Hey folks, I'm back again with a longer story this time. First of all some explanations and housekeeping.

Setting: the main body of this story is before 9/11 back when Mac was still in the marines. The bits in itallics are a conversation between Mac and a psychologist from ATVA some time after 9/11 (possibly even directly after the events of Blink), but don't worry it doesn't jump aorund too much.

Title: I went through a whole bunch of suggestions but nothing seemed to fit and then I hot on the idea of making it a song title and this came up, it's meant to sound like one of those bluesy or bluegrass story songs.

Dedication: this is very much dedicated to my wonderful beta MissDillyDilly who has been thoroughly awesome, reading over the chapters and putting in suggestions and corrections for me. I'd also like to dedicate this to Andorian Ice Princess and CSIMinute who have been extremely kind and deserve a good yarn and the ever wonderful lily moonlight - thanks for all your support ladies, I only hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy your own work.

Discalimer: Mac isn't mine (oh how it pains me to admit that), however most of the other characters are, especially Betsy lol :D

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Windy City Romance Blues: The Ballad of Mac and Claire

Chapter 1: Coming Home

He looks around the room, uncertain of his surrounding, uncertain of the man sitting opposite him; prematurely grey hair, large eyes, gentle voice.

"So would you rather I call you Mac or Mr Taylor?"

"I'd rather you call me Detective."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what we do here?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your wife Mr Taylor."

He doesn't correct him, just sitting silently for a moment or two.

"What do you want to know."

"What do you want to tell me?"

"I'd rather not tell you anything."

"I know."

There's silence for another little while.

"When did you meet her?"

" Friday, 19th October, 1986, a little after 10pm."

"That's pretty specific."
"I'm a pretty specific person."

"Alright, tell me about the 19th of October, where were you?"

"Home on leave."

"On leave?"

"I was a marine."

"I see. So where's home?"

"Chicago."

"Were you staying with family?"

"My mom."

The other man leans back in his chair, throwing his pen down in front of him. He shrugs.

"So, tell me about it."

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It was one of those rare warm days later in the year and the sun was shining as the plane landed. Mac Taylor looked out of the window and smiled; it was good to be home, even if it was only for a few weeks. He'd been on tour in the Middle East for the last four months and all that dry heat and sand had made him homesick for a little cold wind and maybe even some rain.

He grabbed his hand-luggage from the overhead storage and made his way down the aisle towards the door. One of the air-hostesses batted her eyelashes at him as he passed and he smiled at her. He was still wearing his fatigues and everyone knew the girls loved a soldier.

Even at sixty four degrees Fahrenheit, the average high for Chicago in October, he still felt cold after the desert. He wished he had an extra sweater with him.

He picked up the rest of his bags off the carousel and headed out to the taxi rank, giving the driver the address before sinking back once more to stare out of the window as the city slid past. But he couldn't relax for long, his mind already running through its list of things he needed to do while he was here, people he needed to see and places he needed to go.

It seemed like no time before the cab pulled to a halt in front of a small house with a low brown fence around the front garden.

Mac paid the guy and climbed out, but his arrival had not gone unnoticed. With a grumbling growl a small elderly spaniel came limping around the corner of the house and barked at the sight of him.

Mac smiled and leaned over the fence to let the dumb thing snuffle at him and lick his fingers.

"Hey Betsy," he said quietly, "where's mom?"

The dog barked again, as if trying to answer him.

"Oh hush Betsy or you'll wake that baby across the street again," said another voice, following the dog around the corner but its owner stopped when she saw him.

"Hey mom," said Mac, sidling through the front gate and closing it behind him.

The woman in front of him beamed, pulling him down for a hug.

"It's good to have you home sweetie," she told him, kissing him on the cheek.

"It's good to see you," he replied.

The dog barked again.

"You too Betsy," he added, making his mother laugh.

Moira Taylor was a small woman; salt and pepper hair in a short bob, blue eyes and cheeks like a Russian doll. It was really quite comical to see her much taller son bending over her to kiss her cheek and wrap an arm around her shoulders as she shepherded him into the house, the dog trundling along behind: comical, but touching.

"I've got your room all made up," said Moira as they entered the house. "And Uncle Fred called earlier, said he'll be over some time soon and he'll take us all out to dinner one night."

"That's nice mom."

"Are you tired sweetie?"

"Not really, hungry though."

"Well you go on up and I'll rustle up some sandwiches, that alright?"

"Great."

She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek once more before bustling off in the direction of the kitchen, Betsy at her heels. Mac smiled at her retreating figure, some things never changed.

Upstairs his room sat waiting for him, the same room he'd had his entire life, although the model airplanes and American flag bedspread had disappeared over time, but knowing his mother they were somewhere in the attic. The window looked out over the back garden and the other houses beyond. He unpacked as much as he could, changing before heading back downstairs.

In the kitchen he ate sandwiches while listening to his mother's news. He knew most of it already from her letters but was happy to listen to her rabbit on in her cheerful way while he snuck pieces of meat to the dog beneath the table.

"Mac stop that, she's fat enough as it is!"

He only chuckled, petting the poor thing on the head.

"Oh and Tucker called while you were upstairs."

"He did?"

"Yes, said he wants to take you out on the town tonight. I told him he better get his ass over here and have a good meal before he takes you anywhere. He'll be here at six."

Mac laughed again, amazing the power a man's mother could have over his friends.

Tucker of course was late, it was practically a tradition.

"I ought to make you drop and give me twenty," he called from the front step as his friend strolled up the garden path.

"You've been in the marines too long," came the reply.

They shared one of those brief man-hugs favoured by tough men who like to show a little bit of emotion now and then.

"How you been bro'?" asked Tucker punching him lightly on the arm.

"Same old. You?"

"Hey, you know me."

"All too well."

They laughed. Mac and Tucker had been friends since high school when they'd both been on the wrestling team. These days Tuck worked at his dad's body shop and spent his spare time cruising around in old 1950's Cadillac he'd restored.

"This thing is like Grease Lightening," he'd say. "Ain't no better way to pick up women."

"Well you sure weren't going to grab 'em with your personality," was Mac's usual reply, although Mac would be the first to admit that Tucker was the more visually striking of the two of them, standing at over six feet tall with his powerful build and gleaming smile.

"That you Tucker?" asked Moira coming out of the kitchen.

"Sure is Mrs T."

He leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek.

"You make me something nice for dinner?" he joked and she whacked him lightly.

"Now don't you start," she replied. "And don't you be getting my Mac too drunk tonight; this is just his first night home, I'd be obliged if he remembered it."

"Don't you worry Mrs T, I'll take good care of him."

Mac laughed, following his mother and his friend into the kitchen.

"The day you look after me is the day snowmen dance in hell."

Tucker tried to look innocent but it didn't work.

"Oh settle down you two," chastised Moira and the two men nodded obediently, sitting down at the table like a couple of naughty schoolboys.

It was good to be home, thought Mac.