Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.

A/N: Thanks to my reviewers for your responses and questions; every reaction gives me a whole new direction to follow, so if this story ends up being 100 chapters long, you only have yourselves to blame! Thanks to those who are reading as well – I hope you are enjoying the story!

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

The Walking Wounded

They called them the walking wounded,

Soldiers who remained on parade

Feet together, shoulders back,

Head up and gaze straight ahead,

While their hearts strangled with fear

Their minds trapped in horrors

So intense they would never sleep again,

They held themselves always ready

To run, to hide, to fight for their lives

Or for the lives of those few they still recognized

As human beings.

Shellshock,

Battle fatigue,

Combat stress reaction,

Operational exhaustion,

Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

The name gets longer as the pain grows deeper

As if by naming it, like the monsters of old,

It can be brought to heel.

SMT 2007

Chapter 12: Walking Wounded

"You done, Stel?"

"Finished about 15 minutes ago. The jury seemed to be paying attention, but we'll see."

"Defense give you a hard time?"

"No. The evidence is solid. I think she's going to push for some kind of diminished capacity."

Stella heard Flack's snort of disgust on the other end of the line. "Yeah, whatever."

Stella smiled. "She's probably not wrong, Flack."

"I know people from worse backgrounds who never killed an old lady for the change in her purse, Stel."

"Yeah. Me, too." Stella sighed.

"You up for dinner somewhere?" Flack's voice turned hopeful.

Stella thought, "I really shouldn't do this. I need to think this out."

She said, "Where would you like to meet?"

"How about on the corner?"

"Which one?"

A hand reached around her and closed up her phone. "This one?" Flack's blue eyes laughed into her surprised ones.

"You know, sneaking up on a woman with a gun may not be the most healthy choice overall, Flack." She tried to say it lightly, but could feel her heart pounding.

"I'll take my chances with you, Detective. If you draw your gun on me, it'll be because I deserved it." Flack did not back away from the ice in her gaze, holding her eyes with his until she relaxed and nodded slightly.

"Where do you want to go for dinner?" she said quietly.

They agreed to try a new Thai place that neither had been to, and found a quiet corner booth far from the kitchen. They discovered a shared liking for hot curry and cold Thai beer, and Stella sat back, toying with her napkin once they had ordered.

Flack watched her, knowing she was gathering her courage to ask him something. He decided to give her a helping hand. "You want to know about the Messers, right?"

"I think it's going to matter, Don." She looked up at him, frowning slightly as she tried to explain. "Something is happening, or going to happen. Mouse wasn't the only squeaking out there."

Flack nodded. He'd been hearing things too. He just hadn't connected them to the Sassones, and so to Danny and his family until Mouse.

"I can't tell you everything, Stella, or how I know it. But here's some of the background." Flack took a quick sip of water, then sat forward to speak quietly. "You know that Anthony Messer is connected, right?"

Stella nodded; the office grapevine had never been quiet about that. "The Lucchese family, right?" she said, lowering her voice carefully as she mentioned one of the five Mafia families of New York.

"Right. Tony Messer was never much more than a wannabe. His brother Gino, though …" Flack paused as the server brought their dinners to them, and did not resume until she was safely out of earshot. "Gino Messer owns a construction company."

He could tell from Stella's thoughtful nod that he did not need to go into any more detail. Not all construction companies in New York were connected with the Mob. Not even all construction companies owned and operated by second generation Italian-Americans.

But Messer and Sons, as it happened, was.

"So, Tony was sometimes errand boy, sometimes bag man for big brother Gino, always the little brother, always on the edge. He wasn't very committed, maybe, or else he just wasn't very good at it. Anyway, Danny grew up with people always watching: the Feds when they thought something was going to go down, the NYPD when there was something going down, and the Luccheses all the time."

"And then the Tanglewood Boys. How did they factor in?" Stella concentrated on her green curry, but every nerve was straining to pick up on where Flack's deep unease was seated. There had to be some reason he was so reluctant to tell her anything about this. So far, he had only confirmed stories she had heard since Danny joined the team.

"Gino was not pleased with Louie for going outside the family. Sassone's family have been linked to the Bonnano family. Pretty big rivals on the Island."

Stella whistled. "Pissing in everyone's sandbox, weren't they?"

Flack laughed, "Pretty much. Sonny had delusions of adequacy, I'm afraid. Anyway, they played around on the edges a little, caused some trouble in the neighbourhood, but never made much impact on the real wise guys. When Sassone and his thugs went away after the attack on Louie Messer, that was the end of the Tanglewood Boys."

"As far as you know." Stella completed the thought.

Flack nodded and applied himself to his pad thai. He ate silently for a few minutes, then said, "How's your curry?"

"Delicious. Try some," Stella offered, picking up a piece of chicken and holding her chopsticks out to Don. He closed his lips around the mouthful, his eyes never leaving hers, then scooped up an assortment of noodles and chicken and peanuts off his plate and offered it to her. She closed her eyes as she savoured the taste. "I think this restaurant is a definite keeper."

"Seems to be." His voice was husky as he watched her eat. "So, did you learn anything more about our pollinated girl this afternoon?"

"Text from Sid: she was pollinated in more than one way. Six weeks pregnant. COD was strangulation."

Flack winced. "Ouch. Up close and personal. We found a business card in her coat pocket; we may be able to find out who she was. It was for a clinic down in Brooklyn."

"Really? Abortion clinic?"

"Free clinic supported by a variety of organizations, specializing in women's health issues, according to their website. So, yeah, I'm thinking abortion clinic," Flack shrugged.

"We'll have to check it out – see what we can find," Stella was scooping up the last of her curry when she noticed Flack watching her. "Do you want some more?"

He grinned, "I always want more, but that's okay, you finish it up."

She laughed, "I don't think so – the guilt of seeing you waste away would be too much for me." She pushed the plate over to him and watched him eat. He was neat and quick, where she had thought he would be messy and careless. He was a constant contradiction. For all the time she had known him, she realized she knew very little about him.

"Tell me something."

"Like what?" He glanced at her.

"Something I don't know about you."

"I played basketball in high school. Got recruited to NYU for the team."

"You had a scholarship to NYU? Why didn't you go?"

"Didn't want to go to university. I was in the police academy the week after I graduated high school." He shrugged and swigged the last of his beer.

"I guess your dad was pleased." Stella toyed with her beer bottle, stripping the label off in one slow move.

"Never said. My grandmother Flack, now, she was pissed off." He pushed the empty plate away from him, then unconsciously echoed Stella, picking at the corner of the beer label, concentrating on not ripping the paper.

"She wanted you to go to university?" Stella chanced a quick look at Don.

"My grandfather and father were both cops. She didn't want me to be a cop," he hedged.

"I guess she's been a cop's wife a long time. She knows the life."

"She died just before I graduated from the academy," he said, his voice quiet and flat.

"Don." Stella dropped the bottle and reached out her hand for his. "I am sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't talk about it much. She had a bad heart. No one knew. Dad came home from night shift one morning and she was dead in the kitchen. She'd been lying there all night." Don carefully placed the bottle in the centre of his placemat, concentrating on covering the map of Thailand decorating it, and clasped his hands tightly together, ignoring Stella's. "I had been out with the boys on a bender – showed up just as the morgue van took her away."

Stella put her hand on top of his fisted ones, and squeezed gently. "I'm sorry."

"I guess that was two things you didn't know about me." He glanced at her, then turned away from her compassionate face and she couldn't help herself. She moved a little closer on the bench, ran a hand up his jaw, and touched her lips to his. He tasted of curry and fish sauce and a deep abiding sorrow.

"I am in so much trouble," she thought to herself as his arms tightened around her.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Text Message: A Ross to A Blanco

Where R U?

Text Message: A Blanco to A Ross

Sry. somit came . 2moro? xoxo

Adam threw his phone on the table in disgust. Club Zed was a madhouse; he'd come straight off work; and he had a headache. Now he'd been stood up.

"Hey, cutie! Want to dance?" Adam looked up into the startling face of a girl too young for bright fuchsia hair, black lips, and a spike through the bridge of her nose. She smiled at him, white teeth flashing in the lights, eyes gleaming a fluorescent pink.

"Umm, no, thank you," he stammered.

"Oh, come on! Loosen up and party with me!" She grabbed his hands and pulled him out on the dance floor, the short pink fronds of her skirt swaying temptingly around her thighs.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Mac sighed as he put the last file away. He had finished last week's paper work, at least. Now he just had to start on this week's.

Honestly, if someone really wanted to stop all crime in the Tri-State area, all they had to do was require the criminals to do one-tenth of the paperwork the law enforcement people had to do. That would stop them cold.

Then maybe he'd have enough time to leave the office for a few hours.

He grabbed his coat from the rack, and turned out the light. It was getting a little warmer every day, although this being New York, a freak slap of winter could show up nearly any time; Newfoundland and Nova Scotia to the north were digging out from a foot of snow dumped in less than a day. It could be their turn next.

There were few people around as he walked down the halls, heading for the elevators. Usually he took the stairs, but for some reason tonight he was so exhausted he wasn't sure he could keep moving one foot in front of the other. Anything that saved him steps would be a boon.

He pushed the button for the Main floor, and stared at the numbers counting down. His finger hesitated over another button, the one which would take him to the basement where the morgue was, but he curled his hand into a fist and refrained. Peyton needed a little time, perhaps; she had not returned to speak to him all day, and the one time he had ventured down to her office to talk to her, she had been in the field pronouncing another dead body.

He could feel the tension of the day growing as he counted down, anticipating that last moment as the door opened and he walked out alone. As he had for years. Even before Claire's death.

"But at least you had someone to go home to."

The voice was quiet, resigned. He closed his eyes against it, rejecting its remote sympathy.

"You should have had children."

He shook his head at that voice. It wasn't quiet at all. A screaming intensity underlined its every utterance.

The elevator doors swung open and he stepped off, concentrating on keeping his face inexpressive, fighting back his frustration until he was at least out in the busy crowded streets of his city. Head down, he walked straight into Peyton.

"Mac!" Her voice was breathy with shock, and a little pain, as his foot had come down heavily on hers. His hands had gone automatically to the shoulders of the person he had nearly knocked to the ground, but they tightened when he heard her voice.

He breathed her in: the subtle floral scent of her perfume that clung to her skin in spite of the lab's smells of disinfectant and preservatives; the smell of the coffee and chocolate she relied on to keep her going through a long shift. He wrapped his arms around her: slender and warm against him, a slim flame lighting his way.

When she looked up at him, shocked, he pulled her closer and covered her mouth with his. She stiffened a moment; although their relationship was known to the team, Mac was rarely demonstrative in public. Then she relaxed and responded to the need she could feel rising in him, answering him with an equal passion.

When they finally broke the kiss, Mac rested his forehead against hers. "Come home with me, Peyton."

He told himself this was the last time he would ask; this was the last time he would push her to take a step she obviously didn't feel ready to take. He told himself he could be patient; he could wait for her to be sure that she was ready to move forward with him. He told himself …

Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, "Didn't you hear me, Mac? I said yes."

A/N2: Credit to George Carlin for the final thought in the poem about the words we use to explain what happens to a human being who sees and participates in the unthinkable.