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

A/N: Here's a last installment for you – I'll be in a tent on the beach for the next week, so am VERY unlikely to be posting any new chapters until after the 21st (and everyone will be too busy reading the final HP book then to worry about it!) So enjoy this chapter, and I hope you will all come back at the end of July to see what I've come up with!

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

Giants

They stride across the landscape of childhood

Voices booming, loud and commanding,

Feet heavy, crushing, careless of small treasures

Careless of young feelings.

A joke becomes veracity: the dragon in the furnace room –

The ghost in the attic who howls at night for human blood.

Pirate booty carefully hidden in a hollow under a tree

Gets thrown on the compost heap to dwindle into muck

To feed the despised zucchini in the spring

To be fed to the small giant-killer in the fall

Who fights uselessly against the imperative voice:

"Eat all your vegetables so you grow up big like your father."

Every morning measuring himself against the wall,

Every morning disappointed that vegetables are not magic beans.

Then one day, when zucchini is no longer detested,

When the wall is no longer the measure of his self-worth,

He turns to

Look

Down

On the giant.

SMT2007

Chapter 34: Acceptance

Adam glanced at his watch for the hundredth time as he booted down the street. He hadn't forgotten. Not really. He had just got caught up in examining the trumpet, and when his email had alerted him to the appointment, he had only half an hour to get down to Central Park, and now it was nearly quarter to eight and she hadn't answered his email or sent him a text telling him she would wait, so this might all be for nothing…

His mind wound down at that point. He slowed his pace as he reached the Starbuck's he had set as their meeting place. At least if she stood him up again, he could have his coffee in the cool evening air before dragging his sorry butt home. Alone. As usual.

He shook off the memory of Hawkes' sympathetic face. Why did everyone seem to think he liked Lindsay Monroe? She was sweet, he admitted, and kind and far too nice for a player like Danny Messer, someone who got everything he wanted, with seemingly little effort.

The caustic spurt of jealousy shamed him. Danny was his friend, he reminded himself, had never been anything but supportive even if he did like to tease. It was the way he showed affection, Adam told himself, and was secretly thankful Danny liked Don Flack better than he did Adam Ross. Sarcasm, even the casual teasing type Danny specialized in, could sit curled in his stomach like a venomous snake for weeks.

It had been obvious from the beginning that Messer had set his sights on the new girl; no one else had a chance from the moment he called her Montana. And Adam wasn't stupid; a lifetime of being on the alert for landmines in a seemingly placid life had taught him to watch carefully, so he had known about Stella and Flack weeks before Hawkes did. Just like he'd known about Mac and Peyton.

He wanted someone for himself. Was that so odd? He was a nice guy, he assured himself, had a decent job, an acceptable apartment. Had got himself out of Phoenix to try and make it in the big city, and he was doing it. From being the dogsbody of the lab, he had moved into the field on occasion, and Mac had promised him he could do more if he wanted. He had friends at the lab and in his "World of Warcraft" guild.

"Note to self. Do not mention WoW to Aisha," he reminded himself. Bad enough to be an identified lab geek without adding computer game player to the Loser ID card.

Keeping his gaze a foot or so in front of his feet, he walked into the coffee shop, waiting patiently while two young girls argued about the relative merits of low-fat double shot mocha with raspberry versus peppermint flavouring, and then whether to share a low-fat, high-fibre fruit and nut bar or a triple chocolate brownie. Adam grinned when, as he had mentally predicted, they finally placed their orders and walked away with two brownies and coffees piled high with whipped cream.

As he stepped up to the counter, a large man bumped into him, nearly knocking him into a display stand, and snarled, "Watch what the hell you're doing. I'll have a large double shot Americano and make it quick, would you? I'm in a hurry here."

The barista looked anxiously at Adam, who shrugged and stepped back to let the other man have his space – as much space as it took. Hands in pockets, he hunched his shoulders and stared at his feet until the barista said timidly, "Sir? What can I get for you?"

Flushing, Adam stepped up to the counter, into the space recently vacated, and gave his order in his usual soft voice: cappuccino with extra foam, venti. He held out a five dollar bill, and flushed when the young cashier firmly shook her head, blowing strands of her blond hair out of the way as she rolled her eyes. "It's on us today, sir. To apologize for what just happened. It really was inexcusable."

Adam stood dumbly, still holding out the money, and shook his head when the barista said under his breath, "The guy's a pig, and some day someone is going to teach him a lesson about pushing other people around."

In Adam's experience, bullies never learned a thing.

He waited patiently at the end of the counter, murmuring his thanks to the barista and smiling at the cashier, who blushed and giggled. Then Adam turned around and nearly ran into a woman standing behind him, spilling some of the hot coffee over his hand.

"Shit," he said on an intake of breath, and quickly put the cup down to wring the liquid off his hand.

"Adam? I'm so sorry! Hardly the way I wanted to meet you for the first time!"

Adam looked up, and then looked up a little more. The voice was deep and husky, like dark chocolate poured over whiskey, he thought, dazed. Or maybe rum; there was a hint of the Islands running through it. The eyes looking into his in sympathetic concern were honeyed amber, and glowed intensely. The skin, and Adam did recognize the colour of it, was a rich caramel and why did everything about this woman make him think of food, he wondered dazedly? Sweet, rich, slightly forbidden food?

She was holding his hand, looking at the small burn on his knuckles and clucking anxiously, asking the barista for some ice in a cloth, leading him to a chair, and wrapping the cold cloth around his hand. Murmuring soothingly, she sat beside him, gently pulling the cloth back to check on the angry red mark across his skin.

"Oh, Adam, that doesn't look good. I'm so sorry; I'm not usually so clumsy. I was just anxious because I was so late – I didn't want you to think I was standing you up again. I tried phoning, but your cell went straight to voice mail."

Adam just sat and watched her, incapable, it appeared, of saying anything sensible. Every man and most of the women in the room were watching her openly or covertly. She seemed utterly unconscious of her effect on 90 of the population.

She bent her head and kissed his hand gently, and he nearly jumped out of his skin and went dancing down the street in his bones. She stood up, and held a hand out to him, and silently, he followed her out the door to one of the little tables sitting on the sidewalk, where Adam had thought he would be spending an evening alone.

"Now, can we try that again?" she said, her voice intimate and soft. "Adam Ross? It's nice to meet you. I'm Aisha Blanco."

Adam looked up into laughing amber eyes, and saw nothing else.

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

Don flagged a cab and muttered the direction to the driver in tones too low for her to hear. It wasn't a long trip, and Stella glanced sideways at Don when the driver pulled up in front of a nondescript building with an ambulance bay in front. His face was drawn still, his eyes blank.

She didn't speak as he pulled her out of the car, tossing some money at the driver without a word. He kept her hand in his as the door opened silently on their approach, allowing them entrance into the still, somber building.

Stella knew instantly that this was more and less than a hospital. The underlying smell of imminent death wafted around their feet, and although staff members greeted Don cheerfully as they passed through pale green corridors with slightly yellow lighting, their voices remained hushed and a little too preciously reverent, as if to say, "The people here are dying, you know."

"Aren't we all?" Stella thought cynically. She thought she preferred the macabre zaniness of the morgue, with Sid telling long pointless stories about his odd exploits, and Hawkes' eager investigations of strange deaths, and Marty Pino's endless re-hashing of sports events that had been decided before he was even born. It was more honest.

Don strode down the hallway, smiling tightly at the people who spoke to him, and pushed open the door to a small room at the end of the corridor. He paused long enough to take one deep breath, then swung into the room with a confident air.

"Hey, Dad. I brought someone special to see you." His voice was breezy but quiet, and Stella noticed that he moved close to the bed, standing near the window so his father would not have to strain to look at him.

Stella held her breath as Don Flack Sr. turned to her, a smile creasing his face. She would not have known him. His face had been as familiar to her – to all young rookies – as the face of the president of the United States or the mayor of New York. On the television, in media shots, speaking for the department, the Lieutenant was the first and last word, the interview every reporter dreamed of. No politician, his blunt, sarcastic comments made for great sound bites. A few inches shorter than his son, he had effortlessly commanded attention with his flashing personality, dark good looks and striking blue eyes.

Now he lay, bleached grey against the white hospital pillow, flesh carved away to expose a skull under unruly masses of black hair shot through with exhausted grey. Tubes fed oxygen into his nose; an IV dripped slow relief through his arm. A faded thin blanket was tightly tucked around his emaciated body, immobilizing him from the chest down. Stella had never seen him still; like Flack, his energy had always seemed a little too big for the room. Now all that energy had dissipated, leaving a void unfilled.

"Well, Detective Bonasera…" his voice was thready, but he cleared his throat painfully and started again, "Donnie, go find the detective a cup of crappy coffee, would you?"

Stella said quickly, "Just water, Don."

Flack glanced at her questioningly, but she nodded and sat down in the chair placed beside his father's bed. "Need something, Dad?"

"A cigarette and shot of whiskey for me, son," his father sighed.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that. Back in a minute, Stel."

Stella watched him walk out the room, then turned her attention back to the man lying in the hospital bed. He was observing her carefully. "I'd ask you how you are, but …" She shrugged helplessly. There was no point in lying.

Flack Sr. gave a bark of laughter, "That's the edge you're famous for. Yeah, the doctors told me a month. The nurses say it'll be within the week. I'm taking bets on tomorrow. Want in?"

Stella blinked back tears. "With you holding the book? That hardly seems fair!"

He reached out for her hand, and surprised, she twined her fingers through his. "I'm going to ask you for a favour, Stella."

"Anything."

"Anything for a dying man. You left out that part."

"Didn't think it needed to be said."

He grunted in amused assent; then his face grew somber again and he looked at their hands. "Do you care about him, Stella? I'm sorry to push. If I had more time, I'd be more subtle." He looked into her eyes and grinned at her doubt-filled look. "Well, I'd try to be more subtle."

She widened her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, then said to Don's father what she had not yet completely admitted to herself, "I love him."

Flack Sr. closed his eyes and sighed, but squeezed her hand tightly a moment. "Stick with him, 'kay? Things are going to get hard. Really hard. I wish I had more time, but …"

Stella swallowed a sob.

When Don came in the room a few minutes later, holding a bottle of water in his hand, she was standing by the window staring out blindly. After glancing at the bed and seeing his father asleep, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his forehead on her shoulder.

She reached up and ran her hand through his hair. "Why didn't you tell me?" she said quietly. "Why didn't you tell anybody?"

"It was quick. I mean this … the hospitalization part. He wouldn't see the doctor, even when it was obvious the cough wasn't going away. By the time Mom forced him in, there was nothing they could do." Flack chanced a look behind him, but his father was still sleeping. "He refused any treatment. Said it was his time, and he'd rather go fast."

Stella turned in his arms and hugged him hard. She could feel the tension in his body, which he controlled so carefully. She wished she could absorb enough pain out of him that he could at least take in a full breath, but she had no right: this was his burden.

"He's been telling me things, Stel. Things about Danny, about the Messers. I don't know what to do." His voice was so quiet, she could hardly take in the significance of the words, but now at least she could put together some of what he had said the previous night.

She pulled him closer, whispering, "Whatever you decide will be the right decision, Don. Your dad trusted you with this because he knew you could do it. You aren't capable of getting this wrong."

Slowly, slowly, she felt him relax at the edges, although at the core he was still coiled tight, waiting to jump.

"Donnie? Donnie!" The voice was hoarse and cracked again.

"Right here, Dad." He pulled slightly away from Stella, but kept his eyes on her face.

"Shouldn't your ma be here by now?"

"She's on her way, Dad. She'll be here in just a few minutes."

Stella stepped out of Don's arms, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze. "I should go."

He didn't argue, although he looked like he desperately wanted to.

She bent over the bed and gave Don Flack Sr. a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Come back and see me again? You're better looking than most of the woman around here."

She grinned at him, "What is it with the flirts in this department? First Sid Hammerback … now you. Didn't you old men get the memo about appropriate work language?"

He eyed her low cut top admiringly, "Must have been put in the same pile as the one about appropriate work attire!"

She laughed out loud, and made sure she gave him a good look as she bent over to kiss him again, whispering in her ear, "My bet's on you beating that month they gave you, sir. Don't disappoint me."

She smiled at Don and walked out of the room, waiting until she got to the closest washroom before bursting into tears.