Title: Paper Cup
Characters/Pairing: Mac Taylor/Don Flack
Rating: T
Summary: Don tells Mac about his day.
Genre: Fluff with a bit of angst thrown in
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the CSI NY characters, I'm only borrowing them, and I promise to return them in minty fresh condition when I'm finished.
"So, tell me about your day," I say to Don as we're lying in our bed. To be precise, he's sitting up, leaning back against the headboard, and I'm lying on my side, propped up on one elbow as I watch him.
I've already heard some of what had transpired. Rumors and gossip travel fast in the police department, just like any other organization, and I will freely admit that I keep my ears well tuned for any news pertaining to Don and his activities. But even if I'd had the entire story documented for me with witnesses and corroborating evidence, I'd still want to listen to him tell it. It's not just that he's a natural born storyteller, I'd gladly sit and listen to him read from the UCMJ. The New York accent never sounds so melodious as it does when coming from Don Flack's lips…those eminently kissable lips. I pull myself together. There'll be time enough later for Don to put his lips and tongue to other uses, but now is our quiet time. Time for us to decompress, to take pleasure in the fact that we've both survived another day. Later we may or may not enjoy other shared pleasures, but for now I put my hand on his leg, squeezing his thigh through the bedclothes. "Tell me about your day."
"Well, me and Hawkes was working the Knight case. Guy got offed in his own backyard, so naturally we took a look at his neighbors. One of them, a Bobby Hart had had a few previous altercations with Knight, but no charges had been pressed."
I know the case he's talking about; I'd sent Hawkes out to handle it while Danny and I worked a scene in Central Park.
"When we finally tracked him down, Hart agreed to come in for an interview, but I could tell he wasn't going to be very co-operative. And as for giving us a voluntary DNA sample, forget it!"
I have my mouth open to say something, but Don knows the way my mind works when it comes to work and he answers my unasked question, "Hawkes was still processing the evidence from the scene, and we didn't have enough for a warrant to collect Hart's DNA. But I didn't want to wait to interview him in case he changed his mind and did a runner."
Don shifts slightly in the bed, repositioning one of the pillows behind him, before he continues, "I had what I thought was a bright idea. So, when Officer Malone escorted Hart into the interview room, I'd got paper cups of water on the table for each of us. I figured that if he got thirsty enough during our little chat, he'd take a swig and then boom, there's my sample."
"And you had a cup for yourself as well, because you didn't want him to think that that was why you'd put the water out for him?" I'm feeling an irrational sense of pride at Don's ingenuity. Not that I can take credit for it. Don may have learned a bit more about forensics through our quiet time conversations, but he's been able to teach me a thing or two about getting information out of people. Getting me to admit that I loved him, for instance, even before I'd admitted it to myself, for one thing.
"Well partly that," says Don, a grin on his face, "But Hawkes had been going on about this social mimicry thing a few cases back, so I knew that if I drank from the cup then it might make him more likely to do it as well."
"Sounds like a very very smart plan," I say, as my hand traces lazy circles against his leg. I visualize the interview room in my mind as Don talks. The table with the paper cups of water. Don sitting across the table from Hart, whose face I know from the case file. The pattern of the light and shadow from the metal strips on the window. I know the room like the back of my hand…like the back of Don's hand which has moved down the bed to find mine.
"I learned from the best." Don clasps my hand in his, squeezing it gently. "Anyways. I'm going through my list of questions, how he knows the vic, does he know anybody who'd want to harm him, where was he round about the estimated time of death. And he's giving me the runaround, like he knows I've got nothing on him, and he don't care how much time we waste. And I'm drinking from my cup every so often, hoping it'll make him thirsty. But it doesn't seem to be working and I'm thinking that maybe I'll just have to see if Hawkes came up with anything more from the crime scene."
Don's other hand is describing arcs in the air as he mimes drinking from his cup. A gleam of satisfaction appears on his face as he continues, "And then midway through the interview, sure enough he takes a drink. And I'm sitting there feeling pretty damn good because I know that even if I can't get him to slip up verbally, I'll at least have something for Hawkes to test."
His enthusiasm is contagious, and I can't wait to find out what happens next.
"But I guess my poker face needs a bit of work, because he looks at me, and then looks at the cup and next thing I know, not only has he knocked back the rest of the water, but then he starts chowing down on the cup as well! Ripping it to shreds and just cramming the pieces in his mouth. And he's got this smug expression on his face like he knows that there's nothing I can do about it, because I don't think the DA, or my boss, would appreciate me wrestling this guy to the ground just to get the cup back. Although I did figure that maybe I could get him on a count of destruction of police property."
"I don't think the DA would go for that," I say with barely suppressed amusement in my voice.
"So, I'm there and I'm fuming, and he's there and he's smirking at me, only then his expression changes and he looks like he's about to choke. I jump up and go round to him, thinking that I might have to do a Heimlich Maneuver and hoping I can remember my training. But just as I'm getting close enough, he starts puking and spitting and brings up the remains of the cup and the water and pretty much his entire stomach contents. And it goes all over the table and the floor and my shoes and pants as well."
I wince in sympathy, knowing how much Don values his wardrobe.
"That pretty much put paid to the interview," says Don, grimacing at the memory. "Called in a doctor to check over Hart, but once he'd been given a clean bill of health, he decided to withdraw his co-operation. I had a couple of unis take him home and got them to sit on him, just in case he decided to get out of town. Then I had everything I could scrape up bagged and brought it over to Hawkes at the lab." He grins at me again, "Well, no point in letting it go to waste."
"That explains why the sample looked as if it had been contaminated." I have to force a light tone into my voice.
I'd returned to the Crime Lab a few hours after clearing the scene in Central Park and had gone to check up on Hawke's progress with his case. As soon as I'd walked into the lab where Hawkes had been processing the evidence, I'd frozen, my gaze fixated on the evidence bags laid out on his worktop. Most of them containing rather unpleasant looking substances, and there in the middle, a bag with a stained pair of black shoes…a pair of shoes that I'd polished for Don only a few days prior.
Hawkes had been in the middle of adding a chemical to a test tube, and by the time he'd looked up, I'd regained my composure. "Mac, you need to have words with Flack about his evidence collection techniques," he'd said, a smile on his face.
"Don collected this?"
"Yes, he dropped it in while you were out. And while I do appreciate him sending me everything, and I mean *everything*, there's a reason we call it a 'sample'."
I hardly heard what he was saying, as I'd started scanning through the chain of custody dockets and almost sighed with relief as I recognized Don's signature on them. In my head, I knew that if something serious *had* happened to Don that had necessitated his belongings being collected as evidence, that somebody would surely have alerted me immediately. While the depth of my relationship with Don is not exactly common knowledge among the rank and file, there are still enough people in both Don's precinct and my Crime Lab who know enough to know to contact me had anything untoward happened to Don. Hawkes himself would certainly have let me know.
But in my heart, there's always that fear of seeing Don's name as a description on an evidence bag again.
I'm not going to tell Don about that flash of fear. I don't need to tell him. We are both painfully aware of how fragile life can be, how easy it would be for either of us to end up as a case number, an evidence bag of our personal effects tipped out onto a lab bench for processing. It's a risk that we've both accepted when it comes to our jobs, and when I first realized the extent of my feelings for Don, I knew that I would have to decide whether or not to accept that risk on a personal level as well. The rewards though, the joy that has come from being with Don has been something I'd never thought I'd experience a second time in my life. And I will do whatever it takes to make him as happy as he's made me the past few years.
"Yeah, Hawkes wasn't too happy about it," says Don, a grimace on his face, "And I wasn't too happy about losing my favorite pair of shoes." He sighs theatrically, "Guess I'll have to go shopping for a replacement pair on my next day off."
"Maybe not," I say to him, a smile on my face. I bring his hand to my lips and kiss it. "I have something for you." I let go of his hand and roll away from him, reaching under the bed for a package.
I feel Don's hand on my ass as he says, "You most definitely have!"
I laugh as I swat his hand away, before grabbing the package and sitting back up in the bed, handing the bag to Don with a flourish.
He looks at me a bit quizzically before reaching inside the bag and pulling out a pair of shoes. They're cleaned and polished so highly that he can almost see his face in them. I know, because I'd checked before I'd packed them up earlier. "I retrieved them from Hawkes once he'd finished processing them. I thought you'd like to have them back."
"Mac, this is just…" he sniffs the shoes warily, but all he can smell is the shoe polish and leather. "How did you even get them so clean? They're like new!"
"A little bit of Marine spit and polish, goes a long way," I tell him.
I watch as he pulls a face and says, "Do me a favor, don't mention spit in front of me for a bit."
"Anything you say," I say, as he puts the shoes down on the ground and pulls me into an embrace. "Anything you say."
The end.
