanks to that blonde reporter. The one who's always following you around."
Flack huffed. "Saw the guy outside the buildin', right? So I chased him into an alley … and outta nowhere, he disarmed me with a single pinch to my shoulder." He opened his jacket, popped two buttons on his grimy shirt, pulling the left side away to reveal a dark, circular bruise the size of a thumb digit, below the collarbone. "Not only that, he somehow paralyzed me with the same move. Couldn't move a muscle s'long as he was pressin' his thumb into my shoulder."
"Maybe he's had prior combat training …" The uneasiness in Stella's large eyes said volumes. "You should have that looked at by a doctor … You don't just paralyze somebody with a pinch, unless it was affecting some major nerves in your body."
"S'okay. It ain't hurtin'. Didn't even hurt then." Flack tugged his shirt close, went back to crossing his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched. "Ya wanna know how I know he's not just some obsessed fan boy? He was spoutin' some ambiguous crap 'bout me … me being not strong enough to-to stop somebody."
The homicide detective looked at Stella with something akin to fear in his eyes.
Jade eyes, filling Flack's entire world. No weapon. Numb. Vulnerable.
Darkness staring him in the face.
"There's only so much time I can buy … on your friend's behalf."
Tense silence reigned, broken only by the sharp beeps from the machinery in the room. Stella's eyes were even wider than before.
"I know he was talkin' 'bout Danny. I know it." Flack swallowed visibly. "I know you're thinkin' maybe I'm just too suspicious for my own good, but I know he was tryin' to tell me … somebody's comin' after Danny."
Stella clasped Flack's arm in her hand. The muscles beneath her palm was rigid. Flack was seriously spooked.
"Don, did anyone else see him?"
"See him?" Flack appeared bewildered. "I … I dunno. It's like … it's like he's a ghost. One second he's there, the next … he's gone." He blinked. "And Danny was there with me … the first time. But he never saw the guy."
Flack suddenly glared at Stella. "Ya think I'm crazy, don'tcha? Seein' -" - he flailed his hands about - "- invisible people."
She returned his glare with an equally strong and pointed stare. "You know me better than that."
The homicide detective's ire instantaneously ebbed. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Sorry," he said in a small voice.
"It's alright. I was going to say, if I got Adam at the labs to create a facial composite on the computer, you think you can describe enough about the guy to make one?"
Flack blinked, thought about it for a moment then said, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good with that. That'll help." He flashed a moderate but sincere smile at her. "Thanks."
Stella sighed, a benevolent smile curving her lips. "That's what friends are for, Flack." Her expression became grave once more. "As much as I know you believe this mystery guy's given you some kind of warning about Danny's life being threatened … we shouldn't rule out the possibility that it really is just some random guy who's messing with your head."
Flack scowled. He remained silent.
"Say you were to find him and arrest him now, you don't have anything to charge him with except, perhaps, minor assault on a police officer. And … seeing as you're the only person who's encountered him, there're no witnesses to corroborate your story."
Flack's frown deepened, but still, he said nothing.
"All we've got right now is your word that there's this guy who's, well, stalking you and making vague statements about somebody you know whose life is in danger." Stella threw up her hands, an empathizing expression on her visage. "At this point … there's nothing much that can be done. I only hope whoever the hell this weirdo is, he's simply all talk and no action, you know?"
"Yeah." Flack glanced at Danny, motionless and asleep throughout their conversation. "Has he woken up at all?"
Stella shook her head. "No. He stirred once, but that was it."
"That's his doctor out there, right?" He motioned with his head towards where Dr. Koshy and Mac were outside the room.
"Yeah. Dr. Koshy."
Flack's big, blue eyes flitted back to Danny's pallid face. "He knows."
Stella gazed at Flack's mien in profile, waiting for clarification on that short statement.
"He was talkin' to Mac 'bout gettin' Danny into the hospital's eatin' disorder program."
Another weighty silence befell the two tired detectives. A few minutes passed. Flack stared at a spot on the wall above Danny's head, while Stella kept her eyes on Mac, who was now alone, his back turned towards Danny's room and its occupants. Mac's shoulders heaved once as he drew in a deep breath and let it out, ducking his head.
"He's going to be okay, Don."
The homicide detective stared at the other man on the bed for a little while more, then swiveled his head to look Stella in the eye.
"Fuckin' right he is. 'Cos I'm gonna be here to make sure he does."
Stella grinned, feeling immensely reassured at the restored fire in those cerulean eyes. Don Flack, Jr. was one man whose word she could always take at face value. She held his hand and gave him an encouraging squeeze.
"I know you will, Don. I know."
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"Detective Messer had a serious concussion, but the MRI scan revealed no obvious signs of structural injury to the brain tissue. X-rays showed no skull fractures from the impact of his fall, which is very good. The head wound should heal up nicely with minimal scarring, since it was quickly treated," Dr. Koshy said, holding a plastic folder under one arm. "He is very lucky."
Mac inwardly sighed in vast relief. He wasn't sure how he'd have reacted if the doctor had informed him otherwise. All good news so far. He braced himself for the bad.
"However, I am concerned by his prolonged unconsciousness," Dr. Koshy continued. "There are three grades of concussions. Detective Messer had a Grade Three concussion, the classic concussion, which is the most severe form. It is common for people suffering from a Grade Three concussion to lose consciousness for a brief period of time, so ... the longer he is unconscious, the higher the risk that there is brain damage."
Mac felt as if his facial features had become permanently set in a fierce, anxious frown.
"For now, all we can do is wait. I am hopeful Detective Messer will awaken by tonight." Dr. Koshy pushed the thin-framed glasses higher up his hooked nose. "Detective Taylor, I will need you to answer a few questions which will help me to resolve some of my … suspicions. You are his supervisor, yes?"
Mac's back straightened. "Yes, I am."
The physician opened up the folder he held and took out a pen from his coat pocket. "Does Detective Messer live alone?"
The CSI's hazel eyes glinted. He had a fairly good idea where the doctor's inquiry was headed. "Yes. In an apartment in Queens."
"Does he have family?"
"His parents live in Brooklyn … and he has an older brother." Mac's lips thinned into a line. "He's a patient here. Three floors up."
Dr. Koshy jotted down some notes on a notepad inside the folder, then looked up at Mac. "Was he recently admitted?"
"No. His brother, Louie Messer, was nearly beaten to death in a gang-related crime." The image of tears trickling down Danny's anguished face manifested itself so powerfully in his mind right there and then, it took a minute or two for him to add, "He's been here at Mount Sinai for over five months, in a deep coma."
"I see. Do you have any idea if they had a close sibling relationship?"
Mac blinked.
Danny's face, flushed and wet with moisture. Blue, regretful eyes turned red and scrunched up.
"They beat him really bad, Mac."
A tow of his arm, hand behind Danny's neck. Hot tears on his neck and collar. The sobs of a broken man echoing in his ears.
"I spoke with Louie Messer once. They had their conflicts … but in the end, they will always be brothers."
"And his parents?"
Mac was at a loss for words for a minute. It was a considerable blow to him that, in all the years they'd worked together, he knew next to nothing about the younger detective. "He's … a very private man. He doesn't talk much about them."
"Hmm." Dr. Koshy noted this down also. Mac heard the doctor murmur under his breath, " … possibly suffering from major psychological and emotional trauma due to brother's beating …"
It made Mac grit his teeth hard.
"Did Detective Messer exhibit unusual or extreme changes in his behavior since the incident?"
Mac thought back through the last five months, scanning every memory of Danny that emerged. He gradually realized in silent disbelief that he could hardly recall that many where the younger CSI was present. And even less, instances where he directly interacted with Danny and truly spoke with the man.
"At first, all of us at work gave him space. We anticipated at least some change to his behavior, after what happened to his brother."
Dr. Koshy nodded. "Very reasonable."
"It was in the last couple of months that …" Mac inhaled deeply. "It became clear to us he was … deteriorating."
"Then, you are aware of Detective Messer's eating disorder?"
Mac looked sharply at the doctor, then closed his eyes and sighed. "Not until very recently."
"Detective Taylor." Dr. Koshy's brown eyes reflected kindness. "I understand how difficult it may be for you to accept that your co-worker, especially an adult man, is suffering from such a condition. Here at Mount Sinai, we have effectively treated many children, adolescents and adults for it, and yes, there are men who make up a small percentage of those patients."
The physician rifled through his folder, pulling out a rectangular leaflet with a picture of the hospital on it, and some large bold text. He passed it to Mac, who took it after a second's hesitation. "We have some of the best programs for eating and weight disorders."
The black, bold words anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa burned Mac's retinas as if they were flames.
"I highly recommend that Detective Messer be placed under treatment as soon as possible." Dr. Koshy closed the folder in his hands and replaced his pen in his coat pocket. "A person should have a normal body mass index between 18.5 and 24.9. If it goes below 18.5, the person is considered underweight. A man of Detective Messer's height, at five feet nine inches, should have a normal weight of at least 125 pounds and above."
Dr. Koshy paused for a moment.
Mac's fingers involuntarily curled around the pamphlet.
"Detective Messer's current weight is 112 pounds," Dr. Koshy said evenly. "He has a BMI of 16.5. He is, quite literally, on the borderline from suffering major health problems. Increased risk of heart failure, anemia, hypertension, liver failure, kidney failure, the list goes on."
The physician paused again, then said solemnly, "Should he choose not to undertake any therapy and continue as he is … he will only have a few months to live. Perhaps even less."
Mac's vision greyed out. He brought one hand up to his forehead, pressing at it with his thumb and fingers. A migraine was pounding in his skull, but it was nothing compared to the chill that froze his insides. His legs felt numb.
"I will do everything I can to make sure that he does," Mac eventually replied. He bluntly ignored the little voice in his head that told him he might already be too late.
"Very well. If you have further inquiries about the program, you can contact our department of psychiatry about it. All the contact information is there," Dr. Koshy said, gesturing at the booklet in Mac's grip.
This time, Mac released a real sigh of relief. It turned out to be too soon.
"There is something else I must ask."
On the outside, the CSI was as stoic as ever. On the inside, the ice came rushing back, causing him to feel even colder within.
"Do you know if Detective Messer is currently in a relationship?"
"I …" Mac's cornered gaze darted away then back again. "As I said, he's very private about his life." He shook his head once. "I don't know."
The physician cut to the chase.
"There is extensive and acute bruising on both his knees and lower legs. There are too many to assume they all resulted from his fall. Based on the varying discoloration, he received a lot of them over an extended period of time."
Were his limbs still attached to his body? Mac was so taken aback by the conclusion he thought up, he couldn't feel anything.
"You think he's being … abused."
Dr. Koshy nodded. "It is possible." The doctor pushed up his spectacles a second time. "But, the lack of contusions on any other parts of his body, as well as the shape of the bruises, makes me suspect otherwise."
Haunted, blue eyes on a handsome mien. Lightened clear by afternoon sunshine through his office windows. Some days ago.
"Mac … did ya ever talk to Ophelia Dichiara again? After the case was over?"
Glance of curiosity at Flack. "Well, I visited her once. To explain why she did what she did."
Anxious frown, so much like his own when he brooded over things lost. Claire.
"Did she … did her nightmares stop?"
Surprised hush. "She never mentioned them."
"How 'bout her sleepin' disorder? Did that stop?"
More surprised silence. "Why are you asking all this?"
"Say … say ya know somebody who … somebody who's goin' through the same thing." Flack tapping fingers on the table, an erratic rhythm. Restless. "He's leavin' chairs 'round to trip himself awake whenever he sleepwalks in his nightmares. Ya know it, and ya know he's hidin' it from everybody else." Shuddering breath. "And ya know he's harmin' himself too. And he won't get help. Whaddaya do, Mac?"
Tension. Perception. "A man can't be forced to seek help, if he won't admit that he has a problem in the first place."
Tormented, cerulean eyes closing. "He needs help, Mac. I can't get through to him." Eyes open, piercing stare. "You still can. He still listens to ya, Mac." Agonized frustration.
"You're the best chance Danny's got left."
"Detective Taylor?"
Mac licked his dry lips. "I think I know how he got those bruises. It wasn't from physical abuse by another person."
Dr. Koshy's gaze was as intense as Flack's was that afternoon. "Are you certain?"
"Yes." Mac cleared his throat. "One of his colleagues reported that he has been … sleepwalking. Placing chairs all over his apartment to wake himself up."
"I see." A concerned frown made the physician purse his lips. "And this colleague is sure of this?"
"Yes."
It was never a good thing when the doctor was noticeably worried. Dr. Koshy began to say something. Then a shrill ringtone emanated from his coat pocket. It was his pager.
Dr. Koshy's frown grew deeper at whatever he was reading from his pager. He looked at Mac with a resolute expression as he placed the pager back into the pocket. "I'm sorry, Detective Taylor. There's an emergency in the ER. I will be back as soon as possible to check on Detective Messer."
Mac merely nodded in response, watching the middle-aged physician hurry through the double doors down the hallway and out of sight.
The moment he was alone, his shoulders slumped. He ran a hand over his face, bowing his head, lethargy sinking into his bones. He was hurting just listening to Danny's doctor describing the younger CSI's numerous injuries. He tried to think about what to do next, about their latest cases, the new evidence they discovered from the victims. And all his brain could do was repeat a single phrase over and over.
Mac scrunched his eyes closed at a particularly excruciating pain that zigzagged its way from one side of his head to the other. Nope. His mind was still reiterating that one statement over and over.
The thing was, he agreed wholeheartedly with it because it was the absolute truth.
"Mac?"
His CSI partner's soothing voice made his headache recede. Mac slowly looked up.
Stella stood beside him, touching his upper arm, a worried expression on her beautiful visage. Mac was surprised to see Flack was there too. The homicide detective must have arrived while he was still in conversation with Dr. Koshy.
"Mac, I'm going to take Flack down to the cafeteria," Stella said. "Get him something hot to drink, and eat."
Mac wanted to speak to Flack, although his scrutiny of the young man told him he wasn't going to learn much right now. Flack's heavy-lidded eyes were glazed over. The guy was completely lost in thought, somewhere else. He was also unsteady on his feet.
"What happened to him?" Mac asked in muted tones.
Stella huffed. "He had an encounter with … somebody weird." She shrugged at Mac's lift of his eyebrow. "It's a long story, I'll tell you later."
Her voice lowered. "I think it traumatized him. He went back to his precinct after that, bloody clothes and hands and all, and he got instantly sent back home. I think that's where he's been until he came around just now."
"Okay." Mac pinched the flesh between his eyes. "Try and get him to go home afterwards."
Stella smirked. "Ah, that's going to be a tough one. He's insisting on staying with Danny." Her expression became serious. "So, what did he say about Danny?"
The two detectives gazed at each other, Stella anxious to know and Mac disinclined to utter the answer. It was difficult to deny those compelling, green eyes. He never could.
"Not good."
Stella's expression stayed neutral. "But he's going to get better, right?"
Mac said nothing.
"Mac." His Greek partner squeezed his hand in hers. "He's going to get better."
The phrase that had been rolling in his mind over and over finally blurted out through his lips.
"I failed him."
Stella stiffened. "Mac -"
"I failed him, Stella. I knew something was wrong. I knew, and I did nothing," Mac said in a small, hoarse voice. "I failed Danny."
Stella's lips trembled for an instant. She bit her lower lip, then said sternly, "If you failed him, then so have I." Mac's hazel eyes widened at this.
"You can play the blame game all you want, Mac, but it's done. We can't change what's in the past. But we have the present. At least … at least now, Danny's condition is out in the open. He can't run anymore. If he's still going to try denying he has a problem after this, it's time to really knock some sense into that thick skull of his." She squeezed his hand once more. "It's not your fault."
It was astounding how a few words could make his vision blur with wetness more than a severe burn injury to his chest from an explosion had.
Mac felt a second set of eyes staring at him.
Flack was still there, gazing at him with old eyes filled with resignation. Mac truly felt like weeping right then and there at the lack of resentment or bitterness in the homicide detective's gaze, in spite of the things the man had said to him.
"Go on to the cafeteria," Mac said in a husky tone. "I'll stay here with Danny."
Stella sent him a smile of solace. "We'll be back in a while." She then turned to Flack, grasping his arm and steering the man towards the double doors to the elevator beyond. "Let's get you something hot to drink, okay?"
Mac waited until they were gone before entering Danny's room, closing the door behind him.
Danny was in the same position he was since he was transferred there earlier this afternoon. Mac had to stare hard to ascertain Danny's chest was actually rising up and down with each shallow, long breath. He blinked hard, clearing his sight.
For some reason, he was afraid of drawing near the bed where his protégé was. He had the ridiculous thought that Danny was somehow going to jump up in bed and point a finger at him, accusing him of everything that Stella firmly refuted only minutes ago. Mac laughed inwardly at himself, then strided to Danny's bedside. Now that he pondered about it, that would have still been better than seeing the younger detective like this, unmoving and ashen as a corpse.
Mac settled himself in one of the chairs. One of Danny's hands was sticking out from beneath the heated blanket, and he held it in his own, fervently wishing for Danny to return the grip.
In the despondent, quiet privacy of the room, Mac whispered, "I'm sorry."
The younger man's hand remained limp.
Mac lost track of time, sitting by Danny's side and staring blankly at the nasogastric tube attached to the other man's nose. He had to battle the urge to smash something apart. Or whip out his gun and fire it. Or grab Danny by the shoulders and shake him and demand to know why he was doing this to himself. Though the unconscious man probably had no clue Mac was even there.
The ringtone of his mobile phone startled him.
"Taylor."
"Detective Vicaro here."
Mac perked up in his seat, all senses heightened.
"We got another one." In the background, the CSI unmistakably heard someone violently throwing up, and another man swearing a long streak. Vicaro shouted at whoever who was there with him. "Fuckin' hell! Get Halguin the fuck away from the damn scene 'fore he contaminates it!"
The man who'd been cursing was now babbling. "Good God, good God, where the hell are her intestines?"
Mac stared hard at Danny's slack face. He appeared to be just sleeping peacefully after a long day, free from any pain or suffering. It was a harsh contrast to what Mac was hearing via his phone.
"Couple of teenagers found the body on their way home from school."
Detective Vicaro was notorious for owning one giant ego and an even more cocky attitude and loose mouth.
Mac heard none of the other detective's usual brashness on the line tonight.
"My guys are still tryin' to calm the poor damn kids down. What kinda sick motherfucker would do somethin' like this to a child …"
Mac's eyes slammed shut. Another one.
"You better get yer CSI guys down here fast, 'cos I feel like pukin' as much as the next guy."
More nauseating sounds of somebody vomiting traveled through the connection to Mac's ear.
"We'll be there."
Vicaro quickly gave him the address of the murder scene. The call disconnected.
Mac covered his eyes with his hand. He let out a shuddering breath. The Brandon Hall case was giving him more than enough nightmares. He did not need another horrible murder involving a child. Nobody did.
It took him a great deal of effort to press the number that speed dialed Stella. By the time she picked up, Mac had carefully slipped on his professional mask once more.
"Stella, tell Flack he gets to stay here with Danny," he said composedly. He squeezed Danny's hand one last time, then got to his feet. "Vicaro just called."
"We've got a serial killer on our hands."