A/N: Thanks as always to the ones who review and the ones who read. I appreciate the interest, questions, and support.
Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
Lives intersect, for good or bad.
Some glance off us like light off a mirror;
Some stick to us like gum on our shoe.
Some attach to us like ticks to scalp.
Some stay in our lives and hearts forever
Growing into and under our skin
Others strike us like a blow, turning us around
To face again a direction we thought we had abandoned.
We may touch each other lightly,
Hardly aware of the other's existence,
Or we may breathe in concert
Unable to imagine a life in which the other is not.
Woven into our lives are little pieces of
All those we have met along the way,
And we would not be who we are
If they had not run into us, and left a trace.
SMT2007
Chapter 21: Looking Up
He parked in the street and thanked the parking gods, who had smiled on him all night. Opening the back door, he shook Danny's shoulder gently. "Come on, buddy, I'm not sure how to carry you out of here."
Hazily, Danny opened one eye, then dropped his head back on the headrest and groaned a little theatrically. "The last person who woke me up was a lot prettier," he grumbled.
"What? You don't think I'm pretty? I'm crushed, Messer, crushed. Anyway, Romeo, she had to climb back up her balcony, so you're stuck with me. Come on; let's go."
He grabbed Danny's bag from the trunk and turned to see Danny turning out his pockets, obviously looking for something.
"Keys?" Flack guessed, frowning.
"Yeah. I know I had them. Where the hell did they go?' He took the bag Flack offered him and dug around in it for a minute, finally pulling the keys out of a side pocket in triumph. "Right where I put them!"
"Get outta here," Flack muttered, following Danny through the front door and into the stairwell. Danny was not as lucky as Lindsay; his apartment had no elevator at all, working or not, and he contemplated the several flights of stairs with a hint of dismay on his face. Then he looked at Danny, who had no expression at all on his face.
"One at a time, eh?"
Danny just nodded and started moving slowly.
Flack had run up stairs in heart pounding chases; he had run down stairs in headlong scrambles. He had climbed his own stairs carelessly; he had scaled them exultantly. He had even fallen down stairs once or twice. But he had never watched someone attack stairs with the determination he saw on Danny's face. And he could only stand back and watch as Danny got to each short landing, took a breath, and started all over again.
By the time they reached the floor Danny's apartment was on, Danny was grey and sweating, while Flack was white and anxious. Danny handed over his keys; his hands were shaking too much to even find the lock, and Flack helped him through the door and into the living room. Carefully, he maneuvered him onto the couch, then went to grab some water.
"Got anything for the pain?" He said it casually, then stiffened in self-disgust. He knew better; he really did.
Danny shrugged, saying, "Toss me my bag."
Flack walked it over, not trusting either Danny's or his own arm tonight. He handed over the bottle of water that was about all Danny's fridge had, and watched with some surprise as Danny pulled out a bottle of acetaminophen and swallowed a couple with a quick water chaser.
"The doc said not to be stupid," Danny muttered, looking a bit ashamed.
"Hey, Dan, he was right. There's nothing holy about suffering."
Danny quirked an amused eyebrow, "Says the choirboy." The tearing claws of pain were beginning to leave his gut, and he carefully relaxed one muscle at a time.
"Yeah, well, if you're a blessed martyr it's news to me!" Flack shot back, grinning with relief.
Danny snorted and closed his eyes. "There a game on?"
"Is it summer yet? If not, when isn't there a game on?" Flack grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping until he found that night's game, sitting in the one comfortable chair in the room.
Danny swung his legs around until he was lying on the couch, his eyes still closed. When he heard the announcer begin his colour commentary, though, his eyes flew open. "What the fuck did he say?" He glared at Flack accusingly.
"Buffalo against Ottawa – semi-final game. Ya' want pizza or Chinese?" Flack said tersely, eyes on the puck, hand reaching for the phone.
"Buffalo? What happened to my Rangers?" Danny's voice rose an octave.
"Got beat. By Buffalo. Last week."
"Where the fuck was I?" Danny asked in confusion.
"Uh, Danno? You were in hospital? You got shot, right?" Flack was beginning to feel a little alarmed.
"Holy crap. I leave New York for five minutes and it all goes to shit," Danny muttered.
Flack started to laugh. After a minute, Danny joined in, and soon neither could catch a full breath, setting each other off again every time they caught the other's eye.
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
"Okay, okay, Natalie. Just slow down. When is the last time you saw him? Have you reported it? I don't know – the university? The police?" Mac closed his eyes, nearly running into a young lab tech who squeaked and scuttled away. He walked down the corridor towards his office, and saw through the windows that there were two people in there, clearly waiting for him. He frowned, causing another lab tech to detour around him nervously as well.
"Natalie? Go to the university – report to them. Campus Security or the dorm supervisor, probably both. Do exactly what they tell you. I will call you as soon as I can. And Natalie?" He waited until he was reasonably sure the panicky young girl was listening to him, "You did the right thing. I'll take care of it."
He stepped into his office as he clipped the phone shut, examining the visitors. It was unusual to say the least to have people left in his office without supervision; he would have to speak to Tonia on the desk about how exactly that had been allowed. He could only assume that the woman currently pacing his floor had over-ridden any protocol concerns.
She turned as he came in and said, "Detective Taylor. About time. I want to know what the hell you think you are doing? Exactly what business do you think you have getting involved with him? If anything has happened, I swear I will hunt you down…"
She stopped when the man standing by the window said quietly, "Miranda."
Mac walked around her and took his seat behind his desk. "Please," he motioned, "Sit down."
The man did, stretching a hand out to the woman, who pulled away petulantly, then seemed to reconsider and sat beside him.
"Let's start again. I'm Mac Taylor. And you are…?" he lifted an eyebrow inquiringly, even though he was quite aware of who they were.
"I'm Peter Garrett and this is my wife, Miranda," the man started.
"And we are Reed's parents…" the woman burst out again, biting her lip when her husband put a calming hand on her arm again.
"Mr. Garrett. Mrs. Garrett. I would have liked to meet you under different circumstances…" Mac said, only to be interrupted again as Miranda Garrett leapt to her feet.
"We shouldn't be meeting at all. Reed has done just fine without you in his life, Mr. Taylor. We were willing for Reed to look for his biological mother; I took him to register when he turned 18. But she's dead." She flushed a little as Mac's face stiffened and her husband grimaced, but continued, softening her stance only a little, "I'm sorry, Detective. I know how hard that must have been. But the fact is that that part of his life is closed now. And I do not want my son in danger because he has some kind of childish idea of finding his 'real' family."
Mac looked at the distraught woman in some shock. Her outward appearance did not in any way reflect the obvious emotional stress she was under. A tall woman with a commanding presence, she was carefully groomed: dark hair perfectly cut, a shining cap around a pale, carefully made-up face. The dark red of her jacket added a punch of colour to the slim black skirt and trim blouse. There was a hint of feminine frivolity in the stylish shoes she was wearing; if she would stand still for more than a moment, Mac could see which fashion house she had bought them from. Stella would be able to tell from space, he knew, but his eye was not quite as discerning as hers.
Miranda Garrett looked confident, powerful, and a force to be reckoned with until one looked into her deep blue eyes, which were blank with fear.
Mac looked over at Peter Garrett; where his wife was all sharp angles and bright colours – a Picasso or a Mondrian – Peter was more of a watercolour by Monet. His light brown hair, a little long, stood out in an unruly halo around his head. His soft gray eyes were a little vague, his cherubic face a little too round. He stooped a little more than a man his age ought, and his hands were short and a little pudgy. He looked as if the quiet of the library he worked in had sunk deep into his bones.
"Mr. Garrett? Where is Reed?" Mac spoke with quiet authority.
Peter Garrett spoke to his wife, "You see, Miranda, I told you he wasn't with Detective Taylor. She is worried, you know," Garrett turned to Mac confidingly, "Worried that Reed would become fascinated with your line of work. He was always a curious child …"
Miranda Garrett sat down suddenly in a chair beside the desk, face draining. "You don't know where he is? Oh God. Oh God. We haven't heard from him since Sunday."
Mac shook his head as he dialed the Missing Persons desk, "I saw him on Friday night; he stayed with me. I dropped him off at the university Saturday morning. I just talked to Natalie Chance?" A quick shake of the head from Peter Garrett indicated Reed's parents had not spoken to her yet. "She says no one has seen him since Monday night at dinner. Have you tried calling him? He's not picking up his cell."
Peter took Miranda's hand, unselfconsciously patting it, offering her comfort as his brow furrowed and he tried to put his thoughts together logically.
Mac held up his hand, "This is Detective Taylor of the Crime Lab. Have you got a report on a Reed Garrett? It would have been called in just a few minutes ago." He waited impatiently while the file was called up and read out, turning around in his chair so that the Garretts would not hear what he said. "Yes. Add that he is my stepson and has been seen with me. He was investigating possible Mob activity for a school newspaper. No, Jefferson, I do not think this is just a college kid sleeping off a bad weekend. He's been missing for nearly 48 hours."
He listened coldly to the words spilling out of the phone. "You'll get this to everyone ASAP, Detective – you got that? I'm sending you pictures now." Mac was attaching the picture of Reed and him taken by Natalie a few months before at Christmas to a departmental email as he spoke. After listening to the detective for another minute, he hung up and turned back to the parents.
"Mrs. Garrett, you haven't talked to Natalie? Why not?" He gentled his voice; the woman with the commanding presence had deflated, sitting in his office listening to him.
She looked at him blankly, "We argued, Reed and I, about Nat. I thought he was too young to be getting so serious."
"On Sunday night?" Mac was scribbling notes as she spoke, and she nodded wearily.
"About 9:00 in the evening, perhaps. When he didn't call me Monday, I thought he was still sulking. Then it was Wednesday … he's never been out of touch for so long…"
"He may live in the dorms, Detective, but he calls or drops in nearly every day, " his father interjected.
"We went to his dorm room today," Miranda continued, "We have a key for emergencies. I listened to his messages. There were two from you, and I was …" she hesitated obviously over what to say next, "Concerned," she admitted with a sigh.
Mac nodded, "You knew we had met?"
Miranda nodded, still averting her eyes. "You were all he talked about for a while around the time Brian Miller was killed. He was all excited about the article he was writing then, too. Then the next enthusiasm came along – the next big story. Reed is always looking ahead, Detective Taylor."
"Mac. Please. Call me Mac." He waited until she looked at him.
"Mac," she said softly, "Find him? Find my son, please?"