A/N: Inspired by a prompt put up on smackficathon at LiveJournal. The theme was 'Tiffany's Blue Boxes'.
Breakfast at Tiffany's
It's not everyday that a girl turn forty years old.
But why, oh why can't it be some other day but today? It's not that I hate birthdays, it's that I hate my birthday. Ever since I was a little girl I've hated birthdays—of course, back then, it was because I lived in an orphanage and usually didn't have much to celebrate about. But now, after all of my years (now I just sound old) away from that place and in the real world, I still hate my birthday. I probably will until the day I die.
I start April twenty-third as I start any other, ordinary day. I get up, shower, manage to find some sort of breakfast in the fridge—God, I really need to go grocery shopping—and leave my apartment at seven-thirty, just as I always do. I get into the car supplied to all of us by the Crime Unit and drive to work, getting stuck in mid-morning traffic—just as I always do. And, when I get to work, I check my messages, grab some break-room sludge-like coffee, and wander around the halls towards Mac's office. Just as I always do.
The thing about me is that I never share more than I have to. Only three people in this entire building know that I'm turning forty today, and I prefer to keep it that way.
Except…you don't turn forty every day, right? So, even though I detest this day entirely, it really would be nice to at least get a 'Happy Birthday'. Yeah. That would be nice.
But, I think to myself, that's just getting your hopes up. I specifically forbade Mac, Danny, and Flack from ever mentioning my birthday to anyone, especially me. Especially on this day. So, when I enter Mac's office at eight o'clock on the dot, he does nothing more than his usual greeting of 'Good Morning, Stella' and that's only after I tell him that a Good Morning would be nice. Mac Taylor, as much as he is my best friend, is a little on the anti-social side.
Well, maybe not anti-social. More like…forgetful. He gets so wrapped up in work that occasionally he'll forget to sleep, eat, or shower. Usually it's sleep, though. Mac Taylor is a pretty clean guy. I should know. I've been around him for about ten years now.
"Hello, dear." Danny pokes his head into the office and draws out the word 'dear' like he knows something I don't. And I realize that Danny, at least, hasn't forgotten what day it is.
"Good Morning, Danny. And do you see a tail back there?" I stare pointedly at him. He just smiles and shrugs.
"I'm sorry—Good Morning Stella."
Damn Danny and his memory. The snarky CSI disappears from the doorway with me staring after him.
"Stella?"
Mac's staring at me like I'm from outer space and I realize I've been glaring at an empty doorway for the last thirty seconds. Oops. I quickly cover my tracks by snatching the cases for the day off of his desk and flipping through them.
"Robbery, Break and Enter, and one Homicide." I read off the sheets as I scan the headings. "Dibs the Homicide."
"You can 'dibs' a Homicide?" Mac asks, staring at me.
"I can. You wanna come with?"
Mac shrugs. I take that as a 'Yes' and grab his keys off of the desk.
"I'm driving."
There is something strange going on with Mac Taylor.
Because I keep catching him staring at me.
See, usually I'd be flattered. But today, he's staring at me in puzzlement, rather than the standard guy-checking-me-out stare. Maybe he's trying to figure out why both Flack and Danny have the tell-tale tone in their voices that is driving me crazy. I knew I never should have let Flack tell Danny. Knew it.
On the upside, our Homicide has quickly turned into a slam-dunk case, seeing as we found the murderer in the coffee shop next to the Bodega we'd sealed off as a crime scene. The idiot was downing a cup of coffee with the murder weapon in his jacket.
"How do you get that stupid?" I ask, as Mac and I throw our kits in the back of the SUV.
"I think it's genetic," he says, and I laugh. And dammit, he's doing it again!
"Should we, ah, head back to the lab?" I clear my throat. I'm not going to pretend that Mac staring at me makes me uncomfortable—on the contrary, my stomach is doing something akin to the conga. When did Mac Taylor turn into the kind of guy that made me do stomach flip-flops?
"I'm going to catch a ride with Flack. Paperwork to deal with at PD first."
You know, I have half a mind to remind him that it's my birthday and order him to come back with me. I really do. He's obviously completely oblivious to the fact that I am indeed one year older. Every other year, I've at least gotten a 'Happy Birthday, Stell', even though I expressly forbid him from doing that. But nooo, this year he's Mr. Forgetful.
"Okay. I'll catch you later, then."
It turns out 'later' means 'never'. I left the Bodega oh, about, four hours ago and Mac still hasn't turned up. I mean, I know paperwork with the NYPD takes a little while, but not four hours! Knowing Mac, he probably caught another case while he was there and decided to abandon his partner in favour of a fresh crime scene.
Lindsay sticks her head into the layout room a little while after shift officially ends.
"Night, Stell. Oh, and--" she looks around to make sure no one's there and I smile at the thought that Danny really is incapable of keeping his mouth shut. "—Happy Birthday. Don't tell Danny."
I laugh and tell her I won't, because hey, at least someone said it. She smiles, silently hands me an envelope, and disappears.
I open the envelope. Hey, curiosity may have killed the cat, but those little buggers have nine lives and I really want to know what Lindsay left in that thing.
727 Fifth Avenue and 57 Street8:00
What?
Okay, so I'm curious. Again. I'm driving towards the address from the note and I'm really, really frustrated, because that address seems so familiar. I just can't put my finger on it.
I'm also completely confused. The writing on that note was definitely not Lindsay's—hers was smaller and more cursive. No, the writing definitely belonged to a man. And I briefly get my hopes up that it's from Mac, asking me to meet him so he can…I don't know…celebrate with me.
But I'm not stupid. I know Mac Taylor. Beneath the tough exterior of a hardened cop is a man with the heart of a lion. And that heart was nearly broken six years ago when the towers fell and Claire died. I didn't think, back then, that he would ever get over it. He had retreated into his shell and cut himself off from the world around him for exactly six months until I confronted him in his office. He'd shattered a glass wall with the screen of his computer and cut himself so badly that I'd had to take him to the emergency room so he could have twenty-two stitches in his arm. After that, I took him home. I had never seen him cry before that day. And, three days later, we both returned to work with the old Mac Taylor perhaps not back, but on his way.
Tiffany's! That's why I recognized the address.
Wait. Why am I at Tiffany's?
I exit the car and stare up at the sign above the awning. I'm not going to lie—as much as I appreciate the value of money, that resolve is completely tested once I enter this building. I think that's the reason I can watch Breakfast At Tiffany's so many times. In a lot of ways, I am Holly Golightly—a lost little girl in a big city, until a handsome stranger comes around and changes my life forever. Except, while Holly got her happy ending, my handsome stranger wound up being my partner, friend, and confidant, instead of lover. I even have a cat. Named Holly.
Hold on, wasn't I supposed to be doing something other than staring up at the Tiffany's sign and wondering about Audrey Hepburn?
The note comes back to me. Only…Tiffany's looks more than a little dark and definitely more than a little closed. But, being me, and ridiculously curious, I decide it's a good idea to at least try the door.
The door opens silently as I enter the store. Inside, it's completely dark, save for a little circle of candles on a counter in the middle of the room. I wonder what on earth is going on when I hear soft music start to play, and feel a hand gently grasp mine to pull me into the candle light.
I feel completely ethereal. The hand wrapped around mine is so familiar, so comforting. The man himself stays hidden in the shadows as we come to a stop in front of the candles. I can smell vanilla.
I look down at the candles and see a perfect, blue box sitting in the centre of light. I gasp. The hand comes into my vision for a moment to lift the box from its place and carefully into my hands.
I hesitate slightly before lifting the lid off.
"Oh, God…"
Inside, a perfect, gold, chain-link necklace lays on top of a little cushion. Attached to it is a perfect circle surrounded by another circle, with tiny little roman numerals for the numbers three, six, nine, and twelve inside the circles. Through the middle circle is the little, gold bar that keeps the necklace together. It reminds me irrefutably of a clock.
I feel tears in my eyes as I dare to touch the amazing piece before me. Gently, the hand I know I recognize tips my chin toward him and slowly, finally, Mac Taylor comes into view.
"Mac," I breathe.
"Stella," he says, "today, you turn forty years old. You are more beautiful and more graceful than any woman I have ever known, and even more so now that you have lived forty years on this planet. And I am lucky enough to have known you for ten of those amazing years. So this, Stella, is my gift to you on your fortieth birthday: a reminder of the time you will always have to celebrate the life I love so much."
I know the tears are trailing down my cheeks now, but I don't care. I have never seen Mac act or speak with such tenderness, and I briefly wonder if I'm dreaming. But, when he gently wipes my tears away with his thumbs, I know I'm not dreaming. This is real. It's wonderful and amazing and real.
"Oh, Mac…" I say, knowing I'm lost for words.
He covers my hand holding the necklace with his.
"May I?"
I nod, silently, and watch as he lifts the necklace from its cushion and softly moves my curls away from my neck to loop the chain around it. He clasps it in the front and I can't believe this is really Mac Taylor.
"Beautiful," he whispers. His eyes meet my tear-filled ones until I can't stand it anymore and I launch myself into his arms.
"Thank you, Mac." I say, my voice muffled in his jacket. I feel his arms surround me, hugging me to him. I smile.
"Dance with me."
I pull back a little to see if I'm hearing things.
"What?" I ask, laughing slightly.
"Dance with me, Stella."
He's serious. I smile brilliantly at him as he leans over to reach for a remote control to turn up the music I'd heard earlier. The first soft strains of 'Moon River' reach my ears.
We move slowly. My head is tucked into the crook of his neck; his chin rests against my hair. He didn't forget. Later, I'll ask him how he managed all of this, and he'll probably refuse to tell me. But, for now, I'm happy right here, wrapped in my best friend's arms without a care in the world.
"Happy Birthday, Stella."
A/N: Any mistakes are mine, considering this was unbeta-ed. Read and Review!