Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
Thank you Lily Moonlight for reading through and discussion and helping with the dreaded summary and title!
He stood in the hallway behind his office, staring into a falling night, at buildings that faded into shadows as lights were switched off, at people hurrying home. People in his own lab hurried home, calling out 'goodnights' to those who were still there, those who would hold the fort on the nightshift – but he barely noticed. Like so many things he had barely noticed in the past few days.
Files were spread out on his desk, waiting to be looked through, signed off, worked on – but he had given up on them. Like he had given up on them so often in the past few days.
He simply couldn't concentrate.
So much had happened in the last 9 days; so much in so little time and he still didn't know how it could have. It had begun with the crossfire he and Stella had gotten caught in and while they had managed to avoid the bullets, they had come close, sustaining their share of minor injuries during the chase and arrests. He had had to gun down one of the shooters in the process, the young man not quite 25 years of age, newlywed and with a baby on the way. The wife had yelled at him later in the hospital, had threatened him and he had let her, too exhausted and in no condition to argue. Stella had done that for him, putting the wife in her place so harshly that Mac had been afraid she would launch at the young woman. She hadn't but once seated in the cab they had shared afterwards, she had admitted that she had come close.
Regardless of the circumstances, the wife had filed a complaint and lawsuit against them and the police department – she wasn't likely to win yet it meant additional paperwork, an IAB investigation and a psyche evaluation neither he nor Stella could bail out of.
But all had gone smoothly, at least that was what they had thought. The shooting had been deemed a good shooting, he and Stella had been cleared of any possible wrong-doings and the wife had been convinced to drop the charges – still they remained suspended from any field duty as it had triggered a different kind of investigation.
They had been required to do another psyche evaluation, their appointments having been the previous day. She had gone first, then it had been him and they had crossed paths only briefly since. Yet he imagined her questions to have been the same as his; questions which were the reason for his increased lack of concentration, for his ongoing inattentiveness. And if he was honest, he was glad that he had been able to hide behind his paperwork. His thoughts had drifted frequently all day long, had drifted everywhere. To the shooting, the appointment, the implications, the consequences, to the person he had caught himself gazing at whenever she had come into his sight. The person he had managed to avoid for the most part of the day, had not spoken to other than professionally – and whose footsteps he now heard approaching. He didn't need to see her to know; he knew her walk like she knew his, was aware of her presence like she always seemed aware of his and he turned, finding her standing a few feet away from him.
The ghost of a smile flashed across his face, his eyes instantly drawn to her arm. The sling she had worn for her dislocated shoulder had come off two days ago but the bruise on her forearm was still visible and he stared at it, his thoughts wandering again.
The blow from her attacker had taken her by complete surprise, the pain so unexpected that she had let out a scream that had pierced through his body. He had glanced towards her as he had waited for her to confirm that she was okay, glanced for no more than a second. A second that couldn't have been longer, that had allowed the young man to draw his gun, had given him the possibility to fire; a second that had ultimately resulted in his death. – And seemed to cost more than it was worth. It had stirred up emotions he didn't want to deal with, feelings he didn't want to be confronted with and most of all it had stirred up questions he wanted to avoid because deep down inside he knew the answers to all of them.
"Mac," her soft voice drew him back to the present and realizing that his eyes were still fixed on her arm, he lifted them up to hers. He was met by a mixture of emotions, a shadow of doubt, of hesitation, of discomfort, and she shifted slightly, knitting her fingers together. "I think there's something we need to talk about." She held his eyes firmly as she spoke and not entirely sure what to reply, he took a deep breath. Letting his hands slip into his pants' pockets he leaned against the column behind him, his weight supported by his shoulder, his look expectant.
"I'm listening," he told her, sounding more indifferent than he was, his heart rate suddenly picking up, pounding in his chest.
Nodding, she let her eyes wander around, pressing her fingers together, wincing slightly and absent-mindedly and dropping her arms back to her side as her gaze returned to his.
"I would think," she began, her left hand grasping her right arm, "that you've been asked the same questions I have."
It was a query without being one; he couldn't answer it as long as she wasn't any more specific but she appeared to have difficulties finding words to be that.
"They think we've gotten too close and it's affecting our work," she summed up and despite the seriousness of the situation he had to smile. The way she said it, the bluntness that was apparent in the statement could only come from her and he felt his heartbeat pick up again, differently this time, fluttering.
His response, however, was simple. "They do."
And that, they had made more than clear, asking the same questions phrased another way until they had finally inquired directly if he had feelings for his partner, Detective Bonasera.
"They're right, aren't they?" her quiet and even voice interrupted his thoughts once again. She was looking at him, into his eyes, into him and he found himself mesmerized by her gaze, by the depth it suddenly had.
"Stella…" He felt he needed to say something but he had no idea as to what, sighing and pulling out one of his hands before halting halfway up to his neck. While she had to warn him verbally at first, she now just needed a glare – the one she was giving him right this moment – to keep him from his habit of rubbing a hand over neck and thus the healing wound, something he was supposed to avoid.
"I don't know," he muttered, his hand slipping back into his pocket. It wasn't entirely true; he knew that they were right, that it had been her cry of pain that had distracted him. That had allowed for a situation to happen that could have ended in a much different way and the fact that it hadn't still didn't make any difference. Not in their job. Not when they were supposed to have each other's back; have the other officers' backs.
"They asked me if I had feelings for you," Stella continued as if he hadn't said anything. But her eyes told another story, one that made it clear that she didn't believe him. "Romantic feelings." Again, the green of her eyes deepened, became more intense, the majority of the emotions he had seen earlier vanished, replaced by something he didn't dare to decipher. "And they had made up their mind about the answer."
Her voice dropped, the directness gone and he let her gaze engulf him, nodding knowingly. They had continued to pry even after his denial until he had had enough, ready to storm out of the office and staying only because they had threatened to view it as an admission if he walked out that door and would order an immediate transfer of Stella.
"I'm sorry, Stella," he finally said. "This is all…" Words eluded him and he sighed, his hand on his way to his neck again but being run over his face instead. "It shouldn't have come to that. I know better than that." His arm dropped back to his side in an almost helpless gesture and an instant later he stuffed it back into his pocket, waiting for her response, for something else that would come to his mind.
Neither happened and silence fell between them, her eyes regarding him open and honest, with affection, a hint of thoughtfulness, and for a moment he wondered if she had heard any of what he had said.
"What did you tell them?" she asked.
"What?"
"What did you tell them?" she repeated, obviously not seeing the need to be more explicit, her eyes never wavering from his.
"That it was ridiculous," he stated as if there was no other option, a shadow, a new one, a different one, clouding her eyes briefly. Tugging at his heart. Preventing him from asking if she hadn't done the same.
"Did you mean it?"
The question was almost voiceless, unexpected, but he knew instantly where this was going and confirmation seemed the logical answer. Yet confirmation would be a lie and with it he would pass on what was likely the only chance he had not to lose what he was most afraid of losing. Because they wouldn't have that conversation again, because an answer would be definite. And that he tried to avoid, searching for something to say that would circumvent that definite but coming up only with the excuse that had been so convenient for all the years.
"Stella, we can't. Couldn't."
"That's not what I asked," she said, her voice still calm. "And it's not a question of whether we can or can't. Not anymore." She took a step forward, her voice growing quieter, gentler, as she spoke. "They're certain we're involved. The damage is done." She closed the distance between them, standing directly in front of him, her gaze even stronger, even more captivating. "What difference is the truth going to make?"
By now, her voice was barely a whisper, the power of the question, however, standing between them, building a wall that could harden or crumble in the blink of an eye. In the short moment it would take him to reply. A reply he hadn't made his mind up about, nevertheless he opened his mouth, evasion, vagueness, on the tip of his tongue. But something inside him kept the words from coming out; the same something that pushed for the truth, a truth he owed her, owed himself and that she was right about. Almost.
"It makes a difference to us," he remarked, his voice as quiet as hers. A flash of surprise spread across her face, gone as quickly as it had come and she smiled briefly.
"It does," she agreed, more to herself than him and he, too, smiled, reaching for her hand.
"I thought I meant it," he admitted, lowering his eyes to their joint hands, his thumb brushing over her fingers. "But I didn't." He lifted his eyes back to hers, the emotions having grown stronger, the thoughtfulness though, still buried in the back.
"What about you?" he asked softly, raising his other hand to let his fingertips comb carefully through her curls.
It was she who broke their gazes this time, staring at the hand he still held, apology written clearly into her eyes when she met his again.
"I told them, Mac," she said, the same apology in her voice. "They kept pushing, asking questions and…"
"You exploded," he finished, unable to keep his lips from curling into a smile.
"I don't explode," she protested, her fingers now intertwining with his.
"Of course not," he hurried to assure her.
"I might have lost my temper – a little," she ignored his words but a quick smile spread over her face. "But fact is," she grew serious again, "that I told them. That I said that I did have feelings for you and that I'd rather lose my job than you and if I…"
His hand having slipped into her curls, he drew her face towards his, his lips grazing hers, stunning her into silence, stunning himself with the impulsiveness. But the sensations were overwhelming, her eyes mirroring the emotions tumbling through him and his mouth met hers once more. More slowly, their lips melting into each others, exploring carefully, tentatively, feelings taking over. He let go of her hand to encircle her waist, subconsciously aware of her palms touching his cheeks, the kiss growing, deepening until they had gone as far as they could. As far as a first kiss would allow, still they took their time drawing apart, their lips lingering, separating in an aftermath of emotions.
"... had to quit I would do it," she whispered, her eyes fluttering open.
He smiled at her with the same affectionate smile he found on her face, her hands gliding from his cheeks to his chest and he leaned in to meet her lips again.
"You're not quitting," he told her, his hands finding hers, curling around them. "My latest promotion is buried somewhere in my desk," he went on to explain before she could protest and she grinned, knowing all too well that he had hoped Sinclair would just forget about it. "As far as I know, it's still good."
She nodded, studying him as his thumbs brushed over the back of her hands. He was sure that her thoughts matched his, dwelled on the fact that they would soon not share a workplace anymore yet they would share something else. Something worth so much more, of a priceless value and he squeezed her hands in reassurance. "Have you had dinner yet?"
"Am I not supposed to ask you that question?" she shot back, an amused spark lighting up her eyes. All thoughtfulness was finally gone, leaving only an ocean of color, of emotion he wanted to drown in and for a second the idea took him aback then he relaxed as a serene comfort settled into him.
"Since I'll be the one going to take you out to dinner from now on," he smiled while she rolled her eyes playfully, "I'm also asking the questions."
"Is that so, detective?" But in spite of the teasing, she offered him a loving smile, her eyes glowing with the anticipation he felt and they leaned towards each other, hesitantly at first, before they allowed themselves to share another kiss.
"So?" he asked once they had drawn apart, letting go of one of her hands and tightening the grip on her other one.
"No," she said, another spark – mischief this time – lighting up her eyes again. "But there's a nice Italian diner my boss and I like to go to. Very quiet, hardly anyone knows about it and no one's ever bothering us there." She grinned at him and he couldn't help laughing.
"Tell your boss you're off limits," he retorted, bringing up his hand to brush through her curls again, cupping her face with the care he would hold porcelain.
"I'll pass on the message," she assured and they smiled at each other once more, not quite ready to move. To break the spell they had created around themselves and they gazed into each other's eyes, sensations inside of him growing as he sank into hers. Drowned in them like he had wanted to and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he felt complete, felt like he belonged.
"Let's go," he said quietly, about to guide her towards the locker room when he remembered the mess in his office and he pulled her towards it instead. She followed wordlessly and helped him put the files away, teasing him about the amount, asking if he had worked this past week at all. He fired back the proper replies, enjoying the spark which captured him each time their hands touched, accidentally at first, then purposely as she started to reach for the file he had just taken. Mindful of her shoulder, they struggled lightheartedly over the folders, ended in fits of laughter, in stolen kisses and eventually he wrapped his arms around her, looking at her in wonderment. It all appeared so easy, so natural, the comfort between them feeling so right, so meant to be and as he continued to hold her, to gaze into her eyes, he realized that it was. They would have their times of trouble, their arguments, nothing would change about that, but this – them – was what would make up for it; it was what was supposed to be. How it was supposed to be.
"I love you, Stella," he breathed with an ease and calmness that should have scared him. Yet it felt simply right, as right as their effortlessness around one another.
"Mac," she whispered, searching his eyes and he waited for her to go on, to tell him that it was too soon, that he couldn't mean it, not when their first kiss had been only minutes ago. But she didn't, she seemed to be aware of the same as him: he did mean it, no matter the timing and she just kept holding on to his eyes, to him, his heart.
Relishing the emotions, their newfound bond, he kept her in his embrace for another moment before he let go of her again and they finished up with the same smoothness as previously. Finally ready to leave, their fingers then intertwined and exchanging a glance that spoke more than any words, he switched off the light, walking her out into a future of change, of hope, of promise. And most of all, of love.