Roses and Thorns

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairings: Flack/ Hawkes, Flack/Danny, Danny/Lindsay, Mac/Stella

Content Warning: Goes AU after episode 3x19. Oh, and the story has this thingy called angst.

Spoilers: 2x23, 2x24, 3x11, 3x15, 3x19, and since this is a sequel to my story, RNA and DNA, spoilers for that too.

Summary: He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it's over." A multiple-ship story including Flack/Hawkes, Danny/Flack, Danny/Lindsay and Mac/Stella.

Disclaimer: You see, the cast on the show are actually clones. The real people are right here in my closet! Why yes, my closet is humongous!

( Oooo …... oooO )

Author's Notes: Woo, this is something new for me. An angst story with multiple pairings! I know, I know, To DD or Not to DD had multiple pairings too, but that was a funny, cracky story. This particular one follows canon right up to 3x19, and is also a sequel to my story, RNA and DNA. Not necessary to read it though it'll give insight into how Flack and Hawkes got together. This story will be completed in two more installments. Don't worry, I'm writing this one to the finish mucho fasto so the wait for installments will be minimal. And I have a hunch there will be ship-related comments or rants, so please, I hope you'll refrain from doing so until you've read the entire story. I have a lot of commentary that I'll post at the end and you might wanna read it before commenting on ship-related stuff, okay? Thank you! I hope you enjoy the story, and thank you for your reviews. I appreciate them.

( Oooo …... oooO )

i. "Let it go, let it roll right off your shoulder ..."

When he was a boy, what Don Flack, Jr. really wanted to be was an astronaut.

Sure, it's the dream of many little boys around the world, but Flack really wanted to be an astronaut. The yearning was so bad that his five-year-old self bawled his eyes out for days as soon as his mother told him he was destined to be a police officer like his father instead. It would be the first in a long line of disappointments in his life.

There was the time when he was seven and had waited for weeks for his dad to bring him to a Yankees baseball game, just to discover his father had forgotten to buy tickets as well as the promise of them spending a day at the stadium together. There was the time when he was ten and he'd won an award for some essay he wrote that he can't recall anymore. He remembers that only his mother showed up for the ceremony. His dad hadn't. The man had forgotten all about it due to work.

There was the moment when he was eleven and saw for the first time, his father hit his mother. It happened so fast he assumed he'd been seeing things, peeking through the gap in his parents' bedroom door like he was. Then he saw the tears rolling down his mom's beautiful face gone all scrunchy and sad, the contusions darkening her pale skin, and he knew his life would never be the same again.

There was that moment when he was thirteen years old, that moment when a giant bully two grades above him jostled him around like he was nothing more than a stick. He'd been so sure, so sure that he could take on the jerk. That he could beat the guy like he wished he could beat his dad for hurting his mom. He'd been wrong. He had the black-and-blue swellings on his face to taunt him for weeks afterwards. Bruises just like his mother's.

And then, there was that moment when he was fourteen and all his friends were beginning to take an interest in girls and what they had beneath their shirts and skirts. He was more than happy to join his pals in ogling their female classmates and hotties from other classes.

The thing was, he was ogling the guys too.

In retrospect, Flack, now very much an adult man who's accepted his bisexuality for what it is, can't help laughing at the naïve, teenage self he used to be. Yeah, most people won't blame him for being so terrified of being different from his peers then. Bad enough that teenagers get ridiculed to death merely for having acne or wearing spectacles or braces. To be outed for liking girls and boys?

If his friends didn't desert him after that, he's certain his parents would have. As much as his mother loves him, he knows his father will simply beat acquiescence into her and coerce her into doing and feeling whatever the hell he wanted her to.

God, he hates that bastard. That two-faced bastard whom everybody in the city thinks is the greatest hero on the whole fucking earth. His wife-abusing coward of a dad. Whoopee.

He scowls to himself and takes a deep breath in order to relax himself. Ruminating about his father never fails to piss him off in a bad way. And right now, the last thing he wants is to feel cross.

He opens his eyes after he senses a light touch upon his forearm.

"Hey. What are you doing here on your day off? Have you been sitting here all morning?"

Hawkes' brown, friendly eyes gaze into his own half-lidded, blue ones.

"Nah, just thought to stop by," he says with a soft smile. "And don't worry, time really flies when you're daydreamin'."

Hawkes drags out a stool and seats himself beside Flack at the table in the labs' break room. The CSI is holding a white plastic bag that he places on the table top. It has a red dragon insignia on it. Ah, Chinese food. Hawkes' favorite.

"You do realize that you come here every day when you're working, right?" Hawkes says in jest, taking two cartons out of the plastic bag.

"I wanted to see ya."

Flack's smile widens at the flush that's apparent even on the other man's dark skin. Heh, who would have thought it's this easy to make a guy like Hawkes blush? Combined with that small, abashed smile, the man is a sweet sight to behold.

Flack makes an inquiring noise when Hawkes hands him one carton.

"I always buy extra, in case somebody else is hungry too."

Flack accepts the hot, packaged meal with a silent nod and one outstretched hand. He uses his fingers to impart his thanks, brushing them against Hawkes' for a mere instant. He tries hard to not let his fingers linger; it's been more difficult that he expected to maintain his touches at a friends-only level while they are at work.

"What were you daydreaming about?" Hawkes asks after some time, munching on some sze chuan chicken.

Flack stares at the other man, memorizing the shine of black, cropped hair and smooth skin that contrasts wonderfully with the cream-colored turtleneck sweater so snug around Hawkes' fit, lean torso. The best thing about eyeballing the attractive CSI now is that he knows exactly what Hawkes looks like underneath all that cloth.

Man, I've struck black gold this time, he thinks to himself. Once he realizes the double entendre in that, he bites his lower lip to stop his growing smile.

One of Hawkes' eyebrows rises.

Before Hawkes says anything, Flack responds to the guy's question with, "Just random stuff. I like to let my mind wander."

It's not quite the truth but it's not quite a lie either.

Their relationship hasn't progressed far enough for him to be sharing those kinds of personal details. Even with somebody like Hawkes, who's been a professional colleague for some years.

And now, his close friend and lover for barely one and a half months.

Someday, Sheldon, I promise I'll tell you. Someday.

"So. Did ya do what I told ya to do?" Flack asks in a flippant tone to change the topic of conversation.

Hawkes' entire face lights up.

"Well, I have to admit I was quite baffled as to why you'd want me to take that particular day off, but yes, I did it," the CSI says with an amused smirk. "Are you going to tell me why?"

"Uh hmm."

Flack sets his carton of fried noodles down on the table, then digs his right hand into the side pocket of his dark grey suit jacket. He's been waiting for this moment for a while, and he takes his time in pulling out two rectangular, colorful pieces of paper with the NBA logo on them.

"Don … are those what I think they are?"

"Yep." Flack's teeth gleam through his pleased grin. "Two front row tickets to the Knicks versus Nets game at Madison Square Garden."

Hawkes' eyes go wide at the price printed on the tickets.

"These tickets cost -"

"Hey."

Hawkes falls silent at the low timbre of Flack's voice.

"The price doesn't matter. Okay?"

The brilliant, delighted smile that spreads across Hawkes' features is already worth more than the near seven hundred dollars he'd paid for the two tickets. Money, he can earn that back sooner or later.

But making somebody he loved happy?

That's priceless.

"What, ya think I've forgotten what ya said 'bout wantin' to see an NBA game for real instead a' just seein' it on TV?" Flack taps the side of his head. "Don Flack, Jr. never forgets."

Sure enough, Hawkes chuckles at that.

"I don't know what to say," Hawkes says quietly. "Apart from thank you, that is."

"Why don't ya think 'bout it … and let me know tonight, hmm?"

Flack awaits some mischievous riposte from his lover, and instead, finds out all over again what it feels like to have his heart ripped out from his chest.

It isn't Hawkes he sees sitting next to him anymore. It's a very familiar, brown-haired detective with glasses and a goatee, a man whom he'd never imagined capable of hurting him so deeply. There's that cat-like grin on Danny's face, brightened by joy. Danny's grasping two tickets in his hand, just like Hawkes is in the present time, smiling at him with all the love in the world.

"I can't believe it! Ya got front row tickets to the upcoming Mets game!"

"'Course I did. Ya think I'd forget 'bout somethin' that important to ya? Don Flack, Jr. never forgets."

"I hope to God that ya brought a change a' clothes, Don, 'cause ya ain't goin' home until I've had my way with ya, ya hear me?"

He doesn't have a clue whether Hawkes actually responded to him or not. He's too busy swallowing down the bile that's risen up his throat.

Fuck, he hates this. He should have put Danny behind him ages ago, and yet, here he is, feeling queasy solely from another unwelcome memory involving the blue-eyed CSI. It doesn't matter where he goes or who he's with or what he does. Danny's always there in his thoughts, haunting him like a dream that's both magnificent and heartrending, following him with those heavy-lidded eyes gone cold, distant.

It takes him some time to realize that those blue eyes are boring into him right now through the transparent glass wall of the break room.

Danny's standing alone outside, a brown folder hanging loosely from his left hand. He's wearing one of his typical Henley shirts with a tank top underneath, his usual jeans and boots, the usual bracelets around his wrist. He appears the same in every detail, except for his eyes.

They're stricken. Trapped. Filled with muted shock and disbelief as they stare at Flack.

Flack … and Hawkes.

Returning Danny's gaze with equal vehemence, Flack feels absolutely nothing. He's done the crying and drinking himself stupid parts and there's nothing to chain him to the past any longer. No childish drama, no secrets, no deceit, no more lies, Danny.

He feels absolutely nothing. At least, that's what he believes. Whatever's showing on his face, it's enough to cause Danny to break their eye contact, to make the man look downwards in a seemingly guilty manner.

Flack clenches one hand into a tight fist on his thigh, out of sight.

Damn straight. Danny should feel guilty.

He's the one who cheated on him behind his back.

With her.

" … later we can go down to Ludwig's?"

Flack snaps out of livid stupor and turns his head to look at Hawkes. There's no hint of annoyance on the guy's face at all. No indication either that he knows Danny is behind him and watching them from outside the room.

Damn, Flack has no idea what the heck Hawkes' been saying.

He takes a chance and replies, "Sure, Ludwig's sounds good. Haven't been there for while."

He consciously curves his lips upwards in a semblance of a smile.

And he's reminded once more that he can't fool Sheldon Hawkes, much less with a fake smile.

"Are you alright?"

The evident concern and affection in the CSI's brown eyes does wonders for his ire and blood pressure.

"Yeah, 'course I am."

Hawkes releases a relieved laugh. "Okay, I thought I bored the hell out of you with my babbling just now."

Flack's smile transforms into a genuine one. "You'll never bore me, Doc. Never."

When Hawkes' head dips down in mild embarrassment at his straightforward declaration, he glances back through the glass wall of the break room at Danny, who hasn't budged an inch. Now, it isn't just the man's eyes that are speaking volumes. His face is, too.

Miserable is one hell of an understatement to describe Danny's expression.

It terrifies and calms Flack down simultaneously that he doesn't give a shit about it. Not anymore.

Danny's made his choice.

So has he.

Knowing Danny will see it, he does what would have been unthinkable just weeks ago. Slowly, he slides one leg between Hawkes', rubbing the side of one foot against his lover's ankle. Unlike Danny, Hawkes doesn't panic and push him away in the fear that people might see the public display of affection.

"Careful now. I have to get back to work soon," Hawkes murmurs with a wink. "Unless you'd like a … quickie in the men's room."

Flack lets out a boisterous laugh. They have a mutual understanding that any physical affection outside of their apartments will never go beyond the fleeting touch or caress, unless they're alone. Doesn't mean they can't banter and infuse sexual innuendo into their words though.

"I dunno, Doc. Ya sure you're up to it?"

He waggles his thick eyebrows for effect.

It's Hawkes' turn to laugh in amusement. "I may be older than you, but don't think for a second that I'm any less … vigorous."

Flack licks at his lower lip and saturates his answer with every ounce of passion he feels for the other man.

"I know."

Hawkes suddenly looks down at his watch, hiding his face from view. Flack snickers under his breath. Heheh, that makes blush number two today. His snickering goes on even after Hawkes playfully kicks him in the shin.

He knows how to get Hawkes all red in the face right quick, but that doesn't mean Hawkes is some straitlaced, shy guy who swoons at the thought of anything sexual. Hell no, that's as far from the truth as it can get. Should any of their co-workers and friends learn just how kinky the former ME can be in bed and out, they'll never see the guy the same way ever again.

"Okay, back to work with me," Hawkes says, closing his empty food carton and putting it back in the Chinese takeaway plastic bag. "Are you finished with your noodles?"

"Are ya kiddin'? I gobbled the whole thing up in three mouthfuls."

"That's because you were born with a black hole for a stomach."

Flack simply displays a pout that gets Hawkes sniggering for a few seconds.

After chucking the remainder of their lunch into the trash bin, Hawkes saunters up to him and says, "I'll see you tonight, then."

"You betcha." Flack fingers the basketball tickets in his hand, and adds, "I'll hold on to these till the game."

"Sure." Hawkes' countenance softens. "Thank you. I really appreciate it, Don. It means a lot to me."

"You can show me yer thanks tonight."

Hawkes' teeth flash white in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and the grin says more than words ever will.

Flack watches the CSI walk to the break room entrance, admiring the way Hawkes' black trousers delineate his hips and legs, the way Hawkes carries himself with such refinement and self-effacing poise. It's strange, so strange that just a month or two ago, he could barely stand in the same room as the guy and now … things have changed.

Life is change.

This particular change, Flack decides, is very good.

Once the pain dissipates, that is.

He swivels his head sideways and gazes past the glass wall, and notices there's nobody in the corridor outside.

Danny is gone.

( Oooo …... oooO )

It's ironic that the laboratory break room, a place to relax and take respite from the daily grind of hectic work, has become a battlefield between two CSIs.

It's worse, Flack thinks as he stands outside that very room, it's worse because those two CSIs are men who've both affected his life in very multi-layered ways.

And he knows precisely what they're quarrelling about.

To the eyes of a stranger, Danny and Hawkes appear to be having only a slight disagreement. They're standing face to face, their lower bodies blocked from sight by the table and stools under it. Hawkes' hands are lifted at midriff height, palms outward in a placating albeit firm manner, waving around whenever he's saying something to Danny. Danny's arms are crossed over his chest. Flack's been on familiar terms with Danny long enough to know that the man does that all the time and that it doesn't mean anything much.

The clenched fists, however, tell another tale.

It's just a matter of time before one of those fists plows into somebody's face.

A lab tech strides past him, and the woman's hurried steps become the background track that pounds in tandem with his heartbeat.

Ba-thump.

Danny pushes into Hawkes' personal space, arms flying open to the sides in an angry motion. He's mad now, no doubt about it. Mad and snarling.

Ba-thump.

Instead of backing off, Hawkes stands his ground, squaring his shoulders. Staring Danny in the eyes but not shoving back in retaliation.

Ba-thump.

Danny does an aggressive movement with his arm, drawing an invisible arc in the air and it prompts Flack into envisioning Danny as a force of nature, like a volcano. Fiery and lethal and momentous in his wrath, halting the world dead in its tracks while he erupts with rage from his very core.

Ba-thump.

Hawkes finally quits being on the defensive, putting one hand upon Danny's chest and straightening his arm to move Danny back, to give himself some room. The caution in the action, the care that belies the strength within Hawkes, makes Flack think of Hawkes as a force of nature in his own right. Like an earthquake. Momentary, tremendous thundering that shakes the foundations of the earth for sheer seconds, but leaves behind an overwhelming aftermath that remains for ages after.

And Hawkes shatters the ground beneath Danny's feet with words Flack is able to discern merely by reading the man's full lips.

You left him.

Danny's knuckles turn white in fury, fists so compressed Flack swears they look like they're about to pop from the pressure. Danny's eyes are wide and teeth bared in a rictus of indignation, brows low in a fierce scowl, and Flack takes an instinctive step forward towards the glass wall as Danny's arm starts to lift.

Flack senses the presence of other people behind him, other lab techs in their white coats witnessing the unfolding fight with hushed whispers and eyes glazed with diffident curiosity. He itches to tell them to shut up and get the hell back to their jobs, except he can't even part lips gone dry and frozen. This isn't their business.

This wasn't supposed to happen, a boy-like voice within him whispers.

Danny's arm looks like it's drawing back in slow motion. A fist aims straight for Hawkes' face that's slack in alarm.

There's a roaring in Flack's ears now, akin to the sound of war drums beating.

Is it the echo of that lab tech's shoes, or his heartbeat that he hears?

He isn't sure. All he's sure of is that his life is about to change forever. Again.

Danny, no, don't do it -

Danny's fist trembles in the air.

Hawkes stares into Danny's eyes, unmoving, rigid in preparation for the impact of a hard hammer of flesh in his face.

A very tense minute ticks by with the length of an eon.

And then, it's all over.

The wrath inside Danny abruptly dies like a puff of smoke. Flack sees its demise in the lowering of Danny's arm, the slump of those proud shoulders, the dip of the man's head that turns to the side in silent defeat. To conceal the shame from Hawkes, who appears as if he really had been clouted in the face.

Flack's breath leaves his chest in a heavy exhalation.

No, he's wrong. It's not over yet, not by a long shot.

Without warning, all the whispering and nosey gossip surrounding him barrages his ears, and it's the last straw that breaks the back of his patience. He spins around, confronting the small crowd of lab technicians around him. Their chattering diminishes into silence.

"Don't you guys have somewhere else to be?" he grinds out, putting on his most ferocious interrogation expression. "Work to do?"

The hallway clears out in record time.

By the time he turns back to face the break room, Danny has moved a half dozen feet away from Hawkes, blatantly ignoring the other CSI by showing his back to the man. Flack watches Hawkes stretching out a tentative hand towards Danny's shoulder, then pull back at the last moment.

There's no chance for peace now. Not after Hawkes having driven in the most agonizing spike of all through Danny's defenses.

You left him.

Flack holds his breath for an instant when he locks gazes with Hawkes at last. He's bemused to see remorse, of all things, in his lover's eyes. It doesn't make sense; of all the people who deserves to be inundated with guilt, it is Danny. Not Hawkes.

He strides parallel to the glass wall of the break room to its closed door. Hawkes is walking to it at the same time, eyes downcast and gazing down at the floor, a hand over his mouth. Out of the corner of his eyes, Flack sees Danny shuffling to the windows on the opposite side, fidgeting, back turned towards them, towards everything. The anger is brewing within Danny once more, and Flack knows, this time, Danny's directing it at himself.

Hawkes is wise to not wish to be present once the next outburst transpires.

"Are you okay?" Flack asks Hawkes the minute the CSI is out of the room.

"Yes."

Hawkes leaves his hand covering his mouth as he replies.

Immediately, Flack's gut instinct alerts him that something is wrong.

"Sheldon? Wha-"

He gapes after Hawkes who is treading down the corridor without answering or waiting for him. Then, he recalls where he is, and darts after Hawkes, keeping his questions to himself until they're in the locker room. It's where they often go whenever they require some privacy.

He doesn't look back when he hears the jarring noise of something heavy crashing to the floor.

Danny's second explosion of outrage has commenced.

Entering the locker room after Hawkes, Flack locks the door behind him. This is one of those moments where he won't even let Mac in, and he has the hunch that Hawkes won't be too happy about anyone else intruding on them right now.

Hawkes still has his hand over his mouth.

"Sheldon."

Flack rubs a hand on Hawkes' forearm, sliding it up to the hand shielding that mouth from him.

"Lemme see yer lips."

Something flashes in Hawkes' brown eyes, something close to apprehension, but not quite. A moment later, Hawkes releases a resigned sigh and shuts his eyes.

The hand falls away.

It takes a minute or so for Flack to figure out why Hawkes was obscuring his lips from sight. There's a bloody cut to the right side of the man's lower lip. It's fresh enough that it couldn't have happened more than a few hours ago, at most. It's crusted over, a dark, bumpy groove that blends with Hawkes' skin, although it's conspicuous on the lighter shade of Hawkes' lips.

The wound hurls Flack's mind back into the past. It isn't Hawkes before him. It is his mother, nearly twenty years ago. His mother, with yellowish and purplish discolorations all over her once pretty face, nursing a cut on her lips that his father had placed there with a single blow.

"It's alright, Donnie, really … it's not as bad as it looks. Mommy will be okay. Really."

Flack remembers the tears in his mother's sad, blue eyes, and his vision is drenched blood red.

"Did he hit you?" he growls between gritted teeth.

Hawkes' muteness is an answer in itself.

"When did Danny hit you? Tell me!"

His bellow reverberates in the vast locker room. Had it been anybody else, they would have been petrified by his ferocity.

Hawkes isn't just anybody else.

"It was earlier this morning. We were collecting evidence from the Ulchester case. You know, the triple homicide in the fashion boutique in Greenwich Village?"

Flack gives him a stiff nod.

"I don't know what happened … It's like … we just couldn't stop snapping at each other. It got to the point that - I don't know. I think I might have said something. About us."

Flack feels a hand cup his warm cheek.

"He didn't mean it, Don," Hawkes says in a very calm tone. "I know he didn't mean it. He was angry. Shocked. He just lost control for a second. You know what he's like when he loses his temper."

A muscle twitches in Flack's lower jaw.

For a second time, his mother materializes in his thoughts, displaying that cheerless, mechanical smile in an attempt to console him. Instead, it hurts him as much as the injuries puffing up her face and body.

"He didn't mean it, Donnie. Your father gets stressed from work, that's all … You know what he's like when he's under a lot of pressure."

Flack shakes his head heatedly.

"That's no fuckin' excuse for violence. Ever."

Hawkes gives him a little smile, and the mercy within it makes Flack's heart ache.

"Let it be, Don. He knows about us now. Let it be."

"I can't let him off the hook for this," Flack begins, then considers his next words at the disappointment on Hawkes' visage. "What I'm sayin' is, I'm not gonna beat him up or anythin' like that. I'm just gonna talk to him and straighten things out once and for all."

"He'll accept it wi-"

"No, he won't. And you know it."

Hawkes gazes into his eyes for a while, and then rests the palm of his hand against his neck. "Okay. Okay."

Flack is surprised into immobility when the other man wraps his arms around him in a hug. He's the one who should be reassuring Hawkes, not the other way around. He dragged Hawkes into this mess, and now the guy has a split lip thanks to him -

"It's okay, Don. This isn't your fault."

God, it's true. Sheldon Hawkes reads him like a freaking book.

The craziest thing is, he's absolutely fine with that.

He returns the embrace, squeezing Hawkes tight, closing his eyes and his world narrows down to an invisible box that encloses them. Everything he needs is right here in his arms.

And the revelation that follows that one is almost enough to bring him to his knees.

So, this is what it feels like, his heart murmurs in awe, to be trusted.

( Oooo …... oooO )

He finds Danny in the locker room a number of hours later, as the sun is setting on the angular, metropolitan skyline of his beloved city.

Danny is alone, standing before his open locker and changing shirts. Flack observes this routine act with impassive eyes but a heavy heart. Once upon a time, in another life and another love, he would have bolted the door behind him and pounced on the other detective without hesitation. Taken off Danny's shirt and skimmed his hands across that broad chest, down that flat belly. Enfolded Danny in his arms and held him against the lockers as they kissed and rubbed and caressed each other.

Listened to Danny whispering and moaning sweet nothings in his ear, and forgotten that the universe existed as they climaxed together, white semen splattering their stomachs.

Another life.

Another love that's dead.

Flack watches Danny pull a dark green shirt down his arms and torso, and thinks it's strangely appropriate for the situation that Danny would be wearing green. Green. The color of jealousy.

Danny takes his time in closing his locker. He moves like an old man, lethargic, as if the weight of the whole earth is bearing down upon his shoulders. For some reason, Flack feels the same, though the crushing burden isn't on his shoulders. It's around something in the left side of his chest.

Flack decides to go straight for the kill once the CSI has finished securing his locker with a key.

"So how was your trip to Montana?"

Danny jolts in surprise, twisting around to face him. Flack is uncertain whether Danny's blue eyes are so wide because he didn't expect Flack to be there, or because he didn't expect Flack to talk to him, period.

Flack ambles forward, his steps slow and steady. "I heard that Katums guy received a guilty verdict."

It takes Danny a little while to regain composure.

"Yeah … yeah, he did."

Danny doesn't look him in the eye as he replies.

"So … how was your trip to Montana?" Flack asks again. The seemingly apathetic repetition of the question makes Danny raise his head fast. Those heavy-lidded eyes are wide behind silver-framed spectacles once more.

This is the first time they've ever discussed Danny's trip to Montana to attend Lindsay's trial. In fact, they haven't talked much at all after Danny had returned to the city together with her. Yes, they had to talk to each other whenever they had to work together on a case, but that's different. There were other people around, jobs to do, things to distract them from talking about what truly needed to be brought into the light.

Things like why Danny thought it was a terrific idea to have an affair behind his back and reduce his heart to a pulverized pulp while the guy was at it.

"What? Nothin' to say? Wheatfield Land was that boring, huh?"

Danny simply stands in front of him in uneasy silence, staring at him with those puppy eyes.

Once upon a time, they brought a smile to his face. Now, they just make him angry.

He's been angry for a long time.

And he's tired of holding back the tide, of being the punching bag. Tired of it all.

"Well, gee, I guess ya couldn't possibly have been that bored if ya spent almost a week there, huh, Danny?"

He sees Danny swallow visibly, and it's indescribable, the resentment he feels upon seeing that, upon knowing that Danny did that because the man's nervous and guilty.

"What, aren't ya gonna share? Don'tcha wanna tell me how fun ya had with Montana? Huh?"

There's only inches between them now, and he gets right into Danny's face, seeing only those big, blue eyes that are glistening beneath the ceiling light.

It's a pretense, it's a lie, don't believe it -

"Okay, if you don't wanna share, please, allow me to tell you how things were goin' here while you were gone," Flack charges on in a low, gruff voice. "I had a great time. No, really, I did and ya wanna know why? 'Cause I found somebody who treats me with respect and actually gives a shit 'bout me and doesn't lie to me or think I'm just some fuckin' trophy he can chuck aside any time he likes -"

"No, that's not true -"

Damn him, he's lying to me, even now -

"Not true? Not true?!"

Flack frightens even himself with the violent punch he lobs into the nearest locker. He hears a crackling sound, and his brain informs him that he's just done a very bad thing to his hand. He's so pissed off that he isn't feeling the pain yet. He's panting as he lets his arm drop to his side.

"Oh yeah, Danny. People who love each other go fuckin' other people behind their backs. Yeah, I musta missed the memo for that."

He's so pissed off, his sight's gone all blurry. He can't see Danny clearly any longer.

However, he can still tell the other man is shaking his head fervidly from side to side in protest, and that causes his vexation to surpass his grief again.

"I don't care anymore. I don't care why you did it, why you did this to me, after everythin' we've been through … I don't care anymore."

He swallows in the hopes of removing whatever's suddenly clogging up his throat. It's making his voice sound really hoarse.

"You made your choice, I get that. Now you're gonna get somethin' too … if you ever hurt Hawkes again, I'll give it back to you in spades, ya hear me? And yeah, if ya haven't figured it out yet, he's the one. "

He pauses for an instant, then chokes out the most excruciating words he'll ever say, "You made your choice, and so have I, Danny. Whatever the hell there was between us … it's over."

Danny's gasp is like a knife that stabs him mortally in the heart.

"We're over."

Flack doesn't stick around to hear what Danny has for an answer. He storms a path out of the locker room, slamming the door open so hard against the wall that it scares a lab technician who happened to be sauntering by.

He doesn't look back, and tries his damnest to convince himself that the sobs he hears from behind him are simply a figment of his imagination.

ii. "Don't you know, the hardest part is over ..."

Danny listens to his shower running.

He sits with his elbows on knees on the side of his bed, naked apart from some rumpled bedsheets covering his groin and thighs. He always liked the spectacular view of the city he loves through his bedroom windows. An elongated, panoramic vista of magnificent skyscrapers, countless window squares of illumination and streaking neon lights as fellow inhabitants dash here and there in their vehicles. Always hurrying, always active, never sleeping.

He always liked the view, but tonight, it no longer invigorates him or lift his spirits like it used to.

Tonight is the last night he'll live in the city that has been his home since the moment he was born.

He listens to his shower running, and he thinks about a particularly rainy day that took place a few weeks ago. He was in Mac's office at the labs, and Mac was none too pleased with him. The older CSI's brows were lowered in his typical frown and his lips were in a thin line of annoyance. The dangerous gleam in those hazel eyes reminded Danny of yet another day when he'd been in Mac's office, a day where he had disappointed his boss so badly he was kicked off the promotion grid.

"Did you pick a fight with Hawkes?"

Mac's the kind of guy who goes straight to the point.

Danny doesn't remember what he said to Mac, or what Mac said after his reply. All he recollects are Mac's parting words as he shambled to the door.

"Sort things out, or get out."

Mac had apologized later to Danny for his harshness, then received one hell of a shocker when Danny tendered his resignation letter, along with Lindsay's. He doesn't blame Mac for his flabbergasted reaction. He'd been equally shocked after Lindsay had proposed the idea to him and persuaded him into carrying it out.

He stares out his bedroom windows at the splendor of New York city. Does his best to replace it with endless, golden wheatfields and thin, fragile stalks that sway with the wind.

And all he sees is a barren, lifeless desert, stretching into the horizon with no end in sight.

He shuts his eyes and bows his head, cupping the sides of his head with his hands.

This is what I want, he reiterates to himself. This is what I want, this is the right thing. Settle down with a woman, have 2.4 kids, live in a suburban home, work a nine to five job. Live a normal life. This is what's best for me.

This is what's best for Don.

The mere thought of the homicide detective sends a sharp pain winding through his chest. His nights have been swamped with dreams of Flack since that horrible evening in the locker room at the laboratories. They're sad dreams, evocative dreams, a mixture of all the good and bad days and nights they experienced together. Sometimes, Flack is smiling and laughing, his handsome face crinkled with joy. Sometimes, Flack is sitting at a distance from him, looking at something beyond his head, looking through him like he isn't there.

But most times, Flack is glaring at him with cold, glossy eyes. Piercing eyes that accuse him of what he's blameworthy for through and through.

It doesn't help that Lindsay is constantly asking him what's wrong, every time he awakens in the middle of the night and he doesn't want to tell her anything and he feels like running away as far as he can. Running away to an apartment in lower Manhattan that used to be his second home.

His only home; a tall, blue-eyed homicide detective who now hates his guts more than anything else.

And it's his fault. There's no escape for him from that, no matter how far he runs. It's his fault Flack loathes him now.

The shower has stopped.

He has to make a determined effort to sit up, propping himself with his hands on his knees. He begins the litany in his head, the same one he knows by heart forwards and backwards by now.

This is what I want, this is the right thing. This is what's best for me.

This is what's best for Don.

He'll settle down with a woman, have 2.4 kids, live in a suburban home, work a nine to five job. Live a normal life. Without me.

This is what's best for him.

It's become second nature to restate those words over and over. He continues to do it, even though he knows he's in denial of reality.

The only time when one has to tell themselves something over and over to believe it … is when it's a lie.

"Hey, you."

The bed sinks a little as Lindsay crawls onto it. Her washed and wavy hair brushes his upper back and shoulders, and her warmth presses along his back. He feels her rest her chin on his shoulder.

"I know it's a big move and you're feeling doubtful about things, but you'll love Montana, trust me," she says in a jovial tone. "You'll love the wheatfields more than the New York skyline, you'll see."

His lips curl up, and it's adequate a smile to assuage her and halt more attempts at cheering him up. It's a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Neither does he feel it in his soul.

Later, Lindsay is asleep in the bed beside him. She lies on her side, facing away from the windows, the blanket up to her shoulders. He's on his back, and regardless of how much he tries to sleep, he can't. The knowledge that he's leaving - today - is driving his mind into going around and around in circles. Driving him crazy.

He rolls over, towards his bedroom windows and stares out at the city once more, at the lights, at the life, the life he's going to leave behind.

God, he's going to miss New York. He's going to miss his family. He's going to miss working at the labs with Mac and Stella and Adam and even Hammerback and -

He winds up in a fetal position at the thought, the fact, that Hawkes is most likely in bed with Flack at either of their apartments. The worst part is, Hawkes is a good man, the genuine thing. The guy didn't deserve getting a punch to his face at all, or that stupid brawl-to-be in the break room. And Hawkes was right. He was the one who left Flack to begin with. Who is he to deny Hawkes the homicide detective's heart, when it didn't belong to him anymore?

Danny eventually topples into a fitful slumber, a slumber that is occupied with his much-loved city. This time, New York doesn't come to him as a bustling metropolis, but a familiar, handsome face full of hurt and disillusionment.

And when he awakens in the morning, his eyes red and sore, he allays Lindsay's queries with the usual rehearsed persuasions and prays that, one day … he'll believe them too.

( Oooo …... oooO )

On the flight to the Gallatin Field airport in Bozeman, Montana, Danny gazes out the small window at the bulbous clouds littering the bright blue sky. Lindsay is napping next to him, her seat slightly slanted back.

The overall silence in the cabin permits Danny to become lost in his cogitations. His mind drifts to the afternoon on the day before their departure, his final day at the labs that made up so much of his life for the last six years or so.

He's packing the remainder of his belongings from his locker, putting the items into his backpack. Mac and Stella have already said their farewells and given him goodbye hugs and he's yearning to get the hell out of there before he breaks down and changes his mind about everything and fucks it all up again.

The one person whom he doesn't anticipate to even meet him shows up at the entrance of the locker room, just as he's about to leave.

"Good luck, Danny, in whatever you choose to do and wherever you go."

Hawkes is offering a hand for a handshake.

Danny stares at Hawkes' mien, searching for hints of mockery or bitterness in the other CSI's expression.

There is none. The absence of any aversion towards him, specially after what he did to the man, stuns him.

He extends his own hand and grasps Hawkes' with it.

"Thanks, Hawkes," he mumbles in a subdued voice.

He's feeling rather embarrassed, unable to look Hawkes in the eye. Mac had intentionally allocated them to different cases since their argument in the break room months ago became widespread knowledge, so they hardly interacted with each other unless it was very necessary. He hadn't told anyone except Mac about resigning. Mac must have told Stella at some point after that, which meant Hawkes must have heard it from either Stella or their boss.

Former boss, his mind corrects him.

Hawkes takes him aback again with, "I'm sorry to see you go. It was good working with you. The lab is losing a great CSI."

Danny feels worse and worse by the second. Hawkes wasn't being cynical. The guy really meant what he said.

And he would be an asshole for not saying what he should have said much, much earlier.

"Hawkes, I … I'm sorry. 'Bout punchin' ya, and pickin' a fight with ya in the break room. You didn't deserve any of that," Danny utters with all sincerity. "And you were right."

There is no need to stipulate what it was Hawkes had been right about. They both know it. It hangs over them like a shadowy fog.

"It's okay, Danny. Really."

Danny looks at Hawkes' visage, at the other man's lips. Indeed, the once grazed lower lip has healed completely. There isn't a single mark there.

An awkward hush befalls them for a minute. Danny wants to say goodbye, except he's at a loss for words and his intuition tells him he has to conclude this conversation with a kind word about Hawkes and Flack, in spite of how difficult it is.

What does he say to the man who has become the new love of the person who still possesses his heart?

"Take care of him, will ya?"

Hawkes doesn't falter at all in his reply.

"Absolutely."

"Hawkes, could you … could you let him know?"

Hawkes' brown eyes suddenly appear poignant and sympathetic.

Out of the blue, a memory soars to the forefront of Danny's brain.

He's holding a card in his hands, a card that Lindsay had left on a table for him before she left for her trial, and thinking to himself, "A card? Why didn't she just look for me or call me? I was always here."

Right away, he regrets ever asking Hawkes that question.

"Danny. He's only a phone call away."

The words hurt a great deal despite the fact that he was already predicting them.

He's gripping his mobile phone in his hand while he watches Hawkes walk away. He's gripping it in the train as he travels back to his apartment to pack the last few essential items for the trip. He's gripping it in his jacket pocket as he and Lindsay are boarding the plane.

And he's still gripping it, right now, in his left hand, rolling it around and around, powerless to let it go.

"You really can't part with that thing, can you?"

Lindsay's amused inquiry drags him out of his reverie. He turns his head to look at her, and sends her a smirk and a shrug. She chuckles to herself. After a couple of minutes, she's returned to her nap, arms folded on her abdomen, her head leaning on his shoulder.

Danny glances down at his black, sleek phone, hypnotized by the way the sunlight glints off the metallic edges and makes it sparkle like a diamond. It's turned off anyhow. Even if somebody called him, it'll be directed straight to his voice mail.

He begins flipping it open and shut, and wonders what Lindsay would say if she knew the reason he can't let it go is that he's being eaten alive by shame for not calling Flack to say goodbye.

iii. "Let it in, let your clarity define you ..."

It's a sunny, cloudless day when Flack goes to visit Mac at his office at the laboratories. It has been a while since he's met with the older detective or any of the other CSIs. Apart from Hawkes, of course. He sees Hawkes almost every night.

It's been rather peculiar to work with other CSIs in the city instead of Mac and his team for the last few months. Then again, he was the one who'd requested to be delegated to cases that didn't involve Mac or his subordinates.

Or more specifically, a certain blue-eyed detective and another from Montana.

The disconsolate dreams that preoccupy him in the night are already driving him up the wall. He doesn't need the additional torture of having to work with either CSI and have his loss thrown into his face again and again, thank you very much.

Thus, it's also rather peculiar that he doesn't feel ill at ease at all upon stepping into the labs and then Mac's office. Maybe the pain has finally faded away in its entirety. Maybe he's finally moving on.

Maybe.

Today is a good day, Flack thinks to himself as Mac, standing behind his desk, begins his elucidation of the case they'll be working on.

" … I'll be heading down to the Millennium Skate Park with Stella. McMillan and Wright will be handling the secondary crime scene."

Flack blinks.

"Who?"

Mac glances up from the light brown case folders on his desk at him. "McMillan and Wright? They're new to the labs. I recently hired them to replace Danny and Lindsay."

Flack's entire world skids to an abrupt halt.

"Replace them?"

"Yes. They sent in their resignation letters some time ago," Mac replies, straightening up, his fingertips brushing the table surface. "They left for Montana the day before."

Suddenly, the sunlight cascading in through the windows behind Mac becomes too vivid. It burns Flack's eyes, causing them to water.

"He's gone?" he whispers.

At least, he thinks he whispered it.

Mac angles his head to one side, casting an unreadable albeit astute gaze on him. "He didn't tell you?"

Flack blinks numerous times more, clearing his sight, blanking out his expression. There is no way in hell he's going to lose it in front of Mac.

"I - I musta forgotten 'bout it," he swiftly justifies. "Yeah, he told me. It's been real busy for me, that's all. Just forgot 'bout it."

He shrugs a shoulder.

Yeah, that's it. Keep it cool. Crack later, when nobody's there to see.

Mac is gazing quietly at him. There's something in the older man's eyes that's saying a thousand words, and Flack blocks every single one out. Provided that he doesn't acknowledge the comprehension in Mac's eyes, he can pretend Mac doesn't know how much it's killing him that Danny just upped and left. Just like that.

His brain's a funny thing. He's standing right here in Mac's office, feeling like an utter fool, and the first thing that leaps into that wrinkly organ in his skull is the imagery of a dead body lying on an autopsy table. This one has his face. Spanning the length of the torso is a large Y-incision that's been stitched up by adroit hands.

Now he knows what it feels like to be cleaved open from sternum to groin.

And it hurts, so much more than his almost-healed right hand that had battered itself into that locker during his last fight with Danny. It hurts, even more than having his belly blown apart by a bomb. He hadn't been awake when that happened. A kindness denied him this time.

Mac's looking down at the folders on his desk, and Flack is grateful to be free of that perceptive stare. Mac doesn't mention anything more about Danny and Lindsay having left, something he is grateful for as well.

If there is anyone who understands what loss means, it is this ex-Marine turned first grade CSI detective who stands before him.

The rest of the day elapses in a numb haze. Flack goes through the motions of interviews and paperwork and updating Mac by phone from his desk at the precinct. There's so much freaking paperwork today that it's unbelievable. Well, since he's here at his desk and he has tons of red tape to handle, he ought to just get it over and done with. Mac and Hawkes are just fine on their own.

He's just fine on his own.

Today is not a good day, he thinks later, as he drives along his habitual route back to his apartment. He only succeeded in completing a bit of the paperwork, and there's a possibility he's coming down with a flu or something because he feels like shit and his throat's all raw and his eyes are stinging. To top off his good day turned not good, he's stuck in the inevitable traffic jam that arises every day when office hours are over.

There are two missed calls on his mobile phone. Both are from Hawkes.

He mulls over calling his lover, but something stops him from doing so. Somehow, it doesn't feel right to encumber Hawkes with the whole Danny-left-without-even-saying-goodbye issue. This is something he has to deal with on his own, for as long as he can.

When the time comes, Hawkes will be there for him. He knows it.

His hands shift the steering wheel on their accord, so accustomed are they to the course leading to home.

And as he sits in the driver's seat in his car, over an hour afterward, he's torn between wanting to laugh his head off till he cried and smashing his windshield with his fists.

His heart was set on home, and he's here, in front of what was once Danny's apartment building.

One voice in his head is berating him and calling him a fucking idiot for pining after a lying bastard who never cared about him. Another is blathering on and on about his homicide cases, spewing out random details. And another, the tiniest and most meek one, merely whispers two words over and over in a broken manner.

He'sgonehe'sgonehe's gonehe'sgone -

He's gone.

It is a very, very long time before he turns the key in the ignition and drives away into the darkness.

( Oooo …... oooO )

Silence reigns in the spaciousness of Hawkes' apartment.

Flack is leaning against one of the windows in the living area, one that overlooks the city and all its glittering grandeur; an earthly reflection of the star-studded heavens above. He's been standing there for over an hour, arms crossed on top of his chest, shoulders hunched. Tie loosened and dress shirt with two buttons unfastened under the collar. Blue eyes glassy with reminiscence.

He senses Hawkes' concerned gaze flitting his way again from where the man is sitting in his study room nearby. Hawkes had left the door partially open, and while this means Hawkes is able to observe him at all times, he doesn't feel as if his privacy is invaded. In fact, it pleases him that Hawkes is always there. Not too close, giving him the space he requires, but not too far away either. Just enough that he can feel Hawkes' presence there with him.

After driving round and round the city throughout the night, he'd found himself at Hawkes' door, shivering from a chill that was within as much as it was on the outside. It was really late and he knows Hawkes isn't very fond of being disturbed at such a late hour.

He'd been prepared for an irritated Hawkes to tell him off for his insensitivity. The minute Hawkes opened his front door though, the man had taken one look at his face and guided him into the apartment without any complaint.

There were no questions raised, except one.

"How did you find out?"

Flack was too exhausted to bother fathoming how long Hawkes had known about Danny's surreptitious departure, or how the guy figured out he knew it now.

"Mac told me," he mumbled.

The dismay in Hawkes' eyes mystified him. Was it directed at him, or someone else?

Hawkes didn't explain. Nevertheless, his lover's subsequent actions gradually eased his apprehensions. Hawkes made him sit on the couch in the living room and then went into the kitchen to brew some coffee. Once Hawkes passed him his mug of the hot beverage, Hawkes asked, "Would you like some company?"

He'd shaken his head, he remembers that. And he remembers that Hawkes respected his wish with no grievances, leaving him on his own in the living area and retreating to the study room.

Two days in the future, he'll be thanking Hawkes for his selflessness with a marvelous dinner and hours of lovemaking and affirmations of love. But tonight, tonight is a time for recollection of another friendship that blossomed into something more … and then withered away without reason.

There has to be a reason, Flack's mind contemplates in the stillness. There's a reason for everything.

He swallows visibly when it dawns on him that those words have become forged in his memory due to them being Danny's favorite contention in their bygone conversations. Danny is thousands of miles away from him, and yet, the man is still here in his head, imprisoning him in emotions that should have petered out long ago.

Is it really Danny who won't let go?

Or is it he who can't let go?

Flack shifts the focus of his gaze to his own reflection in the transparent glass of the window. He sees the countenance of a very weary man, lines around his eyes and mouth where he'd never noticed any, dark half-circles underneath his bloodshot eyes. He'll be thirty years old in a couple of months' time, and he appears as if he's already twice that.

Damn, he's a mess. No wonder Hawkes is giving him such a wide berth.

The mesmerizing lights of the metropolis entice him to stare out the windows again.

Danny always did like the view of New York city from his bedroom. He can't forget that, not after Danny had told him that during one of the best nights of his life, almost two years ago. They were curled up naked on their sides, him spooning Danny from behind on the bed and disheveled sheets as they gazed out the windows.

"Look at that," Danny had murmured in a voice full of wonder. "Isn't that the most amazin' sight in the world?"

"Uh hmm," he breathed in reply, nuzzling the crook between Danny's neck and shoulder.

"I'll be dead before I ever leave this place."

"Ya know, some people think this place is hell."

There was some silence, then Danny said, "Everybody has their own heaven and hell."

He chuckled in amusement. "Ya goin' all philosophical on me, Danno?"

"Hey." Danny turned his head and gave him a mock glower. "I'm not just a science geek, ya know. I know other stuff too."

He grinned. "Yeah? Like what?"

Danny rolled onto his back, and declared, "You are New York city."

"Wha, so you're sayin' I'm full a' smog and noise and overpricedrent?" he responded with a phony offended expression.

Danny was all quiet once more, and there was a strange gleam in those magnetic blue eyes.

"No."

Flack felt fingers sweep down the side of his face in a loving stroke.

"I'm sayin' that you're beautiful."

Flack isn't ready for the sorrow that follows that memory, those words that had sounded so heartfelt and true. He'd been so confident after that night, so assured that things were only going to get better for him and Danny from then onwards.

He was so wrong.

Things had taken such a devastating downturn barely months after that. In hindsight, he should have detected the signs; Danny taking longer shifts, lessening their nights out, decreasing contact and communication. Flinching from the slightest touches in public. Avoiding him. Cutting him away, little by little, until there's nothing left. He should have seen it coming, but he didn't. He couldn't bear to.

Danny was his New York, and he believed he'd die too, if he ever left his city.

It never occurred to him that Danny, his city, his home, would someday leave him.

He's gone.

All at once, he feels sick to the stomach. It's akin to nausea, only it's worse in the sense that no amount of retching will purge his body of the queasiness.

There is no physical balm for the suffering of the heart.

He pushes himself away from the window and stumbles to the bathroom on wobbly legs. Hawkes' eyes are on him as he staggers past the half-open door of the study room. Right now, he doesn't care whether Hawkes comes after him or not. He's already having enough of a dilemma attempting to stop himself from tearing apart as it is.

He closes the door, then collapses onto the closed lid of the toilet. His hands are so cold. They're trembling on his thighs, and he has no understanding why that is. His face, in contrast, feels so damn hot. And wet. Where's the water coming from?

Flack wipes his face with the back of his hand.

The last time he had felt this awful was fifteen years ago. It's nearly humorous what a coincidence it is that, at that point in time, the setting had been the bathroom too. The difference is, his fifteen-year-old self is standing outside it, peering inside through a gap in the door.

His mother is sitting on the shut lid of the toilet, just like he is in the present time. There's one huge bruise on her left cheek. More often than not, there'd be more, all over her face or her forearms. His dad's been more kind lately.

There's only one bruise on her face, but she's crying hard, like she does after a really bad beating. She's slumped forward, her head low in intense dejection, her arms wrapped around her delicate body in an effort to comfort herself. Big tears stream in rivulets down her pale face. He can't see her blue eyes, for they're scrunched up so severely in her despair.

He cries very much like his mom does. Many tears and soundless sobs. For his mother, crying aloud is sometimes sufficient an excuse for his dad to strike her again. She's learnt to keep her anguish to herself. For him, crying in silence means that no one will ever hear his weakness. Hear how helpless he feels in the face of the evil subjugating those he loves, subjugating him.

"Why? … Why?"

Flack never understood why his mother was asking that as she wept by herself in the bathroom so many years ago.

He never did, until tonight.

How similar we are in the end, you and I, a tiny voice within Flack murmurs, weeping alone in silence for a love lost.

There is the click of the bathroom doorknob being turned. After some time, he lifts his head to see, through tear-filled eyes, Hawkes tentatively coming in. Hawkes seems ambivalent about whether to go up to him or give him solitude, and he helps the other man come to a decision by stretching his arm out in noiseless entreaty.

Hawkes is straight away at his side, enveloping him with strong, steadfast arms, drawing his heavy head against a warm, solid chest covered with thick cotton. Hawkes remains quiet. The man is being there for him, even as he is giving him room to release the ache inside him.

He sucks in a rough breath, letting his heart mourn in abundance.

Letting go of the pain.

Letting go of Danny, at last.

iv. "In the end, we will only just remember how it feels ..."

The word going around the NYPD is that he's one mysterious guy. Nobody really knows anything much about him, apart from him being the sole child and son of legendary Don Flack, Sr., and one of the youngest homicide detectives ever to attain first grade status at the age of thirty-five. That he's damn good at his job and gives his best every time. Oh, and that he likes vendor hot dogs a lot.

And that's the way Flack likes it.

His life is nobody's business except his.

Today, however, is a day when someone very cherished to him will be told everything that he shelters deep within himself throughout the year. Things that no other soul will ever hear.

His blue eyes gaze downwards at the mowed, green grass beneath and around his shoes. They're sprinkled with luminous dewdrops, and Flack ponders on the irony of the grass being so verdant and thriving in a cemetery.

A memorial park to the dead.

"It's weird, ya know," he says in a quiet voice, observing the dance of early morning sunshine on the lush blades covering the soil. "Every year I come here … I never know how to start the conversation. Sure, I know, I'm the one who's gonna do all the talkin' so obviously I'm the one who's gotta start it off, right?"

He chuckles softly to himself and leans his elbows on his knees, entwining his fingers. He shifts into a more comfortable sitting position on the bench.

"Well … I'm a first grade detective now. I don't feel any different. I dunno if I should be happy or proud or what. Feels the same like when I was a second grade detective or even before that. I gotta admit, I like havin' my own office now. Never knew how nice it is to have privacy at work till now."

Flack shrugs his shoulders.

"Okay, I admit it too, the guys at the precinct are treatin' me a little different these days. Not in the bad way, but … ya know, things change when a guy gets promoted. Maybe that's why I don't wanna feel anythin' 'bout it. Never did the job for glory, ya know that. S'nice to get some recognition though. Least I know I'm goin' in the right direction."

He sighs, and raises his head, staring into the distance.

"Six years ... Has it really been that long? Seems like yesterday we were standin' outside that abandoned building with Stella, and you guys were teasin' me 'bout bein' afraid of ghosts. Ya remember that? Yeah, how funny is it that one a' my favorite places to be is right here in a cemetery, huh? Ghosties and all that."

If he listens hard enough, he can hear that familiar, sarcastic laugh floating to his ears.

The truth is, he's not scared of ghosts at all. He doesn't even believe in their existence. Only dumb people would wish to stick around in this hellhole of a world once they're already dead. There has to be better things to do and better places to go after death.

"I know I haven't told ya much 'bout the others. I dunno how ya ended things with Mac, we never got to talk 'bout that before … ya know. He's had some good times and some bad times since ya left the labs, but he's still goin' strong. He's a tough bastard, that guy. He's not a CSI anymore, just a forensic consultant now. Yeah, shockin', huh? He had to retire from active duty after he got shot in the lung, by a friggin' street punk, of all people. I mean, he's faced all kinds a' perps, from serial killers to psychos to yer typical greedy little shit who kills for money … and he gets shot by a punk who didn't even know how to use a gun? Geez, that's life for ya."

Flack pauses for a few minutes. There is a cool draft blowing, ruffling his shorn hair and tickling his cheeks and forehead.

"And guess what? Mac and Stella are married." He waves a finger in the air. "Heh, you were right 'bout them. And before ya start complainin', I gave your share of the money to that pet store in Brooklyn ya always liked visitin'. Ya know, the one with all those armadillos. I figured you'd be happy yer money's keepin' them all nice and comfy till they find an owner or somethin'. Dunno what the heck ya saw in those weird-lookin' animals … they're kinda creepy, if ya ask me."

He scratches at the side of his neck above the collar of his long coat.

"So anyways, Mac and Stella have a son, Alexander. He's gonna be two years old soon. Stella got the choice of name, so no surprise she went for a Greek name, huh? He's a cute, little tyke. Has Mac's eyes and Stella's smile."

Talking about Mac and Stella brings him back to their wedding that took place before Alexander was born. It was a small, close-knit and modest ceremony. Every guest had some personal bond to Mac or Stella one way or another, so there were no strangers, not for long anyhow. The wedding had been one of the happiest and most memorable events in his life, which is bizarre since it wasn't him who was getting married that day. Perhaps it's true, what people say about joy being doubled when it's shared. It's a gift that keeps on giving. Perhaps Hawkes, his significant other, who'd been there with him was what made it extraordinary.

There'd been something extremely moving about witnessing a marriage between two close friends, particularly two people like Mac and Stella, whom he'd known for so long. There was much gossip the two would end up together sooner or later, and who can blame such rumors for existing?

Stella had stayed with Mac every day and night after he was shot. She stayed with him even as he lashed out at her time and again in his time of vulnerability and ruined ambitions, often with violent behavior and scathing, hurtful words.

She stayed, and that took a lot of love. Immense love.

And thankfully for Mac, she stayed long enough for him to finally come to his senses and ask her to be his wife. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do they part. Mac was very thankful, too, that she answered yes.

One day, Flack will tell them what an inspiration they are to him. What a testimony they are, that love can still survive in this cold, disillusioned world of lies, greed and betrayal.

"Speakin' of children, Mac has a step-son too, a young man called Reed. He's a good kid. He looks like his mom, but he's got Mac's heart. Amazin', the things ya learn 'bout people 'round you when ya least expect it."

He had met Reed at the wedding. As a matter of fact, he probably met everyone whom Mac considers family there, including one colossal giant of a guy who used to be in the Marines with Mac during the eighties and now works for the FBI. It isn't everyday that Flack has to tip his head back to talk to somebody, and he's glad that Jon Turgis, the one man he's met so far who makes him do that, happens to be a friend of Mac's.

Heh, Hawkes had a field day discussing medical stuff with Peyton Driscoll during the dinner. Peyton, the same woman who was once Mac's girlfriend when Mac was still a CSI and she was still an ME for the lab. Flack had been astonished to see her at the ceremony. He'd heard that things had gone bad between her and Mac after a couple of years, and she'd transferred to another laboratory in the city. Guess they patched up.

Seeing her there, going up to Mac and Stella and watching them embrace one another with no enmity whatsoever, had impelled him into thinking about Danny.

Invitations had been sent to Danny and Lindsay as soon as Stella did some inquiring here and there and ascertained the name and address of the laboratory they were working in at the time. Neither attended the wedding. Stella didn't even receive a RSVP in return. Or a phone call.

It's like they'd disappeared into thin air.

Or they wanted ties with everybody here in New York to be permanently cut.

"I don't really know what to say 'bout Danny," Flack continues. "He left the city five years ago. For Montana. Yeah, Montana, I know. Of all places. Things were … it was just really complicated."

He exhales loudly.

"You were smarter than anybody could give ya credit for, ya know that? Ya knew 'bout Mac and Stella … and ya knew 'bout me and Danny, even before we knew. I know, I kept it from ya for months after the relationship started, but I had to. Danny freaked out on me every time I thought 'bout tellin' ya. If only he knew you knew it already."

He swears that he hears her lively snickering once more. The back of the bench is hard and curved in the perfect shape to support his back, and he leans backwards, tilting his head.

"I dunno what went wrong. I wish I could tell ya what went wrong, 'cept I don't have a freakin' clue myself. It was good, really good … everythin' was flowin' like - like a smooth river. S'was like … we were just right."

He huffs out a mirthless laugh.

"It was still good, ya know? Even after she showed up. I dunno if ya ever met her, or if Danny ever talked 'bout her to you. I know he never said anythin' to me … but yeah, why would he, right? S'not like he was stupid 'nough to tell me he was gonna fuck around with her behind my back."

Brooding about Danny's unfaithfulness used to propel him into a vortex of depression that would last for days every time it struck. It was exceptionally dreadful in the first few months after Danny departed. Everywhere he went, he would see something or somebody that would remind him of what he'd lost.

Danny had been right. Everyone has their own heaven and hell.

It was just a nasty coincidence that his heaven was also his hell.

And if it hadn't been for Hawkes, the man who taught him to love again, he would have gone insane years ago.

"When he just upped and left, it hurt me like crazy. I couldn't believe it, ya know? He told me he'd rather die than leave the city, and … he left. What does that mean? Does that mean he was lyin' to me all along? Does it mean he … he became so disgusted with me that he couldn't even stay here anymore? It just doesn't make sense. No matter how I try to figure it out, try to think of what I mighta done wrong … I can't think a' anythin'."

He falls silent for many minutes. Maybe he really is beginning to go nuts in his age or something, because he's almost certain he can feel an invisible, soft hand patting his cheek in consolation.

"Hey, ya wanna hear somethin' hilarious? What Danny did to me turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to me. Isn't that funny? I bet ya think so, you with yer dark sense a' humor."

Flack abruptly sits upright, waving his hands in front of him as he explains himself.

"See, if Danny hadn't upped and left, I wouldn't never have ended up with Hawkes. Yeah, Hawkes. Doctor Death!"

He cackles, and it's a rich sound that dispels the melancholy from the air.

"Remember when we used to go down to the morgue in the former CSI building and call him that? He'd get so hyped up 'bout it, like it was some superhero nickname or somethin'. Doctor Death, heh."

His expression softens into one of intense affection.

"The irony is, he's more alive than most people I know. Sure, before I got to know him, I thought he was a little unusual and too smart for his own good. And then … I did get to know him, and that changed everythin'."

"I love him. I mean it. I don't know what I woulda done without him. I thought what I had with Danny was the real thing. It sure felt like it at first. Ya know, all that pinin' and starin' at each other and wantin' to be with each other every second of the day kinda thing. The dumb stuff like in yer romance novels, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout."

"Turns out, it wasn't the real thing. Not really. I kinda remember somebody tellin' me this; true love drives out all fear. And that was the problem, see? Danny and I, we had all the right stuff but there was this fear there. This fear inside Danny. Fear that we'd be caught. Fear that people would hate us. Fear that we wouldn't be accepted by friends and family anymore. Fear of everythin' that would destroy us."

His next laugh is another joyless one.

"The tragedy of the story? I think that fear destroyed us faster than anythin' else could. I dunno if the fear alone was enough to do it. I think it was a lot more than that … reasons I still can work out. I'll probably never know."

"I do wonder, whether things would have been different for me and Danny if the world was a different place. A world without prejudice. With no hatred or fear. A world where people didn't give a damn 'bout gender and valued what's within us, not what we got on the outside. Maybe, maybe … things would have been different then."

There is a stronger breeze blowing now, rustling the dense leaves of the trees behind the bench he sits on. The noise is interspersed with the far-off sounds of the city beyond the boundary walls of the cemetery.

Once more, he hears that mellifluous, lovely snicker that always heartened him in earlier times.

"Yeah, thirty-five years old … and still a dreamer," he murmurs in a sardonic tone to himself.

Still a dreamer, and truth be told, he won't change that for anything.

He knows it's time to go when the noises of the city begin to overcome the subtle sounds of the leaves crackling above him and the grass crunching under his shoes. He gets to his feet with much reluctance, and saunters towards an austere, rectangular block of granite that stands over a dozen feet away.

This is one of the moments he finds insufferable.

One of those moments, where he has to say farewell to Aiden all over again.

Her gravestone has a light grey color, speckled with innumerable dots of black and darker greys that give its surface an aesthetic charm. Nothing else adorns it, apart from a portrait photograph of her in an oval-shaped, gold frame and golden words engraved below it.

AIDEN BURN

18th December 1980 - May 10th 2006

Lost for now but loved forever

Flack traces her photograph with his fingertips, feeling not chilly enamel but the smooth, warm skin of her cheek and the radiance of her smile.

"The world may have forgotten you …" He closes his eyes, simply for a moment. "I haven't."

An eon later, he has to force himself to walk away from her grave.

It doesn't get easier with each time. Some things will always remain broken, some doors will always remain shut and some wounds will always remain unhealed.

But not for eternity.

He knows that wherever he goes and whatever he does, she will be waiting for him when he comes to visit her on every anniversary of her death. One day, they will see each other again.

Aiden will always be there, when no one else will.