Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
A/N: Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers who took pity on my unusually whiny note last time: I'm pleading severe exhaustion and some narcotic withdrawal from my operation. The characters all started talking to me again, so the story will go on as long they do!
Another request, this time from Shelbers, who posted the 400th review (sorry it took so long, but I had to wait until we were back in NY!) Watch for a Hawkes moment suggested by her.
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.
It's A Long Journey Home
Chapter 49: I'm No Superman
Mister City Policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky,
See how they run.
By the time Flack had struggled back up the hill with the two-year-old crowing lustily on his shoulders, the teams had finished most of the emergency clean up. The woman from the car had been extracted, but flatly refused to leave the scene until her son had been found.
"He's fine, ma'am," Flack reassured her, holding the boy over the stretcher on which she was secured until any back injuries had been assessed. "He's a little scratched up, but nothing serious, it seems. I'll give him to the EMTs to check over, and he'll ride in with you, okay? Can I call someone for you?"
"My husband – he'll be at work." The woman's eyes were glazing over; she had obviously only held things together until her son had been found, and was now letting go. Her breathing became laboured, and her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
"Got to get her out of here, Detective," the paramedic said tersely.
"Go. We'll get her boy there; tell her that, okay?"
Flack turned with a sigh of relief to a female paramedic who was holding her arms out for the child and cooing. As soon as he tried to hand him over, though, the little boy clutched him around the neck, screaming hysterically.
"No! NO! Wan' you."
"Come on, buddy. This is Sara. She's going to take care of you, take you to see your mom and dad. Okay?" Flack tried again to hand the little boy over to the young woman.
"NO! Don't wanna." For a little boy, the kid had a grip like a boa constrictor.
Sara put her hands on the boy's waist, trying to pry him out of Flack's arms, but when Flack looked down, the terror on the child's face was too much for him, and he shook his head resignedly.
"Don't. I'll take him. Jefferson!" He called to a rookie standing on the side of the road looking sickly at the blood pools beside a small car that was sandwiched underneath the wheels of a semi. Flack tossed him the keys to his own car. "I'm going in with the kid. Take my car back to the station, would you?"
Jefferson nodded in relief, and caught the keys.
Flack looked down at the little boy. "Come on, buddy. We're going for a ride in an ambulance."
The cherubic face looked into his again, holding his face in tiny sticky hands, and that flash of mischief was back. "Siren? Woo-hoo, woo-hoo?"
Flack couldn't keep the grin from forming, no matter how inappropriate it was under the circumstances. "You got it, kid. Woo-hoo."
He held the little boy on his lap in the back of the ambulance, while Sara tried to check the wriggling little body out. "Pretty sure he's okay. Needs a diaper change and something to eat, though." She smiled at the little boy and reached into a bag, pulling out a juice box. "Hey, buddy, you want some juice?"
A little suspiciously, the little boy held out his hand for the juice, then hid his head in Flack's chest again, noisily slurping the juice and spilling half of it when he squeezed too tightly. Flack grimaced at the smell of apple juice and put his head back tiredly. Dinner with Stella was looking a long way away.
"You have a way with kids," the paramedic said, matter-of-factly. "Got some of your own, have you?"
He shook his head, a smile of amusement briefly lighting up his face. "Naw, no time for that."
He thought he heard her say, "Too bad."
By the time they got to the hospital, the little boy was fast asleep, so Flack carried him in. An angry man was standing at the admitting desk, shouting, "Where the hell is my son? My wife came in alone; I want to know where my son is!"
"Sir, you need to calm down. We're doing everything we can to locate your son. You need to stop yelling." The nurse was motioning for the security guards on the ward.
"Sir?" Flack walked over, cradling the little boy. "Is this your son?"
The man turned so fast he ran into Flack, who could smell the alcohol on his breath, "Joshua? Oh God, Joshua." He reached out for his son, but Flack grabbed his arm and moved him over to the bank of chairs in the waiting room.
"Sit down, sir. Sir, have you been drinking today?" Flack looked at the nurse, "Get a doctor and do a tox screen, could you?"
"Gladly," the nurse muttered.
It took a couple of hours; the father was in no shape to take the child home, and the mother had collapsed on the way in and was now in Intensive Care. The social worker had contacted a family member, but Flack was stuck at the hospital until the grandmother showed up, because Joshua had woken up again and pitched seven kinds of fit whenever anyone tried to take him away.
"Man! Wan' Man!" His anguished crying was too much for Flack, and he had stayed, stepping out just long enough to call Stella's phone and tell her he wouldn't make it back for a while, and incidentally, let someone else change Joshua's by now near-toxic diapers.
By the time the grandmother made it to the hospital to take her sobering son and grandson home, Flack was exhausted with trying to keep the little boy occupied, filthy from the trek up and down the hillside, and beginning to feel the bruises and scrapes he had picked up in trying to protect the child when he landed.
Normally, all he would have wanted was a shower and his own bed.
Tonight, all he wanted was a shower and Stella's bed.
He stood outside the hospital, checking his messages. One from his captain, telling him to check in and get his paperwork done. One from Hawkes, telling him they had found something odd in checking the information Danny had sent, and that John Monroe was going to teleconference with anyone who could make it that night at the lab about 8:00. One from Stella, saying she was going to the lab to see what Monroe had, and that she hoped she'd see him there.
Well, at least he could get a shower at the lab.
When Don Flack showed up, clean but still dressed in the same stained, apple juice soaked clothes, in CSI headquarters about 7:30, he was startled to be greeted with cheers and applause. He narrowed his eyes, waiting for the punch line.
"Nice one, Superman!" Hawkes patted him on the back as he walked past.
"What are you talking about, Doc?"
"You haven't seen the news?" Hawkes stopped and looked back in surprise.
"Give me a break here; I haven't been home in nearly 36 hours."
"Follow me," Hawkes took him into the break room, poured him a cup of coffee, and pointed him to the TV, tuned to one of New York's all-news stations.
Pictures of the accident were on, with an inappropriately cheerful blonde reporter announcing three dead and seven in hospital with various injuries. The camera panned over the rescue workers, then focused on a man struggling up the hill, carrying a little boy on his shoulders.
"One happy ending in this day of tragedy: little Joshua Saunders, not yet 2 years old, had been thrown from the car his mother Kristina Saunders was driving. Seen here with Detective Don Flack Jr. of the New York City Police Department, Joshua seems remarkably untouched by the trauma he must have experienced when he was literally snatched from the jaws of death by the intrepid Detective Flack."
Flack's mouth dropped open as a new scene came on the screen: an obviously amateur video showing a tall figure in an NYPD sweatshirt running towards the child in the middle of the freeway, snatching him in his arms just as the oncoming car swerved, and seemingly flying onto the side of the road.
"A decorated officer in the NYPD, Detective Flack has already had a distinguished career, following in the footsteps of his well-known father, Lieutenant Don Flack Sr., who was honoured by the Mayor two years ago at his retirement."
A picture of Don Flack Sr. shaking the hand of Mayor Bloomberg was flashed up on the screen.
"Where the hell do they get this stuff?" Flack groused.
"There's a file on every person who may merit an obituary in the New York Times. I guess your dad is one of those people," Mac Taylor walked into the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee, grinning at the reporter on the TV now gushing about Joshua refusing to leave the "arms of his protector."
"Yuck. That really is information I don't need to know." Flack ducked his head and sipped his coffee, flushing again at the close-up of him trying to hand the little boy over to the paramedic, then giving up and getting into the ambulance, still cuddling the child.
"Looked like you landed pretty hard, Flack. You okay? Did they check you out at the hospital? That why you were there so long?" Hawkes asked.
"Naw, I'm okay. It was the kid: he was scared and wanted me to stay with him," Flack flushed a little at the amused grins the two men were giving him, but the flush turned into a full-on blush when he heard Stella's voice behind him.
"Of course he did. I told you before: everyone loves a hero."
A copy of the evening paper flew over his shoulder, hitting the table. He stared at the front page featuring a half-page picture of himself smiling at Joshua, whose little hands were wrapped around his face. The headline read, "The face of NY's finest."
He glanced over his shoulder, a little prepared for mockery, disappointment, even anger in her face.
He lost his breath at the warmth of her smile, and when their eyes met, the whole world stopped turning for the space of two heartbeats.
Neither of them noticed Hawkes' smug smile, or Mac's resigned handing over of a $20 bill.
"Back to you in the studio, Charles!" The reporter chirped.
"Thank you, Chelsea. That was Chelsea Grant at the scene on the I-78."
"Sweet little boy there, Karrin. At least there was one happy ending to a terrible day." The co-anchors were obviously being given the "spin" signal, meaning there was still a little run time to go.
"Well, that's one police officer who can fly to my rescue any time, Charles! So brave, and did you see the dimples?"
Don put his head in his hands as the break room rocked with laughter.