With Each Passing Day

By Dimgwrthien

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: NY or affiliates.

"Mr. Hammerback?"

"That's right."

Mac smiled at the man, looking him over. He didn't look quite like the other medical examiners, who were straight out of college and fresh. This man seemed as thought he would know what to do, even in the strangest of cases.

"Sit down."

Sid sat and watched Mac.

Looking over the resume, Mac tried to think of a question he hadn't already asked over the phone. "You're transferring from…?"

"California. Just seems too crowded there." Sid smiled, looking amused. "If I had the choice, I'd have the interesting cases far in between than the common ones every day."

"You'll probably find that in New York."

Sid nodded, still smiling.

Mac glanced over the paper again. "I just have one question that's been bothering me…"

Sid raised his eyebrows.

"Why on earth did you list 'dead bodies' and 'human husbandry' as interests?"

(With Each Passing Day)

Days stretched into weeks that lounged carelessly over the calendar, turning into colder and colder months. Mac had started to mark the passage of time by the scars - Stella's scar from the bomb, the small scar he realized he had acquired on his leg, the little cuts and bruises that came out of rebuilding the crime lab and setting the lab back into a place where they could pretend not to notice the sudden increase of people in jail. Enough files were kept, Mac realized, that it wasn't a complete loss for the suspects, but it still put some damage to the lab's name.

Mac spent his time memorizing the entire lab's floor plan until he could count the feet across his office and the hall way in any dimension, no matter where he stood. Nothing like this would happen again.

He only listened vaguely to the conversations around him. He realized that Claire and Stella hadn't stopped talking after the bomb.

In mid-December, Mac returned home to Claire unpacking a box. She glanced up at him as the door close and grinned. "Hey!"

Mac shrugged out of his coat, noticing the wet spots where snow had hit it. "You're perky," he muttered. "It's freezing outside."

"Isn't it great?" Claire pulled out stockings from the box, and Mac saw that it was filled with Christmas decorations. He groaned inwardly, but grinned, knowing that Claire would be in a frenzy at least until next January or February.

Every Christmas with her involved several things: massive amounts of decoration, children, and cooking. Christmas seemed to bring out some deeply hidden aspect to Claire, one that seemed to tell her that she had children and a to-do list longer than Santa's naughty and nice list. He had never seen her frown during December before, though.

"Not especially," Mac answered, but he grinned. "I'm surprised you're starting this early."

"Late," she sighed. "I'm starting late. Wanna help?"

He smiled and stood over the box, looking down into it. It was still almost full. "Not too much." He still bent down and pulled out a wreath, then grinned at it. "I love it when you do this."

Claire sat back on his heels and frowned at him. "Do what?"

"This." He waved at the box and kneeled down beside her. "Every Christmas, you act like you have kids and as though you need to spend a month decorating."

Claire remained silent for a moment, a stocking hanging loosely in her hand. Mac looked over at her, wondering if she was going to lash out at him. Her expression didn't seem violent, but thoughtful. "I never wanted to give up hope on that, I guess." She sighed and shrugged. "You know, sometimes I wish we had thought about it before and had kids. I guess that's why I like inviting my sister over so much - I can pretend once a year that we did." She smiled, but the smile faded when she looked at Mac. His muscles felt too tense, and he noticed the slight tremor in his own hands. Claire put her arm on his shoulder and shook it.

"I'm not blaming anyone." Claire tried to smile again. "Mac, the only reason we never did was because of our jobs. I understand that. If I wanted kids that badly, I wouldn't have taken this job, and I wouldn't have ever let you take your job." She tilted her head. "It's just… nice to have someone around to take care of."

Mac looked down at the wreath in his hands.

"It's - it's just a girl thing." Claire smirked. "If there were a man who understood it, he'd be a king among women. Just maternal instinct, you know?"

"You have Reed," Mac said bitterly, his words coming out harsher than he wanted them to. He bit his tongue once he realized what he said and closed his eyes.

He knew that she hadn't seen him in a while. When he had asked why she stopped visiting him after he was about two or three, she explained it to him simply - why force him to know who she was, that he had a mother, when she wouldn't be there next time to take him home. She only left behind a name and address for them to give to him when he turned eighteen.

Claire sat in silence for a few seconds. "We all do stupid things when we're young. I won't say I'm ashamed of what I did because I love Reed."

Mac looked up at her slowly and saw the dangerous look in Claire's eyes start to fade away. Her voice lowered into a reassuring hush. "We agreed on this, alright? We both knew that he could have kids anytime we wanted, and we said that unless it just happened, we weren't going to make that extra effort for them." She leaned against his shoulder. "If we really wanted them…" Claire looked up at him. "Why would we?"

Mac frowned as he glanced at her upturned face.

"If we had kids, I wouldn't have free reign of you." Claire grinned as she sat up and moved in front of him, her face dangerously close to his. Her breath was warm, a pleasant relief from the bitter cold outside. Slowly, she pressed her lips against his and drew back. "The kids would say that's yucky, and we both know it's not." She smiled.

Mac touched the top of her head and ran his fingers through her tangled curls. Claire pressed against him again, lightly kissing his lips, drawing out each kiss slowly. Mac finally kissed back.

"I'll let you off the hook for decorations," Claire breathed. "That's only because I love you, though. If I didn't, you'd be doing all the work."

"Lucky for me, then." Mac smiled and leaned into her again, but stopped when he heard the phone ring. Claire sighed and let him go to his jacket to take his cell phone out of the pocket.

"Taylor."

"It's Doctor Wilson."

Mac froze as he listened to him speak. He turned away from Claire, resting his face in the palm of one hand. The doctor spoke slowly and clearly, knowing that Mac didn't want any pauses to talk. His voice was solemn, the same it had been with every phone call before.

"I'm sure this is the time," the doctor finished.

"Alright." Mac closed his eyes. "Could you tell him I'll be there soon?"

The conversation finished quickly with no added attempts at conversation. Mac hung up and looked back at Claire, who had obviously been watching him carefully the entire time. Her face fell. "Was it -?"

Mac nodded and leaned against the counter.

She stood slowly, giving him a pitying look. "I'm so sorry, Mac." Claire moved around the counter and cautiously touched his shoulders before bringing him into a one-sided hug. She rested her chin against his chest, breathing warmly into his ear. "I'm so sorry."

Mac breathed deeply, trying to find something to focus on.

"Did they say how much longer?" Claire asked quietly.

"A week or two."

"I'll get plane tickets, then."

Mac broke away. "What for?"

Claire blinked at him, and Mac could see that her eyes were wet. "To see him."

"No." Mac shook his head and took a step back. "No. I'm not."

"You are." Claire furrowed her eyebrows. "I don't care that the two of you haven't had the best relationship in the world. He's your father. You've known this was coming for seven months already. You should have -"

"I don't care what I should have done." Mac swallowed and found how painfully tight his throat had gotten. "I didn't, and that's what matters."

"I'm not going to let you live, knowing you didn't see him before." Claire's hands twisted nervously in front of her. "You only have one father, and it's - it's going to bother you for the rest of your life."

Mac didn't answer for a long time. He studied her face silently, trying to work out the words. "If I did feel bad about not seeing him, at least it would be one emotion to remember him by. I'm not going back."

Claire's jaw tightened fiercely, forcing her face into an expression Mac had never seen on it before. She drew back her hand and slapped him before he knew what had happened.

"Don't even say that," she hissed. "You know what I've had to deal with? When I was ten, my mother died when I was in school. None of us had a clue what was going to happen, and none of us had time to prepare for it. No one told me until I had come home and asked what happened to her. The only memory I have of her now is leaving for school and shouting a goodbye to her because I thought I'd be late."

She glared at him, then turned away. He only heard the bedroom door close after her. He felt drained, though he couldn't understand why.

It had been months since he last spoke to his father, and it had to have been years before that time. Their last words exchanged had been short, curt, straight to the point. Military cut, the type of thing Mac never would have expected from the man.

Mac leaned against the counter until his forehead rested against the cold platform. He breathed deeply, trying to keep control. After a few minutes, he straightened out, walked to the computer, and ordered two tickets.

(With Each Passing Day)

Mac sat across the bed from his father. The chair was stiff and unpleasant to sit on, but Mac had already had enough experience with hospital chairs. He knew that it was rarely the chair itself, but the experience that came with it. The whole body stiffness that came from awaiting a newborn baby to lay eyes on you, that came from watching a child complain of a broken arm, that came from waiting for a friend who may not make it, that came from waiting for someone to die, possibly in front of you.

Frank Taylor barely looked like his son. He had light brown hair, shades lighter than Mac's, and eyes that were the exact same color as his hair. The only similarity between them was the stocky build and the straight line of their spines that never seemed to be damaged, no matter how relaxed they were.

Mac tried to comprehend his father's words. He felt frozen to the spot, afraid for the first time in a long time. "No," he answered simply."

On the bed, Frank looked ill. Mac couldn't deny it in any way. His eyes seemed hollowed out, depressed, as did the rest of his face. The cancer hadn't been at all nice to him or the good looks he had before.

"Medication isn't doing anything," Frank said. His voice wavered as he pleaded. "Please. Just take out the plug. The ventilator. I don't care what. As long as this ends. I'll be dead in a few days anyway."

Mac watched him, then found his eyes drawn to the tubes and machines. Since his father had been admitted to the hospital, Mac couldn't think of him without thinking about those tubes or his paper-thin voice.

Once Frank pleaded once more for Mac to end his life, Mac couldn't take it. He stood up, nearly tipping the chair, then left the room as fast as he could.

(With Each Passing Day)

Claire found Mac sitting in the hallway of the maternity ward several floors above his father's room.

She approached him quietly, taking a seat beside him and listening to the first scream of a baby from down the hall. Mac didn't look up at her.

"Did you talk?" Claire asked in a low voice. A nurse passed them with a wheelchair that held a proud mother and her child. Claire and Mac both watched them and only noticed the similar chocolate skin and black eyes the two shared. Mac wondered if the baby would grow up to have the same smile as the mother, one that seemed to reach past her eyes to her whole body, expressing her happiness as though it were a silent and still dance of some sort.

"Yes," he answered shortly.

Claire bowed forward, her elbows on her knees. "Good." She swallowed. "You're going to feel better about that sometime, even if you don't know."

"I don't."

Claire frowned. "Mac -"

Mac shook his head. "He's half dead already, Claire. He knows it and I know it. Conversations where everyone understands that are never rewarding."

"What'd he say, then?"

"Things."

Mac felt his chest freeze as he said the word. He didn't want Claire to know that his last conversation with his father was going to be an argument over killing. He couldn't stop himself, though, and could only bring himself to hide his face behind his hands.

Claire touched his back, then rubbed it slowly. "You'll be happier about it someday," she whispered, then pressed her cheek to his shoulder. "Just trust me on it."

Mac felt hot tears behind his eyes and knew that Claire could sense them. She pressed herself tighter to him, drawing him into an awkwardly sideways hug. He shuddered with the force of holding back tears, but Claire held on tight.

"Let it out." Her voice was soft and smooth, the kind Mac missed hearing since their argument. "Just let it out, Mac."

I'm not strong, Mac thought to himself. His mind raced around the conversation. I can't even give a dying man his wish. I can't even stop myself from breaking down in the hallway. Maternity wards aren't the right place for this.

He remained there.

(With Each Passing Day)

Mac blinked as he stood in the hospital room once more. He didn't realize how he had gotten there, or even why. He could only watch the man on the bed before him for a moment before looking at the opposite wall. He sighed and balanced his weight awkwardly on one foot. "Don't ask me again."

"Wasn't planning to," Frank answered. Mac looked to see that his father didn't meet his eyes either.

Mac moved the chair back to its original position and sat down. Frank turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. "You're back."

Mac nodded. He tried to concentrate, to look at this man as his father, but he found that it had gotten harder over the years. "I'm back."

Frank watched him, studying each movement Mac made. Mac tried to sit still, his hands on his knees, his eyes unblinking. It didn't work for long.

"How's Claire?"

Mac blinked as Frank asked. He hadn't expected Frank to remember much that had happened over the years they hadn't spoken, much less Claire.

"She's fine." Mac cleared his throat. The empty silence bothered him. "She's working at the World Trade Center now. She seems pretty happy with it. The city loves her and she loves it back."

Frank grinned. It didn't look right, somehow. "She's a nice girl. Claire'd fit in anywhere, wouldn't she?"

"She would." A pause. "She - she was actually the one who made me come out here."

"Somehow I figured that out." Frank sighed to the ceiling. "I didn't think you'd come by yourself. Where is she now?"

"In the waiting room. Said I should talk to you first."

Frank nodded, and his face fell back into its usual neutral expression again. "How've you been, Mac?"

It had been ten years since Mac had last heard that from his father. "I'm doing fine. I - wish you could say the same."

They exchanged fake smiles for a moment. Frank laughed quietly. "Empathy, Mac. The one reason I never thought you'd be an officer."

"Empathy solves cases." Mac shrugged. "Sometimes it just helps."

"Same reason you fell in love with Claire." Frank shifted to meet his son's eyes. "It sounded ridiculous to me after I first met her, but… it makes sense."

"She's a nice girl," Mac answered, echoing Frank's words.

"She is. I'm not contradicting that. She just always seemed…" Frank chewed over his words, and Mac was surprised to see some of himself mirrored in that thoughtful face. "Not in the clouds, that's not the right phrase. Just… she's like a kid. A grown-up kid who understands the world, but a kid." Frank's empty smile came back. "Guess that shows I don't know you,"

Mac said nothing.

"Always thought you'd marry one of those tough female cop types. The one who wouldn't take off her holster for her wedding." Frank grinned. "Maybe I wasn't watching Claire close enough at the wedding."

Mac ignored the images that came unbidden to his mind, telling himself that it wasn't time to think of Stella, to think of the certain look she gave him that wasn't quite the same as the ones she gave everyone else.

"I didn't," Mac said blankly.

(With Each Passing Day)

Frank sighed as he stretched out his arms. Mac's head was filled with the last words exchanged in their conversation, replaying that subtle note that had reentered Frank's voice. Kill me kill me. The words wouldn't leave Mac's head.

"I'm glad you came." Mac blinked, looking back at his father when he heard the words. Another phrase he hadn't heard in a long time. "Go get some sleep, Mac."

Mac glanced at his watch and saw that he had been there for several hours. It was nearing midnight. "I -"

"Get some sleep." Frank nodded to the door. "If you still want, I'll talk to you later, but it's late."

Mac nodded stiffly, unable to shake off the feeling that years of tension he had unraveled in a few hours' time was starting to build itself up again. "Bye."

"Bye." Frank nodded him off again, then spoke once Mac's hand was on the doorknob. "Don't let me find out you were just pretending to sleep tonight. I remember you doing that."

Mac smirked as he left. He was surprised to see Claire standing by the door. She straightened up as soon as she saw him and uncrossed her arms. "Hey."

"Hey." Mac smiled. Claire didn't. Her face remained straight and serious as she watched him.

"You have a nice talk?"

Mac could tell that she wouldn't let him leave unless he had. "I did."

"Wouldn't want to imagine you fighting with Frank Taylor for four hours." Claire grinned. "Even in bed, he'd kill you."

"That's what you get with my family."