a/n: Apparently sticking me on a bus for three and half hours induces a writing spree. Who knew? I couldn't get this plot bunny out of my head, so I wrote it down. Enjoy the Flack whump and high!Flack. Rated T for safety.

disclaimer: I don't own CSI:NY or anything by Taylor Swift. I'm just borrowing the characters.

safe and sound

"darling everything's on fire, the war outside our door keeps raging on."

It crept up on him, tendrils of fire curling around his belly button, pulling him from a deep sleep. Groaning, Don Flack barely managed to open his eyes and promise never to drink, or eat Mexican or Indian food again, or whatever he'd done last night to bring this on. In his sleep-induced haze, he couldn't quite remember. Either way, he was never doing it again.

Curling up into a ball, he pulled his duvet a little more tightly around his body, and settled back down against his pillow, willing himself back asleep.

The next time Don opened his eyes, diffused morning light was spilling through the crack between his curtains, and his alarm was vibrating insistently next to his head. He sat up and reached for it, the movement sending a spark of pain through him. Lifting the hem of his t-shirt, he rubbed his palm gently over his lower abdomen, hoping the warmth would help soothe his stomachache. When it didn't, he resigned himself to at least a miserable morning, and reluctantly began to get dressed in his uniform of a suit and tie.

By the time he made it downstairs, he wasn't feeling like eating, so he turned on the coffee machine and made himself a mug to go, grabbing a banana on the way out, just in case he felt like eating later.

Each bump in the road made him grit his teeth against the sharp stabs of pain, and each corner pulled his seatbelt tightly against his tender belly. When he finally pulled up at the precinct, he was tempted to kiss the ground, but didn't really want to move that far.

He had just settled down at his desk with a steaming mug of coffee and pile of paperwork to finish, when his phone buzzed. Sighing, he picked it up and checked it. Stella wanted him to come to the latest crime scene with her.

He picked up his jacket and keys, and headed down to her office, body protesting with every step. He usually hated spending time doing paperwork, preferring fieldwork instead, but today he would have welcomed it.

Knocking on Stella's door, he walked in. "We ready to go?" he asked.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, instead of answering his question. Her sharp green eyes roamed from his face to the toes of his shiny black shoes, taking in everything from his flushed face and the sweat sitting at his temples, to his slightly hunched posture.

"M' stomach hurts a bit," he admitted, dropping his arm from where it had subconsciously wrapped itself around his lower abdomen.

"Must be a hell of a stomachache, because you look terrible," she told him bluntly. "You know what? You can sit this one out until you're feeling better. I'll get Mac to come with me."

"Are you sure?" he asked, biting back a comment about her preferring Mac's presence to his.

"Positive," she replied, shrugging on her blazer. "I don't want you throwing up on the crime scene."

"I'm not going to-" he protested, then cut himself off as he realized that nausea was vaguely threatening. Maybe she had a point. "Yeah, okay. Let me know if there are witnesses I can talk to. You know where to find me."

"Sure thing. It wouldn't kill you to take a sick day, you know," she said, ushering him out the door, and dialing Mac's number.

"Nah, it's just the flu," Don replied, swallowing. "But thanks, Stella."

"You feel better," she said worriedly, patting him on the shoulder, and watching him shuffle off down the hallway while she waited for Mac to pick up.

Paperwork was totally interesting. Yeah, he could tell himself that all day, but it didn't change the fact that he'd signed the bottom of five different types of waivers and he was already yawning. His morning meal of coffee was churning uneasily in his gut, and he was contemplating asking Lindsay if she had anything left over from when she'd had morning sickness.

He loosened his tie just a little, and popped the top button. The room had suddenly become very warm, and he shrugged off his suit jacket as well. Wiping his perspiring forehead on the back of his wrist, he closed his eyes for a second, and tried to refocus on the task ahead. He just had to keep busy until Stella and Mac came back, and then there would be people to question and work to keep him distracted from the way his belly felt as though it were aflame.

The pain had slowly shifted right, and had settled stubbornly on his lower right side. It was mostly steady, but intensified if he moved around too much. It was like a sharp, red hot knife had been stuck into his abdomen, and Don couldn't remember a simple case of the flu making him feel like this.

He wiped his temples again, cringing a little at the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered there. The warmth was a little surprising, but not overly, since he figured he'd been running some sort of low-grade fever since he woke up.

With a gusty sigh, he forced the jumble of legalese in front of him to arrange itself into the kind of jargon he could make sense of, and hunched over a little more. It didn't help much, but it eased the definitive ache a little.

By 11:00, Don had finally admitted defeat to the nausea, and rushed to the men's room, where he sat in front of the toilet and panted heavily for several minutes, willing it to just stop. He'd stop eating fast food for six months – no, a year. And he'd cut back on his drinking too.

Kneading his fingers into his side, he took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He hated vomiting, and to add insult to injury, he couldn't even do it in the privacy of his own bathroom.

He was shivering in his shirtsleeves, and he rubbed at the goosebumps on his forearms, curling in around himself, cradling his abdomen in his arms.

He had honestly thought that he was out of the woods, but then he tried to stand up. Pain jabbed through his entire body, and he felt a rush of heat spread instantly from his head up to his toes. He barely had time to steel himself for the onslaught before he was bent over, helplessly watching as his coffee – and everything else – made reappearance. He heaved a few times, barely managing to suppress a whimper at the way the paroxysms pulled at his muscles.

Coughing, he took another few deep breaths, trying to slow down his rapidly beating heart. He realized that his cheeks were blazing, and his entire body was covered in a layer of sweat, both from exertion and from the fever. His head was spinning, and he pulled himself up over the toilet again, retching miserably. The ache intensified with each movement, and crimson streaked across his vision. He rubbed at his eyes.

When he straightened up, the stitch in his side pulled him down, and he groaned, realizing that he could be here a while. He spent the next 20 minutes trying to regain his composure and his dignity.

Finally trusting himself to get up, Don peeled himself off the floor, flushed the toilet, and staggered to the sink to wash his hands. He made the distinct mistake of looking up, only to find that he looked rather dreadful.

Bruise-like circles hung under his eyes, and his face was paler than usual, but this was in stark contrast to his cheeks, which were flushed a deep red. Splashing cold water on his face, he tucked in his shirt, and smoothed the wrinkles out as much as possible, before shuffling slowly back to his desk.

The words on his folder were swirling in front of his eyes, and he could barely make out what they meant. Heaving a small sigh, he pushed the folder aside, and pillowed his head on his arms, feeling the heat from his face seep quickly through his sleeves. He curled up as best he could in his chair, and closed his eyes.

"Flack!" Stella said loudly, the click of her heels rousing him from an uneasy period of relative unconsciousness.

He forced his eyes to open. "Yeah? I'm awake!" he exclaimed, straightening up abruptly. The sudden movement sent a sharp knife of pain through his midsection, and he gasped and recoiled, body resuming his hunched position instinctively.

"Are you okay?" she asked, green eyes flaring with concern. "You don't look so hot."

"I'm okay, just the flu," he mumbled, fighting his heavy eyelids. Good God, did his stomach ever hurt. There was no way this was 'just the flu.' He wanted to go home and sleep for a week.

"Are you sure? Because I talked to Sid and he said it could be your appendix," she said, crossing to his desk, and pressing her hand against his forehead. Her frown deepened, both from the way his skin blazed beneath her fingertips, and because her palm was coated in his sweat. "Why don't you go home? Mac says it's fine."

"'M fine," Don insisted, lips thick. His mouth still tasted sour, and he coughed, wincing once again.

"I can take you to the hospital if you want," she offered, switching immediately into maternal mode. Don looked undoubtedly pathetic, and she couldn't help but be concerned. He looked sicker than she'd ever seen him, and he was a tough guy, so the way he was gripping his side and flinching at every movement gave her worry an extra edge. Everything about this told her something was very, very wrong.

He was struggling to breathe against a rising wave of nausea. Looking up, he turned to Stella, panic in his eyes. "Can you give me a minute?"

She rolled her eyes, twirling the keys to the Avalanche around her index finger, and turned away. "When you're done, we're going to the hospital."

"Okay," Flack choked out, fighting back a wave of pain to reach for his trashcan. Wrapping his arms around it, he dry heaved uselessly. Tears of pain gathered in his eyes, and his midsection felt like it was being ripped in half. His vision blurred, and the world swirled around him, painted red.

"Oh, Don," Stella murmured softly, rubbing gentle circles into his back, while he struggled to catch his breath. She knew immediately that she'd made the right call. Whipping out her cell, she called Mac, pacing to the other side of the room in order to give Don a chance to get himself together. "Hey, Mac, it's me. Sid's probably right. Yeah, we're going to the hospital now. I don't know when I'll be back; he's in pretty rough shape. Okay. Bye." She snapped her phone off, and put it back in her pocket.

Blushing the colour of a tomato, Don swiped at the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and replaced the empty trashcan. He stood up painfully, and picked up his jacket, folding it over his arm, and followed Stella out of the building.

"Tell me if I need to pull over, okay?" Stella said, unlocking the Avalanche, and opening the back door so he could crawl inside and curl up in the back seat. She climbed into the driver's seat, and switched on the sirens as she peeled away from the curb and headed straight for Trinity.

Every bump in the road made him whimper, and Stella felt terrible seeing him like this, in so much pain. She wanted to make it all stop, since he was having a really rough time.

She pulled up in the emergency parking lot in record time, and snagged a spot as close to the building as possible. Jumping out, she opened the car door, and Don emerged, trembling visibly. He made it over to the sidewalk before bending double and dry heaving again. Stella reached out and grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright, as his knees buckled. He was trembling violently, and she wanted to give him a blanket, something to ease his shivering.

"Let's get you inside. Can you walk?" she asked worriedly, pulling him to his feet.

"No wheelchair," he murmured quietly, throat raw from retching.

"Okay, come on," she said, steering him through the automatic double doors and into the waiting room, which to her dismay, was packed.

Don dropped into the nearest chair and closed his eyes, head spinning in the bright lights. The colours were shimmering, too vivid. His eyes ached, and his head felt so heavy.

Stella pushed at his shoulder, trying to rouse him. "Come on, Flack, we've got to get you checked in. Can you stand up for me?" she pressed gently, pulling him to his feet again, and guiding him to the triage nurse.

"What seems to be the problem?" the nurse asked kindly, fastening a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, and inflating it.

"M' stomach hurts, fever, and puking," he slurred, eyes drifting shut again.

"Lower right side," Stella supplied from behind him, lingering just behind his chair.

"When was the last time you vomited?" asked the nurse, eyes sharpening.

"Outside," he replied, his head drooping dangerously.

She nodded, and wrote it down on his file. "I'm just going to take your temperature, and then I'll get you to fill out some paperwork, okay?" She produced an ear thermometer, and proceeded to take his temperature. "103.7, not good." She said it mostly to Stella, since he was drifting in between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Don managed to scrawl his name at the bottom of the sheet, and passed it back.

"Are you staying with him?" she asked, stamping the form. "Girlfriend?"

"Friend," Stella replied, with a firm smile. She lifted the hem of her blazer and quickly flashed her badge. "NYPD."

"You can take a seat," the nurse said, with a sympathetic smile in his direction. "We'll get you in as soon as possible."

"How long will that be?" Stella demanded, hands on her hips. No way was she letting Don rot in the waiting room for hours.

"Not very long, he's high on the triage list, since it looks like it could be his appendix," the nurse replied. "We'll call you when we're ready."

"Thanks," Stella said, shaking him gently again. Fevered blue eyes opened, and blinked at her blearily.

"Do I have to move?" he asked thickly.

"Just once more, I promise," she said calmly, supporting him as he got up, and immediately hunched over like an old man. She found them two chairs on the edge of the waiting room, and sat him down, before taking a seat next to him, and checking her phone. "How are you doing?"

"Never been better," he replied miserably, wrapping both arms around his middle, and listing to the right, head almost on her shoulder.

Normally, Stella would have pushed him away, but since it was Don, and he was sick, she let him stay, and patted his shoulder lightly. She tapped the toe of her boot against the tiled floor, hoping somebody would come and get him soon. He needed a solid dose of morphine, not to mention probably surgery. She hadn't mentioned this to him, and he clearly hadn't taken it in.

They had been waiting for forty-five minutes, and she was about to go be that annoying person who demands to get in faster, when Don's name was called. He didn't register it, so she poked him sharply in the chest, and grabbed his wrist, tugging him upright. She had to maneuver him around the rows of chairs and through the sliding doors into the non-acute section, where a pretty young nurse greeted them, holding the dreaded urine sample cup.

"Hi Mr. Flack, my name is Anna, and I'm going to be checking in on you," she said, pressing the cup into his hand. "I'm going to need you to pee in this for me, please, and then give it to the nurses at the desk."

"Sure," muttered Don, staring at the cup in incomprehension. He moved slowly towards the bathroom, one hand on the cream-coloured wall for support. His cheeks were tinged faintly pinker.

"Do you need help?" asked Stella, praying fervently that he would say no. She cared for Don and all, but there was no way she wanted to help him with his zipper or anything.

He cracked a tiny smile. "I think I'm good."

"I'll be outside," she said, and leaned against the wall while he disappeared unsteadily into the bathroom, the lock clicking behind him. Sighing, she pulled out her phone and fired off a quick text to Mac, letting him know that they were in. She tactfully decided to leave out the part about Flack peeing in a cup.

He emerged a few minutes later, shaking water off his hands, and wobbling precariously. Stella grabbed his upper arm, and propelled him towards the nurse's station, where he dropped off the cup, and followed Anna to his room. He immediately lowered himself gingerly on the bed, groaning.

"You're going to have to put this on," Anna told him, proffering a gown in a sickly shade of hospital green. She saw his grimace, and then smiled. "I know, everybody hates them."

"I don't want people to see my ass," he whined, nevertheless pulling off his tie and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

"Hold it closed," she suggested, disappearing out of the room, and shutting the door softly behind her.

"You good?" Stella asked, eyeing him critically as he pulled off his shirt worked at his belt.

Don slid his arms through the cap sleeves of the gown, and fumbled with tying it in the back. It hurt dreadfully to reach back there, and so Stella stood up, and tied it for him. He worked his way out of his pants, and sat up a little more so she could tie the second set of ties. His skin was dimpled with goosebumps, and he wrapped his arms around himself again, both for warmth and to help alleviate the pain just a little. Chills racked his body, and he shivered, helpless against them.

"Okay, now you can relax for a bit," she said, folding his clothes and putting them neatly on the other chair. "Hang in there."

"What else can I do?" he asked weakly, rolling onto his side and pulling his knees up to his chest, and closing his eyes.

"I'm back," Anna announced cheerfully, opening the door. She was carrying a needle and a set of vials, and another nurse carried the materials for setting up an IV drip. "I'm going to need you to sit up for me, Mr. Flack, and I'm going to take some blood."

"Fantastic," he replied sarcastically, sitting up with considerable effort. She propped him up with pillows, and began to tie a tourniquet around his upper arm.

"Just a little pinch," she said, prepping the needle.

"I bet you say that to everyone," he said, flinching as it pricked his skin, and holding his breath as she filled four different vials.

The other nurse was putting an IV in his arm, and began the saline drip. "I can give you something for the nausea, but I'm sorry, I can't give you morphine yet," she apologized, "but Dr. Carter will be in soon, and then I'll get you doped up."

"Sounds good," said Don, who was a little distracted as Anna pressed a cotton ball against the injection site, and taped over it.

"Hold that in place for fifteen minutes, and try not to bend your arm," she instructed, before hurrying out of the room.

"She's cute," he said to Stella with a dopey grin, rolling over so he could face her.

"I thought they hadn't drugged you yet," she replied, with a straight face.

"I have a fever, Stell, cut me some slack. And she is," he said, putting on his best puppy eyes, which unfortunately, worked.

"It amazes me how you can be curled up in pain and still be hitting on the nurses," the older detective said, chuckling to herself.

"I haven't started hitting on her yet," he protested, curling up a little more.

"We'll just give it some time and painkillers."

There was a knock on the door, and a younger man with chestnut hair and blue eyes walked in, holding a clipboard. "Hi, Mr. Flack. I'm Dr. Carter, and I hear you've been having some stomach pain," he said pleasantly, gently rolling Don onto his back.

"Yeah, it started sometime last night, all over, and then it got worse and moved to the right and then I started throwing up," he said, looking up at the man standing over him with some concern. "Are you going to poke me?"

"I'm afraid I have to," the doctor replied, pushing up the Flack's gown, and feeling along the man's stomach. He pushed in on his lower right side, adjacent to his bellybutton, eliciting a gasp from the detective, who slowly blew out a breath. Then Dr. Carter let go, and Don cried out, a strangled shout that got caught in between his tightly gritted teeth. He writhed on the bed as excruciating pain flared over his abdomen, like a white-hot knife had run him through. Scarlet fireworks exploded across his vision, persisting even as he shut his eyes against them.

"It's his appendix alright, and it's hot. We'll get you prepped for surgery ASAP," Dr. Carter said, and then turned to Stella. "Are you his girlfriend?"

Stella sighed, and shook her head. "I'm the concerned friend who made him come to the hospital."

"You made the right decision." He smiled warmly at her, and pushed up the sleeves of his lab coat. "You can stay with him until they take him down to OR, and then there's a lounge outside where you can wait. I don't think his appendix has ruptured yet, so hopefully we can have Mr. Flack in and out of surgery in under an hour."

"Great," she said, relief flowing over her in a gentle wave. "I'll be here the whole time, Don."

"Whoopee," he replied unenthusiastically.

"We'll get you on some painkillers now, and then it'll be all over and done with before you know it," Dr. Carter said, giving Don a sympathetic smile. "I hope you're feeling better." With that, he tucked his clipboard under his arm, and left the room.

It took two minutes for Anna to inject him with morphine, and five before he began to get loopy. With blown pupils, he turned to her as she fixed his pillows, and covered him with a thin, stark white blanket.

"You're pretty," he said earnestly, staring up at her with wide blue eyes. "Do you want my number?"

"Oh my God," laughed Stella, face palming.

Anna burst out laughing in spite of herself, probably because he was absolutely serious, and also because he was cute, and very high. "Sure," she said, and let him write his number in toddler-esque numbers on her palm, tucking her short honey-brown hair behind her ears as he handed her back the pen and thanked her. "I've got to go, but they're going to get you down to pre-op soon. You have fun with him." The last sentence was addressed to Stella, with a wide smile.

"You're leaving?" he asked, looking absolutely devastated. "But I'm sick."

"They'll take good care of you in pre-op, and in recovery. Maybe I'll come visit," she said, patting the non-IVed hand and making her exit.

Stella waited until the door and shut behind her to turn to him, still trying to contain her laughter. "You didn't! You just gave your nurse your number!"

"Maybe she'll call me," Don mused dreamily, lying back against the flat pillows, and staring up at the ceiling. "That would be nice."

Stella chuckled for about five minutes straight, and only pulled herself together when an orderly came in to wheel him down to pre-op. She followed on foot as Don was pushed down the hallway, trying not to lose it entirely as he looked at her in pure delight.

"I'm going on a ride!" he cried out, with almost childlike glee. "Whee!" He stretched his arms out like airplane wings, and pouted when the IV jabbed into his hand.

Still wearing a smile, Stella gently tucked his arms back inside the bed, and smoothed his hair off his sweaty forehead. She really wished she could film him, but she knew he'd kill her later. That wasn't really something she felt like risking. "Keep your hands in the bed, okay?" she suggested, as they rounded a corner, and the orderly guided his bed into an empty room, where the anesthesiologist was waiting.

The two men exchanged greetings, while Stella lingered in the doorway.

"I'm Dr. MacLean," said the anesthesiologist, with a friendly smile. "I'm just going to get Mr. Flack prepped for surgery, and I'll be in there with him the whole time, making sure he's out."

"What if I wake up?" queried Don, from the bed. His face was crumpled into a frown, and he looked incredibly concerned about this possibility.

"You won't," Dr. MacLean assured him, with a reassuring wink. "I've done this plenty of times."

"Okay." Don nodded, accepting his word without argument.

"You can say bye for a bit," Dr. MacLean said, and Stella stepped forward, taking Flack's hand briefly.

"Good luck, Don," she said, squeezing his hand. "We'll be waiting for you on the other side."

"You mean I'm going to die?" he asked, horrified. His eyes widened, and welled with tears, a stray one slipping down his cheek.

"No, of course not. We'll be waiting when you wake up," she assured him, putting his hand on the blankets, and wiping the tear away with a piece of tissue. "You'll be feeling better in no time."

"Bye Stella. And thanks," he said, before Dr. MacLean resumed their conversation.

The orderly brought Stella to the lounge outside the operating theatre to wait. "They'll let you know when he's been taken in, but it shouldn't be too long," he said.

She sat down in one of the chairs to wait. It wasn't much, but at least the chairs were comfortable. For lack of anything better to do, she checked her phone, to find concerned texts from Danny, Lindsay, Hawkes, Mac, and one from Sid wanting to know how Flack was and if he had been right. Smiling to herself, Stella set about answering them.

She had just finished her third Sudoku, when a tiny Japanese nurse emerged from a door somewhere, and materialized in front of her.

"Are you Ms. Bonasera? Detective Flack just went into surgery," she said kindly, smiling at Stella.

"Great," Stella said, turning her phone off, and tucking it back in her pocket. "Is there anywhere I could go make a call?"

"Just go out those double doors, and turn left down the hallway, and you'll find yourself just outside. Out there's fine, and you can come back in the same way," she said, before disappearing again.

Stella stood up and stretched her stiff muscles. She headed through the double doors and down the hallway, before pushing open the last set of double doors. She found herself out in a little courtyard. Exhaling, she leaned back against the textured wall, and called Mac.

"Hey Mac, it's me. Flack just went into surgery. You better pay me overtime for this one."

I hope you like it! I promise more high Flack in the next chapter, as well as team appearances. Please drop me a review, I'd really appreciate it! :)