Peril, Risk and Hazard

Disclaimer: I don´t own CSI:NY

Spoiler: None

Rating: T

Summary: Five years ago, Mac Taylor had been dead. This morning he had wished he´d still been.

Feedback: Please.

Dedication: This story is for the gorgeous lily moonlight. Thanks for being such a great beta and for teaching me the word peril. I still love the sound of that word and I hope you enjoy that tiny story about Mac in peril, risk and hazard!

Special thanks to banana tooth for correcting all my grammar/spelling-mistakes (She jumped in as my Beta because I couldn´t ask lily moonlight to beta it because I wanted it to be a surprise for her, I hope I succeeded at least in the surprising part! xD) and to MrAprilfoolsWatanuki and Di-Bee for their thoughts, comments and suggestions to this story as well for all the great support they gave me during I wrote this story. Since I was extra-insecure about this story, they all, especially Di-Bee and MrAprilfoolsWatanuki had a lot encouraging to do. Thanks so much, guys. Without the three of you this gift for lily moonlight would´ve never seen the light of ! xD

Peril

Five years ago, Mac Taylor had been dead. This morning he had wished he´d still been.

Everything had started out normal, just another usual day in his city. After their night shift had been over he and Stella had had breakfast together in their favorite bistro right around the corner from their office. He had invited her there, hoping the blueberry cupcakes they sold there would conjure a smile on her face like they always did before. They had just settled down at one of the tiny tables in front of the great windows, as a sudden foreboding of close peril had sent goosebumps down his spine.

And then everything had hurt.

His ears because of the loud bang of a fired weapon, his head from the hard crash to the ground, his entire body under the weight of Stella which pressed him to the ground and his heart as he had noticed the fresh blood pouring out of a small shot wound at Stella's left shoulder, soaking her favorite blouse and dripping down on him.

But five years ago, he had been dead.

Today the sinking sun outside his window colored his living room orange, the natural dying light working as a high contrast to the cold white-shining light of his blank computer screen in front of him. Uneasily Mac shifted on his chair behind his big wood desk as the memories hit him. Those lucky times... A false smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth.

Five years ago, right after he had lost Claire, he had been dead.

His body had been alive back then. He had eaten, even if only casually but eaten still, he had slept, most times short dreamless times of rest his body had demanded and taken from him without further asking, causing him to fall asleep behind his desk, his brain still focusing on his work and his work only, even in his sleep desperately trying to shield him from his emotions.

So yes, his body had been alive but his soul for sure had been dead. It had been a really slow death though. It had taken him nearly one month to let himself decease. The two days after his loss he had been to shocked to feel anything but on the third day, right after Mac had opened his eyes on that morning because the shining sun refused to let him sleep any longer and his usual first look at the other half of their bed had told him that Claire had been missing, the pain hit him, pressed him strongly into the mattress like it wanted to drown him in the softness of his pillow which suddenly felt so wrong to him.

How could anything still be soft since Claire died? The warm touch of the morning sun which tickled his skin had seemed to taunt him.

One hour later, as he had finally managed to get out of bed, Mac had started to kill himself while he washed his hair under the shower. The following three months he had worked on murdering himself, burying himself beneath transcendent walls of nihilism. He had worked like a man possessed, had kept his whole being busy with work, had numbed himself with the problems of strangers in the desperate attempt to kill the insufferable nameless ache which had kept his heart in a strong grip and had blasted from there through his whole body.

Early November Mac had observed with cursory interest how his body had been threatened by a mean-looking tall guy around his forties who had pointed a gun at his head and harshly told him he would shoot him within seconds if he would only think of trying to move.

Now, sitting the safety of his living room and trying to write the report he had avoided all day, Mac remembered that strange sort of satisfaction which had floated through him as he had asserted that he didn´t care if he would survive that confrontation or if that stranger would shoot him. The knowledge that his body, all that seemed to be left of him, had been in peril hadn´t bothered him in the slightest, hadn´t even impressed him to be honest. He couldn´t even recall how exactly that scenario had ended. All that had mattered to him had been that feeling of finally being free of any emotions. That he had been cold as a fish.

Cold as a fish... Before Claire had died, he had never thought the idea of mastering that metaphor could be desirable.

Of course, that had been before his argument with Stella. She had brought him back to life. Had forced him back to life with her unique stubbornness and with her incapacity of letting go of him.

That had been the first time she had saved his life.

His before so pathetic imitation of a smile changed into a real one, chasing away the fear in his eyes which had kept hold on him since he had held Stella´s hand in that damn ambulance car as he remembered the events of the evening five years ago.

She had paid him a visit right after that intermezzo with the man and his gun had proven him that he had succeeded in his mission to numb his soul to death and all it had taken her to destroy his illusional freedom his dead-heartedness had caused him, had been eight words and one single tear which had slowly run down her left cheek.

"I lost her too, Mac," she had said to him instead of a greeting. Her voice, although a bit shaky round its edges, was stern and strong and had allowed no objection. With those words she had strode past him into his living room just to turn around on her heels as she arrived in the middle of the room to face him.

He had hesitated to follow her. The fact that he hadn´t been scared of death any longer but scared to talk to his best friend would´ve amused him since he always had had that sensitive feeling for subtle irony if that part hadn´t been numbed like his pain had been. Maybe he had known instinctively that this woman who had just invaded his apartment would be able to touch his so diligently buried emotions as soon as he had seen that determined expression on her face.

"I lost Claire too, Mac," she had repeated eventually. "And I miss her terribly, believe me. But you-" She had choked on her words then, her own strong emotions obviously taking over. "I saw that look on your face as that idiot threatened to kill you, Mac and I just came to tell you that I won´t lose you too. I won't allow you to give up."

'I won't allow you to give up.'

It had been those words that finally got through his shields of denial and the tear that had escaped her eyes had been enough to shatter the dam of his own.

And for the first time since Claire had died he had given in to his grief freely without trying to control his behavior or hiding behind his usual mask to save face and had cried in her arms, his tears mixing with hers in a salty float of pain which had soaked their clothes.

Today he had shed some tears too. Silent tears of pure relief cried in the impersonal waiting room of a hospital.

Earlier this day, back at that little bistro, her condition had been perfect. She had been a little tired maybe and starving for some blueberry cupcakes as he had hoped, but still perfect to him. He remembered her face, the expression of pure pleasure on it as she had taken her first bite of her cupcake he had just bought her. Maybe that made him a pervert, but he only bought those cupcakes to watch her eating them. That delight in her eyes was something he would love to be responsible for...

He had been caught in a rather inappropriate fantasy about all those lovely ideas he could imagine to place that look on Stella's face when that foreboding had hit him. Only seconds later Stella had nearly jumped over that table between them, sending them both falling to the ground. Not that he had minded her jumping him, but the plain horror in her eyes had scared the hell out of him.

Maybe she had fetched a slight glimpse out of the corner of her eye, a reflection in the window of that man who had pointed a gun at Mac or maybe it had been some kind of instinct that made her jump over the table to get him out of the line of fire.

That had been the second time she had saved his life.

He had left Stella alone with the doctor and a nurse who were taking care of her wound, before he had hidden in the impersonal anonymity of the waiting room where he had allowed the tears to fall, his head buried in his hands to keep them private. He had allowed himself five tears, no more. After they had run down his cheeks, he had wiped them away, as always needing to control everything, especially his own feelings.

Control had always meant a lot to him but the desire to keep some even seemed to rise if he felt himself getting emotionally involved with something. Stella getting shot definitely fulfilled that criterion.

As her blood had dripped from her back, soundlessly falling down to the floor, three of those red drops had landed on his right sleeve drawing a random pattern of sorrow.

He hadn´t changed his shirt till now, the now darkened spots of blood still reminding him of what he could´ve lost. How close he had been to losing her. Absently he touched his right sleeve with his left hand, leaning back into his comfortable chair, his eyes closed to shut out his surroundings out as well as his memory. The screen of his PC which should be filled with words about that event was still blank. Mac had never guessed that words could be so hard to find. Granted, he never had been a man of many words. Talking, honestly talking to someone, not the meaningless exchange of small talk, meant to reveal something about one´s self. Opening up to somebody else had also been something he never had been good at, because to be able to open up, you need trust. Trusting somebody meant giving up some control.

Mac had always thought that his determination to keep control had a lot to do with his trust issues. He had learned the hard way in his youth to only trust a few people and to always depend on himself if he wanted to get something straight. In his life he had only trusted two people, both women. The first one had been Claire.

His trust in her had depended on love. That love for Claire had been one of the purest emotions he had ever experienced. Nothing had befouled his feelings for her. There had been no guilt because he hadn´t been her boss or because he had felt he would abandon another woman if he allowed himself to love her. No, Claire he had loved freely. But the hazard of love like that was always that as much as it could lift you up, it could also destroy you.

Five years ago, after Claire had died, he had decided to die also to never feel that kind of misery again, to never feel so desperately alone and lost again as he had felt after she had died. And for a short time he had succeeded in that. For a few peaceful, meaningless days where everything had seemed so unimportant, so absolutely pointless, he had felt absolutely nothing.

But when he had sat next to Stella in that fast speeding ambulance, holding her hand in a strong grip as if his grip on her hand could hold her life with him, all the misery he had wanted to kill those years ago had been back. He had felt so helpless, so useless as he had watched the paramedic treat her wound, always shouting at the driver to hurry up even more because Stella had lost so much blood.

Three tiny drops on his sleeve... Her face had looked as pale as his white shirt he still wore. That contrast between her skin and her blood had been too heavy for him to bear, so he had stared at his hands during the whole drive. His hands which had covered her smaller one completely. And he had talked. There he had had words. Silly stupid words which had dropped from his mouth like her blood had dropped on the floor.

And now, everything worth living for lay in his bed, peacefully sleeping to recover from all the terror she had been through today.

After the doctor had treated her, Stella had demanded to go home. Of course he and the doctor had insisted she stay at least over night to make sure but Stella, being stubborn as always, didn´t want to hear any of it.

Since he, knowing her like he did, couldn´t see any way to convince her to stay in the hospital, he had settled for a compromise. He would allow her to leave the hospital, if she would agree to stay at his place and let him take care of her.

Although her glare had nearly frozen him as he had used the formulation 'allowing her', she had accepted his 'offer' to his surprise without further arguing.

He remembered how exhausted she had looked as they had arrived at his apartment; she even agreed to sleep in his bed at his first offer.

Opening his eyes, Mac straightened up in his chair, once again staring at the blank screen of his PC. Another peril you have to deal with, if in love, seemed to be risking to lose your ability to speak like a grown man.

With resignation he switched his computer off. Staring at the damn thing wouldn´t lead him to anything, only to a stiff neck. As if to prove that point, his neck made an unpleased sound as he tilted his head to the left, looking for some paper he could use to write on and for a pen . He would try to write that report old school. Somehow words always seemed to float out his hand more easily if he used a pen. Must be one of those silly psychological mysteries Sid could explain to him, if asked... Nah, better not ask him. Sid would only get sidetracked, randomly spilling out medical information and awkward facts about humans in general like he had done last week as Danny had asked him-

Sighing heavily, Mac interrupted his own mind-rambling. As much as he hated to delve into the situation by reliving it through his report, he had to get it done.

After he had arranged the pad in front of him, so he would easily have access to it, Mac tried three pens before he finally found a working one. He struggled hard to find the first sentence but once he started he couldn´t stop, as if writing suddenly had become an act of catharsis.

When he finished writing, he read everything though then he dropped three closely-written sheets into the trash basket right next to him. His catharsis by all means revealed more about himself than he was willing to share with Sinclair.

Two hours later, Mac stood in the doorframe of his bedroom, trying to catch a glimpse of that sleeping beauty in his bed.

The truth was: Five years ago, Mac Taylor had been dead. This morning he had wished to still be. But now, watching how the gentle moonlight threw little reflections of silver on the brown curls of the woman who saved his life twice already, the only thing he felt through his tiredness-numbed body was gratitude for being able to experience this very night.

A/N: This story is the most serious thing I have written in a long time (I guess some of you understand now even better why I had to blow some steam off with writing "Easter-surprise" xD) so I would love to hear your comments on this.