Disclaimer I own very little, especially not CSI NY.

Notes Chapter 14: THANK YOU for all previous reviews! I hope you like this chapter too! Please continue reviewing - I love to know what you think - all very welcome at any time, and always replied to if logged. Thanks to webDLfan, LME and Blue Shadowdancer for extra discussion! And to sarramaks for reading.

Thank you to Fat Kat and Jessica for reviews of chapter 13, and to Jessica and Mynerva24 for reviews of some of my other stories.

Lost Letters: Chapter 14

10th August

… It almost looked like rain this morning - there was a hint of mist along the street, just catching in the tops of the trees. Not for long though; the sun appeared with a flourish around ten o'clock and burned it away, so I'm sitting writing this on the top step outside the apartment trying not to get sunburnt. Mrs Adams is in her courtyard dozing as usual. Joshua's come to sit beside me, hoping for a little something. I'm afraid he's going to be waiting some time as I haven't a thing in my cupboards, and not a dime in my purse. Joe's off on some errand or other though, which he assures me will buy us at the very least a quart of milk. I hope so…

………………………………...

Open your eyes…

Flack's eyes stayed on Stella's face, but there was no sign she heard him, and no change in her pale features; her eyes remained closed. His sigh shook with sadness as he squeezed her hand, "Please don't make us wait too long."

Looking at Mac, who was just beginning to stir from his doze, Flack saw him aged ruinously in the last two days, and felt the anger simmering beneath his skin boil over; one crime scene and he had lost sight of three people he cared about, because Mac had put his own life on hold for both Danny and Stella, for as long as it took. Whilst it was Stella's side he was at, Flack knew Mac's thoughts were also with Danny and his family. He knew Danny would have it no other way; he had the family Stella didn't.

And Flack was at the side of all of them. He had been to see Danny and his parents first, and it had devastated him to see their grief, almost as much as seeing his best friend snatched from them and so shattered in body. When he saw him, he could only drop into a chair and cover his face with his hands; pretending he hadn't seen, pretending it hadn't happened, pretending that Danny was going to throw the sheets off and laugh at him for falling for the joke. But he didn't. There was no laughter, no grin, no smartass return as he looked through his fingers at him. The figure in the bed was Danny. But only a part, a version of him. The rest of him, the real Danny was lost somewhere he couldn't find.

It had been one of the longest hours of his life, sitting there. Flack hated hospitals, and had tried every wile in his persuasive battery to get himself out after the explosion. Now it took only a whiff of antiseptic to spin his mind back to the days when all he had to look at for hours at a time was a green ceiling with a patch of paint peeling away in the corner. It had tormented him. Every day, the wafer-thin pieces of emulsion seemed to increase in size and curl further and further away from the wall; almost, but never quite, falling off. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Flack looked up now at the ceiling in Stella's room and saw a dusty thread of spider silk sagging from the cornice, swinging in an otherwise invisible draught. Back and forth, but not quite in rhythm, frustratingly syncopated, so he stood and swept it away with a flick of his hand.

Nearly quarter past midnight; still a few hours before he was due back at the precinct. The face of his watch slipped round his wrist, and underneath, his skin itched and smarted where sweat had trickled down and been trapped. The temperature in the room, indifferent to the hour, was tepid - even in his light, short-sleeved shirt, he was too warm. Mac, in a black shirt had to be even more uncomfortable than he was…

A black shirt. With a feeling of resigned despair, Flack realised Mac was still wearing the same shirt of two days ago; when he carried Stella out of the warehouse. The man who was always impeccably dressed was now wearing a blood-stained shirt and pants that carried chalky dust in smears. It hit Flack like a boulder in his chest; the image of Mac before him, and everything that had brought him to this state. But there was something at least he could do about that.

He crossed the room to put his hand on the other man's shoulder, speaking softly, "Mac?"

"I've already told you, Don…" Mac's voice was slurry with the dregs of sleep as his eyes blinked open.

Flack shook his head, "I've given up arguing, for now, but I've not given up being concerned about you. You might be okay with sitting there in clothes that I know damn well you've not changed for two days, but I'm not, and nor would Stella be; she'd be furious. Listen, Mac, I'll go get you a change of clothes. And something to eat, 'cause I'm willing to bet you've taken as much care of your appetite as you have of your appearance." He raised his eyebrows as he held out his hand.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Mac looked down with blank eyes at himself, then across to Stella's still form, "I hadn't noticed…"

Flack sighed, "I know. I know you hadn't. But I have, so I'm telling you. It won't take me long to head to the lab and back, okay?"

Part of him was hoping for an argument; for something to rise up in the other man and fight back. But nothing happened. Mac dug into his pocket and handed over a loop of keys, "In my locker."

Flack closed his hand round them, "Okay. See you shortly. Try and get some sleep."

There was no answer. He had already lost Mac's attention. After a final glance, he left, closing the door so he could hear the click of the latch. Too much silence. For a moment Flack stood in the corridor, thankful to be out of the room and the absence it held, then he walked away without looking back.

………………………………...

Open your eyes…

Central Park:

A man in a greasy baseball cap and football jersey waited on a bench by the disc of concrete that hid under nacreous ice in winter. At this time of year though, its reality was exposed; a grey, pimpled surface, puddled with orange from the lamps over head. The man sat beyond their circle in the shade of shrubs, on the bench furthest from the path. His arm extended along the back of the seat, and his fingers tapped the edge. Dead beats, like the patter of stones on wood. He waited, and made no excuses for the person he was waiting for.

Five minutes late.

An elderly man, walking a dog that resembled a badly-wound ball of string on a lead, approached. TJ gave no indication he had noticed him, although every detail of the man's appearance - from mismatched socks showing beneath pants a few inches too short, to the trilby askew on his head - had been noted in his mind. TJ looked at people, and looked so much at them, that he passed invisibly beyond their looks. The old man disappeared into the gloom of the path, reappearing at intervals beneath the lamps, not looking back.

Six minutes late.

Running footsteps caught his ear, pounding along from the opposite direction the old man had gone. TJ did not turn his head until they stopped in front of him, and he heard the sound of gasping breaths and stuttering apologies. He ignored them.

Seven minutes late.

Drawing his arm off the back of the bench, he pulled up his cuffs, "You know, when I make a time for an appointment, and I tell you half past midnight, I mean half past midnight, kid. I don't mean thirty seven minutes past midnight, you got me? I don't have the kind of lifestyle that allows me to sit around on park benches waiting for people. You understand what I'm saying?" He held up a hand as the young man began tripping over reasons for delay, "Don't want to hear it. Ain't got time or inclination for excuses. You kept me waiting, I ain't happy. Meaning you gotta do something to make up for it."

The man in front of him, recommended by Rich, was still an unknown quantity, and TJ knew that he was investing perhaps too much trust in him. Especially considering what Rich had done: he had known the instant he met with him in the coffee shop, and been told the story of the hit on Rita and subsequent events, that he was lying. TJ was good, very good, at reading the lies in darting eyes, in perspiration on top lips and in fingers that shook and crushed packets of sugar. The evening edition of the New York Times had only confirmed what he knew. Which was why he was here now, meeting with the young man introduced to him as Troy, but who he knew was in fact called Christopher Mendes. He also knew Christopher's address; which college he had dropped out of; and where his sister and her seven month old daughter lived. But Christopher did not know what he knew, and TJ would keep the knowledge until he needed it.

Which might not be long away; Troy (he would allow him to remain for now) had already disappointed him in the undertaking of his first job; the cache of information hidden in the basement apartment. He had only gotten away with one box of letters, and had been seen. He had also kept him waiting.

TJ looked down at, and admired, his fingernails; kept, like his secrets, in perfect condition; it was his one conceit. He kept Troy for a minute or two longer shifting up and down in his hi-tops, and rubbing his hands down his board shorts.

"You got the letters okay, TJ? Couldn't get no more, the old woman…"

"I told you, no excuses, Troy. You didn't get all of them, and that was a disappointment. Means I got only half a job done, and that ain't good for me or you. So here's the deal; you got one more chance to make good, otherwise, I'm gonna have to let you go."

TJ lifted up his cap momentarily to swipe a stray piece of hair out of his eyes. Only then did he give Troy his eyes, and a smile that gave away nothing and everything.

"Anything, totally, just… just tell me what you need me to do. I'm good for it, really, like, anything… I'll do it." Troy's hands had dropped down to his side and swung there, helplessly. His eyes were holes burnt in a white face.

TJ added a red scorch across his face by letting a few more seconds pass before answering, "I need you to find our mutual acquaintance who thinks he's about to disappear without my knowledge." He pulled his copy of the Times out, "And as soon as Rich is returned to our happy family, I have a few more things we need to take care of which I can't afford for him to screw up."

"You got it."

Troy skidded off into the darkness beyond the lamps, arms swinging, his sneakers slapping along the path, and his too-big shorts swooshing.

TJ watched him unblinking, "I hope so, Christopher."

………………………………...

Open your eyes…

Night passed and another white and gold dawn ribboned across the canopy of sky, rising in a quivering heat haze across the city. Some stood at windows and watched, eyes bright against glass that played warm reflections across their skin; some strode along the streets, eyes down at their feet as they hit the already burning sidewalks, ignorant of the scenes around and above them; and some were insensible, asleep, dreaming, unaware.

Inside a room - every detail of which the man and woman inside had no recollection or care of - days, hours and time had vanished. Circadian rhythms had broken into single, fractured notes. Daylight and twilight had mingled into a pale blue not-quite light. It lulled the one into sleep, and made no difference to the dreaming oblivion of the other.

………………………………...

Open your eyes…

"Don? You awake?"

Angell poked gently the tall detective, who was folded into a chair that was too small for him, his forearms pillowing his head on his desk.

He grunted, and a bleary eye opened, "Huh? What?"

Not averse to stating the obvious, she dropped into the chair she had dragged over, telling Flack, "You were asleep."

He glowered at her, and lifted his head with a groan, "Till you came busting in here. What'd I do?"

She studied him frankly, "Taking a wild guess, I'd say it's what you didn't do in the way of going home and sleeping. Would I be right?"

"I got a few hours. You?"

Angell doubted it was the truth, but let it pass for the moment, "The same. More than Lindsay though. We took longer than expected interviewing our potential witness, and she was rushing off back to Danny." She exhaled a gust of air, "I'm telling you, Don, that has to be one of the toughest interviews I've ever had."

She slid her hand across towards the cardboard cup of coffee balanced on a heap of files, and then stopped.

Flack eyed her, before picking it up and holding it out, "You want some? Only gotta ask, Jess."

"Actually, no. I watched Zee drink enough to drown Manhattan. Thanks anyhow."

"Suit yourself." He grinned and downed the contents with a satisfied smack of his lips. Watching him, Angell was seized with the thought that even the smallest flash of blue smile in his eyes could improve the shining hours.

"So what happened? He tell you anything you didn't know?"

She riffled through a sheaf of papers with her fingertips, "A little, when we managed to persuade him, finally, that he hadn't killed Stella by hiding her. We also avoided any of the more complex issues around that action…"

Flack snorted, "Still can't decide whether I want to shake the guy's hand, or shake him by the scruff of his neck for delaying you three." He put down the scrunched cardboard cup on the desk with feeling.

Angell continued, "He gave us what might be useful information. Said he couldn't remember everything, but he would keep trying, and he gave us a description of the two guys who were in the car. I'm heading back later today with an artist, see if we can get something a little more solid. I'm hopeful, but..." She paused, Flack was leaning back in his chair, with narrowed eyes, "Any thoughts?"

"Go with it, for now. It's as solid as we're going to get until Stella regains consciousness." His forehead creased, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, "If she remembers. If she wakes up…"

Her hand closed over his and her voice was soft, "She will, Don. And so will Danny."

"They have to, Jess. If not…"

Angell looked at him as his head dropped, wishing there was something she could do to take or at least share the fears and responsibilities that were starting to buckle him.

She kept talking, her voice even and calm, "You saw Mac earlier?"

"Yeah."

"You're worried about him."

The words shot out of him, as his fingers wrapped into a fist, "Damn right. Mac, Lindsay, Danny, Stella, all of 'em… this has devastated Mac's team. And to make matters worse, I'm hearing Sinclair's getting edgy about Mac's non-appearance in the lab, and the cases that are building up."

"Surely he understands the circumstances?" She pulled her eyebrows up.

Flack gave another explosion of contempt, "Sinclair? Unlikely. He and Mac, let's say their views ain't always harmonious, especially after the Dobson case. Slightest chance to condemn him, and Sinclair's grabbing for it. But I can't condemn Mac for staying with Stella; she's done the same, and more, for him."

Angell looked steadily at Flack, "There aren't many people who'd do that for each other."

………………………………...

Open your eyes…

Morning passed out of reach before the man in the room struggled up from dreams of smoke, darkness and horror that oozed blood over his hands.

Mac woke as his vision phased from the room to the dusky colour of behind eyelids, and back. His head was filled with sand, dropping forwards, then jerking back up. Grains in his eyes and in his mouth. Flack had returned and left hours before, leaving behind breakfast, coffee and a change of clothes, even a tie - which had caused the dull stupor inside his head to clear for a moment, and the corners of his lips to lift. Food and fresh clothes had revived him a little. He hadn't worn the tie though; it lay across the back of the empty chair, mottled blue and green, merging and shifting with the colour of the walls as his eyes distorted.

Silence. Stillness. The room was too empty, he could not speak for fear that what he said would be lost in a void, and they would not reach the person he meant them for. He was afraid to speak to Stella. He knew Flack had; he had heard him through the fuzz of sleep earlier. But she had not heard him.

Touch, maybe. Maybe it made a difference. From the moment the medical staff had given way to him, he had barely lost contact with Stella's skin; from his hand clasped around hers when he was awake, to the pin-tuck lines and valleys of his fingerprints that stayed on her arm when he was smothered by sleep. Even when he was drawn politely aside for the clinical touch of others, he retained the memory in his fingertips.

Touch, certainly. It always made a difference to him. The presence of Stella behind him; hairs stirred on the back of his neck as she laid a palm on his shoulder knowing instinctively when it was needed; her arms when they wrapped round him, and her hand and kiss on his cheek. Never hesitant, often impulsive, never unwelcome.

He let his thumb now brush the back of her hand. His touch was different; often hesitant, rarely impulsive but always welcomed. And perhaps not often enough, but that was who he was, and Stella would never ask any more of him. Words too; she gave more than he did and filled the silences that he left for her, offered the words he needed when he struggled with what to say.

The silence and space between them were the all words and the touches they needed sometimes; a look, a thought, passed through walls even.

But not now. Too much silence, too many words he had assumed and not spoken. Maybe she would hear him now. He let the backs of his fingers rest against her cheek, and began with her name.

The day passed unnoticed behind the walls. Until words drifted away, exhaustion pulled his eyelids down, and evening velvet swung into place over the invisible city as he slept.

Time crept forwards to night's final hours. Mac woke, and looked. And looked into Stella's opening eyes.

Please review and let me know what you think! I'm moving in a few days : ( so reviews will really help me with that, and writing the next chapter. Thanks, Lily x