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

A/N: I appreciate all those of you who have taken some time to comment or respond to my story, and all those who are following along. Thanks to the wenches for the encouragement.

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

Tell me a Story

Tell me where we came from, tell me where we are bound.

Tell me how we got here, to this place in time and space.

Tell me why we do this day after day and year beyond year.

Tell me when it is my turn to feel the fresh air

Run its fingers through my hair.

I can only tell you what I believe.

I can only tell you why I am still here in this place

Clinging to the moments of clarity.

I am here to make a difference.

I am here to be my best.

I am here to do what I do.

I may not make that difference

I may fail and let even myself down.

What I do may not be enough.

But it is all I can come up with.

Our stories are all told, our future is unknown

I'm not sure where here is, and both time and space circle around me.

Day after day and year after year and life after life

Sacrifice themselves to the greater good.

And the air grows stale and cold.

SMT2007

Chapter 43: Reaching Out

If he had been a different type of person, Hawkes might have slammed out of the neat little house in a quiet neighbourhood in Queens. He might have stood on the sidewalk, yelling her name until she came to the door to talk to him. He might have hung around kicking stones across the street until she finally left the house to go to work. If he had been a different type of person – a different type of man – he thought gloomily, he would have made sure that Nasreen did not shut herself off from him, that she face him and talk about what was happening like a rational adult.

But instead, after waiting twenty minutes, Hawkes had grabbed his coat from the front hall where Kathleen O'Conal had hung it up the night before, and walked out of the house. Closing the door quietly, he started down the street with his hands dug deep into his pockets against the early spring air that still held a chill reminder of winter.

He walked nearly two blocks before he remembered he had driven the night before, and had to trudge back to where he had left the car.

He couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Even on the wheel of the car, they trembled slightly. The physician in him wanted to blame Miriam Beniamin's coffee, but it had been perfect; he was not suffering from a caffeine overdose, no matter how much he wished he could blame everything on that.

No, he was shaken, that was all it was. As simple and profound as that. One touch of her mouth under his and the whole world had turned upside down.

And now what? Nasreen had been quite clear – the fact that she would not come down to say goodbye to him was not an action requiring much interpretation. Miriam's voice echoed in his head, "She's a Muslim – a good doctor, a good Muslim, a good doctor – truly devoted – almost childlike…"

It had not been a child he had held in his arms for that brief moment, not a child who had opened her mouth to his, pressed her body against his for a single breath, no more.

"So what?" he asked himself, the slight mockery he reserved for himself evident. "She can't be Muslim and be with you. Miriam is right; this is not just a church she goes to – this is a way of living and seeing the world. Can you really stand in front of her and say, 'Pick me over all that?'"

He thought of his brave words to Miriam, "It will take more than you saying so to make me step back now." So cocky, so arrogant. As if all he had to do was want, and be given.

But Miriam was right, and he was wrong. He could do only harm to Nasreen, by forcing her to choose, by putting her in the position where there was even a choice required of her.

He laughed mirthlessly. "So what if the earth moved? Plant your feet on the ground, Hawkes, and roll with this one."

He picked up his phone, and dialed a familiar number absently. "Hi Lissa," he said, infusing even more warmth than usual into his voice. "Are you feeling better?"

He listened for a moment, focusing on her and the road with equal concentration. "You up for a visit? My shift doesn't start until 3 o'clock today." He glanced at his watch to check the time and was surprised to see that it was still early; he felt as if he had lived a lifetime in the past hour.

As he hung up and turned a corner to drive to Lissa's apartment, he thought about work, about the hospital, about Lissa and the fun they always had together. He thought about the little frisson of excitement they had seemed to share when they were out for dinner – a hitherto unnoticed attraction that might be worth exploring now that they were no longer depending on each other for more practical support, as they had through med school, he thought.

But he could smell a sweet spicy scent like carnation on his skin, and feel the touch of soft lips on his.

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

"Mac?" Reed said cautiously, poking his head around the door. "Do you have a minute?"

Mac pulled his hand down over his face, trying desperately to push the exhaustion away for a few more minutes. He was going have to book out and sleep sometime, or he was going to be the one who started making mistakes. He spun around in his chair and resolutely turned his back to the window; he had been staring at the Bridge, but seeing the Towers coming down, the plane burying itself in the building like a bullet into a body. His usual tricks for avoiding that barren vision had not worked today.

"Come in, Reed. What do you need?"

Reed sidled in and perched on a chair uncomfortably. Without thinking about it, Mac moved around to the front of his desk, sitting on the edge of it with one foot in the air. Any member of his team could have told Reed Mac was trying to make him feel more at ease.

It didn't seem to work. Reed backed up in the chair, but sat stiffly, his hands under him, his arms rigidly supporting part of his weight.

"What's up, Reed?" Mac gentled his voice even more. Something had gone seriously wrong with the boy.

"I'm being followed," the young man blurted out, then turned his face away.

Mac paused a moment, then nodded seriously. "Have you seen the person following you?" he asked.

Reed shook his head, "No. Not really. Natalie thought she saw someone a day or so ago – young guy, dressed in black. But she's really nervous, Mac." He glanced up at the older man, inviting him to dismiss the fear as a young woman's paranoid fancy. "Ever since I was … taken. She thinks that someone is after me; she sees things all the time."

"So, if you think this is just Natalie panicking, why are you here?" Mac asked.

"Because today I saw him too," the young man sighed and his arms lost their rigidity as he slumped in the chair. "A young guy, wearing black, just like she said. In the Commons at Chelsea. So I tried to lose him, you know. I mean, he could just be a student, I thought, going to the same places I was. But everywhere I went, he'd show up sooner or later." Reed closed his eyes.

"What did he look like? Did you recognize him? Hear him talk? See him near a vehicle?" Mac tried to keep his voice from sharpening into interrogation mode, but could tell he had failed when Reed shied like a nervous horse.

"He was just a guy, Mac. Tall. Well, taller than me, but that isn't saying much," Reed qualified deprecatingly. He closed his eyes to 'see' better. "Dark brown hair, kind of long. Down to his shoulders anyway. He wasn't near a car any of the times I saw him, but the first time, he was coming from the direction of Parking Lot 51E. I guess he could have a car."

"Did he speak to you? To anyone around you?"

Reed shook his head firmly. "He was never close to me. Always at least a city block away. I wouldn't have even noticed, except that Nat has made me kind of paranoid too. I didn't notice him at first, but Nat said he had been watching me when she and I met up for breakfast. When she pointed him out to me, it was after lunch. Then when I saw him again outside of the library at 4:00 this afternoon… "

"Taller than me?" Mac persisted. "Taller than your dad?"

Reed shook his head again, frustrated. "I don't know. He seemed tall to me."

"Reed, you haven't been talking? Or writing? About Messer or the construction company? Nothing on-line, even to friends?" Mac deliberately kept his voice quiet, but Reed still flinched in response before opening those big blue eyes that cut through Mac.

"No. No, I haven't done anything. I haven't talked to anyone but Natalie, and my dad, and …" his eyes widened even more, and now Mac could see the real fear beneath it all, "My mom, but she wouldn't, Mac. She wouldn't do anything …" his voice faded into panicked breathing.

Mac dropped off the desk to kneel in front of the distressed boy. He put a gentle hand on his shoulder and said urgently, "She didn't. Reed, it isn't what you're thinking. Your mother isn't connected. She's been asked to head up the inquiry into organized crime and its inroads into the construction trades. So, yes, she's involved, but not the way you think. Come on, Reed. If you had seen her when you were taken…" Mac cursed under his breath. Why the hell had Miranda not just told her son and husband what was going on?

"I told you, Reed. When we were talking with Peyton. I told you it wasn't her." He said it quietly, pouring all the conviction he could into his voice.

And when a shaking Reed collapsed against him, this time he was ready, putting his arms around his stepson and patting his back soothingly.

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

Mac had been called away, leaving Flack and Danny sitting a little uncomfortably at the booth, not sure what to say or do next. Flack wanted to go home and sleep until the last trump, but that wasn't looking likely. Besides the work piled up on his desk, he still had something he had to say to Danny. He just hadn't been able to say it in front of Mac. He'd done enough damage there.

"Can I give you a lift?" He pulled a few bills out of his wallet and tossed them down on the table, not knowing Mac had paid on his way out.

Danny shook his head, then shrugged. "Don't know where I'm going. Mac didn't want me to come into the lab today." He was withdrawn and too pale; Flack privately thought he needed to be at home at least. The hospital was looking a safer bet.

"Your place, then?"

Danny pulled out his phone and looked at it, a concerned frown on his face. "No messages. I thought Linds was going to call me when she picked up John at the airport. I wonder if something went wrong?"

"Probably a late flight. I wouldn't worry. Maybe they just got carried away, and forgot." Flack's keen eyes did not miss the slightly insulted look on Danny's face at the thought he had been forgotten for a mere brother, but it only took a moment for the look to clear.

"I'm just going to call her," he muttered, and hit speed dial.

Flack shrugged and stood up, rubbing his face wearily. "Come on, Messer. I'll drop you at your place."

Danny nodded, still frowning slightly as Lindsay's phone picked up and went to voice mail. "Montana? Everything okay? Give me a call, wouldja?" He snapped the phone shut, irritated. "Guess no one needs me today. Take me to the lab?"

Flack shook his head firmly, "No way. If Mac said you're not to go in, I'm not having any part of it, buddy. I'll pick my battles and that is not one." He led the way to his car, and waited patiently while Danny checked his phone one more time.

They drove in silence for several minutes, before getting behind a fender-bender that left them sitting in traffic while the beat cops sorted things out.

Danny cleared his throat, "Don, I just wanted to say … about your dad."

Flack recoiled a little, then perceptibly relaxed. "Yeah."

"If there's anything you need, you know… anything I can do." Danny shifted uncomfortably, but persisted. "Does he want … visitors? Need anything?"

Flack shot him a surprised look. Danny Messer, sick room attendant was a new side to a man he thought he knew pretty well. "Yeah, maybe. Thanks. Let me ask him, okay? The only people going to see him right now are us and a couple of old friends – guys who retired before him, mostly. He doesn't want lots of people standing around talking about him like he's on his deathbed." He swallowed hard, and then said strongly, "Even though that's the truth."

Danny nodded. "How's he dealing?"

Flack shook his head. "I don't know. He almost seems okay about it. Like he wouldn't talk about any treatment. And he had his damn funeral all planned out. I talked to Tony yesterday." Was it only yesterday?

"You and Tony okay?" Danny asked carefully.

Flack gave a short bitter laugh. "It was like watching a man walk a tightrope. He was doing the priest thing – you know, all caring and shit – but he was still so mad at me for questioning him. And maybe for taking down Antonelli."

Danny nodded; it was a dance he was familiar with in many variations. "You'll be okay. You have history. It stands."

Flack sighed. Speaking of history. "Look, my dad has been talking. He told me some shit. Danny, I think your mother …" He rubbed his eyes with an unsteady hand. Bad enough to know it, but to have to say it was nearly too much.

He took a deep breath and said, "Your mother and my father had an affair." He kept his gaze focused on the road in front of him, cool cop eyes taking in information without bothering to process it.

Danny nodded. "Yeah."

Flack froze, and looked up slowly to meet Danny's ice-blue eyes boring into him. "What do you mean - yeah? You knew?"

Danny nodded again, "When you went to tell my parents I was in hospital the first time, after Sonny and his boys jumped me. My mom recognized you."

Flack grimaced. He knew he looked like his dad. It had led to a few uncomfortable moments on the street when he started.

Danny went on quietly, "When I told my parents I was going into forensic sciences, going to be a cop, she told me then." Over and over, like beating him with a stick he could never quite avoid.

"We're not related, ya' know," he hastened to reassure the detective, his accent thickening. "Ya' musta been little, 'cause I was like 5."

Flack glanced into Danny's anxious face and actually laughed. "You think the thing worrying me most is that I might be related to you?"

Danny sat back and grinned a little weakly. "Well, I thought you might be worried about the family tree."

Flack shook his head, but had to search for words. "My dad said your family is full of screw-ups."

Danny nodded brusquely, staring blindly out the window.

"I told him you're better than all the rest of them put together. The only thing they all did right."

Danny blinked hard to clear the gathering moisture from his eyes. He really needed more sleep, he thought.