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

A/N: Thanks as always to the readers and reviewers: without you this little world would simply stop dead (and I don't think the characters would like that!)

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

Flareback

Sweet brown skin heats under the hand.

Lips that had turned from drinking in all that life offers

Soften and warm under his kisses, driving all thought

Under, driving all desire to the surface.

Delighting in passion's flavour on the tongue,

The scent of arousal awakens the tearing need to touch

And be touched, to take and to offer all that rests –

Warm and vital and breathing – in the palm of the hand.

But a moment, a sound, is all it takes to break the spell,

One breath between surrender and resistance,

One heartbeat, pounding like an avalanche

Between submission and withdrawal.

Icy bronze skin, turned metal-cold with loss,

Lips turn to stone as warmth is withdrawn.

Craving turns bitter on the tongue

As touch cools and hardens into the comforting trap

Of life abandoned, not a life of abandon.

SMT2007

Chapter 41: Endeavours

Hawkes woke slowly, aware of stiffened muscles before anything else, then of a warm weight curled up beside him. He blinked in the dim light, trying to figure out where he was, but not moving. He didn't want to disturb the sleeping woman beside him.

Because even half-asleep, cramped and sore, hungry enough to hear his own stomach rumbling and with the need to find a washroom becoming pressingly obvious, he knew that it was Nasreen lying on the couch, tucked under his arm, her breath fanning across his throat, the scent of her warm and tantalizing. He could feel the blanket someone had thrown over the pair of them; obviously Miriam and Kathleen would not be surprised by his presence this morning.

He could smell coffee in near proximity, and everything in him yearned towards it. But he could not move without waking Nasreen, and one look at the bruises under her eyes told him she had not had enough sleep yet. He tried to shift a little bit to ease his back muscles, and she murmured and stirred, so he subsided quickly and gave himself up to being uncomfortable.

They had talked for hours sitting in the small living room Kathleen had led him into. It had taken her nearly an hour to relax around him, to sit beside him on the couch and not tense up every time he moved. It seemed to take hours before she could call him Sheldon, holding him in his place with the formal Dr. Hawkes until the house had stilled in the deep heart of night. When her eyes had finally begun to close with exhaustion, he had coaxed her into lying down with him on the couch, and when tears had leaked under closed eyelids, he had felt the dampness on his shoulder.

He ran a careful hand through her hair, conscious of the silky weight of it wrapping around his hand. He knew that a Muslim woman uncovered her hair only in front of men she could not marry, like brothers or uncles, or the man she intended to marry. It was a symbol of intimacy that meant more than could be easily put into words, and Sheldon had no idea how to interpret it in the cold light of morning.

His hand stilled when Nasreen stirred again, and he looked into deep brown eyes still blurred in dreams. Without planning, without even thinking about it, Sheldon moved his head and took her inviting lips in a soft kiss.

A moment's touch; a lifetime's vow. It was sweet and tender, with the promise of passion. It struck through his body like a flame and left him scorched from the inside out.

She pulled away, startled, eyes huge, just as a voice spoke from the other side of the closed door. "Nasreen? There is a phone call for you."

Flushed and distressed, Nasreen tried to move from the couch, but found it difficult to untangle herself from both the blanket and Hawkes quickly. Breathlessly, she answered, "Oui. Yes. Un moment, s'il vous plait."

Courteously, Hawkes moved so that she could get to her feet, and waited until she had scrambled her way out the room, avoiding looking at him. Then he put his head in his hands and berated himself for being seven kinds of fool.

He stayed in the room for a few minutes longer before going out to take care of the most pressing need, and then searching for coffee. When he found the large country-style kitchen at the back of the house, only Miriam was sitting at the scarred and homely table, a cup of coffee in front of an empty chair, with a little milk already added, and Sheldon was sure, one careful spoonful of sugar as well. Miriam had always been good at the small details.

Without speaking, he took his place and closed his eyes as that first slug of caffeine worked its way through his veins. Miriam pushed a plate with whole wheat toast his way, and waited until he had picked up a slice before speaking. "Everything okay?"

He could not look at her. "No."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"Can I give you a little advice?"

"Can I stop you?" he said dryly.

She cracked a smile at that, and sat back in her chair easily. "No."

"Then advise away." He crunched the toast noisily.

"She's Muslim, Hawkes."

"I know that. Dammit, Miriam. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"I know. And I know that you think you know about her background. But whether we want to admit it or not, Muslims in America had two choices after 9/11: to become invisible – less Muslim – or to become more Muslim, and invisible in a different way."

She waited for him to respond, but he simply looked down at his coffee cup and said nothing.

With a sigh, she went on, "I first met Nasreen when she and Amir moved to New York. I was working as an advisor with him on a UN project. He was a lovely man." She grinned a little as he flashed her an inquisitive look. "Hey, I may be vegetarian, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the smell of a nicely cooked piece of meat on occasion!"

Hawkes snorted through his coffee, then ran his hand over his face wearily. "So, tell me about Amir."

"He was dedicated and kind," she went on remorselessly. "He had come to North America from Iran as a university student, and met Nasreen in pre-med at McGill. They were married six months later. Both families over the moon, of course, especially hers. She grew up moderate; he grew up devout. She was the one who changed, naturally." She saw the flash in Hawkes' eyes and sighed, "No, Shel, he didn't force her into anything. I'd feel better about it all if he had, maybe. She just wanted to please him, to be perfect for him. They were truly devoted to each other. It was … sweet. Almost childlike."

She paused and drank some coffee, then went on unsteadily, "The night the towers were hit, you remember what the city was like. People wandering around, trying to figure out what had happened, people trying to help others. And some, a few, like always … vultures and jackals, every one of them." She rubbed her eyes. "Amir couldn't get a cab. He'd been at Ground Zero, trying to help. It was … difficult. We talked to a friend who had been with him, a doctor from Pakistan. People were scared, and … unfriendly. Not everyone, of course. But a few. Amir had to walk home, and he … never made it."

She stood and walked restlessly to the sink, rinsing out her cup and placing it in the dishwasher, every motion controlled with an effort. "He was shot outside their house. Drive by. He was almost home, Shel. They shot him as she watched out the window." She took a deep breath, "Nasreen didn't even hear from the police for days. And then they told her there was nothing to go on. The case is still open."

Hawkes rubbed his long fingers over tired eyes, trying desperately to find a measure of calm. "So why are you telling me this?"

Miriam turned and leaned against the sink, arms crossed over her chest, staring him in the eyes. "She's not going to be … able to be with you, Shel. She may want to – I think she does, whether she admits it yet or not – but she can't. It would destroy everything she is, everything she has fought to be since Amir's death. A good doctor, a good Muslim, a good widow. There is little room in her life for you, and you deserve better than that."

Hawkes stood and followed Miriam's example, rinsing his cup and putting it in the dishwasher. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "She kissed me back, Miriam. It will take more than you saying so to make me step back now."

He turned to leave the kitchen, pausing when her voice drifted across the room, "You could destroy her."

"I won't hurt her." He grinned tightly over his shoulder, "First do no harm, right?" He walked quietly out of the room and went to wait in the front hall to say good-bye to Nasreen.

Miriam turned away. "Too late," she murmured.

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

Stella sat and tapped the steering wheel impatiently while John and Lindsay squabbled about whether or not John was going to go with them to visit Gunther Mauser in the seniors' home he had been living in for nearly twelve years. So this was what having family was like, she mused. Maybe growing up in a succession of foster care homes and an orphanage was not so bad after all!

"All right, you two, that's enough. John, I don't know why you are so interested. This may not get us anywhere, or it might get us into very deep trouble. But Lindsay, your brother is a trained investigator, just like you, and he might hear something we miss. So I say we maximize our assets and take him with us. And don't stick your tongue out at me, young lady!" She glared at Lindsay through the rear-view window.

John did a poor job of hiding his smirk, looking out the window. Suddenly, he opened his door and stepped out into the blocked street, "Don't move, Stella. I'll be right back!"

She stared after his rapidly disappearing figure in some shock. "Where does he think I am going to go?" she fumed, waving her hand at the traffic which looked set in stone for the next millennium.

Lindsay sulked in the back seat.

By the time John had run across the street, ducked into a corner grocery, and run across three lanes of traffic to jump back into the front seat, Stella had managed to gain less than a block.

"That's it," she huffed, glancing over her shoulder to check where they were. "Come on – we're taking this off-road." She shot a hard look at John, who was envisioning mud trails and four-wheelers. "What are you up to?"

He patted his jacket pocket, "Just a little persuasion."

It still took nearly forty minutes to get across town, but as Stella weaved and manipulated her way through the traffic, she gave John a quick lesson in the complicated history of the family Lindsay was getting herself involved in. Lindsay, meanwhile, refused to speak to either of them.

John looked at her over his shoulder, obviously struggling not to say anything about the Messer family background.

"Shut up, John," she said impatiently.

"I didn't say anything," he protested half-heartedly.

"You don't need to. I can hear what you are thinking from here. And not only is it not true – Danny is as straight as they come, in every sense of that word – but it is irrelevant. Even if I was hooking up with a wise guy whose connections went back to Marlon Brando himself, it wouldn't be any of your business," she fumed.

"Corleone," John said, automatically.

"What?"

"Don Corleone. Brando was the actor; Corleone was the Don, the Godfather," he explained seriously.

"Are you kidding me?" Her voice rose as she prepared to do battle.

"Okay, you two. That's enough!" Stella had had it. For the first time in her life, she honestly did not regret her sibling-less status. "We're here. And could you two please attempt some sort of professional decorum?"

Chastened, Lindsay murmured an apology. John simply grinned, then asked, "Game plan?"

"We go in, we ask to talk to Mauser, we get whatever he can remember. No explanations, no lies. I'll lay you odds they won't even notice we're there," Stella said, the memories of numerous mandated trips to visit "our loyal and lonely senior parishioners in the home" swirling through her head.

It turned out she was exactly right; the nurse at the desk did not even look up when they asked to see Gunter Mauser, simply pointing to the sunroom at the end of the long dingy corridor, continuing her conversation on the phone with a local morgue that was refusing to pick up a body. Lindsay shuddered.

"Mr. Mauser? Gunter Mauser?" Lindsay stepped in front of John and Stella, determined not to be pushed to the background. Damn it all, this was her future she was fighting for.

"Ja? I am Gunter Mauser?" A man shuffled over to the trio, balancing a cup of coffee and a plate with a huge slice of coffee cake on top of a walker, which he picked up and moved inch by inch until he had made it to one of the loungers in the corner of the large room.

Lindsay looked around. There were several chairs grouped around the room, some near tables, others around the large-screen television in the corner. A few people were already seated; others were lined up to get their own cups of coffee or a slice of cake.

Mauser sat down heavily, his coffee slopping over the cup into the saucer as he did. "Damn," he said absently, as he picked up the cake in round stubby fingers and took an enthusiastic bite. "Do I know you?" he asked around the crumbs that flew from his mouth.

Stella sat down in a nearby chair. "We know your grandson," she had to think quickly to remember Mouse's given name, "Theo. He told us you knew lots of history, stories from the old days."

Mauser's forehead creased, "You're friends of Mouse? Funny, you all look like cops. Except for you," he looked at John, "You stink of Fed."

John leaned back against a table, amusement filling his eyes, although he did not smile. "You should have known better, Bonasera," he said coolly. "A man like Mr. Mauser isn't going to fall for that 'friend of the family' trick. Nothing wrong with his memory or smarts, I'm thinking."

The old man grinned toothlessly up at the tall agent, stuffing another piece of cake into his mouth and speaking around it, "My idiot grandson thinks he's smart. Hah! I've forgotten more than he'll ever pick up. It's the drugs, you know," he confided in Lindsay's direction. "Addles the brain. Hard to keep a thought in your head other than the need for more."

Lindsay nodded and sat back. "Mr. Mauser, of course you are right. We are NYPD, from the Crime Lab, and he's a Fed." She jerked her head at her brother. "We need more information than Mouse was able to give us. So we decided to come to the source. Obviously, if we want to know what was going on in the 1960s, we need to talk to someone who was there, someone who knew all the players."

It wasn't even particularly subtle flattery, but it seemed to do the trick. Mauser took a sip of his coffee, smacked his lips, and said, "Well, now, in the old days, nothing came free, liebling. What are you offering for my help, eh?"

Lindsay looked with a hint of panic at Stella who shrugged and John, who tapped his breast pocket and raised his eyebrows.

Mauser licked his lips and sat forward, "Now, G-man, what could you have of any interest to me?"

John pulled a bottle out from inside his jacket, and slipped it in the outside pocket. "A promise – you help us out, and I might just forget this when I leave."

The old man's eyes brightened, and he sat back, blowing on his coffee as if it were suddenly too hot to drink. "Sure could use a little cooler in this cup here," he said invitingly.

John grinned, and poured a slug of amber whiskey into the cup.

"Ahh," Mauser sighed and smacked his lips. "Well, young sir, for payment like that, let's see what you want."

Stella took over, after frowning at John for sneaking alcohol in, then at herself for not thinking of it. "Mr. Mauser, we need to know about Lorenzo Sassone and Maureen Riley."