DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS.

THIS IS A FUTURE CHAPTER

THANKS TO EVERYONE IN ADVANCE WHO IS STILL READING, REVIEWING AND ADDING ME TO ALERTS AND FAVS! AND A HUGE, HUGE THANKS TO ALL OF YOU FOR BEING SO PATIENT AND UNDERSTANDING!


What hurts the most

"There's another world inside of me that you may never see
There's secrets in this life that I can't hide
Somewhere in this darkness there's a light that I can't find
Maybe it's too far away, maybe I'm just blind
Maybe I'm just blind

So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be

I'll never let you down even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone, love me when I'm gone."
-When I'm Gone, Three Doors Down


The sound of the interrogation room door slamming shut; hard enough to rattle both the window in the center of it and the glass on the neighbouring wall, jolted Flack awake. His head snapped up and his eyes flew open, then quickly scanned the room in a desperate attempt to orientate himself. Confusion muddled his brain and fought for supremacy with the exhaustion and worry that had already set up camp. He was tired and sore. The nightmare of the past several hours had taken its toll on his nerves, and his back and his neck -after falling asleep in the uncomfortable metal bedside chair- were both stiff throbbing. And as shards of sunlight streamed through the narrow openings of the vertical blinds that covered the lone window on the opposite side of the room, reality quickly began to set in.

There were no cold, brick walls surrounding him. No scuffed linoleum floors, no rickety metal table and chairs with their faded and tattered seat coverings. No busted and useless air conditioner on a half assed wooden shelf under the window. No one way glass on the other side of the room. He had been, for reasons completely unknown and ridiculous to him, dreaming about that day in the interrogation room when he'd taken the biggest chance of his life and had crashed and burned.

It had been the first time in his life where he had gotten up the nerve to tell a woman, especially one so out of his league, exactly how he felt about her. No come on's, no blatant -and more often than not, pitiful- pick up lines and no strings attached. He had seized the opportunity to go after something he so desperately wanted, and needed. And had come away empty handed. The way that he had felt at that moment, when Sam had so harshly rebuffed him and them stomped away without even so much as a look over her shoulder, had deflated him. He had been sure that their night before had meant more to her than just sex. If it could have even been called that. Sure, she'd been drunk and disoriented and not in her right frame of mind. And even if he hadn't wanted to stop her in the car, he should have simply just drove away and left things at that. Maybe approached her the next day about what had gone down, and to get some sort of explanation. And a feel for how she was feeling about him when she was stone cold sober.

He'd been certain that there was a connection between them. One that had existed from the very moment that they had met. Even if he had mistaken her for a lowly lab tech and her first impression of him had been of a loud, brash and arrogant SOB stalking the halls of the crime lab terrifying everyone he viewed as 'below him' and demanding answers and results. Sammie had been quick to set him back on his heels, and after his initial shock that this tiny, seemingly innocent and sweet new girl had so easily verbally manhandled him, had worn off, he had found himself entranced by her. By her feisty 'take no shit' personality and her often acidy, foul tongued vocabulary when that she unleashed when dealing with the scum of society. He had had been drawn to the way her eyes and her nose crinkled when she smiled. Easily charmed by that musical, childish giggle that always brought a smile to his face. And he had been intrigued by the piercing and the tattoos that decorated her body and contradicted her fresh faced, girl next door physical appearance.

There'd been flirting. On both of their parts. Comments that had passed back and forth between them that had made them blush and stutter and stammer. Long, intense glances that had been exchanged when they didn't think anyone else was looking. Small touches that occurred. The way her hands would settle on his shoulders and then slip down his back as she squeezed her way between him and a piece of lab equipment. Or how he'd often lay a hand on the small of her back when escorting her through a door or onto an elevator.

The biggest mistake he'd ever made was ignoring and downplaying his feelings for, and his attraction to, Sam. Instead of admitting to them and doing something about it sooner rather than much, much later, he'd pursued a relationship with Devon after she'd approached him that day after the charity hockey game. He had seen right through the socialite. He'd known the second she'd started fawning all over him and batting her eye lashes at him and giving him the come on that it wasn't him that she was attracted to. It was the fact that he was a cop. A blue collared guy who busted his ass day in and day out compared to the pampered and spoiled life she was used to. He came with a hint of danger. His job was gritty and tough. His life was on the line the moment he stepped out of his apartment door every day. It was 'bad ass' as far as Devon was concerned and that was what she was drawn to. The whole 'living on the edge' thrill that being with him would give her. Regardless of her true intentions, he'd taken her up on her offer of dinner and drinks. Not once, but twice. And if it hadn't have been for the James Bond wanna-be's, things definitely would have gone the dirty route that night.

In essence, those morons had saved his life. Their sudden appearance and their abrupt end to his night with Devon had actually served as a wake up call. He'd been embarrassed the next morning when she'd paraded around her apartment in a skin tight tank top, bragging on the phone to a friend about being robbed while Stella and Sam processed the scene. He'd been mortified when Devon had had the nerve to wrap her arm around him and cuddle into his side and announce that they were going to some benefit that he didn't even want to attend in the first place. She had effectively given the impression to everyone in the room that things were far more serious than they actually were, and he'd had to bite his tongue and force himself to not correct her and humiliate her in front of everyone that was watching her ridiculous display. The look on both Stella and Sam's faces had said it all. Devon was a first class moron. Her shoe size was bigger than that of her brain and both women, although they hadn't come right out and said anything to Flack, had begun to seriously judge his taste in women.

Stella's opinion hadn't really mattered to him. She was just a friend and he didn't have to answer to her, or explain the choices he made in his life. It had been Sammie's thoughts on Devon that he'd been concerned with, and he'd made a point of chasing her down at the lab that afternoon and had, smoothly and calmly, attempted to explain that Devon was obviously overreacting to the way things really were between them and that he didn't think of her in 'that way.' Sam for her part had listened quietly and patiently as she busily worked on the pile of evidence in front of her in the lay out room. She had never once looked up at him or given a sign that she was actually paying attention to him. Until he'd finally paused in the midst of his rambling in an effort to give her a chance to respond.

"Aren't you going to say something?" he'd asked, when several minutes of silence had passed by.

"What do you want me to say?" Sam had replied. "Who you date is none of my business. Just like who I date is none of yours."

"You're dating someone?" Flack hadn't liked the sound of that.

"No…but if I was it would have no bearing on your life just like you and Debbie…"

"Devon," he'd corrected.

"…have no bearing on mine," she had finished. "I don't care who you do and who you don't do. We're just friends, Don. And we'll always just be friends. So why does it matter to you so much? Why does how I feel about your new girlfriend or whatever mean so much to you?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"That's funny…" Sam had snorted and pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. "You only called her that about twenty times today. It was like the fourth word out of your mouth every sentence in interrogation. Do you have any idea how goddamn annoying that was to hear all the time? I wanted to smack the shit out of you. Yes, Don. We know she's your girlfriend. We heard the first fifteen hundred times. Christ…talk about annoying the crap out of everyone."

"So it pisses you off that I have a girlfriend," he'd observed.

"No. It pisses me off that you're having like some high school kid that's never had a girlfriend before. It's grating on my nerves and quite frankly, it's making you look like a complete ass. You already look like a total tool for having such horrific taste in members of the opposite sex. Do you really have to make things worse for yourself?"

"So you don't like Devon," he'd stated.

Sam had sighed exasperatedly and stepping away from her work station, had crossed her arms over her chest and stared long and hard at him. "No, I don't," she'd admitted. "I think she's a moron. I think she was a complete embarrassment to not only herself, but also you, at her apartment. And the only thing that keeps going through my mind since then is how a guy like you can be with someone like her. There. You asked how I felt and there's the truth. Don't like what you hear? Oh well."

And with that she'd gone back to her work. Effectively dismissing him.

Things with Devon had gone downhill quickly after that. She'd grown tired of having her blue collared boy around and Flack been bitchy because she'd refused to even give life -his kind of life- even the smallest shot. Save for sex, which hadn't been that goddamn good to begin with, they'd had nothing in common and there was nothing that was keeping him there. Flack didn't love her. He knew that he would never love her and that it was quite possibly he'd never love anyone. And when she'd dumped him when something shinier than his badge had come along and he'd attempted to go back to Sam to tell her that not only was she right about the entire thing, but that he wanted to give something with her a try, she'd announced that she wasn't the kind of girl to date someone she worked with. Work place relationships were complicated and she didn't need the drama it brought into her life.

That would be the first time that the winds would be stripped from his sails. And the second time he'd pursue a relationship with someone other than the person he really wanted to be with. And while what he had had with Jess had been good -damn good in fact- in the end he'd realized he'd used her just as much as he'd used Devon. That he'd convinced himself that he was with his 'always and forever' because he couldn't be the with person that he knew for a fact had the possibility of being his be all and end all. His personal life at that point had been a complete mess. So when the opportunity to be with Sammie had jumped into his lap -literally- he'd eagerly and excitedly taken it, and when he'd chased her into her apartment he had had every intention of not leaving there without her in his life. As more than a colleague and a friend. And when he'd left her tucked in securely and lovingly, he'd been under the impression that she was ready for something with him too. That when she woke up and no longer under the influence of the Damiana laced chocolate or the alcohol that she'd consumed, that she'd realize that he was what she wanted.

It would take months before that would happen. Months of pretending that he was happy and of cursing Sam -internally of course- for dropping him flat on his ass like he had. He was pissed off that she'd walked away from him. His ego was bruised and instead of being alone and miserable, he'd instead stayed in his relationship with Jess and tried to convince himself that he was content and that he was in it with her for the long haul. And when Sam had agreed to go out on that date with the defence attorney….well that had been the final straw. He'd been jealous and the thought of her with someone else had drove him crazy. And it was then, and only then, that he'd been spurred into action.

Eight and a half years had passed since that night he'd shown up at her apartment and she'd chased him down in the hall. Eight and a half years of laughter and tears. Of love and heart ache. Or memories that they made together and of moments that were so trying and taxing that they both would have given anything to turn the clocks back and do things over again. To just simply forget the hard times in favour of all the good.

There'd been a hell of a lot of good, Flack now realized, as he leaned forward in the bedside chair and placing his elbows on his knees, ran his hands over his scruffy, weary face. The great times far outweighed the shitty ones. Mistakes had been made, and paid and repented for. They'd fought to rebuild things, to trust one another again. And even when things seemed darkest when they'd separated and they'd listen to the harsh reality laid out for them in countless therapy sessions, they'd somehow managed to hold onto the love and respect that they had for each other. As husband and wife.

And as mommy and daddy to Kellan and Kallison. The babies that they'd managed to create, and bring successfully into the world, together. Their daughters, who'd been made from that love and adoration and respect deserved better than two parents constantly at each others throats. Who were still too immature and self centered to admit when they were wrong and apologize for the things they'd done and said to hurt one another. Those were their personal crosses to bear, and the girls, and Dawson, didn't deserve to have to shoulder the burden as well.


Now this, he thought, and issuing a heavy sigh, slipped out of the chair and yawned noisily and stretched until his aching back cracked. Just when things started going great between us, this had to happen. Things couldn't just go nice and smooth. We just couldn't be happy for once. We just couldn't get back together and have everything be perfect. Something just had to jump up and bite us square in the ass.

That something had been a tumour that had caused a small bleed in the brain. Doctors had been successful in clamping the bleed, and relieved to find that it wasn't as serious and life threatening as they had originally thought. The repair was made quickly and rather effortlessly and no other 'issues' were spotted during their mapping of the brain that they'd done afterwards. The MRI had shown that there were no further swelling or bleeding, and aside from the tumour, nothing that could cause long term complications. They were also pleased with the fact that in the recovery room, although still under light sedation -for both pain and to give the brain time to heal from its ordeal in the OR- through a constant drip of propofol being pumped into her through an IV line, Sam had shown positive signs of a full, or at least close to it, recovery. She responded to verbal stimuli. When asked to wriggle her toes or fingers to show that she could hear what was being said, although it took a minute for the command to register, she could do both. Her eyelids would also flicker and her heart rate sped up when Flack spoke to her or held her hand or stroked her hair. The signs were there that she was going to be okay. That there was nothing debilitating to be worried about. Mild brain at the worst. If that even. And it was a huge relief.

The main concern now was the tumour. Inoperable, the doctors called it. Removing it would cause either a massive stroke or instant death. Drugs would be given in an attempt to shrink the mass. If it didn't prove to be cancerous that was. They'd taken a biopsy in the OR and had immediately sent it to pathology to be examined. If it was malignant, then and only then would doctors begin discussing treatment options. For now, it was all about healing.

Flack was prepared. For whatever the biopsy results said. He was prepared to be overjoyed and immensely relieved if the tumour was benign and Sammie needed little more than meds to both try and shrink the damn thing and prevent her from having seizures. And likewise, he was prepared for the horrible, life altering news that it was something so much worse. There was no treatment, no option that he would rule out. And he'd go to the ends of the earth if that were the case, just to make her better. Either way, good or bad, he wasn't losing her. Simple as that.

Four hours had passed since Sam had been moved up to the post-op ward on the third floor. Because she was able to breathe on her own and showing signs of slowly coming out of the sedation now that the doctors had started to wean her off of the powerful, habit forming sedative, there had been no need to put her up in the intensive care unit. Instead, she was placed in a private room and had a small team of nurses in charge of seeing to her care. The staff at the hospital were phenomenal. They patiently answered what to them must seem like repetitive and often ridiculous questions. They brought you food and drink from the family kitchen/lounge at the end of the hall and blankets and pillows so you could attempt to make yourself comfortable. And they keep you in the loop in regards to your loved ones care. Flack knew exactly how much of each med his wife was getting and how often she was getting them. He knew at what stage in her remarkably speedy recovery she was at and what to expect next. He wasn't kept in the dark. And he was grateful for that.

Raking his hands through his hair, he approached the hospital bed where his wife slept peacefully and comfortably in a semi-reclined position. A nasal canula delivering a small dose of oxygen, the leads to the EKG machine poking out from the neckline of her hospital supplied pyjamas, and an IV line inserted into her right forearm. A bandage was wrapped around the top of her head, stopping just above her eyebrows; the stark white material a startling contrast to her shimmering, dark hair.

Standing at the side of the bed, Flack ran a hand gently over the top of his wife's head and leaned over to press a tender kiss to her lips.

"Baby…" his voice was quiet and soft as he reached for her left hand and held it tightly in both of his. "I know you can hear me, Sammie…and I know you're scared and confused…but how about you open your eyes? Just open your eyes and look at me. Or how about giving me that smile that I love so much? Just so I know that you're doing okay. Can you do that for me?"

No reply came. Not that Flack actually expected one. But he felt a surge of relief, and hope, when he noticed her heart rate speed up on the EKG monitor located at the head of the bed.

"The doctor says that you're doing really, really good," he continued. "That things weren't as serious as they first thought and that you're going to be out of here in no time. You'll be awake pretty soon and then you'll be able to see the girls and Dawson. Adam's gone to get them and he's bringing them here. And your dad and my old man are both outside waiting for you to wake up too. Linds was here earlier but she had to get back and look after her own family, but she said that she and Danny will come by later to see you, okay?"

A soft knock came to the door, and as Flack glanced over his shoulder, it softly clicked open to reveal his father's tired, grim face.

"Donnie…" his voice was a near whisper. "The neurosurgeon is here to talk to you. About the results of the biopsy."

"I'll be right there dad," Flack said, his chest constricting and his stomach knotting as he realized he was just mere steps from either getting the best news of his life, or the worst. "Thanks."

His father nodded, then backed away from the door and allowed it to close softly.

"I gotta go for a bit," Flack spoke to his wife once more, and bringing her hand to his lips, kissed it gently. "I just have to go and talk to the doctor, okay? We just need to get some things cleared up. I'll be back soon, Sammie. I promise."

Leaning over the bed, he pressed his lips to her lips, then the tip of her nose, before drawing away and stepping away from the bed. Only to find himself held in place when her dainty fingers closed tightly around his hand.

"It's okay baby," Flack assured her, and squeezed her hand in return. "I'm not going to be long. I'm just going to go and talk to your doctor. Then I'll be right back," leaning over the bed once more, he placed his lips against her ear. "You and me, Sammie. It's always been me and you. I'm not going anywhere. Ever. Just have faith in me. In us, baby."

Pecking her temple softly, he pulled back and studied her face, tears welling in his eyes and relief flooding through him when he noticed her eyes flickering.

"Just take your time, Sammie. No rush. You wake up when you're good and ready. But don't do it while I'm out of the room. I won't be too happy about that. You just wait until I get back, alright? I promise I won't be long."

Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, Flack untangled his fingers from hers and reluctantly backing away, turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Now or never, he thought, as his fingers curled around the handle. Pausing before pulling the door open, he closed his eyes briefly and inhaling deeply, released the breath slowly.

Whatever it is, you're in this for the long haul. Whatever the doctor says, you're manning up and you're sticking by her. Because it's what you need to do. What you want to do.

It's what love does.

Opening his eyes, Flack steeled himself. Then yanking open the door, stepped out into the hall to face the inevitable.


Time seemed to stand still. The faint ticking of the clock above the door of the family quiet room seemed deafening in the agonizing silence that had followed the neurologist's announcement. And as Flack sat on the edge of a tattered and weathered green vinyl couch with his head in his hands and blood stampeding through his brain and his heart thundering in his chest, he was dimly aware that his father had moved from his perch on the edge of the sofa and was now sitting beside him, a hand on his son's shoulder. The words that had tumbled so effortlessly and almost callously out of the doctor's mouth had stunned him despite the fact he'd told himself that he was prepared to accept whatever news he was about to be dealt.

But it was easier to say you'd be okay with it, then actually be able to accept it when the bomb was dropped on you.

"How is this possible?"

Through his haze Flack heard his father in law finally break the uncomfortable silence. He didn't need to take his face out of his hands or look across the room to know that the big, burly, tough as nails man was near tears. The evidence was laid bare in his voice.

"The tumour is in a place where it would cause more harm to remove it," the surgeon explained. "If we were to…"

"I heard all of that four hours ago!" Sarge snapped. "What I mean is how is this possible that something like that was growing inside of my baby girl and no one knew about it?! How did no one see this? She's been under doctors' care for nearly two years now for these headaches and these vision and coordination problems! And every time…every goddamn time you people told her and her husband that there was nothing there!"

"I can't speak for the other physicians," the neurosurgeon began. "All I can do…"

"All you can do is sit there and tell us that my daughter…that my baby…" Sarge's voice broke and he struggled to compose himself. "…that my little girl has got this thing growing in her head that's probably been there for months! Maybe even years!"

"It's quite possible that it's been there for the last two years," the doctor reluctantly admitted.

"And no one saw a fucking thing!" Sarge raged. "For two years she's had this tumour! This cancerous tumour and no one fucking saw it!"

"It's not uncommon for these kinds of things to go undetected when a doctor is looking for something else completely unrelated. For these things to hide, so to speak."

"What you mean is that it's not uncommon for you people to totally fuck up!" Sarge bellowed. "Face it! You people fucked this up! It should have been caught sooner than this and something should have been done about it! Now it's so far along that you don't know if she's even going to be able to fight this!"

"I never said that," the neurologist said, remaining calm, cool and collected. "I said that there's options for her treatment. Chemotherapy, radiation…"

"But you also said that you didn't know how effective they'd be," Flack Senior spoke up, his voice quiet as his hand rubbed his son's shoulder comfortingly. "You said that the stage that the cancer is at, that the treatment may just be fruitless."

"Fruitless, but not completely useless or a waste of our time," the doctor corrected.

"So she has this heavy duty chemo and radiation and then what?" Senior asked. "You've said that it was possible it wouldn't do any good. That all it would be is make her even more sick than she already is. That it probably wouldn't shrink the tumour or even put her into remission. So what good would making her suffer through all of that do?"

"It would prolong her life," the physician replied simply. "Give her more time with her husband and her children."

"Time?!" Sarge cried. "What time?! What time would she have with them if she's that sick! If she's deathly ill because of the treatments?! What time does she get with her family when she's that bad off!"

"She'll get to spend another birthday with them. Another Christmas. Instead of the children being prepared to watch her die quickly and horrifically and then having to attend her funeral before the holiday season even gets here. She gets treatment, she lives longer. At least year. If she doesn't…if she doesn't she'll be dead by December."

"Get out." Flack whispered, running his hands over his face and shaking his head slowly in disbelief.

"I'm sorry," the doctor leaned forward from his spot on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch. "I didn't quite hear what you…"

"I said get out!" Flack bellowed, and shot to his feet. "Get the fuck out of here! My wife's been sick for nearly two years now! Two years and all you fuckers kept telling us was that there was nothing wrong! That all she had was a goddamn freckle on her brain stem! That all of her aches and pains and her fatigue was because of fibromyalgia! That's what you've been telling us for two fucking years!"

"And we're admitting that we made a mistake and that we're…"

"And that you're what!?" Tears of rage and grief spilled down Flack's face, and he shoved his father's hand off of his arm when his old man made an attempt to calm him down. "And that you're what?! That you're sorry for screwing up like this! That you fucking morons didn't notice this before! That instead of finding it when it could be treated you have to come in here and admit you fucked up and tell me that 'cause of that she's going to be dead by the end of the year! What the fuck is that?!"

"Donnie…" Senior laid a hand on the back of his son's neck. "I know you're upset. I know this is a lot to accept right now. But you need to…"

"I don't need to do anything!" he yelled, then taking a step towards the slightly terrified doctor, jabbed his finger angrily into the man's chest. "You screwed up and now you have the balls to tell me you're sorry?! To come here and say that it's tough luck that my wife is going to die but if makes me feel any better you're sorry this happened! Fuck you! Just get out of my face!"

"We don't want to have to call security," the neurologist told him. "If you'd just calm down and listen…"

"I won't calm down and I won't listen!" Flack continued. "Are you going to tell my kids? Are you going to tell that 'cause you and your colleagues are incompetent asses that their mother is going to die?! Are you going to be the bearer of bad news!"

The doctor sighed heavily and shook his head.

"Yeah…I didn't fucking think so," Flack snorted, and shaking his head, headed for the exit. "Don't even think about coming anywhere near my wife!" he yelled, as he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. "Find someone else to take care of her! To come and talk to me and my family! 'Cause if you come anywhere near her or me…" he paused in the doorway and fixed his furious blue eyes on the physician. "…as far as I'm concerned you're a murderer," he spat. "You killed her. And for the rest of my life, I'm going to make sure you remember that!"

And with that Flack disappeared into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.