Roses and Thorns

by Kimmychu

He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he’ll ever say, “You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it’s over.” FlackHawkes, DannyFlack, DannyLindsay and MacStella.

2. Part 2

Roses and Thorns

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairings: Flack/ Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay, Mac/Stella

Content Warning: Goes AU after episode 3x19. Oh, and the story has this thingy called angst.

Spoilers: Pretty much every major episode in the show, and since this is a sequel to my story, RNA and DNA, spoilers for that too.

Summary: He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it's over." A multiple-ship story including Flack/Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay and Mac/Stella.

Disclaimer: You see, the cast on the show are actually clones. The real people are right here in my closet! Why yes, my closet is humongous!

( Oooo …... oooO )

Author's Notes: Here we go, the second installment of the story! The next one is the last one. All I have to say at this point is, a certain section of this story was truly one of the hardest things I ever had to write yet. I'll let you guess which part that is. I'll be writing a lot more author's notes in the last installment to explain some of the stuff that goes on in this one. Thanks for reading, and thank you for your reviews! I appreciate them.

( Oooo …... oooO )

v. "Our lives are made in these small hours ..."

Within a matter of months, it is autumn. The hot, sweltering days of summer have receded, giving way to more breezy, frosty ones. The days are shorter and the nights get longer. It is the time of year when the trees shed their leaves, brownish-yellow and red leaves that scatter across the grassy parks and paved streets of New York city. They float through the air, and some land on the ground to be trodden underfoot while some glide above millions of people of all races, ages, and genders and over hundreds of skyscrapers, then ascend into the skies and beyond to places only the wind knows.

Autumn is a time of harvest, a time to prepare for the dismal, freezing days of winter that loom on the horizon. It is also the Halloween season, a season of fun for children who'll be creating homemade costumes for the last day of October, when they will go from door-to-door collecting sweets, fruits and other gifts.

For Flack, autumn is a time for reminiscence and insightful introspection.

On this cloudy day, he looks through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his living area at the spectacular view surveying Central Park and the eastern skyline, and thinks to himself what a lucky sonofabitch he is. Figuratively speaking, of course. His beloved mother is too much of a sweet soul to ever come close to being malicious or cruel. Unlike his father, who isn't worthy of her one bit.

The good news is, his dear old dad will never lay a hand on his mom. Never again.

His fist did all the convincing of that for him two months ago during a meal with his parents.

It had been his mother's request to have a home cooked dinner. Usually, he'd invite her out for the day and he'd treat her to somewhere really nice that served all her favorite foods, and it would be just the two of them. Mom and son, with no violent, hypocrite dad in sight. Still, every now and then, his mom would insist on him spending time with his dad and he stoically endured every get-together, for his mother's peace of mind more than anything. So when mom said, "Let's have dinner together, Donnie, as a family, in our family home," he agreed without remonstration. He can never say no to his mother.

He tried his damnest to be civil towards his father, who's officially been retired from the police force for four years now. He really did. But then his old man just had to drink too much for his own good, like the jerk did all the time, and was idiotic enough to slap his mother for trying to take away the whisky bottle.

Right in front of him.

And he finally lost it.

Flack had stomped down the urge for retaliation for twenty years. Nobody would really blame him for defending his mother against her abusive husband, should he have fought back in the past. Except the quandary was, as much as he hated it, the abusive asshole's his dad. All the punches and kicks he could have inflicted on the man wouldn't have changed that.

It would merely have turned him into the mirror image of his father.

Twenty years. Twenty long years, for him to grow from a gangly, skinny teenager into a sturdy, loyal, independent man with a resolute heart.

A man, who became greater than his father, at long last.

"You may have given me your name," he'd grinded out to his dad who was sprawled on the floor of the dining room, bleeding from the nose. "But I thank God every day that you didn't give me your cowardice too."

His dad had appeared so small and pitiful then. All bullies are, once they're stripped of their armor.

His mother had ended up weeping that night, not tears of terror, but tears of relief. And after twenty years of being haunted by the memories of his beaten mother crying alone, he found liberation in holding her in his arms as she did so, reassuring her in a gruff voice that it's over, it's over.

For both of them.

Flack is hauled back to the present by an unexpected ray of sunlight that spills through a rift in ominous, grey clouds. The brightness inundates his tranquil, penthouse floor apartment, casting a warm glow on the interiors and antique-meets-art-deco furnishings that came packaged with the place. It flows into him, banishing the remnants of gloomy thoughts with renewed faith.

Where there is light, there is life.

Where there is life, there is love.

He basks under the sunshine for a few minutes, then ambles away from the windows and heads for his bedroom to change shirts. It's beginning to feel a little too chilly for a mere t-shirt. He moves the room's shoji door to the side. It scarcely makes a sound, which pleases him and reminds him that it had been a good decision after all to rent the place.

He had never rented an apartment with Japanese sliding doors before and it had caused him to think twice about the place at first. On the afternoon he and Hawkes came to inspect the apartment, he'd semi-joked about how he was going to end up mistaking the shoji doors for regular ones and smash right through them like paper, and was already considering another place instead. Then Hawkes had given him that gigantic smile of child-like enthrallment of his, and he was done for.

Heh. He can never say no to Hawkes either.

The amusing thing is, the man doesn't live with him. They're still living in individual apartments, though they've been together for almost six years now.

Wow, six years. The longest committed relationship he's ever been part of yet.

And they're still happy.

That's the most incredible thing about it.

His feet shuffle across the wooden-tiled, lacquered floor of his bedroom. It's nice to not have to wear shoes or slippers inside his apartment, like he did in his previous apartment that didn't have such a pleasant, smooth floor. The soles of his feet are, as Hawkes put it so eloquently, being given their daily dose of tactile stimulation.

There's a full-length mirror affixed into one door of his large wardrobe, and he stands in front of it, studying his reflection. Time has been compassionate to him. His face and general physique hasn't altered much at all, aside from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and maybe crow's feet at the ends of his blue eyes. His dark hair is as copious as ever, though there are more grey hairs now. He isn't worried about them; growing old is the inevitable course of life and he's of the opinion that aging with grace and dignity, not vanity, is the way to go. Moreover, grey and white hair is supposed to signify wisdom, so why would he want to cover up that?

His body still bears the same lanky, sinewy form; in fact, he's never been in such great shape as he is right now. His black t-shirt molds around broad, powerful shoulders, brawny arms and chest and a lean, flat midriff and abdomen. His legs, unseen inside a pair of loose track pants, are also well-developed and just right, neither too thin or too muscular. He has to confess, he's satisfied that he has the figure of a man ten years younger, or rather, the figure he had when he was just twenty-five. All that self-disciplined exercising and physical training is paying off by the truckloads.

All that training had saved his life too.

Flack strips off his shirt and tosses it into a laundry basket nearby.

The first thing that lures his gaze isn't the scarring on his abdomen, the ones that resulted from his near-death encounter with a bomb planted by a schizophrenic explosive expert six years before. No, he's accepted them as part of himself for many years now. Hawkes had aided him greatly in that. What lures his eyes within his reflection is a newer scar on the upper right side of his chest, one he'd acquired last year during a very critical hostage situation that involved a diner full of young children out on a school trip and one pissed off lunatic with an AK-47.

My life is full of irony, he thinks with a somewhat amused smirk on his lips. That day, like today, had been one of his days off duty. He had planned a nice, relaxing day of grocery shopping and maybe a trip to the cinema to watch one of the latest blockbusters and a date with Hawkes in the evening once the man's shift was over. Dressed in his black leather jacket, white t-shirt, jeans and boots, he'd been presuming, yeah, it's gonna be a lovely day, Flackie boy.

It had been one of his off days, with him doing nothing more than grocery shopping, so the coincidence of him ending up with bullet wounds to his right shoulder and right thigh had been about one in a billion. What were the odds, right?

Somebody up there definitely wasn't very happy with him that day.

It'd been much like the situation where that bomb went kaboom and he got his stomach all mangled up. He had walked into the diner because he was hankering for some hamburger and fries, not knowing that he was about to run headlong into one perilous, life-threatening situation. One moment, he was standing there at the counter ordering his take away and joking around with some of the little tots who were asking him if he was a giant. The next, a hail of bullets was destroying everything in view and everybody was screaming and ducking and hiding under tables and chairs.

He didn't really feel the bullets striking his shoulder and leg. It was more like he threw himself in front and on top of the kids who were chatting with him, shielding them from the gunshots and wham, something icy slammed into his shoulder and wham, another one sliced into his thigh. He felt the little kids pressing themselves against him and their hands clinging onto him in terror a lot more.

Then, sprawled on the floor with the kids protected beneath his bulk, he saw the nutjob at the entrance of the diner with the AK-47 in hand. The perp was this short guy with a toupee that looked more like a beaver's butt, wearing a plain, buttoned-up shirt and brown trousers. Ordinary, regular-looking guy who'd be the last person anyone would think capable of coming into a cafeteria and shoot at innocent, vulnerable children.

Flack knows better. The psychos are always the most ordinary, normal-looking ones.

He can't quite remember all the details of what occurred after he was shot. He recalls he scrambled his way behind a tumbled over table for protection along with four crying, shivering children. They were so scared shitless, they couldn't even make a sound. Right there and then, the armed whackjob decided to fire his weapon again, and he grabbed all four kids again and wrapped his arms and legs around them and shielded them with his body.

That was when one of the children came in contact with his gun in his jacket. He was off duty, but he'd been paranoid enough to bring it along with him, in case something bad took place.

Somebody up there wasn't that unhappy with him after all.

"Don't be scared," he whispered to the kids, "I'm a cop. I'm one of the good guys. You're gonna be okay, I promise."

The little girl who'd seen his gun had stared at him with such big, trusting eyes. He was glad all four kids were staring at him.

It was better than them staring at the dead and bloody waitress who lay just feet away.

The nutjob fired the AK-47 another time. Then the guy had yelled something along the lines of, "I want my son! I'm gonna kill these kids unless they gimme back my son!"

Flack had enough, and he crept out alone on all fours from behind the table. His shoulder and thigh were starting to hurt. He didn't have much time left.

The perp had a boy and girl hostage, gripping the collars of their shirts to stop them from running. The kids were smart and stayed still, even when he dragged himself to his feet by propping himself on what was left of the dining counter. He could sense warm blood soaking his t-shirt and jeans.

He'd said something to the armed wacko about trading places with the kids and helping the whackjob get his son back if the guy did it. And against all the odds, the guy believed him and released the children. It'd been hell for him to stagger up to the perp on his injured leg. It turned out to be a minor flesh wound, though it still stung like a bitch, and the psycho didn't make the pain any less bearable by putting pressure on the gunshot wound in his right shoulder.

However, the nutjob holding on so tightly to him had been the guy's ultimate undoing.

The AK-47 was too long a weapon to aim at his head or body. The perp could only do so at the other occupants of the diner. And the perp had no idea that he's a cop and had a gun too.

In a split second, Flack pulled it out of its holster inside his jacket, pressed the tip of its barrel into the whackjob's stomach and pulled the trigger numerous times.

The entire incident was over in less than ten minutes.

Flack's recovery from his wounds had taken much longer.

The real fiasco, as luck would have it, took place after the shooting. He had seclusion while recuperating in the hospital, but the privacy was very short-lived. The press had gone nuts over his direct involvement in the situation and that he'd saved all twenty-six children from a horrible death, and nope, it didn't help at all that his dad's that 'legendary cop in the NYPD.' He had to attend so many press conferences about it and had so many photographers and reporters tailing him for weeks, he could have sworn he turned into some Hollywood celebrity with paparazzi in tow.

It all culminated into him earning the distinguished NYPD Medal of Honor. Yeah, it's the highest law enforcement medal of the police department and the most illustrious honor a police officer could ever be bestowed. And yeah, he received his promotion straight up to first grade detective along with it, but he doesn't like talking about the award. He'd gotten so much media coverage about receiving the medal too that, geez, even Aiden must have heard about it in the afterlife. She would have simply conked him on the head with an invisible ghost hammer or something had he yakked about it.

Well, the award ceremony hadn't been that bad. All that fake smiling and suffering through hours of boring speeches and ostentatious offers of congratulations from the higher-ups had been worth it to see the children once more and spend some time with them.

The four kids whom he'd rescued were all eight years old. The little girl who discovered he had a gun at the time of the shooting was called Mandy. She was a brown-eyed sweetheart with a maturity he never thought he'd ever see in a child, and after some conversation, he finally found out why she hadn't been afraid of his weapon like the other children. Her father was a cop too, who'd passed away from health complications her mom never talked about.

The hug she'd given him and her words of, "Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Giant. I'm glad there are still people like my daddy around," had meant more than a piece of gold metal ever would, and ever will. He still calls Mandy once in a while, to see how she and her mother are doing, and to remind himself that being a cop isn't just about protecting the people, but also to care about them.

Abruptly hit by the longing to browse through photographs of the ceremony, he swiftly plucks out a thick sweater from his cupboard and dons it. A few minutes later, he's lounging on his bed, having taken out a black photo album from the bedside drawer and looking at the pictures inside.

He skips all the photos showing him receiving the Medal of Honor. There aren't many in his album anyway; he gave most of them to his mother for her safekeeping. The first one he halts on is a horizontal picture of him with the children. They're all sitting on a long bench in the hall where the ceremony had taken place, grinning at the camera. Most of them are sitting in two rows in front of the bench, and the remaining ones are sitting on the bench with him. He's flanked by five kids on each side, Mandy next to him on his left. In any other circumstance, he would have knelt on the floor so his head would be at the same level as the children's. However, at the time of the ceremony, his right arm was still in a light sling and his right thigh was still healing, which meant he had to sit down to not aggravate his injuries.

He smiles at the photograph, then flips the page. He studies a few pictures of himself with the parents of the kids who'd been at the diner during the shooting. They are all smiling in the photos, and as he gazes at the colored images, he recalls how some of the mothers and fathers had wept while they embraced him and thanked him for saving their children. He'd come very close to tears himself at the sincerity of their gratitude.

At the end of the day, kid, he hears his former mentor Gavin Moran say in his thoughts, it's not the number of awards ya win that'll tell ya how good a job you've done. It's the number of lives you've changed for the better that does.

Remembering Gavin begets a twinge in Flack's heart. It had been one of the most difficult deeds in his life to arrest his old friend and tutor. But it had to be done. Gavin had broken the law, and by the man's own teachings, deserved the punishment for it. In a way, sticking to his integrity instead of letting Gavin off the hook was a silent testament to how well the older cop had trained him to be an upstanding officer.

Feeling downhearted, Flack flicks through the rest of the pages quickly. He does smile at photographs with Hawkes and Mac and Stella in them, though. Hawkes was grinning from ear to ear that whole day. Mac and Stella had looked marvelous, particularly Mac. After marrying Stella, it was as if he was getting younger by the day. Must be something in Stella's Greek food.

Even Sid Hammerback, the CSI labs' best ME and still the creepiest man Flack knows, and Adam Ross, now a third grade detective, had attended the award ceremony at his invitation and taken pictures with him. Hammerback had been the perfect choice of guest to liven up the event; by the time the guy was through describing his recent cases, he actually made some of them pompous, I've-seen-everything-young-man superior officers nauseous. Adam had changed significantly since Flack last met him three years ago. The young man was no longer the quiet, meek person he once was. Rather, he had matured and strengthened in character and held himself with a confident bearing that reminded Flack so much of another CSI he thought he knew.

Whatever happy feelings Flack has left evaporates when a photograph suddenly drops out from between the last couple of pages of the photo album. As he picks it up and stares at it upclose, he can merely describe what he's feeling now as bittersweet fondness.

It's a vertical photograph that reveals him and Danny from the thighs up. They're both wearing suits and ties, him in a dark grey, pin-striped suit and Danny in a near-black one. Danny's light blue tie is slightly loosened at the neck, which accentuates the man's bad boy appearance in the photo. Danny has an arm tight around his waist while he has his arm wrapped around Danny's shoulders, and they're grinning at the camera so hard their blue eyes are slitted.

The picture is almost eight years old. He knows this not because of the date printed on the right-hand corner of the photo, but because of Danny's hairstyle in it. Danny's hair is all spiked up with gel, and there are gold streaks running through it. He had loved those golden streaks. They were such a great aide memoire of Danny's rebellious nature, of Danny's I-don't-give-a-shit-'bout-what-people-think-'cause-I-like-them attitude.

It had been just one of so many things that had caused him to fall in love with the CSI.

It takes a while for Flack to realize that he's tracing Danny's facial features with his fingertip. As soon as he becomes aware of it, he doesn't get irritated or upset with himself, like he used to years before. He's learned that life is much too short to harbor anger and resentment. Doing that is like drinking poison and waiting for somebody else to die, and that's plain stupid in his books. Now, all he does is smile to himself, a small, poignant one, and bring to mind the good times he had with Danny.

This photo had been shot at one of the labs' annual parties, he remembers that. He and Danny had a blast that night, gobbling up all the food and challenging each other to drinking games and talking about everything under the sun.

Everything, except their secret relationship, of course.

That subject, they had later discussed while they stood outside at the main entrance to CSI headquarters. Danny wanted a smoke and he couldn't do that inside, so they'd gone down the elevator to the ground floor, just the two of them.

"Home is where the heart is," Danny said, gazing up at the city all around them with spellbound eyes. He had this serene look on his face as he exhaled white wisps of smoke between puckered lips.

Flack raised his head and beheld the same splendid vista with warm eyes. God, he knew exactly what Danny meant.

"Damn straight."

The shorter detective let out a soft cackle, took one last puff on his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the trash bin nearby.

"Remember what I said?" Danny asked once he was back at Flack's side.

"Remember what?"

"You know." Danny tilted his head at an angle, sending him a meaningful gaze. "'Bout you bein' New York city."

Flack's lips curved up in a tender smile. "Yeah. 'Bout me bein' full a' smog and rude people and high rent?"

Danny was smiling, but the man had that look in his eyes again, that compelling look that hypnotized Flack to the spot.

"Home is where the heart is, Don."

All of a sudden, Danny was standing mere inches apart from him. Danny's face was so close, Flack could sense the other man's breath brushing his lips and chin.

"New York city is my home … and home is where the heart is."

Oh God.

Flack's return to the present is so unexpected that he jerks hard where he lies on his bed. He shoots up to a sitting position, his big eyes wide with comprehension, his back ramrod straight in incredulity. His photo album falls off his lap and onto his bed. The photograph of him and Danny, however, remains in his grasp.

Oh God. Why hasn't he ever recalled that conversation?

Why hasn't he remembered it, until now?

Home is where the heart is, Don.

Danny had looked so damn gorgeous beneath the moonlight.

New York city is my home.

He sees those heavy-lidded blue eyes gazing at him once more, in his mind.

You're New York city, Don.

You're my heart.

You're my home.

Both enlightenment and heartache assail him so hard it's as if he's been shot in the shoulder all over again.

Oh, Danny, a voice in his heart that he hasn't heard in a very long time murmurs, why? Why did our love have to die, if we had already found home for our hearts, within each other?

Memories in full Technicolor saturate his mind, taking him on a slow, meditative ride through a time when he had been with a different man, a different soul whose fiery spirit had warmed him for many dark and bleak nights. He sees Danny in the shower with his hair all foamy, sticking his tongue out in a mischievous gesture. He sees Danny striding down the corridor at the laboratories, looking at him and giving him that Cheshire cat grin. And he sees Danny lying chest down on the bed and hears the man saying sweet endearments and vows into his ear as they dance, and become one person.

Are you okay? Flack's heart whispers. Are you happy where you are, Danny?

Do you think about me too?

He winds up lying upon his bed for many hours with his eyes closed, and he prays that, out there somewhere, the man whom he still loves is alright.

vi. "These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate ..."

The man in the reflection is one dead beat-looking bastard.

He wants to laugh at the thought, except he doesn't even have the energy to move his lips in any semblance of a smile. He squirms a bit in the bus seat, twisting around to better stare at the obscure mirror image of himself in the passenger window.

No, scratch that, Danny thinks to himself, the man in the reflection looks like complete and utter shit.

His hair's a freaking mess. That's what happens when he doesn't make an effort to go to the hair salon to get it trimmed, or gel it up like he usually does. He didn't shave either, so now his whole lower jaw is stubbly and a little itchy. It's only five minutes to nine at night but he can barely stay awake. His eyes are encircled by reddish rings, and the bags under them can probably make those beneath Mac's hazel eyes rush for their money.

He squeezes his sore eyes shut. Thinking of his former boss and friend reminds him of Stella, and thinking of Stella reminds him of the wedding invitation she'd had sent years ago. The one he never replied.

Or to be more precise, he couldn't.

He senses somebody pause at his row of seats. He doesn't bother to open his eyes or turn his head to look at the person, or shift his duffel bag off the seat beside his. He'd chucked it there for a reason, and he doesn't give a fuck whether it's against the rules or not. He's not in the mood for any company, period.

Whoever it is, the person gets the point fast. Soon enough, Danny is on his own once more.

He slumps in his seat, attempting to relax and get some decent sleep for once. All he hopes is that he isn't going to wake the whole damn bus up should he experience one of his nightmares again, and then feel like a humiliated dumbass. Sometimes, he really hates his overactive brain.

There's a mother and her young son sitting behind him.

"Mommy, what time are we going to be in Billings?"

"Hmm, around fifteen minutes to midnight. It'll be late, I know, but don't worry, daddy will be there to pick us up. Have you taken your pill?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay, we won't have to worry about any motion sickness then."

"Is there going to be food?"

"No, honey, but I have some crackers in my bag. You want to eat some now?"

Danny has to bite his lower lip from answering her instead.

Yeah, lady, I sure won't mind some 'cause I haven't eaten a friggin' thing in almost one and half days.

Right then and there, his stomach starts to emit rumbling noises, and he curses it along with his brain. He folds his arms over his belly. Shit, okay, he'll have to buy something to eat at the next stop.

And it won't have any wheat in it.

After some time, the inner growling stops. So does most of the chattering and noises of people stowing their luggage and getting into their seats. Danny hears somebody walking down the aisle in the center of the bus, then back up again, all the way to the front of the vehicle. Has to be the operator counting passengers or something.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for travelling with Greyhound Lines and Rimrock Trailways," the operator announces over the wireless PA system a few minutes afterwards. "Your next stop is Billings, Montana. We hope you'll enjoy your journey …"

Danny tunes out whatever else is being broadcasted. It's the same old monologue where you're promised everything will be just fine and that you're going to have a good time and it'll be the best thing you ever experienced and you'll want to come back over and over again -

Bullshit.

He's heard it all before, once whispered to him in such a harmless, saccharine voice.

"I know it's a big move and you're feeling doubtful about things, but you'll love Montana, trust me."

Just remembering the words causes him to grit his teeth until the muscles in his jaws are aching.

"You'll love the wheatfields more than the New York skyline, you'll see."

God, how could he have ever chosen to believe that?

It was all a big, fat lie.

The last seven years of his life was all a big, fat lie.

And the worst part is, it's his own fault. Like everything else that's happened to him ever since he left New York. His choice. His own fucking fault.

It's proof of how groggy he is that ten minutes pass before he's conscious of the bus already moving on the Interstate 90 East highway that'll transport them straight down to Billings. There's nothing to see outside apart from other vehicles on the road, and he tugs the curtain over his window to shut out glaring car headlights. Sighs when he reclines his seat back and wriggles into a more comfortable position.

The seats in this bus are better than those in an airplane's economy section, which is somewhat startling. Looks like he made the wiser choice of travelling by bus than by air.

He couldn't afford the airfare anyway.

She and that sonofabitch Armstrong had taken it all from right under his nose. And he never knew it, not till it was too late.

If recalling what Lindsay had said to him years ago back in New York city infuriates him, thinking about his CSI partner back in Bozeman, his ex-partner, makes his blood boil hotter than magma.

That sonofabitch. That dirty rat bastard had something against him from the very beginning, the instant they met at the Bozeman CSI laboratories. Oh, sure, Lindsay had persuaded him otherwise, telling him Daniel Armstrong was a nice guy, a wonderful CSI whom she'd worked with, and they'd get along great.

He should have known better. He should have followed his gut instincts.

He should never have trusted Armstrong.

He wouldn't have gotten all the scars on his arms if the bastard had done his job and looked out for him, instead of hanging him out to dry and letting that druggie slash him with a switchblade.

The bastard should have had his back.

Like Flack would have.

It's a good thing that it's become dark inside the bus, what with most passengers having switched off their overhead lights to doze until they arrived at the destination. The shadows are a boon to Danny as he rubs at his eyes and cheeks. He wipes his damp hands on his faded jeans to dry them.

He's such a fool, the worst kind of fool. Thinking that a lie within a lie would make a truth if he believed hard enough.

He believed separating himself from Flack had been the best thing for both of them, that Flack would be much better off without him in his life. Who wants somebody like him? A screw-up. An emotional roller coaster of a human being who constantly gets into trouble, no matter where he goes.

A loser, who always hurts the people he loves, one way or another.

Flack deserved somebody so much better. Thing is, the man had found somebody, hadn't he? Hawkes. Stable, big-hearted, intellectual Hawkes. Everything that Danny isn't. Therefore, looking at the big picture, it had been the right decision to break things off with Flack. Flack had found somebody so much better.

Still, it doesn't rip him up any less knowing any of that.

In reality, it hasn't stopped hurting at all, for seven years straight.

He believed leaving New York for Montana with Lindsay would lessen his feelings for Flack. He believed he'd go far away, far enough that he could simply forget the handsome homicide detective who was his best friend and more. And he believed he'd live the American dream, like every other regular American guy. Settle down with a woman. Live in a nice, suburban house with a white picket fence. Work a nine-to-five job. Have 2.4 kids.

Work, work, work, earn money, money, money until retirement.

That is, if he's lucky and even lives that long.

Funny, how that whole plan had actually sounded okay before. Funny, how it now just sounds like his worst nightmare.

Danny rolls on his side to face the window. He zips up his jacket to the collarbones and sticks his hands below his underarms to warm them. It's becoming colder inside the bus. Or maybe it's only him, feeling like ice everywhere. He's forgotten what it feels like to be warm.

Flack always was warm like the sun, he thinks.

The smile on Flack's face, in that front page newspaper special about the man receiving the NYPD Medal of Honor, had been just as bright.

That had been over two years ago, Danny reminisces, that time when he came across the article. He had endured an awful night shift at the labs. Tons of work carried over from day shift and he had to deal with most of the load too, since he was 'that guy from the big city who knows everything.' Which he didn't. Friggin' Armstrong was the one who'd spread the rumor that he was just some cocky city guy who thought he was better than country folk.

He definitely hadn't thought that way at all. Sure, he was confident about his skills as a CSI and he saw no shame in standing up for himself. Mac hadn't picked him out of thousands of prospective graduates for nothing. And sure, he wasn't afraid of speaking his mind whenever he felt something wasn't right. Didn't automatically make him an arrogant jerk who thought he was above everybody else.

That particular night shift, he doesn't want to think about much. Armstrong had been his typical thick-skinned self and made a lousy night intolerable. It was the eventual morning that has caught in his thoughts all this time.

Lindsay had already left their apartment by the time he shuffled in through the front door, at sunrise. That was something positive; by that time in their relationship, they rarely had anything nice to say to each other. It was either tolerate one another with edgy silence, or argue about why he had no reason to go back to New York and why he should be thinking about their future instead, think about saving money to get a house, get married, get joint bank accounts, think about themthemthem.

It's unbelievable, he realizes in retrospection, that in all seven years, she never once asked him what he wanted for a future.

So, there he was, alone in the apartment and he noticed the rolled-up newspaper for the day on the coffee table as he was brewing some tea and making some toast for himself. There was still a rubber band around it, indicating that Lindsay hadn't read it. He'd felt like crap all the way back, but seeing as he had the whole place to himself for a change, he felt rejuvenated from the rare privacy.

Seating himself at the coffee table with his hot drink and food, he figured it'd be the same old news like yesterday. Lots of death here and there, car accidents, thefts, maybe a farmer robbed of cows now and then, yaddayaddayadda.

He sure as hell hadn't anticipated seeing a humongous, full-color photograph of Flack on the front page.

He sure as hell was glad he was alone too. It would have been beyond embarrassing to rationalize to Lindsay why his eyes brimmed up with tears at the mere sight of the homicide detective. Maybe he wouldn't have had to. He'd always suspected that she found out about his previous relationship with Flack at one time or another. Why else would she have been so adamant on preventing him from leaving Montana, from returning to New York, even if it was just for a short visit?

Why else would she have continuously dredged up the fact that Flack never gave a damn about him leaving or said goodbye to him?

If only she knew, that the reason Flack never did so was because he never told Flack he was going to leave. Because he would have stayed at the slightest plea from the other man. And Flack would have been trapped with him, and Flack deserved better than that.

He'd stared at the newspaper picture of Flack for a long time. His tea had gone tepid by the time he forced himself to reach for his mug for a sip. Flack looked stunning. It was the only word he could think of. Stunning in the sense that time hadn't touched him at all. The man was as handsome and dashing as ever. Big, blue eyes, those dark pink lips spread in that dazzling grin. All that dark, thick hair with hardly a gray or white strand in sight, and the elegant suit, always the suit. The sling around Flack's right arm didn't do a thing to diminish the guy's flair. Flack was all class, every time.

He was so proud of Flack after he read the whole story about Flack risking his life to save all those children from that armed maniac. Not many cops would have had the guts to do what Flack did, especially after getting shot twice. Then again, Flack's one of a kind. The real deal. A soul who comes along once in a millennia.

That's my Don, he had thought with a smile, that's my brave, noble hero.

And then, his joy disintegrated as soon as that voice in his head reminded him he had no right to consider Flack his. Not anymore.

He'd kept that newspaper page in a secret box in his cupboard, along with a variety of other objects that are for his eyes alone. Pictures of Flack, in his suits or plain clothes. Pictures of him together with Flack. Some purple-prosed, silly love letters Flack had handwritten for him to cheer him up after a bad week. A little dreamcatcher Flack bought for him in jest many years ago. It has a hole in it, which may be why he's still plagued by miserable dreams of Flack turning his back on him, walking away from him.

They're all inside the duffel bag next to him right now, and they're possibly the only possessions he has left in the world that mean anything and everything to him.

They're the only pieces of Flack he has left.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, for he abruptly jolts awake at the operator announcing, "The layover is about forty-five minutes. If you're travelling on to Fargo, North Dakota, please return to the bus by 1:45am. Thank you."

The bus is half-empty as he sits up and glances over the top of the seats. Some of the remaining passengers are toddling out of the vehicle, and if they're like him and journeying onwards, they're most likely going out for a breath of fresh air or a break to the restroom or a quick snack. He takes his spectacles from one of his jacket pockets, rubs his eyes then puts his glasses on. Swings his duffel bag around his shoulder, and waits until the aisle is clear before getting out himself. He's feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. He never likes being stuck in small places for long periods of time with nothing to do.

Guess that's why he loves New York city so much. There's always somewhere to go, something to do, somebody to see there.

Outside, it's chilly and dark and quiet, like most places usually are at this hour of the morning. There's nothing much to see at the bus terminus. It's the same like any other bus station in the country; an enormous facility with food service, lavatories, baggage storage areas and offices, with multiple doorways to load and unload multiple buses simultaneously.

Danny mulls over whether to fire up a cigarette or not. He pats the upper left pocket of his jacket, where his carton of cigs is. From the way it flattens under his hand, he can tell there are only a few sticks left in the packet. No, he'll save them for when he's really in the dumps. For now, food is his top priority.

He wanders into the grand hall of the station and heads straight for the cafeteria at the other end. Buys himself a pastrami sandwich and a cup of hot tea, and sits alone at the waiting area of the grand hall, watching people walk to and fro, climbing in and out of buses, babbling to each other, eating and drinking like he is, napping in seats nearby while they wait for whatever it is they're waiting for. Considering how drained he is, he's not far from being able to trick himself into thinking he's in a bus terminal somewhere in NYC.

Needless to say, his worn-out brain tells him there's no way in hell that'll ever happen.

For one thing, even though Billings is the largest city in Montana, it only has a population of over a hundred thousand. New York city alone houses more than 18.8 million people. Another thing is, it won't make a difference how tired or how incapacitated he is. He'd know when he's not in NYC.

He'd know when he isn't home.

Danny devours his sandwich in a few mouthfuls. It's scarcely the best he's ever eaten, but damn, it was delicious. The tea heats him up right quick too, and soon, he's feeling a million times better in body, if not in soul. He gets up to throw away the empty cup and paper bag that held his sandwich in the rubbish bin at the end of his row of seats.

That's when he sees the payphones on the wall a couple of feet away.

Yet again, he has to battle the uncontrollable impulse to use one of them to call a certain homicide detective over two thousand miles away.

He still has his mobile phone. The batteries are dead, but even if they weren't, he won't use it to call. It's too risky. Flack, in all probability, will have some phone number recording device in case he gets … weird calls or something. And although he's changed his number over the years, he's still paranoid that Flack will know it's him.

Why the hell would Flack want to even talk to him?

Hey, Don. Yeah, it's me, the lowlife jerk who decided to fuck around with a co-worker behind your back 'cause I thought you'd be better off without me and I didn't know how to break things off without havin' to say it to your face. So how ya doin'? Ya happy without me? Do ya still hate my guts and wish I was dead? Yeah … I wish I was dead too, 'cause that's how much it hurts right now.

I'm so sorry for what I did to you. Guess it's karma bitin' me in the ass, huh? 'Cause now I know exactly how ya felt then. And ya wanna know somethin' funny? It hurts so much more to know that this is how I made ya feel, when I didn't mean to at all. Hurts more than findin' Armstrong naked in the bedroom with her.

I'm so sorry, Don.

I miss you like crazy. I think 'bout you all the time.

Do you think 'bout me too?

He spins around and stomps away from the payphones, striding as far away from them as possible, his blue eyes stinging.

Temptation, bad. Very bad.

Heartrending, disemboweling kind of bad.

Later, Danny finds himself back on the bus in the same seat, sitting in the same position facing the same window as the bus voyages down the Interstate 94 East highway towards Fargo, North Dakota. He ignores the throbbing of his right forefinger and the persistent sensation of the payphone's receiver against his face on top of the despondency that he feels within him. The next two days are going to be pure hell of being trapped in five different buses with merely short intervals of respite, and he's not looking forward to it at all.

It'll be worth it, that voice somewhere in his soul assuages him while he semi-dozes, his jacket taken off and now tucked around his shoulders and torso as a makeshift blanket.

He's worth it.

With that conviction warming him like no fire can, Danny drifts off into a deep slumber as the bus heads eastward of the country, praying with all his heart that the man he still loves is alright.

vii. "Time falls away, but these small hours, these small hours still remain ..."

In early winter, and almost a year before Danny abandons the life he's endured for so long in Bozeman, Montana, Flack is attending a children's charity function together with Hawkes in the Big Apple. It's one of those dinners that's more of a frontage for the upper-class bigwigs of the city to convene and show themselves off in the spotlight. Show the world how good at heart, how generous, how compassionatethey are.

What a load of crap, Flack thinks vehemently to himself, his brows low in a frown.

None of them give a damn about the orphaned children with AIDS for whom the charity's established. They're all just here to take advantage of those kids' suffering to buy glory and worldly admiration for themselves with their money.

Flack loathes hypocrisy like that. He detests it even more when it gets shoved in his face repeatedly and he can't do a freaking thing aside from grind his teeth and keep his clenched hands put safely away in his trouser pockets. Like what this random, filthy rich old lady who's yammering her head off at him is doing right now. The jewel-laden socialite isn't even aware he's not listening to a damn word she's saying.

"… It was just so awful how slow the service was! You would think they would know to serve us at a timely fashion. How embarrassing it had been to be left standing at the entrance of a five-star restaurant! I made sure that my Alfred reprimanded the waiters with a few choice words. I'm sure you would have done the same, Det. Flack …"

Flack forced his lips into a polite smile.

Sure, lady, I've got a few choice words for ya too -

Deliverance unexpectedly arrives in the form of Hawkes, dressed in a fine and classy tuxedo and tie just like he is.

"I'm sorry to interrupt the conversation, but I need to speak with Det. Flack in private," Hawkes says with a genial smile to Flack's verbal tormenter. "If you'll please excuse us."

Hawkes' brilliant grin must have stunned the woman silly, for she was still blubbering and tittering to herself as Hawkes led him away to where a vast banquet of western and oriental dishes was spread at the opposite side of the ballroom turned dining area.

"You're a lifesaver, Sheldon. I thought she was gonna drive me nuts," Flack mutters under his breath.

Hawkes snickers softly. "You looked like you were about to explode."

"I was." Flack plucks up a square-shaped piece of chocolate from a dessert tray and pops it into his mouth. "She was talkin' to me like I'm supposed to know her or somethin' and goin' on and on 'bout lousy service and what not - it's just crazy. I dunno most of these people and I don't even have an ounce a' cash power like all these wealthy folks do and yet, I got invited."

"Well, I have a feeling you're the press magnet," Hawkes replies with an amused smirk. "If you know what I mean."

"Oh, that's just great, I'm the pretty face."

That gets Hawkes chuckling outright. "You are a pretty face."

Flack opens his mouth to respond, and then almost falls flat on his ass when Hawkes suddenly lurches forward and collides into him.

"Oof!"

He swiftly flings his arm to the side and catches the edge of one of the tables, gripping Hawkes upright with his other arm.

There's a mortified shriek coming from somewhere behind Hawkes.

Then a loud, muffled thud as something heavy tumbles to the floor.

Some of the other guests swivel their heads in their direction in curiosity.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to - my heel just broke -"

"It's okay, no harm done. Are you alright? Here, let me help you up."

By the time Flack has balanced himself again, he sees Hawkes assisting a slender woman in a dark red evening gown to her feet. She's raised up the hem of her dress and she's looking at the busted heel of her left shoe in mild dismay. Her long black hair is concealing her face from Flack's view.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you like that -"

"It's okay, really. I'm just fine -"

He notices that Hawkes is grasping the woman's hand.

In the months to come, Flack will remember that image well. That moment, that single instant, when Hawkes and the beautiful African woman, whose name he'll learn is Angela Kilroe, gaze into each other's eyes for the first time.

Time itself glides to a halt. Everyone and everything else in the ballroom fades into nothing, and all Flack sees is Hawkes smiling at the dark-skinned beauty and her returning it with equal radiance. They're talking to each other, and he doesn't hear anything. He doesn't need to.

He knows what they're probably saying to one another.

He knows how things are probably going to roll in the consequent days ahead.

He's witnessed something similar with his very own eyes before, over seven years ago in the tigers' cage of the city zoo.

He knows it when he sees it.

The beginning of the end.

The difference this time is, he doesn't feel any agony from the realization, not this time. Yes, he's been very happy with Hawkes for many blessed years and he has treasured every moment of their time together.

But nothing lasts forever.

And he would be a liar, if he said that a great part of himself hasn't been in Danny's possession always.

The rest of the night of that charity event until they went to Hawkes' apartment is a blur in Flack's memory. He somewhat recalls driving Angela back to her apartment, and Hawkes conversing with her the whole time she was in the car. Angela's a doctor who worked with HIV-infected children in South Africa and had recently transferred from Johannesburg to New York city to work in the Aaron Diamond AIDS Research Center. Hawkes had been transfixed by her stories of her former life back in her home country, and at the end of the ride, Angela had handed Hawkes her phone number before getting out of the car.

It's apparent to Flack that she had left a profound impression on the man.

"Wow, she's really something," Hawkes says later, as they go up the elevator to his apartment. His brown eyes are alit with a brightness that isn't simply from the glow emanating from the ceiling.

"Yeah, she is."

Flack doesn't say anything else. There isn't anything else to say.

It's a very odd feeling, to know a man has fallen in love when that man himself doesn't even know it yet. Even odder, that the man is his long-time lover and friend, and he's not angry in any way with Hawkes for being besotted with a woman he's just met.

That is, perhaps, the most illuminating sign of all that their life together is gradually reaching the finish line.

For a while after that dinner, things seem to have returned to their accustomed states. Hawkes remains his demonstrative, open self. They still go out on dates and make love like they always have, with no hesitation or disinclination or deceit. Angela Kilroe is rarely mentioned or spoken about, except when Hawkes wants to have lunch or dinner with her to discuss her work in AIDS research. Hawkes never lies to him or hides any of these meetings from him. If truth be told, Hawkes insists on him coming along for every appointment. Hawkes' interest is genuine; the man has a very soft spot for the welfare of children, particularly those in hardship.

Thus, for a little while, Flack doubts his intuition about their relationship coming to an end. He has been wrong about many things before.

He may be wrong again.

The six million dollar question is, does he want to be wrong this time?

He is indecisive about the answer, and that's the scariest thing about it.

It's an unusually sunny day on a late winter afternoon when Hawkes shows up at his front door with a very solemn countenance. One look into Hawkes' bloodshot eyes, and Flack is in his kitchen, brewing up some hot tea.

This is it, a voice in Flack's mind whispers, this is the day where it'll all end.

His lover's atypical silence unsettles him, but he stays quiet, waiting for the other man to begin the conversation first. He passes Hawkes a cup of tea, and stands near the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living area, drinking from his own cup.

It's such a lovely day, with the sun blazing in its full glory in the vivid blue sky. There's no snow today, although it did snow a little the day before. It would have been much more fitting, had it been dim, gloomy and raining.

There is always a calm before the storm, and the calm has long ebbed away.

"The heart is a really unpredictable thing," Hawkes murmurs in a husky voice after a long time, while sitting on the couch. "Just when you think you've finally gained control over it … it makes sure to remind you that you don't. That you never did."

Holding his cup of tea in his right hand, Flack goes to sit down on the sofa perpendicular to the one Hawkes is seated on. Try as he might to disregard it, there's a slight trembling in his legs.

It's ironic, just absurdly ironic, that they are sitting in the exact position that they once did in the living room of Hawkes' old apartment. The night he and Hawkes became lovers, all those years ago. And their stances are precise, right down to the way they're clutching to their drinks as if that is the sole thing that'll keep them from doing something irreversible.

Like forming a potent, passionate relationship that has survived for years.

Or splitting it.

Hawkes' full lips part to say more, and instead of words, all that comes out is a heartwrenching sob that pierces Flack to his very core.

Flack hastily removes the half-full mug from Hawkes' loose hand and places it, along with his own, on the low coffee table in front of them. His body and arms shift on their own accord, and in a heartbeat, he's seated beside Hawkes, drawing his lover and friend into his embrace.

Hawkes has covered his face with his hands. His shoulders quaver under Flack's arms.

"I'm so sorry, Don … you don't deserve this."

Moisture springs to Flack's eyes, though not from Hawkes' vocal acknowledgement of what he has known all along. It is the genuine anguish he hears in Hawkes' voice that makes his heart bleed.

"I don't know how it - I just … I never meant for this to happen. Ever," Hawkes says into the hollow of his throat. "I don't know how it happened."

Flack leans his chin on top of Hawkes' head as he gazes outside through the glass windows at the panorama of his beloved home city. Sunlight is glinting off the tips of skyscrapers, and through his distorted vision, it's as if he's staring at a floating sea of diamonds.

"Do you love her?"

His gentle question echoes in the expanse of his living room.

Hawkes immediately shoots upright, going ramrod straight. The man's glistening eyes are so wide, the whites are visible around the brown irises.

"I …"

"Do you love her, Sheldon?"

A tense minute ticks by.

"Yes."

It had been very difficult for Hawkes to confess that, Flack can tell. Hawkes hadn't looked him in the eye. The older detective's lower lip is trembling, and his face is crumpled in a way that can only be when a man is in immeasurable pain that attacks the soul.

"Do you see yourself with her? As a family, with children?"

Hawkes' head snaps up at that. For a moment, they gaze at each other, and then, Hawkes swivels his head away to stare downwards at a spot on the floor near his feet. The CSI doesn't - can't - say anything, and Flack doesn't fault him for it.

Flack reaches out a hand to stroke away the wetness streaking Hawkes' cheek.

"I haven't forgotten, Sheldon … what you told me, 'bout wantin' a family, and children."

Hawkes is shaking his head from side to side.

"Hey, don't gimme that," Flack continues in a tender tone, cupping the other man's cheek. "I don't forget things easy, you know that. You once told me ya wouldn't mind gettin' married someday … have a few children and even adopt a few, remember?"

Hawkes is looking him in the eye now, that oh-so-familiar luster of resolve in those brown eyes.

"Things change."

"Yes." Flack's lips curve up in a loving smile. "Exactly."

And slowly , the enormity of his words registers on Hawkes.

"No."

Hawkes is shaking his head again. Whether it's in denial of his feelings or the refusal to accept Flack's tolerance of the situation, Flack isn't certain.

"No, it'll pass, Don, this is - this is just a phase, that's all. I'll stop talking to her - it'll … it'll pass -"

"Sheldon."

Hawkes clams up fast, chewing on his lower lip. Those kind, brown eyes are gleaming once more.

"We both know this is it," Flack says calmly.

The ensuing silence carries the weight of an entire mountain.

Flack blinks a few times to clear his sight. It's unexplainable, how seeing Hawkes with his head moving from side to side and bowed that way, hugging himself and weeping with such remorse hurts him a million times more than knowing their intimate relationship is over. That it's over, because of a woman.

Just like the last time.

"I feel like I'm betraying you," Hawkes whispers. "Like -"

The name Hawkes is about to pronounce becomes unstated, but it reverberates in the air, in Flack's heart.

In all the years they have been together, they've never discussed Danny's infidelity nor his furtive departure from NYC, not after that night when Flack had broken down and cried in Hawkes' bathroom. No purpose in bringing up the past that can't be altered, or the sorrow that has never really gone away.

"Doc, look at me."

Hawkes lifts his head with the lassitude of a man decades older. The self-approach so palpable on the CSI' mien compels Flack to run a hand down the side of Hawkes' face and then rub his thumb against that defined lower jaw.

"What Danny did to me … that was different. Really different," Flack says in a steady voice. "Yeah, I was angry at what he did, but not as angry as knowin' that he lied to me. The whole time. Do ya understand?"

Hawkes is quiet, though Flack receives a wordless answer in the form of a tentative nod.

"This is different, Sheldon. We're different, because you never lied to me. I mean, look at us … we're talkin' 'bout it right now. You could have had an affair behind my back, you could have -"

"No, I'd never -"

"See?" Flack sends the other man an acutely fond smile. "That's exactly what I mean." He moves closer to Hawkes and envelops an arm around Hawkes' waist, touching their cheeks together.

"Look at you. You could have had an affair with Angela behind my back, and I probably wouldn't have known it. But you didn't. No, instead, you chose to see me, you chose to tell me the truth. And that takes courage."

"It still doesn't make it right, Don," Hawkes murmurs.

"Like ya said, the heart's a really unpredictable thing. If it was that easy to tell it what to feel, I don't think the world would be as fucked up as it is today. I'll be honest … I'm not ecstatic that this has happened, but I'm not angry either. I'm really not."

Before Hawkes can reply, Flack adds, "I know what you're goin' through, Sheldon, 'cause I know what it's like to have a heart I can't control."

Sure enough, the instant the words leave his mouth, a familiar, blue-eyed detective materializes in his mind. Danny is reclining on the bed, in his white tank top and jeans, smoking a cigarette. It's a memory of Danny when they were still together, before everything fell apart, and Flack knows this because Danny is smiling at him, those heavy-lidded eyes crinkled in a way he once believed was his alone.

"You still love him, don't you?"

There is no trace of resentment in Hawkes' voice at all, only benign comprehension.

Flack manages a smirk. "Call me brainless but … yeah, I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I do."

They sit together on the couch with their hands clasped and their heads touching for some time. Flack watches the sunlight reflecting off the steel surfaces of Hawkes' watch, and the way their fingers are intertwined, dark skin on light. Gradually, this is the image that replaces the one of Hawkes grasping Angela's hand. This is the memory he will keep to heart whenever he thinks of Hawkes, whenever he feels alone and wishes to remember what love really means.

"You don't deserve this, Don."

Hawkes' voice is a lot less gravelly now.

"So whaddaya want me to do? Ya want me to chain us together? Even though we both know we won't be happy?" Flack replies gently. "That we'd be living a lie?"

Hawkes has no response to his questions.

"That'd be wrong, Doc. That ain't love, that isn't what love is all 'bout at all … Yeah, sure, at this point, if ya wanna decide to continue our relationship and cut off ties with Angela, ya could still do that. We always have choices. But ya gotta ask yerself, are you gonna do it 'cause ya really believe it's just a phase with her, or 'cause ya feel bad for me? 'Cause if it's the latter, it won't end well, and we both know that too. Nothin' good ever comes outta livin' an illusion."

When Hawkes is still mute, Flack says, "Well, okay, maybe you might like the whole chain thing if you've been hidin' yer BDSM tendenciesfrom me -"

He grins as Hawkes starts to snicker. One of the best things about their relationship is that they are always able to laugh together, no matter how bad things can get. Their trust towards each other encompasses all things, and Flack knows almost everything there is to know about Hawkes. Minor BDSM tendencies, he knew that years ago.

His little joke seems to have done the trick of breaking the tension in the air.

Flack senses Hawkes squeezing his hand.

"You are a very extraordinary person, Don, the bravest, kindest and most loving man I have ever known. I will always love you, never doubt that."

They turn towards each other at the same time, enclosing their arms tight around one another in a tender hug that speaks of many years of friendship and devotion. Flack rests his head in the warm crook between Hawkes' neck and shoulder, and feels only love and happiness for the other man.

Life is a journey that is a collection of many shorter journeys. It is rarely an enjoyable occasion when a pleasant and joy-filled journey must come to an end, but there is always that tiny piece of hope whenever one reaches the finish line.

That small sliver of hope, that when one journey ends, a new one begins.

For Hawkes, his new voyage will commence with a woman called Angela Kilroe, whom he'll end up marrying in a few months' time. As for Flack, his path will take him wherever his heart and mind command his feet to go, like they have every time.

"I love you, I always will," Flack declares in return, and he means every word with his very soul.

Seven years ago, he and Hawkes started out falling in lust, and love had taken a while to blossom. But now, here at this place of an ending and a beginning, Flack has learned one of the simplest and yet, most astonishing lesson of all.

Lust always ends.

Love never does.

viii. "Let it slide, let your troubles fall behind you ..."

Hawkes' wedding with Angela is an undersized albeit picturesque event. Hawkes is an only child, and as both his parents and Angela's have passed away long ago, there aren't many relatives of the couple to be invited. Hawkes' uncle, his father's sole sibling who lives in the Bronx, attended along with his wife, three children and their children's spouses and kids. Angela's two older sisters flew in with their husbands from Johannesburg a week before the wedding. All the other guests are friends and co-workers from the CSI labs, the NYPD and the Aaron Diamond AIDS Research Center.

The exchange of vows is as moving as the one between Mac and Stella over three years ago, Flack deems. He sits together with Mac, Stella and their son Alex on the second row of pews on the left since the couple's relatives take precedence in seating.

The hush that holds sway over everyone in the church permit's the minister's low voice to be heard clearly.

"Do you, Sheldon Hawkes, take this woman, Angela Kilroe, to be your lawfully-wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in heath, to love, honor and obey, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping your solely unto her for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"Do you, Angela Kilroe, take this man, Sheldon Hawkes, to be your lawfully-wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in heath, to love, honor and obey, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping your solely unto him for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

Alexander is sitting on his lap, bouncing in excitement like all two-year-olds do, and Flack cuddles him and gives the toddler a wide smile. Beside him, Mac and Stella are holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and it is unmistakable that they are reliving their own blissful matrimony.

"By the authority vested in me by the State of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife."

A grand cheer fills the air when Hawkes and Angela kiss for the first time as lawfully wedded husband and wife. Flack lifts a laughing Alex up into the air while whooping his elation, letting the child do the clapping for them both. Hawkes obviously found it funny because the smartly dressed man glances his way and sends him a gigantic, open-mouthed grin. Even the white-haired minister is smiling from ear to ear.

It's been a fantastic day, Flack thinks to himself much later in the evening after the delectable and fun wedding dinner. He had one hell of a time with the karaoke machine, as well as all the drinking games and the dancing, especially the dancing. He got to dance with Hawkes and Angela, and everyone enjoyed themselves watching him waltz around the room with Hawkes.

He and Hawkes had danced like that many times in the past, on their own in the living area of his apartment, but that will stay their little secret. Just theirs.

He is the last in the line of guests saying their congratulations and goodbyes to the newly wedded couple at the entrance of the restaurant. He waits with patience, making small talk with those who are in the back of the line with him till he's alone with the married pair.

Hawkes appears bushed though extremely content, his face glowing with a youthfulness that is almost blinding.

"Congratulations, Sheldon," Flack utters with absolute ardor. "I'm really happy for you and Angela."

Their hug is strong and affectionate, and they hold each other's forearms in a manner only lifelong, dear friends can.

"Thank you, Don, it means a lot to me," Hawkes replies with warm, appreciative eyes.

Flack embraces the bride with identical fervor, making her and Hawkes laugh when he easily raises her five foot, slim frame off the floor.

"Take care of him for me, will ya?"

He blames the sudden tears in his eyes on the glaring light mounted on the wall behind the couple.

"Always."

He feels her squeeze his hand in reassurance, and he knows in all confidence that she will keep to her promise and love Hawkes till the end of their days. He blinks, smiles at her and squeezes her hand back. And as he watches them get into their car, Hawkes locks eyes with his, and he hears the other man's voice speak in his heart.

I will always love you, never doubt that,

He knows that too, in all certainty.

That night, in his bed, he spends a half hour browsing through photographs of him and Hawkes, reviving all his memories of their time together, the good and the bad. He realizes how fortunate he is that the bad times were so few. How lucky he is that he had the opportunity, the privilege, to have been a part of Hawkes' life. He has learned so much from the older detective, wisdom that no book or school can ever teach a person. Wisdom of life. Wisdom of the heart.

He strokes one picture, where Hawkes is sitting at his study table, concentrated on a thick forensic journal and wearing his thick-framed spectacles. He has no regrets whatsoever in letting Hawkes go. Only a selfish soul would bind a person to their own desires and place themselves above the people they supposedly love.

Hawkes is happy, and that is what counts to him.

One day, his heart says, one day, you will find love again.

Flack smiles to himself while patting the left side of his chest. Heh, thirty-six years old, and still a dreamer.

And he won't change that for the world.

( Oooo …... oooO )

Life goes on.

A few months pass after Hawkes' wedding like seconds. It is a scorching summer, when he receives a heartening call from the CSI. Angela is pregnant with their first child, who has been determined to be a boy. Flack is pleasantly surprised and very touched by Hawkes' decision to name the baby Don.

"He's named after you, of course," Hawkes says with much merriment over the phone. "That is, if you don't mind?"

"Of course I don't mind! How could ya ask that?"

His reply is rather gruff, but Hawkes doesn't point it out. The man understands him better than most people in the entire universe ever will. Hawkes knows the difference between him sounding annoyed and him sounding like he's about to bawl his eyes out and doesn't want anyone to know.

They chat on the phone for hours after that, talking about everything under the sun, and it strikes Flack some days afterwards that nothing has really changed in his relationship with Hawkes, apart from the cessation of all sexual contact and the adjustment to not thinking of them as lovers anymore. It seems whoever said that sex is simply the optional dessert is right after all. Desserts are nice from time to time, but who can live without the main course?

It is a good feeling, this newfound freedom and sanguinity for the future that resides within him these days. He's on his own once more. The world is his oyster again, and there are only more opportunities and new beginnings to look forward to.

And life, in the city that never sleeps, forges on.

It is early in the fall when he receives the first bizarre phone call.

Fast asleep after a very lengthy and stressful day, he is hardly pleased at being awakened at half past one in the morning, having just crashed into bed a mere twenty minutes before. He rubs his face with his hands, groaning his displeasure. If those rookies have done something idiotic again -

He rolls on his side and makes a grab for his mobile phone from the top of the bedside table.

"Flack," he growls into the mouthpiece.

There is no reply.

The incongruous silence rouses him to total consciousness in an instant.

"Hello? Who is this?"

He waits for the stranger on the other side of the line to answer. He's very sure there's somebody listening, due to the background noises coming from the other end of the call. Lots of people talking and moving. A vague announcement that sounds like it's echoing in a very large space. Far away noises of vehicles moving to and fro. Noises that would belong in a busy place.

Like a transportation terminal.

A whole minute lapses, with neither person saying anything.

And then, Flack hears a faint intake of breath, and the connection is cut.

Staring at his phone, he makes a bemused face. Huh, that was weird. Probably a wrong number or something. He looks closely at the number displayed on the LCD screen, and realizes that the number isn't even a New York number.

"Hn … 406?"

The calling code seems familiar, but at the moment, he's in no mood to wrack his brain attempting to recollect it. He places his phone back on his bedside table and huddles under his blanket. Within a matter of seconds, he is slumbering once more.

He receives the second peculiar call later in the day, around 2:45 PM in the afternoon. He's having his lunch at a diner with three other detectives from his precinct, and everyone glances at him when his mobile phone rings. Ever since he received that NYPD Medal of Honor, many of his peers have behaved towards him with something akin to awe and nervousness.

Well, except for the detectives around him right now.

And he's very grateful about that.

"Oh, Flack, is it yer secret girlfriend?" Vicaro mumbles around a mouth full of pepperoni pizza. "Ya afraid a' answerin' her call in front of a hot stud like me, huh?"

Vicaro's being his typical smug, swaggering self. Just what the doctor ordered for a nice, healthy trade of smartass comebacks. However, before Flack can respond to the guy, his massive colleague of a homicide detective called Rafael D'Anda retorts on his behalf.

"You? A hot stud? HAH!"

"Shaddup, D'Anda! You wouldn't know what a hot stud is even if it hit ya in the face!"

"Ooooo, Vicaro, is that yer way of askin' me out on a date?" D'Anda flutters his eyelids in a dramatic, feminine fashion, and it cracks Flack up. How can he not find a seven-foot giant with bushy eyebrows and one hell of a masculine face doing that to be funny?

"I'd rather date a piece of rotten pie 'fore I date you."

"Is that what the last woman you hit on said to you, Vicaro?" Angell asks, finally joining the sarcastic banter. She's the one woman sitting at their table, and she's handling all three of them just fine.

She's one tough cookie, Flack thinks with a great measure of respect. He isn't the only one who's been shot in the past. Angell had gotten hit in the stomach during a robbery gone bad four years ago, and almost died of exsanguination from her injury. D'Anda and Vicaro might tease her a lot, but they know where to draw the line. They'd be D-U-M-B to piss off a champion sharpshooter like her.

D'Anda is laughing his head off at a sputtering Vicaro as Flack answers his phone.

"Flack."

Like the first call, no one replies.

And like the first call, he's hearing those same background noises generally associated with transportation terminals. People talking and bustling about, somebody broadcasting some message through a PA system, heavy vehicles moving in and out.

Maybe it's an airport terminal, or a train station, Flack muses, or even a bus station.

"Who's on the line?"

Nothing but silence.

He listens harder, tuning out the background sounds and hears very subdued breathing. There is definitely somebody on the other end.

"Hello?"

The call abruptly disconnects.

His brows lower in an irritated frown. What the hell? Is somebody prank calling him or what?

"You okay, Flack?" Angell asks after sipping some coffee.

Flack stares at the unfamiliar number displayed on his phone's LCD screen, then says, "Hey, you guys know which state has the calling code of 701?"

"701?" Vicaro scratches at his chin in deliberation. "Ain't that … New Mexico?"

"Naw," D'Anda says. "New Mexico's code is 505."

"It's North Dakota."

Flack, Vicaro and D'Anda turn their heads to look at Angell at the same time.

"Ya sure?" Flack asks.

"Yep, I'll bet a hundred bucks on it," Angell states with a grin.

"Ooh, a bettin' lady," Vicaro drawls while leering at her. "So. How 'bout we go on a date, you and I?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Not on your life."

"Okay." Vicaro gestures with his chin at D'Anda, who's munching on the last slice of the pizza. "How 'bout his life?"

"Hey!"

Their amusing repartee seems to grow fainter in Flack's ears. He's gone back to staring at the unknown phone number on the LCD screen, and somehow, he just knows that it's the same person who called him much earlier in the morning.

But from two different states in such a short period of time?

There's only one surefire way to get to the bottom of these weird phone calls.

( Oooo …... oooO )

His phone records are mailed to his precinct and delivered to his office three days later.

In the initial two days, he received three more quiet phone calls from his mysterious caller. One, he'd gotten while he was in the shower at 8:30 PM on the same day he went for lunch with Angell, D'Anda and Vicaro. The next one, he picked up at seven in the morning as he was preparing to leave for work. That particular call stood out from the rest; he heard an, "I -" before the connection was severed. He only wished it had been quieter on the opposite end. He would have been able to better hear the voice and maybe even identify it.

The last call had come in yesterday morning. He had answered it a few minutes after climbing out of bed, and the calling code in the number for it is one he instantaneously recognized.

The call had originated from Newark, New Jersey.

Just a little over ten miles from New York city.

Arriving at his office at eight o'clock on the dot, he seats himself behind his desk and sees an A4-sized brown envelope on the table top. Picks up the thin envelope and takes a swift look at the sender's address. Yep, Adam had been true to his word of providing him with a detailed record of calls made to his mobile phone as soon as possible, within twelve hours of his request to the CSI detective too.

Dependable at all times, that guy, Flack thinks with a satisfied smile.

He sifts through the list, eliminating the familiar numbers until he's marked out the anonymous one with a neon yellow highlighter pen.

Five phone calls.

In about two days.

From five different states.

He flicks through the few pages to the earliest call.

And his heart skips a beat upon seeing the name of the city and state listed next to the unknown number.

"Billings … Montana?"

His fingers skim down the page to the next call.

"Fargo, North Dakota," Flack murmurs to himself. Angell had been right about the calling code belonging to that state.

He flips the page to the third call.

"Minneapolis, Minnesota."

He reads the name of the city and state for the fourth call.

"Chicago, Illinois."

There's a pattern here, a very significant pattern that his brain is telling him he has to unearth, no matter what. He doesn't look at the details for the last one since he already knows the call is from New Jersey.

There is a map of the entire country that he pasted onto the surface of his desk, underneath a wide piece of transparent glass on top of which he works on.

"Okay … okay, let's follow the yellow brick road here."

He finds Billings, Montana on the map and starts to trace the route towards Fargo, North Dakota. Sure enough, he discovers it, along with the other listed cities, as he moves his forefinger eastward all the way to Newark, New Jersey. The cities align in an crooked though almost horizontal line.

All along the major highways that someone would use to travel by road.

To travel over two thousand miles in two days, there's no way it could have been by car, unless the person stayed awake for over forty-eight hours straight and drove at insane speeds at a relentless pace.

Which means, his mysterious caller must have been travelling by bus.

His forefinger is pointing directly at New Jersey on the map. A mere fingertip away is NYC.

What's the closest city to Billings, Montana?

His heart begins to thump faster as he retraces the route back towards the location of the very first anonymous call. His finger halts on Billings.

His gaze shifts a tiny amount to the left of his fingertip.

And the whole world freezes on its axis.

"Bozeman."

The city's name causes his belly to clench hard. The one and only time he had heard that name was when he met a certain CSI who hailed from that very city.

"Hi, I'm Lindsay Monroe. I just transferred here from Bozeman, Montana."

"Montana. Land of the wheatfields and cows, huh?"

"Hah, that's right!"

Flack covers one fisted hand with his other hand, leans his forehead on them and shuts his eyes. A heavy sigh leaves his lips.

There's no way in fuck all that Lindsay is the one who's been calling him like this or travelling from Bozeman all the way here. They were never on friendly terms, and he had next to zero reasons to be pleasant to her by the end of it all.

So, all this can only mean one thing.

Flack's mind is criticizing him for bringing his hopes up so much so soon, but it is his heart that he listens to, as he sits there in his office with wet warmth stinging his closed eyes. His heart, whispering just three simple words that resonate in the recesses of his soul, recesses that he once believed would never feel again.

He's coming home.

ix. "Let it shine ..."

New York city is at its most beautiful at night.

That's what Danny feels, and he doesn't give a shit what anyone says otherwise. His home city will always be the most breathtaking place in the world to him. He knows he's missed the Big Apple bad when the view is gorgeous to him even through a stained, cracked window.

He has no clue how long he's been sitting in the chair by the window of his motel room, staring outside with half-lidded eyes. Can't have been long. His left arm is still hurting from that drunk fucker's punch.

At least he can say in all honesty that the drunk looked twenty times worse than him when their brief bar brawl was over.

Danny Messer's still got it, in spades.

He unconsciously rubs at the developing contusion on his left forearm. Shit. That's what he gets for going to some seedy, cheap bar. He should have gone to Sullivan's. If the place has maintained its rep and its class, the people there are good folk.

But he can't go there. Not yet.

Not until he's absolutely sure he's prepared to meet Flack again.

He knows that cops still hang out at Sullivan's, particularly Flack and his fellow detectives. He had heard it straight from Adam's mouth during his phone call to the younger detective three days ago. A half day before he made the call, he'd just arrived in NYC from New Jersey at a little over nine in the morning, worn out to the point he could barely lift his head. First thing he did was head to the bank to withdraw much needed money from his bank account that he'd kept open as a safety measure. And boy, was he relieved that he did. He wouldn't have been able to pay the cost for the motel room he's staying in at the moment, had he not done so. He also had more than enough to buy himself a new phone card for his mobile phone.

If he's going to leave behind his past in Montana, he's going to leave behind everything.

He had called Adam because he felt Adam was the safest to talk to, out of everyone he knew in the city. The mild-mannered man never judged him, or expected anything from him. Adam always accepted him for him, and part of him is disappointed at himself for having never appreciated that.

He was damn glad that Adam hadn't changed his number. One ring, and Adam had picked up. True to form, Adam had been bowled over by his call. So bowled over, it took the poor guy a good minute or two just to articulate a thrilled, "Hey!" and "How are you! We thought you dropped off the face of the earth! Dude!"He didn't blame Adam at all for the initial awkwardness; he hadn't contacted anyone he knew from the labs for seven years.

They spoke for over two hours. Danny was happy for Adam's promotion to third grade detective. The guy's a hardworking, decent person, and it was about damn time that he got it. Adam had to cram in over half a dozen years' worth of history into that short period of time, so he was the one who did the majority of the talking. Danny was fine with that, though. His throat clogged up more than once throughout Adam's riveting recital of Mac and Stella's wedding, the craziness at the labs after Flack was involved in that diner shooting, and the ceremony where Flack had been awarded his NYPD Medal of Honor.

Adam pretty much summed up Danny's feelings with, "Man, you missed out on a lot."

Then the younger CSI added, "Everyone was wishing you were here, ya know?"

It was thoughtful of Adam to say that, but he knew better. Flack would have most likely kicked him out on his bare ass should he have had the nerve to show his face at the award ceremony. Or at Mac and Stella's wedding, even.

When Adam started to inquire about what had been going on with him, he couldn't help becoming tongue-tied. What was he supposed to say?

Oh, ya know, I'm back in NYC now. Ditched everything in Montana because I fuckin' hated livin' there, and after seven years of bein' with Lindsay, I caught her sleepin' 'round with my former CSI partner behind my back and they took every cent I had with them. But that's okay. I was a stupid, cheatin' jerk towards Flack before I left New York, so it's just karma lettin' me know that I deserved it.

And yeah, I have no job because I don't know how to reapply for my CSI position without alertin' Mac or Stella or any of the others that I'm back in town. Well, I don't wanna talk to them 'cause I'm too ashamed to even see them in person, much less talk to them, see? And I'm stayin' in a cheap ass motel room, but I won't be able to do it for long since the money I kept in a back-up bank account here is runnin' out fast. Oh, and did I mention that I'm too chickenshit to even see my own brother and parents?

His brain succeeded in hastily coming up with a fuzzy but positive-sounding explanation of his past, and Adam didn't distrust it or reveal any doubts about it as he said, "We gotta meet up, Danny!"

"I - I got some things to sort out first … but I promise we will soon, 'kay?"

"It's okay, Danny. You do what ya gotta do. Hey, I'm always here for ya," Adam had replied with such honesty and assurance. "We always have been."

It had taken Danny a very long time afterwards to regain his composure. He'd been in such denial over how much he missed his old life and his old friends and his family till his call to Adam. Adam's sharp, sharper than most people will ever know. Danny hadn't asked for Mac's number at all, but Adam had given it to him anyway. It was as if Adam knew how desperately he very much wanted to talk to Mac and Stella without him saying anything.

Adam had passed him Flack's number too. He didn't inform the other man that he already had it years ago, thanks to a detective from NYC whom he'd met by pure chance in Bozeman, some guy called McMillan. It was just soothing to hear the number he had confirmed a hundred percent to be Flack's.

Not that he hadn't already known that, due to him having called the homicide detective five times in the last week.

Danny blinks, and he returns to the present, having shifted from the chair to the bed with its flowery bedspread and blanket. He doesn't really remember moving, and he doesn't think much about it. His arm's hurting less now. The bed's comfy and soft and clean. A pleasing surprise for a motel that charges fifty bucks a night.

He strips off his jacket, toes off his boots onto the floor, and wriggles under the cozy blankets. It's not very cold for an early autumn night, which is nice. He's not too keen on freezing his toes and fingers off when the chill comes around in the coming weeks. Very soon, he's half asleep, his eyelids fluttering in drowsiness.

He's only half asleep, for he hears Flack's voice like a mantra in his thoughts.

In his first call from Billings, Montana to Flack, the man had uttered a mere five words. To Danny, who hadn't heard his former lover's voice in years, listening to Flack say them had been similar to drinking a single droplet of the elixir of life. It felt as if something great and breathtaking inside him had returned to life from the ashes of regret.

"Flack."

He hadn't intended to make the call to Flack. He really hadn't.

He just needed to know that the phone number he'd gotten was correct, that's all.

"Hello? Who is this?"

He had ached to say so many things, that he's such an idiot, that he's sorry, that he's so much wiser now, that he really never meant to hurt Flack so badly.

That he never stopped loving Flack, ever.

Then fear overwhelmed him and he had put down the phone. And all the words died in his mouth, having never left his lips.

In his sleepiness, Danny's brain is suddenly zooming back in time, to the evening in that bar back in Bozeman where he met Det. McMillan for the first time.

Long before his phone call from that bus terminal in Billings, he had actually attempted one call to Flack, just one. It was some time after he and Lindsay had received Stella's wedding invitations. He had been so elated for Mac and Stella, and was already planning ahead and choosing the suitable dates to request for time off. He never realized how much he missed his home city till he had those invitation cards in his hands, and saw Mac and Stella's blissful faces in the photographs printed on them. He had been so happy and excited and then, to his chagrin, Lindsay didn't want to attend the wedding.

It was even worse because she never gave him a reason. Wouldn't give him a reason, even when he demanded for one during their quarrels about it.

It was insane. It was like their first rendezvous-that-never-was, replayed. He had been practically disgraced in front of a whole restaurant of people; they would have been blind to not know he was stood up by his date.

She had never, ever given him a reason for that either.

The spat ended with her ignoring him the whole evening, and him locking himself up in the study room, staring at his mobile phone and toying with it. Entertaining the very dangerous idea of calling Flack, after all this time.

His fingers moved with their own mind. The dial button was pushed down, and before he could stop himself, he was pressing the device to his ear, listening to the monotonous dial tone.

Something had splintered inside him when an automated message notified him that the number was no longer in service.

He had stormed out of their apartment after that. He was so outraged, at himself, at being reminded of how far away he was from everything and everyone he knew and cared about. How far apart he truly was from Flack, now that the one connection he had left with his former friend and lover was finally and truly severed. He dashed for the first passable bar he came across, wholly intent on getting drunk out of his mind.

And that was where he met Howard McMillan, a third grade detective all the way from New York city. A detective who was also a CSI, and used to work for a certain Mac Taylor till his boss retired over three years ago after getting injured in the line of duty.

Their meeting was something so random, it still causes Danny to wonder whether it had been nothing more than a dream. He was ordering his second shot of whisky when a deep voice with a thick and distinct New York accent floated to his ears. He'd spun his head around so fast there was an audible crack. A half dozen feet away from him stood a young, lanky guy with light brown curls requesting the bartender for a beer. The forceful, baritone voice belied the man's appearance, and Danny had to observe the guy talk to verify that, indeed, the voice belonged to the stranger.

In a flash, he was standing next to the man and introducing himself, extending his hand for a handshake. McMillan introduced himself as Howard, stating that he was in Bozeman for a very short holiday to see his sister, who'd moved from NYC to be with her husband. Within minutes, he and McMillan were sitting at a table, chatting like they were old friends. In a way, McMillan was an old friend; the guy knew all of his old friends. Worked with them, had meals together with them, drank with them at Sullivan's, just like he used to.

He didn't feel the sting he expected as McMillan talked about Hawkes. From the sound of it, Hawkes was still the good-natured, scholarly detective that he was, the sole difference being that he had recently been promoted to second grade level. That had stung Danny a bit. After all these years and his accomplishments back in New York city and here in Bozeman, he was still a third grade detective, and Hawkes had started out much later than he did.

It was inexorable that their conversation would turn to the subject of Flack's valiant feat and his awarded NYPD Medal of Honor. According to McMillan, Flack was considered a hero, a legend, in NYC now, maybe even more so than his father. McMillan recounted the times that he was fortunate enough to work with Flack on various homicide cases, and it was obvious to Danny how much the other CSI admired Flack.

Luckily for Danny, McMillan was in awe of him just as much after he'd narrated his own stories of his friendship with Flack, as well as the cases they worked on.

Which led to the ideal opening for him to ask McMillan for Flack's current phone number, with the excuse that he had lost it due to damage to his previous phone.

The younger detective had given it to him without a second thought.

It had taken Danny three years to gather the courage to call Flack again.

And him finally leaving Lindsay and Montana and all the crap he suffered behind him was the first step on his journey to another life, a better life. A life of freedom and truth.

A life, he prays, that will have Flack within it once more.

If Flack ever takes him back.

The sheer horror inside him, at the thought that he may live the rest of his life alone and without Flack, is enough to alarm him into wakefulness. He turns onto his back on the bed, his torso and legs tangled up in the sheets. Swallows visibly, blinking eyes suddenly gone hot and moist.

"You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it's over."

He knows he's really staring at the plain ceiling of his motel room, but all his mind sees is Flack's handsome features crumpled up, the man's large hands pushing him away.

"We're over."

Danny rolls over onto his belly, burying his face into the pillow. For some reason unknown to him, it's becoming damp.

How is it possible, for two words to still hurt so much, after so many years?

"Hey, now."

He raises his head, and sees Flack sitting at the side of the bed, gazing down at him with loving, blue eyes.

"You're stronger than ya think, Messer. It won't last forever, this pain," Flack says, his dark pink lips arched up in a tender smile.

Danny pushes himself upright and leans against the headboard. He isn't stupid. He knows Flack isn't really here. He knows he's just hallucinating that the gorgeous, extraordinary man is here with him, in this dump that isn't even worthy of someone like Flack.

He doesn't care.

A mirage of Flack is anything better than not having him at all.

"I dunno, Don ... I don't think I'm gonna make it this time," Danny rasps.

It's amazing how handsome Flack appears in his black, v-necked sweater and jeans, highlighted from the side by vibrant moonlight. How much adoration there is in those big, blue eyes, looking at him and making him feel like the luckiest man alive.

"Have you forgotten 'bout the Minhaus shootin'? Or that time when you were locked up in that dead billionaire's panic room? Or what happened to your brother Louie and the whole Tanglewood mess?"

Danny feels a very solid and warm hand caressing his cheek.

"You made it through all that, remember?"

Flack is still smiling at him with such love, and it breaks his heart all over again, knowing the reality of his situation, knowing the truth.

He closes his eyes, and lets his tears fall.

"I had you," he whispers into the empty air.

The anguish that shreds him once he opens his eyes and discovers himself to be alone is beyond unendurable. His brain shuts down. His visage scrunches into a rictus of sorrow. He scrambles over to the side of the bed and seizes his mobile phone, jabbing a series of numbers that he has memorized to heart. He slides down onto the floor against the bed even as he listens to the dialing noise of the call awaiting connection.

Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid -

"Flack."

Danny is instantly paralyzed at the name. He tries to part his lips and say what he wants to say to Flack, except he can't. They won't come forth from his throat, and so, they remain ensnared within himself, dying into nothing like they do every time he does this.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps an arm around his shins. Yanks at his hair with his free hand, bowing his head and knocking his forehead against his knees in an odd ritual of punishment.

Tell him, you stupid fuck, tell him everything before it's too late -

"Come back to me."

The whole universe holds its breath upon the whisper of those four words from the other end of the line.

Danny's chest is aching so much, he's half-suspecting that he's having some sort of heart attack.

Impossible.

It's impossible Flack knows it's him.

There's a prolonged silence, and then -

"Come back to me. Please."

With a harsh gasp, Danny hurls the phone away from him. It bounces a few times on the carpeted floor, then lands with the LCD screen facing down, undamaged. He crawls backwards into the corner between the bed and the bedside table and stares at his phone for many minutes. Watches the light of his phone's LCD screen dim.

A second later, there's a beep, indicating that the call has disconnected.

He's alone. Again.

A little while later, he's back in bed, curled up under the covers, gazing at his phone on the bedside table with wide, almost child-like eyes.

Did Flack really know it was him?

Is it possible … that Flack wants him back?

That Flack loves him still?

His brain tells him he'd be a fool to even think for a moment that Flack still cares for him.

But his heart is saying something very different.

And for the first time in many, many years, he chooses to hope once more.

Unlike so many other nights, he ends up sleeping an undisturbed, peaceful slumber, dreaming of a Flack who walks up to him with open arms, smiling a smile that is his, and his only.