A/N: This is my first CSI:NY fic, so please, ladle on an extra generous amount of advice. Um...this is Mac/Stella, so if that's not your cup of tea, please leave. When I wrote this, Mac sounded kind of OOC. He's still kind of OOC, I think. Just leave your comments.
The day is early, the sounds of New York haven't reached their zenith yet. He walks into the building, the soft sound of the door closing following him. He just needs to get his frustrations today, push himself until he feels like he has to collapse. He loves that feeling. The faint sound of classical music assaults his ears. A flute is playing, high notes with a lilting, playful tone. He follows, almost as if under the call of a Siren. And there, he finds himself enraptured by the most enchanting image.
It is she, constantly strong and brash, only softer. Her curly hair is tied in a tight bun. She's dressed in a leotard, beige ballet shoes covering her feet. The music is soft, turned down low. She's performing an elaborate dance routine. He never knew this side of her, never experienced it. She is pure grace as she twirls about the floor. He sets his bag down on the ground and crosses his arms, simply content watching her.
That was the first time he had seen her dance. Truly dance. He used to imagine she was dancing for him, but he's gotten past delusions now. Well, almost all of his delusions. She had danced for them the other day in the lab. He had been surprised that she would reveal something so personal to them, to the public. She had dusted it off as some obscure dance lesson from a time long past, but he knew better. He had seen her. She was not a dancer merely from a friend's persistence. She had been a dancer.
Around Christmas, he had made the decision to buy her a gift. He had no idea why he was possessed with this need to let her know how he felt. Subtlety was the clue. Not that Tiffany's was sutble. But he had thought to himself that this could be one of his only shots left at happiness. And what did happiness cost anyway? It was priceless. He bought a necklace, ballet shoes, done in rubies, on a simple gold chain. He kept the velvet box in a drawer in his desk.
On Christmas Eve, he found himself inside his fish tank of an office, protected from the snow. It wasn't a blizzard, far from it. Just a few harmless, decorative flurries, floating down from the clouds. He thought it was beautiful. He sat at his desk, boxes setting on top of it. There was a knock at the door. He replied, and he could hear the air conforming to the movement of the door. He had always loved Physics. He was shocked to see her.
He didn't ask any questions. That would have been too suspicious, too obvious. She shrugged her shoulders in response to the unasked question. "Go home, Stella," he whispered, gently. Her tired eyes blinked in response, wandering until they settled on him, haggard.
"Why don't you follow your own advice?" she replied. She was a constant in his life, unchanging. She would always be tempestuous, always be bright, almost always filled with mirth and laughter and wit.
He smiled, a careless smile. This was too casual, too loose, too free. He gestured to the boxes. "Paperwork." She returned the smile, and sat across from him. She moved, pushing the box off to the side a little to make room. She opened the box.
"Need help?" It wasn't a question. He nodded anyway, as if she needed the reply. She grabbed a file, and opened it, beginning to fill in blank boxes, checking things that needed to be checked. At around midnight, he stopped. She paused when he did and followed him with her eyes.
"Is it still snowing?"
"I don't know."
He found he felt bold, brazen. He opened his desk drawer. The velvet box stared at him, mocking him. His fingers curled around it, lifting it from its home. He set it on the desk, in front of her. Her eyes darted to and fro, from the box to him, erratically, suspicious. "Merry Christmas." He watched as her slender fingers opened the box, watched her face as she gasped softly in surprise.
"Mac," she whispered, her voice barely registering in his ears. "I—I can't accept this." Her eyes darted up to meet his again, meeting his steel resolve. He watched as her fingers lifted it out of its case. Her eyes flitted to his, secretly asking. He tipped his head the slightest degree, and walked around the desk until he was standing behind her. She moved her hair aside, and he caught its scent, floral and enticing. He took the necklace, and closed the clasp, allowing it to rest on her neck. She smiled, a faint smile of gratitude.
"Dance with me." It was a faint whisper, tickling her neck. But she accepted it, linking her hand with his. She spun so easily in his arms, and there was a sense of intimacy within their gestures. He dipped her suddenly, and she laughed, a genuine laugh that resonated through his soul. And she was exposed to him, truly exposed. And before he could stop himself, he found himself kissing her neck. And that was when he began to unravel.
She began to kiss him, in earnest. He had been amazed that he had shown enough restraint to prevent himself from attacking her in his office. Yes, that would be bad. He had managed to get them to his apartment. There, she had reacted just as strongly as she had in his office. This was in violation of so many interoffice memos and rules. He didn't really care at the moment. All that mattered right now was them.
He awoke to the sound of running water, and the sound of someone singing in his shower. He rubbed his eyes and smiled slightly at the sound of her. He grabbed his bathrobe, and quickly shrugged it on. He walked into the bathroom, and brushed his teeth quickly. She peeked her head out of the shower, wet hair dripping on the floor. "Good morning." He mumbled something around his toothbrush, and her head popped back in the shower. He finished brushing, and wiped his mouth. She poked her head out of the shower again. He walked towards her, and she pulled him to her and kissed him roughly and sloppily. She pulled him in the shower. "Dance with me."