Father Henri Nouwen once said, "The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing . . . not healing, not curing . . . that is a friend who cares."

Chapter Text

Setting: Wednesday, April 1, 1998; New York City:

"No, Hon. Unpack later. Walk now."

Mac Taylor laughed, blue eyes crinkling as she tugged on his strong calloused hand. Tugging back lightly on her tanned fingers, the dark-haired officer grinned widely as the brown haired woman with the laughing blue eyes tumbled willingly into his lap. "What about we test that bed up in the attic? I made it up right after breakfast . . ." he dropped his voice to a low purr, nuzzling his lips right behind her ear.

Claire's laugh rang through the nearly empty house. He loved her laugh. He loved her playfulness. He loved everything about his wife.

A shadow darkened his eyes, the smile fading, the laughter dying, as Mac recalled another thing he'd loved about his wife . . . their daughter.

Something must have shown on his face because Claire's smile faltered. "Mac, we'll find her, love. We'll get her back." She slid out of his lap and pulled him unresisting to his feet. "C'mon, Mac. We're going to go walk and explore this glorious city."

Mac let her guide him out the front door and down the stone steps of their three story brownstone. He controlled his breathing, pushing down the anger and grief over their missing Maggie, swearing anew that they would find their daughter. Sitting in an unpacked house brooding about it wouldn't bring her back.

"Walk . . ." he murmured. "Yeah, let's explore. New York's not Chicago, but it can't be too different." The ex-Marine knew how different every city was from one another, but somehow all cities had felt the same to him in his vast travels: the traffic, the people, the pace, the pulse . . . the heartbeat of the city soothed and invigorated at the same time. No one was ever alone in a city and somehow that was comforting. For Mac, accepting the transfer to New York had been a chance to stick with the familiar while escaping the overwhelming pain they'd known in Chicago the past year.

Mac's sneakers hit the concrete at the bottom of the stairs and he stepped close to his wife. Entwining his fingers with hers, he matched his stride to hers as they headed towards one of the local skyscrapers. The steady rhythm of their footsteps soothed away troubled thoughts, sounding a tempo of promise and hope opening up to them in their new home.

One more bust. Just one.

Avoiding the decrepit woman in the warped mirror, Stella Bonasera pushed greasy lank tangles out of her face and reached for the garish ruby lipstick. The narcotics detective applied her make-up quickly by feel rather than sight. She couldn't take the time to do an expert job; it wouldn't look right anyway. She needed to blend in with the users and pushers, not stand out. Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her ragged sweatshirt, she shook her head and slipped the over-large sleeve back onto her shoulder. Blowing out through cracked lips, Stella tossed the lipstick tube into the sink and turned towards the door, grabbing her battered orange handbag as she strode past.

Her supervisor promised to switch her out after the next bust. Maybe she'd get homicide. At this point, she'd accept juvie as long as it got her off narcs and back to a normal life. She didn't mind undercover work just the cover story she'd been given.

Once at the door, the detective stopped and opened her purse, dipping her hand in to check on the contents. Running a mental checklist, she ticked off the items as she felt them: gun, old used makeup tubes, pen and pad, bus pass, ripped subway stub, lighter, foil . . . Stopping, Stella felt around again. When she still didn't find the foil packet, she strode to the side table and upended her purse, running her fingers carefully through the skimpy contents. Still no packet.

"Damn! Where is it?" She needed that for her cover identity. How could she be a junkie without the junk? "Okay, think, Stella."

She picked up each item and tossed it into the purse, her mind racing over possibilities. She needed the stuff. She had no money. She could go to her supervisor for supplies or funds, but she'd have to explain why she needed it. She could go to the bank and get something out of her account, but that would blow her cover . . . and she really had nothing until payday.

Stella sighed and closed the purse then opened the door of the squatter's flat. She'd have to ask Johnny . . . again. With a wince, the undercover officer locked her apartment and headed down the hall. After this bust, Johnny wouldn't have to bail her out anymore.

Stopping at the desk, Stella looked around for the clerk who answered phones and rented rooms by the week. Not spotting him, the brunette grabbed the phone receiver, dialed quickly, and waited for a pickup. Several tenants passed on various personal missions before she finally hung up, frustrated.

Johnny hadn't answered.

Running a hand through her disordered curls, Stella looked around the pitiful grungy lobby. She rubbed her hand over her arm and sighed again. She needed to go out and buy but she had no cash. It had been a couple days since she'd bought. Stella shifted restlessly, wiping her palms down her legs. If she didn't go buy, she couldn't make that bust. She really needed to buy.

There was one other option.