The Female of the Species

Summary: As Quinn Shelby completes her assessment of his lab, Mac remembers a previous, less professional, liaison.

Disclaimers: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the CSI franchises, which I assume belong to CBS and its cohorts. I would quite like to borrow Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?

A/N: Set during the Season 4 episode "Like Water for Murder". Thanks to JillSwinburne for Dan and other comments.

* * *

April 2008

"I still have a thing for you." The redhead leaned forward and looked at Mac Taylor intently, waiting for a reply. "Why didn't you ever call me?"

Mac looked away. Ten years, and still she couldn't let go. Just when he thought he'd moved on, forgiven himself as his wife had forgiven him long ago, Quinn Shelby would appear from nowhere and bring the memories flooding back. And they were powerful, arousing memories: which was one reason he didn't want to remember them.

Because, along with the pleasure they brought, they also brought the reminder that one night, nearly ten years ago, he had betrayed his wife.

He had to reply: he owed her that. "Quinn, I was married."

He thought he saw a smile. "It was just a kiss, Mac. I know – a moment of weakness."

"I loved my wife," he said simply, hoping that the statement would shame her into silence. He might as well have hoped for the rain to stop falling.

"Don't I know it!" she snapped, and he heard bitterness in her voice. "Every day I worked alongside you, you never let me forget that."

He leaned forward: she wasn't being fair. His actions had arisen directly from her own, and she had no-one but herself to blame. "It wasn't my intention to make things difficult," he said. But subtlety didn't work for someone who wouldn't take no for an answer, and there were occasions when he had not been subtle.

Mac was no fool, and he couldn't deny that, for a few moments, their liaison had been exciting – more than exciting. Downright dangerous.

His mind spun back to a cold, dark day in October, when Claire was alive and the world was young and he was happy.

Well, not so much happy, not on that day…

* * *

October 1998

"Mac? What the hell are you doing here? Don't you have a home to go to?" Robert Penfold looked at his colleague in exasperation.

Mac raised his head from his microscope, a weary expression on his face. "I could ask you the same thing, Bob," he said mildly.

"I run the place – well, for the next two months, at least. I'm divorced, I don't have a dog or a cat or a rabbit, and it's my job to be here at all hours. It's not yours – you've got a life outside this place – a wife waiting for you."

Mac sighed. "Not at the moment I don't," he muttered, more under his breath than in reply to Penfold's comment.

But his boss heard his words and immediately crossed to his side. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice softer now. "Is everything OK?"

"Yeah – yeah, I guess so." He sighed and replaced the sample on the bench. "Claire's mother broke her leg a couple months ago, and Claire and Dan have been taking it in turns to look after her now she's back home. Dan did weeks one to three, Claire's doing four to six."

"Dan…?"

"Claire's brother."

"Ah. How long's she been away?"

"Nearly a month." Mac's voice was ominous and dour.

"Call me pedantic," Penfold said drily, "but a month is longer than three weeks. Unless you're on Venus or somewhere."

"Her mother doesn't want her to come home," Mac replied. "What can she do? She says she needs her there – she can't just leave, can she? Dan's got to work, and she won't pay for carers. Not that she can't afford them…"

"So you're burning the candle at all three ends because you don't like an empty apartment?" Mac looked sheepish. "Come on – let's go and have a beer. No – no objections. You'll be bleary and useless in the morning, but I wouldn't mind an hour of good company. You don't want Quinn outshining you, do you, hmm?"

Mac grimaced. Quinn Shelby – like him, a Detective Grade 2, like him up for promotion when Penfold left – was alternately a pain and an inspiration, though more often the former than the latter: she was brash and noisy, but a gifted CSI. She was also not above taking credit for others' hard work, as he'd found out once to his cost – but she never passed the buck, never shrugged off her errors, and never indulged in office politics, so she wasn't all bad.

"Huh," he said. But he secured his work, removed his gloves and lab coat, and followed Penfold out. It would be good to forget his loneliness for a while.

* * *

"She says she can't manage alone!" Claire's voice hissed down the phone, and Mac guessed she didn't want to be overheard.

"Claire, it's nearly three months now – surely she's walking by this time? You've been there five weeks – I'm going nuts here on my own. You want me to come over there?"

"God – no," Claire replied. "I don't know what she'd do. It's just – I went out with a couple of girlfriends the day before yesterday – just for a rest – and when I came back the place was in uproar. Dirty dishes, clothes on the floor, the cats hadn't been fed, post not taken in – Mac, it was a nightmare."

"So she managed to dress and feed herself," Mac said drily, "just not clear up afterwards?"

"Don't – please don't do this. It's not fair." He could hear the tension in his wife's voice, and cursed his mother-in-law for a selfish harridan. She'd never liked him, wanting her daughter to marry a doctor or a lawyer, not a Marine, and she'd thrown every obstacle known to man – and, Mac privately thought, a few known only to the devil – in their way. When she'd realised they would marry in spite of her, she had demanded they live in Chicago: and they had, for a while. But life there had become impossible, and their escape to New York when Mac left the service was a brilliant and famous victory.

Now, it seemed, she was trying to turn the clock back, pressuring Claire and pulling them apart.

"You're my wife," he said. "You're supposed to be with me. I want to understand Claire – I do – but it can't go on much longer. You'll have to arrange for some care – if you think she really needs it – or for Dan to come back. Or you'll just have to walk away and let her sink or swim."

"Mac… Look, I'll broach the subject this evening, OK? Don't you think I want to be back home? Don't you think I want to be with you? I miss you – I miss all of you." Her emphasis was unmistakeable, and he understood the mischievous intent even in the midst of her seriousness.

"Mmm – I miss all of you, too," he murmured, and his mind conjured pictures of Claire, naked and happy and with him in New York instead of seven hundred miles away in Chicago. He grinned. "You want to know how much I miss you? What do you – " There was a sharp ping on the line, and he stopped. "Claire? You there?"

There was a pause before Claire replied, and when she did her voice was tight and drawn. "Sorry Mac – we had an audience."

"What?"

"It is Mom's phone."

"Bloody hell!" He was furious: how dare she listen to her daughter's private phone calls! How dare she listen to his! "Listen – you get something sorted, OK?"

"OK." He could tell she was nearly in tears.

"Hey – hey, I'm sorry. I love you, kitten – don't forget that. Always. I just – oh God, I just want you back here, with me. I hate being without you."

"I know – me too. I will do something – promise."

They spoke for a few more moments, exchanging sweet, silly words that mean nothing and everything and which are the visible frosting on a rich and invisible relationship. Alone again, Mac stared into the dark: he felt wretched and alone, utterly trapped by this appalling woman who had given birth to his beautiful wife. He ached to feel her lips on his, her arms around him, her breath in his hair, her hands on his body…

He shook himself, buried his head in the cold, unwelcoming pillow, and tried to sleep.

* * *

He was tired the following day: lack of sleep and company were beginning to take their toll. His conversation with Penfold weighed on him: it seemed, now that his attention had been drawn to her as a possible rival for the position of head of the lab, that Quinn was inescapable. He found it deeply irritating, and tried to shake her off, but when he went down to autopsy, suddenly she would be there; if he walked towards DNA, she would catch him up with some minor query; if he went to get a coffee, she was pouring juice and looking as if she wanted a chat.

In the end, he gave in. "Quinn," he said during their third meeting in the kitchen, "how're you doing?"

"I'm good," she said through a muffin. Speaking while eating was a habit he deplored, but he couldn't be bothered to remonstrate. "You?"

"Tired," he said. He paused: it would be nice to have someone to talk to, and Quinn seemed ready to listen, but was it wise to share his troubles just because he felt lonely? If Claire had been there… If Claire had been there, he reminded himself, he wouldn't have any troubles. Claire swept his life clean, tending his horizons and washing all his problems till they melted away. Oh God – how he missed her!

Whether it was the lack of sleep, or the thought of his beautiful, absent wife, he lost control for a second, and his breath became ragged and uneven. At once, Quinn was at his side: she put an arm around his shoulders – no more – but he was surprised at how much comfort he derived from the simple human contact. She stood with him, saying nothing, until he was himself again, and he was grateful: perhaps, he thought, he'd misjudged her, and she wasn't so predatory after all.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He was embarrassed, but it didn't feel wrong, being held by someone other than his wife. It was only a hug, after all…

"Hey – that's OK," she said softly. "It's tough, being alone."

"Hmm?"

"Claire being away – it must be tough."

"How did you…?" She smiled. "It's obvious, Mac – starched shirts, immaculate ties, never mind the double shifts and fridge diving. You're having someone do your washing and ironing, and not eating properly. Am I right?"

He moved from under her embrace, and smiled slightly in return. "Not entirely. I was a Marine, Quinn – I do my own laundry." But he found the idea that she thought he couldn't cope amusing, and when they passed and repassed in the corridors during the day, did not fail to offer a look, a smile, or a word.

It occurred to him that she was probing, trying to find a weakness to exploit in their battle for promotion: but he dismissed the notion as ridiculous and uncharitable. She knew, as well as he, that they'd be judged on their work, and Penfold was quite capable of seeing their merits and faults without having anyone point them out for him.

She was just trying to be friendly, that was all.

* * *

"Another all-nighter?" Penfold stood in the doorway to what Mac laughingly called his office – a small cubby-hole with a desk, an in tray and some photos – and looked stern.

"No – just finishing up," Mac replied. "Good job on the Queens case – never thought of the son."

Penfold grinned. "Give Shelby credit – she followed the evidence even though it contradicted what everyone was saying. She learnt that from you. Stubborn, both of you – good trait for a CSI."

Mac turned. "When you going to tell us?"

"Tell you what, Mac?"

The younger man sighed. "I hate office politics. I don't like the game – I don't play the game – and I see everyone around me manoeuvring for position like – like vultures before a train crash. It leaves me feeling dirty."

"You'll have to play one day, Mac"

"Yeah – well not any time soon."

"Shelby plays like a pro."

Mac suddenly felt angry. "Bob, if I can't get this job on merit, I don't want it at all. I became a Marine to do good, save lives – belong to something worthwhile. I became a CSI for the same reason – if I wanted to run for Congress, I wouldn't be standing here surrounded by saliva and blood and banged-up bullets and wondering what perversion of humanity I'd be unravelling tomorrow. I'd earn a lot more, too."

"Woah!" Penfold held up his hands. "Chill out, Mac!"

"Sorry – I just feel strongly, that's all."

"I know," Penfold replied. "I know. And there's no-one I'd rather hand my baby to." Mac blinked, but Penfold had clearly said all he was going to say. "Go on – home now. Finish what you're working on and get out of here."

"OK."

But Mac's attention was caught by another file and, as a wiser man might have foreseen, he was still working several hours later, when a knock at the 'door' – actually a wood and canvas screen to prevent passing distractions from becoming overwhelming – brought him back to the real world and revealed Quinn Shelby, coat in hand, eyebrows raised in admonition.

"You still here, Mac?"

"Evidently."

"Didn't I hear Bob tell you to go home?"

He shrugged. "So?"

"Come on – we can share a cab. Or you can walk me – it's a fine evening."

"Quinn, I've got – "

" – Nothing that can't wait till tomorrow. It's files, paperwork – not degrading samples. You're not a one-man army, Mac – leave it now for God's sake and get some sleep."

"Sleep? What's that?"

She came towards him. "A better argument for quitting I never heard. Come on – put it down and leave!"

He sighed. If only he was going home to Claire… He'd be tucked up in bed – he checked his watch and saw that it was gone midnight – yes, tucked up in bed, feeling her breathing against his skin, perhaps after making love, perhaps not, but with someone who cared for him more than life right beside him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. It was easier to acquiesce than argue. "OK," he said.

They walked together to the elevator, Quinn hovering just a little too near for comfort. Or not quite near enough: he found himself thinking of the feel of her arm around his shoulders, and how heavy and warm it had been. Other than the cold flesh of the dead, and two small boys who had skateboarded into him a few days before, no-one had touched him for weeks. He hadn't realised how much he would miss the simple physical contact of another person. He remembered how he had shied away from the army brothels when so many of his friends hung out there – how he wondered why on earth they would do such a thing, when they had wives and girlfriends waiting at home – but now, as he stood side by side with Quinn in the elevator, so close to another human being and yet so alone, he caught a glimpse of understanding. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to condemn…

Quinn had been right: the night was clear and quiet, with a faint autumnal nip in the air. He smelt the first hints of the thick, dank smells of the wilting of the year: they were comforting, surrounding his senses like a blanket.

"So," Quinn said, crashing into his reverie. "Cab or walk?"

A walk would take longer. Perhaps another whole hour before he had to face that cold, empty bed. "Walk," he said.

They didn't say much: they were very different people, and casual conversation did not come easily. Quinn's apartment was some forty-five minutes from the lab, and once they got into their stride Mac enjoyed the sights and sounds of night-time Manhattan. It certainly was a city that never slept, but to walk along the sidewalks and not have to dodge others – to cross roads when the 'Don't Walk' sign was showing, relying on eyes and ears alone – to feel the space around him rather than the throb of human flesh – it was almost erotic in its strangeness and intensity.

Gradually, their steps fell into a rhythm, beating a regular tattoo on the hard, clean pavements. Their strides matched each other, and it seemed perfectly natural when Quinn slipped her arm through Mac's: it was merely companionable, the sort of thing inevitable on a night-time walk being taken by friends.

When they finally reached her apartment building – a rather nice development near to the heart of things but pleasantly off the beaten track – Mac made to move away. He was very tired, in body as well as mind, and dared to hope that their long walk might afford him a few hours of dreamless sleep before his next shift.

But Quinn clearly had other ideas, and contrived to look wistful and accusing at the same time. "Come on up for a coffee, Mac, at least!"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes – it's thirteen minutes to one. So?"

"We've both had a long day."

She smiled. "Well, you have – but your next shift's the late one, yes? So you've got till four tomorrow afternoon – time, I think, for one drink!"

"This afternoon," he murmured.

"Whatever. Come on, Mac – you can't walk me home and abandon me on the doorstep!"

Mac thought that he very well could, but – as so often with Quinn and her overbearing enthusiasm – he gave in. "OK," he sighed. "Just a coffee."

She grinned: a dispassionate onlooker might have seen the gleam of the hunter in her eye, but Mac was neither, and didn't.

* * *

"How d'you like your coffee?"

Mac smiled in mild annoyance: he'd worked with Quinn for six years, and still she couldn't remember. The woman who would undoubtedly get promoted to Grade 2 when either he or Quinn took the big chair, Stella Bonasera, had learnt in her first week.

"Black, two sugars," he called, discarding his jacket and sinking into one of Quinn's massive easy chairs. They really were the height of luxury, to the point of almost consciously wrapping themselves around him. God, he thought as he stretched his weary legs and rested his head against the deeply padded back – this was the life.

He was half asleep when Quinn tapped him on the shoulder. Leaning over the back of the chair, she carefully set the mug by his side before placing her hands gently on his shoulders and massaging the day away. He tensed at first and then, realising what she was doing, relaxed into her expert fingers, sighing in contentment and beginning to drift slightly. Oh, he needed this…

Too soon, she stopped, leaving him temporarily cold and bereft.

"OK?" she asked softly, settling herself into another chair.

"Mmm." He flexed his shoulders. "That was good."

She watched him drink his coffee: it was hot and strong and not at all like the coffee he made himself at home. He sank further into his chair, as if willing it to swallow him whole.

Quinn kept the conversation going almost single-handedly for a while, but when she turned to past cases he began to contribute, and soon they were reminding each other of suspects, procedures and case-breaks that it would have been against protocol – not to mention the law – to share with anyone else. Mac laughed, and felt it was too long since he had been this content. He was beginning to feel slightly blurred around the edges, and wondered if Quinn had put something stronger in his mug than coffee. He picked it up and waved it at her.

"More?" she asked.

What the hell, Mac thought. "Yeah – please."

She rose from her seat, took the mug, and then seemed surprised when he caught her free hand. "Mac?"

"Thanks, Quinn."

She returned the pressure. "No problem."

More conversation, remembrances and laughter ensued, but at last Mac glanced at his watch. "Quinn," he said slowly, "it's a quarter after three. I've got to get home." Ignoring her protests, he hauled himself to his feet, blinked, and made for the door.

Then her hand was on his arm. "Mac, look at you! You're in no fit state to go anywhere – you're exhausted! Stay here – there's plenty of room."

He shook his head. "No – thanks, but I'll be getting back." He paused, not wanting to offend her. "It's been great, Quinn – thanks. It's been good to have some company."

"It doesn't have to end, Mac," she said quietly. "You don't have to go." She was very close to him: he could smell the scent of her hair, and realised that all he had to do was put out a hand to touch her, and she would melt.

The thought of holding someone was intoxicating: to feel that warmth beneath him, around him, responding to him… He took Quinn's hand. "I really have to go."

But they both knew he was fighting a losing battle: his brain felt foggy, and all his nerves were on fire, tingling with anticipation and nearness. It was just a hug, after all… Pulling her to him, he held her close, aware with his whole being of the heat of her against his skin, of the way her arms folded him up into their embrace, of how she gently moved against him, arousing him in ways which he could not – and did not wish to – ignore.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened. One moment she was holding him: the next she was kissing him passionately, deeply, with abandon and without reserve. She pulled him into the hunger of her kiss as surely as headlights mesmerise a rabbit; she coaxed the life and the will out of him and he, flesh and blood and desperately lonely, willingly gave her what she craved.

Oh God! How he'd missed this! He wasn't a young man – he'd be thirty five next month – but he was still a man, and needed physical contact like he needed air to breathe. Thank God, he thought, she was back: he reached up a hand to grasp her thick curls, loving the feel of all that hair cascading through his fingers. It was the best aphrodisiac he knew.

His eager touch met something smooth, straight – and short. As the kiss deepened in intensity and urgency, and he felt her hands begin to caress other parts of him – parts that leapt up in eager, animal response – he searched again for that beautiful waterfall, and again found nothing.

He moaned – something was wrong. Where was the hair – the glorious, unmistakable hair? Breathing faster, distressed in the midst of his passion, he pulled away. Surely she hadn't had it cut in Chicago, not when she knew he loved it so much? Opening his eyes, he focussed on the woman in his arms, flushed and full-lipped with lust, her eyes half-lidded, her short hair tangled from his frustrated fingers, a small smile on her lips.

He stared at her stupidly. Quinn? What was – Quinn?

She spoke before he could. "Hey," she said. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable, hmm?"

A slap on the face; a dousing in freezing water; shrapnel in the gut. Mac had experienced all three, but none brought his world crashing down like seeing Quinn's face. Like hearing her voice – the seductive, siren, spider voice of sticky, irreversible temptation.

He almost screamed. "Quinn!"

"All me, Mac." She reached down and grabbed him. "And all you."

"God – what the hell are you playing at?" He pushed her away.

She looked pointedly at the front of his pants. "Like I said – not just me."

He flushed. He wasn't yet ashamed – that would come later – but he was angry. "You – I have a wife, Quinn! You know that!" He looked at her, so complacent in her almost victory, and then the realisation hit him: he was as much at fault as she. It takes two, he thought, and he had been only too willing. She might have lured him here, but he had stayed. He could have left at any time – he knew it – but he had stayed. The betrayal was his, not hers.

He felt his eyes sting with fiery, bitter tears. Claire – kissing Quinn – enjoying it, he couldn't deny – beautiful Claire, oh God, what had he done?

"It was just a kiss," she shrugged, and he saw the hunger in her eyes. He had to get out of there. She was cunning – he saw that now – and he was weak. He had to get away.

"And that's all it will ever be," he said harshly. "It meant nothing, Quinn – a momentary weakness. It never happened – and it'll never happen again. Whatever you want from me, it's not available. You – you caught me out. It won't happen again."

As he moved towards the door she caught at his sleeve. He shook her off, but she clung like a child in a storm. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I can't stop caring, Mac."

He felt a brief sympathy for her, then saw the hardness behind those eyes and realised that this was just another ploy to get him to surrender. "I'm sorry too, Quinn, but you're too late. Claire got there first."

She blinked at that, and he saw her brain processing possibilities. Didn't she ever give up? Then she smiled again. "Well… He who laughs last – you know what they say."

Mac stared at her, horrified. He knew he should leave without another word, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she'd got to him: but he had to speak. "I love my wife," he said coldly. "I will always love my wife. I will always be married to Claire, no matter what happens – no matter what, you hear me? There's more to marriage than a ring and a name and words. And that's what you never understood, was it? All the little unseen things that knit people together in a bond that no-one can untie. It never worked for you, did it, Quinn?" He shook his head. "You never had any idea what love was about."

"And what will she say when she finds out?"

He went cold. "You wouldn't…"

She grimaced. "No, I wouldn't. I have some decency. But you will. You won't be able to help yourself. Even if you don't say the words, you'll tell her with every gesture, every look – it's too late, Mac. It's done."

He fled. Running from her web, down the stairs and into the dark, unwelcoming street, he put as much distance between them as fast as could without falling, as his feet pounded the silent sidewalks and the tears burnt their way down his twisted, howling face.

To be concluded in chapter 2