Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".

A/N: Arrgh, alerts! I have answered every review that has come through, but they probably aren't showing up. Rest assured some of you are getting several messages when the problem is resolved! Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing in spite of it all!

Now, I know. This chapter is a little out there. But the idea came from chocobetty, and then the characters begged a little (well, a lot, actually), and I couldn't resist.

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 52: The Living and the Dead

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I've loved them all

Mac sighed and rubbed his eyes as Flack propelled Stella out the door. He hated fighting with Stella. That didn't mean it didn't happen, often. It just meant he had to face hating it pretty regularly.

"She'll get over it, Mac," Hawkes said quietly as he gathered up his gear. He hadn't been home or slept in his own bed since he couldn't remember when and he knew he was losing his focus. "We all will."

"Unless, of course, the shooter gets to Lindsay before you figure things out," a little voice spoke in everyone's head. Everyone resolutely tuned that voice out.

"I know. We've been given some slack here, Hawkes, but the brass isn't going to let us slide much longer. We need a name: something to feed to Monroe so he can figure this out. What the hell is going on in Bozeman? There must be a reason for the screw-ups, now and in '95. Who was in charge? What happened to him?" Mac turned back to look at the files Hawkes had just packed away, but Peyton gently grabbed his hand.

"Doctor's orders, Detective. That's it for tonight." She shot Hawkes a look that threatened violence on anyone arguing with her. "Sheldon needs to go home. Coming close to thirty hours, isn't it, Shel?"

Cautiously, Hawkes nodded. He knew better than to stand in the way of a determined woman, and Peyton had determined down to a fine art. "I'll be back in the morning, Mac. We'll pick up there. I still have info coming in on the Bozeman staff; something has to shake loose."

He kept talking as the trio moved out of the offices, and Peyton sighed with relief when they made it all the way to the parking lot without Mac getting back to his office. Her smile was radiant when she said, "Need a ride, Sheldon?"

"Nah, I'm good. 'Night Peyton. 'Night, Mac." He turned and jogged away towards the subway, his usual mode of transport.

Mac started towards him, to insist on him accepting a ride, but Peyton stopped him. "He'll be fine, Mac. Could you drive me home, please?"

He turned back to her and saw with a sense of shock that her eyes were bruised and exhausted. She had stayed well beyond her usual shift as well.

"Of course. Peyton, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into this." He ran a thumb over her cheek, and she turned her face into his hand for a moment.

"They're my friends, too, Mac. I may not know them as well as you do, but I care about what happens to them." She let Mac open the car door for her and help her in. He was always so careful with the courtesies; since their fight, a little too careful with her altogether, she thought on a sigh.

Tonight, for example, he would do exactly as she asked, and take her home. To her apartment, the place they usually spent their limited time together. She had been to his home once or twice, but never to share a meal, never to spend the night, never to do more than spend a few minutes there. She understood. She couldn't blame him.

But living with a ghost was exhausting. Not being allowed to even try was worse, somehow.

She closed her eyes as Mac drove them through the New York streets, casually competent as he was with everything. She had come to terms with her relationship with Mac Taylor. Truly, she had. He gave her everything he was capable of giving, and that was more than she had wanted from any man before.

It was several minutes later that she opened her eyes, and realized that Mac, probably on auto-pilot, had driven to his own apartment. She looked at him in surprise, just in time to see the emotion wash over his face as he realized what he had done: shock, apprehension, a deep, abiding sorrow mixed with guilt.

Without even thinking about it, she reached for him with one hand, her cell phone with the other. "Mac. Mac, don't worry. I'll take a cab home. Don't, Mac. Don't look like that; it's all right."

He turned to her and hugged her fiercely, holding her so close she could hardly breathe. "It's not all right," he muttered, angry with himself for his carelessness, angry with her for accepting so little when she deserved so much more than he gave her. Gently, he took the phone from her hand and closed it up.

"Peyton, come in with me, please. Come home with me, please."

She pulled away and framed his face with her small hands, looking into his eyes. The deaf woman who had told him he spoke with his eyes had been right. Peyton always knew when he was trying to lie to her; he would refuse to look at her.

Mac took a deep breath and returned her look.

She nodded, and stepped out of the car. She stood for a moment, looking at the brownstone, then jumped when Mac came around the car and took her hand. He led her up the stairs, and opened the door.

It wasn't the first time she had stepped through the door of Mac's apartment, but she saw everything as if for the first time. The walls were painted colours Claire had chosen, soft greens and blues with bright yellow accents. The furnishings were soft, inviting family and guests alike to sit and spend time together. There were only a few paintings on the walls, each one chosen to commemorate a special occasion, or to complement the architecture of the room. An older building, the brownstone had wide hallways and high ceilings, and Claire had exploited the features: using the light available in each room from large windows, and highlighting the crown molding and shaped woodwork with paint and clever window dressings.

Someone had told her Mac had got rid of everything that reminded him of Claire after her death, but as Peyton moved through the apartment, following Mac towards the kitchen, she could feel Claire in every room.

Surprisingly, she felt only peace and comfort in the house. Perhaps Claire did not resent her being there. Mac, on the other hand, was stiff and quiet.

She stopped at one, obviously new, photo in a cheap frame placed on the mantelpiece over the living room fireplace. It was a photo taken in Times Square at Christmas, a bit out of focus, a little grainy as if it had been blown up a bit bigger than the resolution could handle. It was of a young man with dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and an engaging, open smile, with his arm around a smiling, if stiff, Mac.

"Claire's son, Reed Garrett. I guess he's my step-son, but I only met him this fall, so we haven't quite got there yet." Mac stepped up behind her and picked up the picture. "She'd given him up for adoption; she was too young and too … afraid, I guess. She told me about him; we were going to start proceedings to look for him when he reached 18. She … didn't make it." He cleared his throat, and Peyton stepped away to give him room for the memories.

He handed her the photo, "His girlfriend took it, just before Christmas. We met at the tree. I had given him some photos of Claire at Thanksgiving, and he wanted to give them back to me. He'd copied them all, and thought I might want the originals back. He's a nice kid. I wish …"

Peyton turned away from the misery she saw in his face, and replaced the photo on the mantelpiece. She knew who was in the picture, probably knew more about the boy than Mac did. Curiosity was not a failing restricted to detectives, and gossip was common currency at the lab. She had never asked Mac about him, though.

"She knows, Mac. I think she's glad you've met him, that you're trying to get to know him."

She almost jumped when she felt his arms go around her, his face pressed into her neck. Cautiously, she raised her hand and ran it through his short hair. She wanted to give him comfort, but constantly worried about stepping over invisible boundaries.

After a moment, he dropped his arms, and stepped away. "Can I offer you a drink?"

She turned and smiled at him, "Tea would be lovely. If you show me the kitchen, I can make it."

She followed him to the kitchen, and busied herself filling the kettle and heating the teapot. He only had teabags, but what else could one expect? She'd learned to make do in America.

"Tell me something about Danny," she said, determined to keep him talking and comfortable in his own house.

"Messer? What about him?" Mac asked.

"Why did you think he was going to mess up?" she prodded.

Mac sat back with a short laugh, "I didn't think I was that obvious. That's a bit embarrassing, I think."

"No," she silently answered him, "What's embarrassing is that I was watching you closely enough to know you were afraid he had messed up."

Out loud, she said, "I don't think anyone else noticed."

"Danny is a hothead. He gets emotionally involved in things and loses his objectivity." Mac stared at the glass of water he had automatically poured for himself.

"And that makes him a bad cop?" Peyton's voice held only a tinge of mockery.

"Science is objective, Peyton. It has to be," Mac looked up at her defensively.

"But he's a good CSI?" She knew she was pushing, but if this evening was going to end badly, she wanted it to be about her and Mac, not about her and Claire.

"Yes, he is. Look, we've had our issues. His family is connected." Mac looked at her to see if she understood the term.

She nodded; it hadn't taken her long in New York to learn that one.

"So he's aware, all the time, of being under scrutiny. Hell, he spent his childhood being watched by all sides. He was one step away from a major gang…"

"The Tanglewood Boys," Peyton supplied.

Mac nodded, "They killed his brother after Louie tried to exonerate Danny."

Peyton had emptied the teapot, and filled it again with the boiling water and two tea bags. "I thought Louie Messer was in a coma?"

"For months; he died several weeks ago. Danny's had other problems too; he got mixed up in the death of an undercover cop. He's always shooting his mouth off. He gets in the way when he should just shut up and do his job…" Mac's voice tailed off.

"But?" Peyton prompted.

"But he's smart, and stubborn. And he's desperate to prove himself. He's hungry, you know? To learn, to improve."

"To be what you expect him to be," Peyton supplied silently. Then she pushed again, "And Lindsay Monroe?"

"I recruited her from Montana when I read about some work she had done. She's meticulous, organized, detail-oriented… a perfect foil for Danny."

"That's Detective Lindsay Monroe, CSI. What do you think of Lindsay as a person?" Peyton was always curious about that complete separation Mac could make between work and everything else in his life.

Mac thought for a moment, "She's bright and inquisitive. I knew when I hired her that she'd been involved in this case in Montana; she was only a teenager when it happened. It could have made her weak, frightened. It could have made her hard. Instead, it made her … strong," he decided. He took another sip of water.

"She's sweet and somehow, I don't know how, she manages to keep Danny almost balanced. They make good partners."

"And now something more?" At Mac's shuttered look, Peyton laughed. "Oh come on, Mac. He didn't go out there because his partner was being threatened."

Mac closed his eyes, "No, I know. I just hate the messiness of this …" He stopped, as if realizing who he was talking to.

Peyton poured her tea with a steady hand, and picked up the teacup Mac had managed to find in the back of a cupboard for her. She smiled at him. "I know. But messy can be oddly attractive. Perfect can be a bit intimidating. And sometimes, opposites do attract."

He dropped his head into his hands for a moment. "God, Peyton. What if we can't do it? What if we can't figure this out before the shooter finds them? I can't lose them. I brought them in – handpicked them both. I trained them. And now I have about 24 hours to make sure that they survive."

Peyton reached out and grabbed his hand. "You trained them, Mac, and you haven't sent them out into the wilderness unarmed. Trust them, both of them. They're smart. With or without you, they'll come through this."

She finished her tea and stood up, carrying the china cup to the sink and rinsing it carefully. "Thank you for my tea. I am going to call for a cab and go home."

Mac stood, a hint of panic in his eyes, "Don't go! I hoped you'd stay … I thought you realized …"

She faced him, placing her hands on either side of his face, resting her forehead on his. "It's not the time, Mac. This house is still Claire's. It's all right," she said quickly as he rushed to contradict her, "It's all right. One day perhaps you'll have room for me here. But that day is not today. You need sleep and I need my own toothbrush." She brushed his cheek with her lips and stepped away, dialing a number as she did.

Mac stood frozen. How had this gone so wrong?

She turned and smiled at him. "Pick me up before work tomorrow?"

And suddenly things were not wrong at all.