Disclaimer: I don't own CSI: New York or any of the characters or plotlines or what have you. End of story.

He'd thought he would feel better, thought the gut wrenching pain in his chest would subside, thought he would relish the sense of justice you got from staring down a killer with the barrel of a gun and let the bullet fly. But he didn't. And he wasn't prepared to deal with it. The sight of the light leaving someone's eyes because of him, someone who was already wounded and lay there dying.

He could imagine that he was helping, that he was putting him out of his misery. But he knew he wasn't. Everyone wanted to live. And didn't everyone deserve that right? He could tell himself it was self defense, and he could almost let himself believe that it was. That maybe he was reaching for that gun and he would've laid a bullet on him. That maybe it was another wound to his heart he was trying to avoid, physical or otherwise. Almost.

He couldn't ever ignore, forget, the fact that it was rage. It was rage and hate and loathing and the desire for revenge that had gotten the best of him. And you didn't come back from that. People never did. It was a lesson he'd learned well at the academy. He heard it so many times, he'd taken it to heart, because he heard the stories and saw the truth and the sorrow and the madness in their eyes. It was the pure and simple truth. The moment you take someone else's life from them, you change.

And you can't change back.

The right thing was never simple, never easy. And he never knew until the moment he did something so blatantly wrong the truth of that. But he couldn't take it back, couldn't change the thoughts of the old Flack, the one who was driven to desperation with too much power in his hands. It would've been better if he'd been powerless to stop them, powerless to do anything but grieve. If he'd just gone home, just picked up and left, went to his family, went across country, went across the universe. Would he have felt any better?

There was no coming back. No pretending things didn't happen the way they did. No pretending that everyone with him didn't know what he did. They hadn't been there, physically, in that room with him, but they could read the truth of it in his tired eyes, in his tired body, and in the sadness and despair that emanated from him. But they wouldn't say anything. They wouldn't ever say anything because they cared about him. And they knew everyone reached a breaking point.

And sometimes a person's good and a person's future could outweigh that. It wasn't right for them to take that decision into their own hands. It wasn't. It wasn't following the line, the rules, the laws that they'd sworn on their lives to uphold. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. But it wasn't right or fair for him to take someone's life, pulling the trigger and lighting the flame, either. Maybe he didn't know what was right anymore. How could he when he'd blurred the lines so?

Maybe it wasn't such a big deal. Maybe he'd blown it entirely out of proportion because he couldn't handle thinking about anything else. He couldn't begin to think and process the overwhelming depth of sorrow that had swelled up within him. And keeping his mind on anything else, even if it was something nearly as terrible, was worth it.

He couldn't let his thoughts wander, because then he'd start to remember. Remember the look on her face and the blood, there was so much of it, pouring from her wounds. Remember standing over her when there was no movement left, no feeling, no thought, no emotion. Remember what she was like when there was nothing.

Strangely he found the dark memories better than the happy ones. Seeing in his mind's eye the smile on her face, the fire and passion in her eyes when they'd been together, happy and care free, hurt him more than the pain and numbness he'd seen in her final moments. Because he knew he'd never see that again. Knew he could never make her eyes light up, hear her voice, feel her skin beneath his and have that rush of uncontrollable desire and longing and love.

And that hurt worse. Exponentially worse. And his heart ached and sunk lower and lower into his being. It was as though there were nowhere to go. And he couldn't help but feel that he was responsible. He was responsible. When you're with someone like that, when you like them so much that it makes your entire body ache, when you love someone that much you're supposed to be there. You're supposed to protect them from anything and everything. And he'd failed miserably.

And it wasn't something he could forgive himself for. It wasn't something he'd ever get over. You didn't get over that. You couldn't. You couldn't swear it off and you couldn't just move on like it didn't happen. You couldn't not think about it. Ever. Because every second of every minute of everyday you'd be seeing her, feeling her, hearing her, longing for her and knowing you couldn't have her back. You'd never get her back.

He didn't know if he could live like that. But even sitting against the wall on the floor with his head in his hands and his gun on the floor beside him and the memory of her everywhere he looked and the memory of the light leaving her killer's eyes right in front of him couldn't make him want to end his own life. He'd thought about it, everyone thinks about it when they lose someone like that. But he couldn't, he wouldn't.

And he didn't know how long he sat there, thinking about what was right and wrong and her and him and fighting off images and hating himself. It could have been minutes, it could have been days, it could have been years. He wouldn't have been any more the wiser and he wouldn't have gotten any further with himself.

There were still people in this world that cared about him. And he wouldn't have fully realized it if Danny Messer hadn't walked in his front door, hadn't sat down beside him, and hadn't said a word, just sat. And maybe he realized, with Danny's added prescience, that he was being selfish and that there was still so much good he could do and so many people that depended on him for something, some aspect of their lives. Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. But he couldn't help being selfish for a little while longer.

And Danny Messer understood. And when the tears had come, he'd pulled Flack's head to his chest and they'd sat there. Because it was what they wanted, what they needed. It was the beginning of the healing, for the both of them.

Because it was just the two of them in that room. Just Danny Messer and Don Flack. And soon hope would join them. Hope that one day they could wake up and not feel such an aching pain, hope that one day they could walk out their front doors and not being afraid of losing someone else, hope that one day they could go to work and not be afraid of losing themselves.

It was only a matter of waiting.

X-posted to my livejournal, as usual.

Only because I can't write the next part of Tangents just yet, because I'm lost in my dark writing mood and Caroline's happy go lucky for the most part. :) I don't know. Let me know what you think. ;)

-Piper