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

A/N: Special thanks to Prefect Rachel: for the gift of Natalie Chance, for the beta on scenes with Reed and her, but mostly for coming on this long journey every step of the way with me – over 11 months from start to finish.

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

As it was in the Beginning

Beginnings end and ends begin

And through the day the world will spin,

And when you think the journey's done

You wake and find it's just begun.

But day turns dusk and night turns morn,

And life is over and death is born.

And every time we say goodbye

We learn of infinite ways to cry.

But life's long voyage never ends

As long as we travel with our friends.

Epilogue

It took six months. Who knew it could take so long?

It was a simple thing, a statue made of soft golden stone, quarried somewhere far away, brought in only seldom, the stonemason had told him, because it was so expensive to transport. But as soon as he had seen it, he had known it was right. Claire would have loved the colour – a shade which almost matched her own fair curls – and would have run her hands appreciatively over the soft curves of the carved stone that seemed to welcome the touch.

The stonemason had shown Mac several samples of his work, from cherubs measuring a hand's length to a soldier mounted on a rearing steed twice as tall as a man. But only one caught his eye; only one called out her name. An angel, kneeling with hands folded, wings enclosing it in a space of peace and tranquility. And yet, the head was not bowed, the face not simpering in unconvincing piety. This angel looked up at the heavens, sternly, requiring of God His mercy and His grace, rather than meekly waiting for it to rain down upon the earth. Mac thought Claire, with her fierce devotion to the truth and to what was right, would have appreciated the distinction.

He had made the choice alone, discussing the details like the size of the plaque and the font, choosing the words which would immortalize a person whose mortal remains had never been found, who had truly returned to the earth in an explosion of fear and pain but, Mac prayed, in the knowledge that everything real about her, everything significant, would live on.

He had done all that alone, because he had to. But now, when the memorial had been installed, when the ground had had time to recover, when the rose bush he had planted was putting out its final brave display of blossom before sleeping for the winter, now it was time to share this space, this remembrance, with some of the people who had become important in his life.

He had phoned, inviting the young couple for lunch. They had all met at the restaurant: Reed confident and secure again, even more determined to be a journalist and uncover the truth from the lies surrounding him; Natalie, a little wary still, but mostly recovered from her frightening experience, although the young man who had kidnapped her had never been found; and Peyton, who had nearly succeeded in begging off when she found out why Mac wanted them all to share a meal.

He had stood firm though, standing in his kitchen, filling the fine bone china teapot he had bought her, warming it carefully with hot water. She was a part of his life in every way now, he had said resolutely, and he needed her to be with him at this most important and personal ceremony. With a sigh, she had given in, though Mac could see the glimmer of doubt still in her eyes.

Lunch had been filled with conversation and laughter, and Mac did not want to cast a shadow by bringing up his purpose. Peyton had remained quiet as well, perhaps hoping he had changed his mind. He waited until the meal was over, and the conversation was dying down, before clearing his throat.

"Reed? Do you remember, after the funeral for Brian Miller? Do you remember what you asked me?"

Reed looked at him, a little startled at the husky tone, but nodding thoughtfully. "I asked where my mother's grave was. I wanted to visit it, to … I don't know … connect with her in some way, I suppose."

"Would you come with me to the cemetery? Today?"

Reed swallowed and nodded. The look in Mac's eyes – the look in Peyton's – told him this was no whim.

They were quiet on the drive, each one wrapped in thought. Reed was uncertain how he felt; he had wanted this, months ago now, it was true. He had wanted something tangible to hold onto, some image of his mother that he could carry with him. But now he had that; it was Mac himself, the man his mother had loved, the man who had saved both him and Natalie. Reed was not sure he needed anything else, wanted anything else. This, this feeling of gratitude and closeness, was gift and burden enough.

When they arrived at the graveyard, Mac parked the car and led the other three towards the afternoon sun. It was a long walk, and at one point, Reed wondered whether Mac had lost his way. They were climbing a small hill, and Reed held Natalie's hand as Mac reached the top and slowed. He stopped, and put one arm around Peyton before pointing.

"There."

It shone in the sun's rays, a deep glow like the centre of a candle flame. Reed walked slowly towards it, his hand still clasped in Natalie's.

The angel stared earnestly at the heavens, and Reed heard an echo from his childhood: "The Angel of the Lord said, Fear Not!" For the first time, he understood what his first year English teacher had meant about the word 'awful', meaning 'filled with a holy terror.' This was an angel who inspired belief.

Natalie tugged on his hand, and pointed to the plaque:

Claire Conrad Taylor

February 15, 1965 – September 11, 2001

Mother and Wife

Remembered and Loved Always

"See, I have carved you on the palm of my hand"

Isaiah 49:16

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

Stella let herself in with the key he had given her weeks ago now. They still had their own apartments, their own lives. They had kept things as much as possible the way they had always been at work: a close working relationship that included some teasing banter when no one else was around, and conversational leaps that sometimes left other people gaping as they ended each other's sentences. Friends knew they were together, but there had been no attention drawn to it, no adverse effects on their jobs.

Their personal lives, though, had undergone a radical shift. They kept paying rent on two apartments mostly for show and storage, she thought with a mental grin; there was no way all her stuff would fit into his place, and there was little room for him in hers. There had been a slow leak from one place to another, though: her work clothes and work clothes were showing up in his cupboards, and in the drawers he had cleaned out for her. His good suits, not tailored for running after perps, and expensive shirts and ties were filling up one side of her already crowded closet. Bathrooms both had a full panoply of care products: everything from dual toothbrushes to the expensive conditioner he knew was completely out of bounds, no matter what.

The private grin spread – every so often, when work had kept them from each other, Don would show up somewhere smelling of her, and she would be filled with a secret glee even as she scolded him for wasting her personal extravagance.

She dropped the grocery bag gently on the counter, and hummed softly as she began to cut up tomatoes and peppers for a pasta sauce. Don had been on a 24 hour shift – a case had gone horribly wrong, and what should have been another simple domestic dispute had turned first into a hostage situation and then into a shooting spree resulting in four dead family members and two wounded officers. He was, she hoped, still sleeping it off, with luck without the nightmares.

By the time the spaghetti sauce was merrily bubbling, and she had stripped off the work clothes and some of the work tension, she was starting to worry. Usually, he was awake as soon as she slid her key into the lock, certainly by the time she was slicing up onions and garlic. She had been home for nearly an hour and had not heard a sound from the bedroom.

Quietly, she went to the bedroom door and stood for a moment, listening intently. She couldn't hear anything, and so she stepped into the room, searching it quickly.

The bed was empty, but she could see him standing at the window, dressed in jeans and t-shirt, looking like a college kid. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring down into the street.

"Don? You okay?"

He turned to her, eyes dark with remembered nightmares, but smiled and reached out a hand to her, pulling her close against him. "Hmm. You been home long?"

"A while. Dinner will be ready in about 15." She wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing him in. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"What are you thinking about?" She could play this game too.

He turned to her, pushing her hair out of her face gently, wrapping his hands around her cheeks and looking into her eyes. "Are you happy, Stel?"

"Happy?" she repeated, wondering where this was going. "Yes, I think so. A little more down time and fewer corpses would be good. But otherwise, yes, I guess so."

He didn't smile at her feeble joke, just continued to stroke her skin with his thumbs and gaze as if he were trying to read something she wasn't sure was in her to be seen.

"Happy with us, I mean. Like this." He indicated the room vaguely.

"Us? We're good, Don. Everything is good." She closed her eyes a moment, then said quietly, "Isn't it? Good, I mean, with us?"

"Don't you want more? Aren't you waiting for … I don't know. The next step?" He stepped away from her and looked out the window again.

Stella followed his gaze. It was early evening, with fall colours just beginning to show, the dying sunlight burnishing every tree in golden light. There were people on the street: men walking quickly with briefcases, heading home, women swinging along in the shoes they kept for the commute, children on bikes and skateboards weaving in and out of the crowds, people pushing strollers and holding hands with laughing children in brightly coloured gumboots.

"I'm happy as we are."

He leaned against the wall again, an arm's length, a generation's length away. "Don't you want … I don't know. A family? Kids? Something more than work and death and shit every day?"

Stella took a deep breath. She had not not prepared for this, and she had to get it right, she knew. She only had one chance to bring this around the right way.

"I love you. I like my job, except for the dumpsters." She waited hopefully, but he gave not a flicker of a smile. She sighed and sat on the bed, crossing her legs under her. "I love you, Don. Whatever happens next happens. I'm not in a rush."

He looked down at his feet, arms wrapped protectively around himself.

"Who's been talking to you?"

He snorted, the first glimmer of humour she had seen. "What makes you think …" he paused when she raised one eyebrow, "Oh, all right. My mother phoned."

"When you were sleeping?"

"I wasn't sleeping."

The terse statement made her flinch. She had held him through enough nightmares in the past six months to know what he wasn't saying. She reached out a hand, waiting until he reluctantly took it and sat beside her on the bed. She put one hand on his cheek. "Don, your mother wants you to be happy. I know that. But you and I have to find our own way. If this is just your mom's anxiety, then we can deal with that."

She would deal with it, she thought grimly. Dora Flack's need for more grandchildren could be held in check.

He ran his hands through his hair uncertainly, but when he tensed to stand up, she pulled him back to her.

"If you want more, want children, want the white picket fence, we can talk about it. We have time."

"Maybe not. We both have dangerous jobs, Stel. Shit happens. Maybe we don't have very much time at all."

She looked into deep blue eyes stricken with doubt and frustration. "Shit will happen. And no matter where we are in our life, it will be too soon, too late, too little, too much. So we deal with right now – today. I am happy with what we have right now – today. If you want more, talk to me. Tell me."

"I want you to be happy."

She pulled him closer, dropping a kiss first high on one cheekbone, then the other. Her lips wandered over his skin slowly, her hands on his shoulders, waiting for the moment when the muscles under her hands relaxed, thrilling when his arms came around her, wrapped around her hips, pulled her over him. She settled on his lap with a purr of satisfaction when his mouth opened on hers.

"How long did you say that tomato sauce would take?" he whispered in her ear.

"It gets better the longer it simmers." She smiled against his mouth.

"Good," he growled, and she was under him and on top of the world.

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

Hawkes was sitting at his computer, straining to see the results. He had taken out his contacts hours earlier, and was now relying on the thick glasses that felt heavy on his nose by this time of night. But Mac needed the information these tests could provide, and the whole team needed this latest case solved and off the books.

He yawned, rubbing his eyes once more. It had been a tough case – the last of several cases that the team had worked in the past few months. Flack and Danny had both been off for far less than their approved bereavement leaves – the pressure of work had pulled them both back to where they were able to work off their grief and anger. If at first, Flack had been a little more caustic, Danny a little more reckless, than before, they had both been taken up sharply by Stella and Lindsay, who seemed to know just how far to let the two young men go before firmly applying the brakes.

They were all working towards happiness. Hawkes was able to be glad about that.

Adam had floated around the lab for several weeks on a cloud of sexual satisfaction others could practically smell. Lindsay, thrilled to have gossip to share, had corroborated rumours of a tall gorgeous woman interested in the lab geek, and everyone had put up with Adam's absentmindedness good-naturedly. When it had finally burned itself out, Adam had seemed almost relieved, confiding to Hawkes that although the sex was amazing, he was constantly terrified that they would get caught – Aisha had not been joking about having worked nearly everywhere in New York City, he had said darkly.

Hawkes had begged him not to share any more details – the pictures in his head were quite vivid enough.

Hawkes himself had been seeing Lissa. They were good friends, he reminded himself, good friends with lots in common. If he sometimes smelled the ghost of carnation and peony, if he had stopped drinking coffee – well, that was a small price to pay for a little companionship and peace.

He rubbed his eyes again. Things were back on track, he told himself firmly. Everything was going as it should. He blinked, trying to focus on the words in front of him again.

He barely heard the ping indicating a chat window had opened up, simply clicking on it automatically before glancing over to see who was on.

He froze. Then he rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

Nsrn: Sheldon? Are you there?

He reached for the keyboard, but could not type a word.

Nsrn: Sheldon? If you are there, I wish you would answer.

He pushed the keyboard away this time, as if it were tempting him.

After a few minutes, the ping came again.

Nsrn: I understand if you do not wish to speak to me. I hope you will at least read this, perhaps later, because I need you to know two things.

Ping

Nsrn: The most important thing is that I love you. I said it before, I know. But I can say it now in English.

Hawkes rubbed his eyes again. Tired, he thought, crossly. Just tired.

Nsrn: The second thing is that I am sorry. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry I left you. Sorry I did not contact you.

Memories of standing in Miriam's front hall, Kathleen crying again as Miriam kindly but firmly refused to give him Nasreen's address or phone number. Shamefaced midnight Google searches: Dr. Nasreen Suq in Montreal, Quebec. Even once, and only once, a full-blown search at two in the morning from the lab's equipment, an action he regretted seven hours later and wiped off the system's memory.

Nsrn: But I am not sorry that I met you. Or that I love you. I do not have the right to expect anything, but if you can forgive me, if you can speak to me again –

He pulled the keyboard closer again.

Nsrn: Sheldon. I just wanted you to know.

His heart was beating so fast, he could feel it pound in his throat. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Fin

AN2: And thus a universe ends. Thanks to all who journeyed with me: to everyone who has ever left a comment, put the story on alerts or favourites, or just read and enjoyed the trials and tribulations of Team Taylor. Your presence has affected the story in significant ways. My thanks to you all.