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

A/N: Thanks to those reading and reviewing. I love to hear what people think of the story.

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

Black as Sin

Talleyrand said coffee should be

"Black as the devil, Hot as hell,

Pure as an angel, Sweet as love."

He stole that from the Turks,

But he was French, so he should know

That love is a demonic hag-ridden nightmare

When it isn't a spiritual embodiment of light

That love is an agony of burning

When it isn't a suffusion of joy.

The sweet nectar, aromatic froth,

The liquid filling the mouth

The bitter dregs glazing the cup

SMT2007

Chapter 22: Getting To Know You

Hawkes took a sip of the thick sweet drink and nearly gagged. Even the exotic taste of rose water couldn't disguise the bitter sweetness of the coffee. The old woman in the café, veiled and swaddled in black, had boiled powdered coffee grounds three times, adding more sugar than he used in a month. He looked into Dr. Suq's eyes and knew she was laughing at him.

"Do not worry, Dr. Hawkes. Persian coffee is not to everyone's taste. Fatima can make you American coffee, if you would prefer."

Deliberately, Hawkes watched a few people in the crowded dark café drink, before he examined the tiny cup, then brought it to his lips and took a careful sip, letting the thick liquid slide into his mouth, leaving the grounds in the bottom of the cup. He grinned slightly, "Tastes can be refined. And please, call me Sheldon."

"Nasreen." She sipped again, and folded her hands.

"Nasreen, then. When we found Caitlin, her face was covered with bee pollen. Do you know anything about that?" Hawkes knew Flack's preference for keeping information back, but the case had been officially closed with Jason's confession. This one point would bother Hawkes until he could close the file in his own mind. Not knowing was not an option.

Nasreen smiled, a little sadly, "Mother Tina," she said without hesitation. "That would have been Mother Tina. Why didn't she come and tell us she had found her? She'll have been worrying all this time."

Hawkes sipped the brew again, and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow, "Mother Tina? Does she have a last name?"

"I'm sure she does, although I only know her as Mother Tina. She lives on the streets, although I think she has a home to go to. She seems to keep clean enough, and to eat, although she'll tell you she eats only what the bees provide."

"Bees?" Hawkes didn't need his notebook for this; his memory was more than equal to the task. In fact, he suspected that the smell of coffee would forever now be linked with the sound of that soft accent and the image of bees.

Nasreen shrugged, "Mother believes in the healing power of bees. She comes to the clinic and gives our patients pollen and Royal Jelly, which is fed to the larvae to make them queens. She does no one harm, and it makes her happy. She talks to bees."

Hawkes smiled, "She talks to bees?"

Nasreen nodded solemnly, though her eyes danced, "She tells them what is happening in the neighbourhood, who to be careful around, who to be good to. She says the bees must be spoken to politely, or they will swarm and leave, and then all the luck of the neighbourhood will go with them." She paused, the picture of Caitlin O'Leary rising in her mind, and sighed. "Perhaps she forgot to talk to them last week."

Hawkes put his hand over Nasreen's, squeezing it comfortingly. "You couldn't have changed anything, Nasreen. This is on Jason, and whichever man got her pregnant in the first place. You helped her."

Gently, Nasreen removed her hand, picking up her cup and finishing the last of her coffee. "I should get back and close up the clinic for the night."

"I'll walk you back," Hawkes swallowed the last of his coffee as well, careful to leave the dregs in the bottom of the cup, and noting with surprise that he had in fact got used somewhat to the taste. As he got up to go, the woman who had made the coffee came over and put her hand over his.

Nasreen spoke to her a moment in a rippling language, obviously mildly embarrassed. The old woman shook her head and answered briefly, but without heat.

Hawkes looked at the younger woman, "What does she want?"

Nasreen shrugged, still a little flushed, "She wants to read your coffee cup."

Hawkes looked at her solemnly for a moment, then turned to the old woman, and smiling, sat back down. He gestured towards his cup. "Please. I would like that very much."

Fatima sat down, throwing a triumphant glance at Nasreen, and took Hawkes' cup in her hands, first placing the saucer over top. She carefully swirled it three times, clock-wise, Hawkes observed, then placed it on the table with the handle facing him. She looked at him, but said nothing.

"She is waiting for the grounds to settle," Nasreen said in a quiet voice. "She'll promise you love and wealth and many children, all boys. She always promises love and wealth and boys."

Hawkes looked at her, a laugh in his eyes, "Good things to wish for, although I am partial to girls myself."

Ignoring Nasreen, Fatima lifted the saucer off the cup and looked at it. She began to speak, and with a roll of her eyes, Nasreen translated. "She sees an egg, near the handle and in the middle. That means wealth. Quelle surprise. And a moon – a full moon, surely, Fatima? Yes, a full moon, which means love. Qu'est-ce que je t'ai dit? Love and wealth. No bells or angels, Fatima?"

The older woman looked grave for a minute, then spoke to Nasreen in a burst of melodic Farsi.

Nasreen laughed, "Do not be silly, Fatima."

Hawkes looked at her, then at the old woman who was pointing to something in the bottom of the cup. "What? What did she say? No hordes of little boys for me?"

"She says she sees a claw approaching. See, near the handle? That means danger coming. And at the bottom of the cup, see? A dog. That means friends needing help."

Fatima spoke again, offering the cup and a long handled spoon to Hawkes insistently.

Nasreen said in a resigned tone, "She wants you to crush out the symbol. That will keep it from coming true."

Hawkes took the spoon and did as he was told, while Fatima watched him, large dark eyes worried over the face veil she wore. When he handed her back the cup, the symbol well and truly crushed she sighed, the veil fluttering away from her mouth for a moment.

Nasreen stood, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her headscarf. "I really should be …"

Hawkes leapt up, "Yes, of course. I'll walk you back." He smiled at Fatima and said, "Thank you, both for the good fortune and the warning. I will listen." Then he waited while Nasreen took her leave of the café owner, and then said, "Thank you for your help, too. I feel better when all the questions are answered. This Mother Tina? Any idea where we could find her?"

"You won't frighten her?" Nasreen waited for Hawkes to answer.

"I just need to talk to her. I promise."

She sighed, "The officers on duty in the park all know her. They are usually kind to her; they only move her on if someone complains about her. New Yorkers are usually too busy with their own lives to worry about crazy people in the park."

"New Yorkers? Are you not from New York, then?" Hawkes thought that was a subtle way to keep the conversation going. But Nasreen's smile told him she was aware of the ploy.

"I moved here from Montreal in 1999 with my husband. He worked for the UN." She pronounced Montreal with no "t" sound, which normally Hawkes would have commented on, but he was a little startled by the mention of a husband, and glanced quickly at her hands. No rings at all.

"Have you been married long?"

"Widowed now." The tone was serene, but the pain was clear in the way she kept her face averted from him as they walked down the sidewalk together.

"I'm sorry. It must have been hard after moving here."

"It was. My family wished me to come home, but I could not. Amir's work was here in New York; we had made a home. Leaving it felt like abandoning him."

"Was he ill?"

She shook her head, and now the pain leached into the words, "He was killed on 9/11."

Hawkes slowed his steps a little more, "I am very sorry. Was he in the Towers?"

She shook her head again. "He was shot in the street that evening."

Hawkes stopped moving altogether. "Did they ever find the person responsible?"

"It was a bad time," she said, refusing to meet his eyes.

He nodded curtly. He knew what that meant.

Nasreen started walking again, hands clasped tightly at her waist. "I met Kathleen and Miriam a year or so later, and began working at the clinic a few times a week before joining the partnership. There is so much to do here. And in Montreal, well, there is such a thing as too much family."

The hint of mischief Hawkes had noticed before was back, although he could tell now the serenity that seemed to surround Nasreen was hard won.

With a smile, he told a short, amusing story about his mother's family that held them until they arrived back at the clinic. He held out his hand to say goodbye, but she did not release her hands' grip on each other, and merely nodded, smiling, as he said goodbye.

"May I call you? Perhaps with another try, Persian coffee may become more to my taste," he smiled.

She looked up at him, and he could see the "No" quivering on her lips. Then her eyes slid sideways and a hint of a frown crossed her face. "Yes," she said abruptly and a little louder than necessary. "I would like that. Thank you, and good night."

She turned and nearly ran into the building, leaving Hawkes standing on the sidewalk. He moved from the doors and down the street, heading for his local coffee shop to wash the bitter aftertaste of Fatima's coffee out of his mouth, and passed a group of men standing casually near the stairs to the clinic. As he moved past them, he heard several mutter under their breath.

His phone rang as he reached the end of the block, and he answered it without looking at the caller ID. "Lissa? Sure, I'd like that. Where should I meet you?"

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

"Peyton? Could you come to Lindsay's?" Stella tried to keep the note of begging out of her voice, but she didn't know what to do. Mac had called her in a controlled free fall – something about Reed, but she barely caught it before he hung up – and Lindsay was still verging on hysterical, although she looked calm enough. The colour had not come back into her face, though, and there was no way Stella was leaving her alone.

Lindsay at least knew Peyton, Stella thought, as she reviewed the people they worked with on a regular basis; she hadn't worked with Angell or any of the other women in the lab at all. And much as Stella appreciated and admired men, it would not occur to her to ask even someone like Hawkes to babysit a distraught woman.

Besides, Hawkes wasn't answering his phone.

"Yeah, she's home, and I was going to stay, but I got called in. She really can't be on her own at the moment. I don't know the whole story, but she really needs to have someone here to make her eat and get some sleep." Stella said quietly into the phone. She nodded with relief when Peyton's cool voice said cheerfully, "I'm on my way – perhaps 10 minutes?"

"I owe you one."

Stella jumped when Lindsay said in a dull voice, "I don't need anyone here, Stel. You should go. I'm fine."

Stella sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her, "No, you're not," she said with robust common sense. "You are exhausted and emotionally wiped out. You haven't eaten anything today and being alone in this apartment is not a good idea right now. Peyton will be here in a few minutes, and I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lindsay twitched petulantly, but then stilled in resignation, "I just want to sleep. And I want to talk to Danny. Why didn't you let him come with me? I just want to know he's okay." Her eyes filled with weak tears.

Stella flipped open her phone and hit speed dial, "Flack? Danny okay?" She listened for a minute, frustration growing in her eyes. "Don? What the hell are you two up to?" The frown left her face as she listened for another minute, to be replaced with resigned amusement. "Good night, Flack."

Lindsay was staring at her in mild shock, "Were they … laughing?"

"Hysterically. While watching Buffalo finally turn on Ottawa, eating pizza, and drinking beer. I'd say they are doing as well as can be expected!"

Lindsay opened her mouth to respond; then common sense kicked in. She had grown up with men, after all. She nodded slowly, leaping to her feet as the door buzzer went. "I'll let her in. Oh, God, Stella, I don't have any food!" she whispered frantically.

Stella laughed as the door flew open and Peyton walked in carrying three cloth bags and smiling, "Thank goodness I had just gone shopping! Lindsay, are you up to making dinner, or would you like to be Queen for a Day and be served dinner in bed?"

One look at the rebellious glare the younger woman was sending her way answered that question, and Peyton took the bags into the kitchen and automatically put the kettle on to boil.

"Lindsay," she called from the kitchen, "Where is your teapot?"

"Oh, God," Lindsay muttered, and ran in to search for an object she hadn't unpacked in nearly two years in the city.

"That'll keep her busy a minute or two," Peyton smiled mischievously as she came back into the living room. "Quick. What's up?"

Stella filled her in briefly as she put on her coat, ending up with, "Mac called. Something about Reed. I have to go help."

Peyton nodded seriously, "He's been missing since Monday night – that's over 48 hours. His parents showed up at Mac's office. They're frantic."

"I don't know what he's up to, but he's got everyone in a buzz – his girlfriend lied her way into the station yesterday to talk to Mac too." Stella sighed in irritation. "This better be serious; if he's got everybody in a twist for nothing, I'll take him apart."

She kept her knowledge that Reed had been poking into Mafia connections quiet, not knowing how much Mac had told Peyton.

She shouted a goodbye to Lindsay, who was still searching the kitchen for a teapot she seemed to remember her mother shoving into a corner of some box or other, and swung out of the building, phoning Mac as she did.

"Where am I meeting you, Mac?"

Peyton closed the door behind Stella, smiling as she recalled one of Sheldon's favourite nicknames for his co-worker: Hurricane Stella indeed. She certainly moved like a force of nature, and according to everything Mac had said about her, she could blow fresh air through nearly any situation. Peyton understood why Mac had counted on her for so long – still did, come to that. Trust did not come easily to him, and once earned, he held fast.

She shivered a little as she went to help Lindsay in the kitchen. Being with a man so intense had its drawbacks; Peyton was used to being with someone who could give a little, bend a little. She sometimes felt in over her head with Mac Taylor.

But it could be a glorious sensation. A smile curved her lips as she thought back to Saturday night – when he had pulled her into his arms, lifting her feet off the ground to step into the house, she had known that his doubts were over. And he was not a man to leave others' doubts lingering. They had not got out of bed from 9 that evening until nearly 7 the next morning – no phone calls, no frantic knocking on the door, no sirens calling Mac from her arms as they so often had in the past.

He had been passionate, sweet, and demanding in turn, and she had fallen even more in love with him when he slept in her arms, finally at peace. She had been content before to let the relationship drift along, but no longer. She wanted more – wanted it all. For the first time, she thought that was a possibility.

"Will this do, Peyton? I can't find anything else," Lindsay came around the door to the kitchen, holding a glass coffee pot.

Peyton smiled and said cheerfully, "We'll make do. Come on. Let's get some food into you."

When Lindsay, relieved, turned around, Peyton rolled her eyes in dismay. Only an American would think of making a proper cup of tea in glass.