Disclaimer: none of the CSI characters belong to me

This is going to be a two shot, so don't worry about my other stories :)

Chance Intersections – Wherever it may lead

He had pressed the button before he could think about it. Of course, this was what he always had. Coffee, black, two sugars.

It's what we do.

But maybe, just once, he should have something else. Stella might have had tea.

We are there for each other.

If she were here.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

His feet take him down the corridor, again. Towards an empty room. Force of habit. Force of habit that may also drive a serial.

He leaves the building. Which way should he go? He remembers an old game. Step towards the curb. Hit it with your left foot first, turn left. He imagines Stella still doing it. She's never been predictable.

Except for that day when she had come to find him. Not knowing that he was just the bait.

He looks left, he looks right. The same grey pavement either way. Does it make a difference which way he goes? He wishes he could split himself up and go both ways, just to see the outcome. Before he chooses. He wishes he could rewind, go back, make a different choice. But which moment should he go back to, which choice was the wrong one?

It could even be that he always has coffee, black, two sugars. That he's so predictable.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He runs his hands over the wood. Once alive, gathering sunlight, offering shade. Gathering raindrops to shower people with after the rain. Leaves sparkling in the breeze like Stella's eyes.

Cut down. Cut into boards of a given length. Treated, smoothed, polished. It feels far too smooth for the occasion. Fixed into an oblong cuboid. Fixed, unable to make any more choices.

Silky white cushions. A bizarre comfort for the dead, because the living cannot appreciate it. But it is the living who need it.

He doesn't remember which choice brought him here. Was it even his own?

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Another tree, a live one. Casting shadows throughout the year. Why do people always plant yews in a cemetery? He wanders from shadow to shadow, stands still at one grave. His eyes burn with fatigue and sorrow. He can't read the name on the headstone, but he knows it anyway.

Footsteps crunch towards him, slowly. A hand reaches out, but doesn't touch him.

"We will find him, we will get him, and then …" the voice fades, not really knowing what will happen then.

"How did you know where to find me?"

The silence continues. Mac looks from the marble stone to Danny. He sees concern etched into the younger CSI's face.

"I … didn't. I just came here … and you were there. I came here because" Danny points to the grave, "she was my friend." He ends with a shrug, looking at Mac.

The one who would have known where to find him remains to be found.

All thoughts and comments are welcome, appreciated and replied to.