Hey guys! Happy New Year to you all.

This is my first proper attempt at a Smacked fic, so please bare with me. I hope you like it, even if it is depressing.

For anyone that wants to know, my story will be updated first thing tomorrow morning. Or at least once I've recovered from tonight ;)

Disclaimer: Don't own CSI NY and don't own the song either. Unbetad, so all mistakes are mine

I want you to live,
I want you to love
I want you to go on and not give up
I want you to live,
I want you to try
I want you to know that I'm alright
I want you to fall in love again
I wanna see you smile again and again
I want you to live

George Canyon, I want you to live

Stella sat in the church pew, eyes closed, murmuring a quiet but frantic prayer to herself in her native Greek. The words flew out of her mouth as she pleaded desperately to the God she'd had a belief in since she was a child. She was barely aware of the tears that were leaving tracks down her cheeks, barely aware of the bitter taste at the back of her mouth. What she could feel was the huge gaping ache that had settled in her heart.

Outside, the wind whipped around the buildings, sending frigid air into every available crevice. The candles flickered, the shadows flickering against the cold brick walls and occasionally the stained glass above Stella's head, sending dashes of multicoloured lights bouncing along the stone floor. The cold was slowly seeping into her muscles, causing them to ache from being left in the same position for so long. Her tears were crystallising on her lashes, sticking them together.

Stella was oblivious to it all.

She whispered her words through gritted teeth, refusing to let herself think about anything but the one reason she was there. The one reason she was praying. Images flashed through her mind, but she just pushed them away, not wanting to accept the reality, instead praying for the miracle that she knew in the back of her mind would never happen. She prayed for a reprieve. Prayed for another chance. Prayed that he would come back to her. But the sick feeling in the pit of her heart told her he wasn't coming back

He was gone.

Her determination was failing, the images she was pushing away starting to seep into her grief clouded mind. It should have been so different. She shouldn't have to be here.

It had been just another job. She'd arrived at the scene, hair pushed back off of her face from the force of the wind. He'd been studying the body, lying not three feet away from the stage back door, his trademark serious, non-judgemental expression in place. Flack had talked to the witnesses, Hawkes had been collecting trace.

The man had come out of nowhere. She'd spun around when she heard Mac trying to talk the man down. And he had almost succeeded. The gun had been lowered, pointing towards the floor instead of at his heart. She'd relaxed slightly, hand on her own piece, only registering the sound of sirens and cops rushing forwards when it was too late.

In slow motion, she's seen the man panic, seen the fear of being caught flashing through his eyes. She'd gone to pull her own gun out of her holster, but the man had been faster, bringing his own gun back up and pulling the trigger out of panic rather than thinking about the consequences.

Then it was all a blur. Mac falling, one arm clutched to his chest, the other trying and failing to slow his falling. Her running, ignoring the cops taking down the shooter, ignoring his panicked cries "I didn't mean to!". Her falling to her knees besides him, panic and fear bubbling in her own chest as she tried to assess how bad the wound was. She held her hands over his wound, trying to compress it, shouting inwardly for the blood to stop seeping out of the hole in his chest.

"Mac! Mac, look at me. Everything's going to be fine. You're going to be fine."

"Stella…" He croaked out, before coughing hard. Stella felt her heart stop and she had to hold back the tears that were stinging her eyes when she saw the thin trickle of blood come out of his mouth. His eyes rolled back into his head briefly, and he struggled to take breaths, gasping with the effort to hang on just that little bit longer.

"No! Dammit Mac. Don't you dare die on me!" Her own voice came out strangled, and it broke halfway through the sentence. She was dimly aware of sirens in the distance, dimly aware of Flack and Hawkes opposite her, trying to pry her hands away from Mac.

"You can't die on me Mac. We need you here. I need you here. I can't do this without you." She whispered, no longer able to hold back her tears. His blood coated her hands and her blouse, but she didn't care. They could be washed, replaced. Mac, her oldest friend, someone she'd loved for years but dared not admit it aloud, could not.

With what looked like a great effort, Mac raised his hand to Stella's cheek and wiped away some of her tears. "You can. You have to." Mac could see the black spots clouding his vision, could feel that he didn't have long left. Stella's face was all that he could see now, curly hair tumbling over her face which was stained with her tears. It broke his heart to know that he couldn't stay, that he had to leave her behind. Leave them all behind. He steeled himself and drew on the last reserves of energy he could muster to do the one last thing he needed to.

"You have to live Stella. I want you to live." He coughed again, and felt the darkness pulling him under, but he resisted. Just one last thing to say, then he could leave this world behind. "I love you Stella."

She just sobbed, feeling her break - after waiting for so long for those words, it would be the last thing he ever said to her. "I love you too Mac." She saw a ghost of a smile cross his face, and she collapsed, hugging his body to her, desperate for him not to go. For him not to leave her behind.

When she looked up again, it was if everything had changed. It all looked the same, but there was something missing. Colours seemed dull, noises seemed mute, everyone was going in slow motion. There was no longer any life in his eyes and it was then that she truly broke.

In the flurry of sirens police officers and EMT's, it seemed one noise was heard above everything else. A broken scream, full of grief, which seemed to shake the ground beneath them with the intensity of the pain. "Mac!"

After the light had died from his eyes, and his hand had gone limp in hers, her memory fragmented. She remembered that she'd had to be dragged screaming away from his body, screaming out his name, hoping that at any moment he would sit up and would tell her that it had all been a joke. She remembered glimpses of the other team member's faces: Lindsay and Adam crying unashamedly; Danny going white in the face and punching the nearest wall; Flack punching the perp in the face; Sid watching sadly as Mac's body has been wheeled into the morgue; Hawkes sitting by himself, head in hands. But what she remembered most was the image of Mac on the cold steel autopsy table, the stark Y-incision cuts, the bullet hole, the scars from his Beirut days. Those images would haunt her forever.

Her prayers broke off as she started to sob, big gulping sobs as the grief finally overtook her. The tiny gold cross he'd given her, the one she'd had clenched between her fists, slipped through her fingers and clattered nosily to the floor, the sound echoing through the empty church. She cried for the loss, she cried for the fact that Mac would not be coming back. She cried for so many wasted opportunities, for all of the times she'd wanted to tell him of her feelings and then backed out. She cried at the knowledge that she would have to live every coming day without him.

He wanted her to live. That's what he'd said. But how could she? How could she go on like she had before? She just didn't know how to do it alone. Deep in the back of her mind, she knew that she was not alone - the team were grieving too. But she felt alone, she felt lost. She didn't think she could do it without Mac.

As she sat there, tears no longer flowing, sobs quieting, she felt a whisper of wind trail across the back of her neck. It was as if a voice was whispering to her, calling out to her. You have to live. She shivered, feeling the cold clawing at her, withdrawing into herself as if to hide herself from the wind. And still she got the sense that the wind was talking to her. You have to live. The wind, which seemed to be coming from nowhere, blew around her, enveloping her, and yet brought her a strange sense of peace. You have to live. The voice sounded like Mac's, but how could it be? He was gone.

You have to live.

The voice followed her as she stood, as she walked back towards the entrance of the church. Followed her as she stood outside on the cold worn steps. The wind increased as she walked home, walked past the cemetery. She felt the wind pushing her, and she walked randomly, as if she had a destination in mind, too wrapped up in her thoughts and her grief to notice where she was going.

All at once the wind seemed to lessen, and she stopped, only now realising where she was. She gasped, and felt the sobs rise in her throat once again.

Mac Taylor

Born 25th September 1968

Died 18th February 2008

May he rest in peace

You have to live. The wind whispered again. And this time she nodded. She had to live.

So, what did you all think? A tad depressing I know and maybe the ending isn't great, but I would love to know what you guys think so please review :)