Fire and Ice
Summary: Mac is lonely: Aiden decides to help. One-shot fluff. M for Mac/Aiden: please do not read on if you think you'll be offended.
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 own Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?
A/N: Set during Season 1. This seems to be a rarely-written ship, so I thought I'd indulge…
* * *
Quietly, Aiden Burn watched as a woman who had finally found her dead daughter through the efforts of Mac Taylor and his team spontaneously hugged him – as he put his arms around her and let her sob out her grief, relief and pain on his shoulder – and was struck by the fact that this might be his first truly physical contact since Claire had died. Everyone needed physical contact – everyone needed someone to hold them sometimes. What physical contact did he have, other than the cold and shattered dead?
She hadn't known him long before 9/11, but even she had noticed that the alteration in him – from light-hearted, mischievous husband to taciturn, insomniac widower – seemed to be turning permanent. Talking to others, especially Stella Bonasera, who had known him longer than anyone, she realised how great the change had been: how much the man had suffered, and was still suffering.
She had been lucky: she knew many who had lost loved ones, but she herself had lost no-one close. Unless you counted the old Mac, who had disappeared that day along with thousands of others, living and dead, to be replaced by a half-life, half-lived without the woman he loved. Watching him – sensing the daily struggle to maintain the ordinariness of things after such an extraordinary event – she ached for him.
She wished there was something she could do to help.
* * *
"God, he's in a mood today!" Stella muttered as she grabbed a coffee after a particularly strident conversation with her boss.
"Again," Aiden replied. She'd been on the receiving end of Mac's terseness the day before, and it hadn't been pleasant.
Not that he ever remained angry for long: he probably knew, she reflected, that his irritability was nothing to do with his colleagues, and after an argument he was always slightly diffident, as if wanting to apologise but not knowing quite how. It was sweet, Aiden thought – as well as damned annoying.
"What he needs is – hell, I don't know what he needs," Stella said. She stretched, loosening her muscles after the tension of the exchange. "But he'll be fine by this afternoon – you know Mac."
"Yeah." Aiden poured her juice thoughtfully. She had seen Mac's occasional glances at both Stella and herself, confirming that underneath the icy exterior he held up to the world, a flesh and blood man still existed. Aiden knew all about flesh and blood men: she lived life to the full and enjoyed every moment, and had a wealth of experience beyond her twenty five years. She knew perfectly well what Mac needed, though she also knew that if she offered it he would immediately refuse. Unless she played a very careful game.
* * *
A few weeks later, she became aware of a momentary softening in him, and went in for the kill. They had reunited an 11-month-old kidnap victim with her mother, and Aiden, who had been watching Mac carefully, noticed the expression on his face when he turned for one last glimpse of the child. She knew he had no children of his own, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that he thought by now he'd lost his chance.
How old was Mac, she wondered? She did the math: forty two? Forty five? He was still a young, handsome man – there was no reason he shouldn't find someone else. Except that he wasn't looking for someone else. But he couldn't expect the world to come to his door: even handsome men had to put some effort in. She knew his continuing strength of feeling for his wife even after three years: but he was still a man for all that, and must be in need of some comforting. If the child had made him feel vulnerable, this might be her chance.
When that afternoon they both found themselves waiting outside the ME's office, the opportunity was too good to miss. "Hey, Mac." A nice, non-committal opening.
"Aiden." He smiled his beguiling half-smile, and held her gaze. "What brings you down here?"
"I just needed to check some results for Stella. Junior detective – aka gofer."
"It's how we all learn." She growled inside – always so bloody serious! Sometimes she longed to take him and shake him till his teeth rattled, just so he'd know what it felt like to feel.
"Hmm. Mac…"
"Yes?"
"My Dad's coming round for dinner next week. I wondered – I know it's a cheek, but I wondered if you'd like to join us? He's always asking after you – wants to know who his kid's working for – and I cook a mean chilli."
"I don't think so, Aiden."
She contrived to look crestfallen. "Thing is, I've already… It's OK, but we don't really have much to say to each other any more, and sure, I want to see him, but having someone else there would just make it – easier, that's all. You know – fathers, daughters – children." She waited anxiously for his reply.
"You've already told him I'll be there?"
Now, Aiden looked sheepish. "Told you I was being cheeky. Don't worry – it would just have been nice." She almost felt guilty at the pressure she was subjecting him to. Almost.
"One day your 'cheek' is going to get you into serious trouble."
"So they tell me."
He sighed. "Well, it's not as if I'm doing anything else. What time have I agreed to arrive?"
She had to stop herself from squeaking in delight. Instead, she grinned – a genuine, radiant grin – and saw the pleasure it gave him. "Seven thirty – dinner at eight. Thanks, Mac – I owe you."
He smiled again, and she was surprised at how good it made her feel. "You certainly do."
* * *
"What do you mean, you can't come?" Aiden yelled down the phone as Mac sat in her diner, glass in hand and an embarrassed expression on his face. "Dad – Mac's here, the dinner's cooked – dammit, you've let me down again!" She paused for a reply. As she was talking to static, none came. "Well I'm not asking him again! You just better get in touch when you've sorted it out – OK?" She moderated her tone a little. "Yeah – whatever, Dad. You too." She hung up.
"Problem?"
"Not coming."
"Not coming."
Aiden shook her head. "Does it every time… You up for a big meal, Mac?" She gestured carelessly towards the kitchen. "I'd welcome the company."
She saw him hesitate. She could imagine the thoughts running through his head: thoughts about propriety, personal space, the assumptions of others – all the things that make relationships between human beings complicated and dangerous. She found she was holding her breath.
"You've done all that cooking, Aiden. I'd hate to see the chilli go to waste."
"You're on!" She turned towards the steaming pots, wondering at the butterflies that had suddenly bred in her stomach. Hell, it wasn't as if she really fancied Mac – sure, he was good-looking and virile and all that stuff, but... She was only doing this for him – he was almost twice her age, and he needed some serious TLC, and that was why she was here. It was only a favour for a friend.
Hell, she thought again as she stirred the rich red sauce – who was she kidding?
* * *
It was thirteen minutes past eleven when Mac stood, stretched and began to make his farewells. "Aiden, it's been a great evening. I'm sorry you took all that trouble just for me – but thank you. The chilli was – " he paused " – very mean."
"It was no trouble," Aiden replied. Her heart was thumping in her chest, and she wondered briefly if she was being a fool. She hadn't given much thought as to how she would proceed from here, and suddenly her task seemed impossibly difficult. Perhaps the dinner was enough. She felt the stab of disappointment in her gut, and realised that it was not. She wanted more.
"Was there something else you wanted to say?" He stood in the middle of her dining area, sleeves rolled, ubiquitous tie hanging loosely from his unbuttoned shirt, in stockinged feet, waiting. And here she was, hesitating…
"I – I'm not sure." Dammit, of course she was sure! What was the matter with her?
He moved towards her. "Aiden?"
It was no use: she couldn't do it. He deserved honesty, perhaps even above comfort: if he stayed, he had to stay without coercion. And she had to look herself in the eye tomorrow morning. "Do you have to go? Just yet?" she asked.
"It's quite late." Was that the slightest hesitation in his voice?
"I know." She looked at the floor: diffidence wasn't her style, and it didn't come easily. "I – I really want you to stay." She heard his intake of breath; felt the tension in the air as he processed what she'd said. At least, she thought, he hadn't stormed out.
He was silent for a long time: she had no idea what he might be thinking, because she couldn't bring herself to raise her eyes to his face. She felt ashamed – another unusual emotion for her. Mac deserved better.
When he finally did speak, his voice was softly stern. "Your father never was coming over, was he?"
"I did ask him. But he was busy. So – no." Now she looked at him. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't have tried to deceive you. I just – wanted you to myself for a while."
He looked endearingly puzzled. "Why?"
"Because I'm bottom of the pecking order. Because we only ever speak about the job. Because – because I did."
"You could have just asked."
"You would have just said no."
"This isn't good, Aiden. It's not how you treat people."
"I figured we could both use some company. I'm sorry if I miscalculated."
"I didn't say that – I said you'd tackled it the wrong way."
She paused: she couldn't stay submissive for long. "So?" she said softly. "How about you stay?"
Mac looked at her for a long time: she felt he was taking her apart like a piece of evidence, strand by strand. His face softened. "Perhaps for a little while."
She couldn't hide the smile: couldn't disguise the tingle that started deep down in her stomach and rose up to her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. He must, she knew, have seen it. This was crazy: she had to get a grip. Her eyes flitted over the objects in the room, but finally came to settle again on her companion, still standing a few feet away from her, now with a sardonic smile on his face. "Are you laughing at me?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Only a little." He sat down, and patted the seat beside him. Obediently, she sat in it. "How much of this did you consciously plan, Aiden?"
She could feel the desperation that he must see in her eyes. "Obviously not enough. What makes you think I planned anything?"
He leaned towards her in mock conspiracy. "I'm a detective. It's my job to spot these things." They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Mac spoke again. "This is one of those evenings that exists outside of time, isn't it? Real life stopped when I walked through that door. It'll start up again when I leave. What we do here – is separate."
She looked at his hands, crossed in his lap. Suddenly, she very much wanted to feel the touch of those hands. It wasn't supposed to happen like this: she was supposed to be in charge, she was supposed to lead him, not the other way round! And she certainly wasn't supposed to be feeling this twisting in her gut at the physical nearness of someone nearly old enough to be her father, and her boss as well.
She had to regain the initiative. "Stay there," she said softly, and rose from her seat.
"Where are you going?"
"Close your eyes."
She heard him sigh, and hardly hoped that he would obey. She had no idea what she was going to do next. Silently, she watched as his eyelids fell: the urge to fling herself into his arms like a teenager was almost overwhelming, but that wouldn't do for someone like Mac. She looked him up and down, and felt herself stirring: although this wasn't working out as she had anticipated, one thing she knew: short of death or disaster, before the night was over she was going to have this man.
Carefully, she walked forward and knelt at his feet. Taking each in turn, she gently peeled away his socks, leaving him foot-naked and vulnerable: as she loosed them, his toes dug into the deep carpet as if to bury themselves there. She ran a finger down their length: pale as men's feet are always pale, she bent to kiss their almost-transparency. They were chill even in the heat of her apartment, and she held them until they warmed.
Then, standing, she took his hands. They were cool and dry, and trembling slightly. "Stand up," she whispered.
She was barefoot, and he was taller than her by a good four inches. He stood, passive but expectant, waiting for her next move, a small anticipatory smile playing around his lips. Tentatively, she reached up to stroke his hair, and ran the fingers of both hands through its wiry darkness. He whimpered slightly, and she almost stopped in surprise. Not something she would have expected from Mac Taylor. Her heart began to beat a little faster.
Placing her palms on his chest, she slowly slid them up the smooth material of his shirt until they reached his collar. His lips parted, and she almost cried out. She had to keep control. She loosened his tie further, deftly untied the knot and gently pulled it free. His breathing quickened: he was trying to control himself, too, she realised.
He was caught up in the fantasy, and she had brought him here.
Without warning, his hands moved to her waist: she was wearing a top and jeans, and he tucked his thumbs into her belt. She took a step nearer: their bodies were just touching now, the contact feather-light, but it went through her like fire. One by one, she undid the buttons that held his shirt in place, surprised to find that that he wore no t-shirt underneath. She stared at the broad, naked chest. He always wore a tee.
In something like devotion, she ran her hands across his skin: it was soft, supple – not like man-skin at all. Then her fingers found something different, and she felt the ugly, tangled mass of tissue below his left shoulder. Mesmerised, she stared at it: an old wound, long healed but ragged and untidy: military, it had to be. No wonder he usually wore vests…
Without thinking, she reached across and pressed her lips to the mangled skin. He tensed, but then put a hand behind her head and pulled her closer, and she kissed him with the sort of reverence her mother had reserved for her rosary. Gazing at the roughened scar, she was fascinated by its intricacies, the twists and turns of flesh where it had tried to smooth itself out and failed. It was a ghastly reminder of his past: but the man it damaged had made it beautiful.
Pulling back, she carefully tugged his shirt free and pushed it back along his arms, exposing his upper body. She could see he worked out: his biceps were solid, and his stomach was flat and smooth, with just a hint of spread within the toned, supple flesh. She breathed slowly, desperate to keep her head, and realised, with a slight shock, how long she had wanted this. Remember, she told herself, this is for him. This is for him…
His eyes still closed, Mac's hands found the hem of her top and began to lift it softly over her head. As he slipped the catch of her underwear and pulled her free of it, she felt the delicious roughness of his fingertips against her skin. Completely at his mercy, she had never felt so safe.
Gently, he raised one of her breasts to his mouth, and she caught her breath as his lips closed around her nipple. His mouth was warm, his teeth gentle, and she rose up to meet him, pulling him closer, wanting him now as she'd never wanted anyone before. As he sucked, her stomach spasmed, and she felt the first wetness come. Her legs shook beneath her, and she lost herself in his subtle lust.
Soon, his mouth began to move upwards, leaving her sore breasts behind for something new. Feathering kisses along her collar bone, he teased her with butterflies on her jawline until she could stand it no longer: taking his face in both her hands, she raised it to her own and plunged into a fierce, unrestrained kiss, twisting her mouth on his as if he were the last drink she would ever take.
He was unresponsive for a fraction of a second: she had taken him by surprise. But, when he reacted, she felt the sudden strength of him: had she not wanted this beautiful violation, she would have been helpless. His tongue lashed hers, two dolphins locked in mortal combat, each sucking the life-force from the other in glorious, astonishing sexuality.
She had never imagined…
But she had to keep her head. Desperately as she wanted to abandon herself, tell him to open his eyes and look at her, demand that he made love to Aiden, and not to some unseen, willing thing, she could not. Reining herself in, nearly crying with the frustration of it, she broke the kiss to hold him close. She knew that, if he had let her go, she would have fallen.
Still shaking, she found the volition to straighten, take his hand, and guide him into the bedroom. For a moment, he resisted, his face uncertain. "It's all right," she said softly: he bit his lower lip as if still unsure, but then allowed her to lead him on.
She wished she could stand back and admire him, so strong and so compliant in her hands, but she was beginning to shake now with fear and anticipation and excitement, and she had to concentrate too much for daydreaming. She unfastened the buckle of his pants, ran her hand down the zipper – drawing a small mewl from him as she did so – and eased them off his hips and onto the floor. His boxers were stretched taught, and the front was already damp.
Reaching for her own belt, he stopped her as if by instinct. "No – wait," he whispered hoarsely. "Let me."
He ran his fingers down the seam of her jeans, beyond the zipper and between her legs. She cried out: she couldn't help it. Tightening his grip, he began to massage her slowly through the thick material, searching out every dull contour, every muted rise and fall, until she knew he must feel her dampness, even through the layers. Only then did he fumble at the buckle, tear the zipper down, and peel the jeans off her as though they were a second skin. He pressed his face to the cotton where her sex had been. His mouth trembled.
She stepped into his embrace, and his hands closed around her buttocks. She could feel his hardness now as it pressed against her, already searching her, probing her – seeking a way in.
Carefully, she loosed the buttons on his boxers: he moaned as she touched him, and licked his lips, dry from the intensity of his breathing. She had always had the impression that Mac's lips were rather thin: here, just a few inches from her face and flushed with desire, she was surprised at how red and full they were. As his shorts fell to the floor, he sprang free, and instinctively she reached down to cradle the heaviness that hung between his legs, taut and solid with expectation. For a moment, he seemed to lose his footing as he reacted to her touch, and she guided him to the bed, laying him down and laying herself down beside him.
Immediately, sensing he was on firmer ground, he reached a hand to her face and drew her lips to his. The quality of this kiss was quite different from the last: long and penetrating, its gentleness was almost overwhelming, its passion sustaining rather than draining. She moaned, and wished she could have stayed here, kissing him for ever. She ran her fingers over his hips, feeling the muscles there.
Then she felt his other hand, tracing hair-soft patterns down her stomach. She felt the blood rush to her sex: felt herself swell with the joy and the urgency of it. His fingers slipped between her skin and her panties, and then between her welcoming lips, into her uncontrollable wetness. A small growl rose in his throat as his fingers opened her up, exposing and exploring her secret parts, delicately tracing the unique shape of her, all the while working inwards, nearer and nearer to her unseen heart.
As he finally touched the small, desperately-sensitive nub of flesh within her, she clutched at him and cried his name. He held her closer and stroked her until she was on the edge of unbearable ecstasy, first with a single finger, then a finger and thumb, then two fingers, wet and slick now with her overwhelming response to him. She opened her legs, raising herself up as an offering, and with gentle insistence he accepted it, burying his fingers and moving them within her in ways even she had never experienced.
As his movements became more decisive, Aiden lost herself in the wild sensations bursting out from her. She felt as if her insides were burning, wave after wave of flame lapping at her skirts yet never entirely enveloping her. How desperately she wanted to be engulfed in that fire: she wanted it to sweep over her, violent and consuming, until the man in whose arms she lay had changed her, utterly.
She moaned, feeling herself completely vulnerable in Mac's hands, and grabbed at his wrist, trying to force him further inside her, trying to throw herself off that high tower into oblivion. Immediately, she felt his rhythm change: it became more urgent, more controlled, and at last she felt that uniquely relentless rising, escalating and spreading and filling her up until she could contain it no longer: shuddering with a rage of spasms, she flung herself over the edge into another world, where sensation was everything, and no sensation was enough. She felt his hands strong on her body, holding her safe as she rode the tide, catching her as she floated down, cradling her as she lost sight of her ecstasy, as his name on her lips became inarticulate and unintelligible.
She clung to him, feeling the smooth flesh beneath her trembling hands, the tension in his muscles, the stillness as he waited, poised, for her next move. She wanted, more than anything else, to bury her head in his poor, wounded chest and lose herself in the warmth that was housed there. She wanted, more than anything else, to be loved.
But he did not love her – she did not love him – and this was for him, not for her. For him, not for her. She could have cried out: Why not? Why shouldn't I have him for more than this? Why shouldn't I have him for ever?
Life was never fair.
Recovering herself and controlling her ragged breathing, she set aside her own desires and determined to concentrate on his. Reaching down, she enclosed again his solid hardness, and felt its fantastic heaviness in her hand. The skin was slick, silky, damp already, and gently she began to slide it up and down the central shaft within. Mac's face changed, and she watched it in wonder: it became at once enclosed and childlike as he sank into the darkness of visceral, elemental sensation. His innocence, strange and unexpected, was beautiful.
Dropping her head, she mirrored his earlier kisses, feathering his stomach until she felt it tense beneath her lips, following the downy hair, soft as a kitten's and dark as night, until she could slowly run her tongue along the length of him, absorbing his slightly bitter taste, the tang of sweat and desire and deep, deep need. She let her tongue play across his sleekness, dipping into the tiny opening, running the length of the strong, pulsing vein, as with her free hand she nestled his balls, gently moving one against the other within their protective covering, manipulating their hardness until his moans became deep, guttural growls and his hands twisted the sheets beneath him.
As he pushed into her hand, she wrapped her lips around him and, astonished at his size and weight, pulled him in. He filled up her mouth, hitting the back of her throat with his sweetness, and she felt her eyes sting. It was an exquisite pain. She tasted a new bitterness, and knew that he was near: she had to make a decision now. She could take him here, like this, in a gesture of deep affection; or she could take him deeper inside her, elsewhere, in a different kind of gesture. What would he want? What would he want?
She could hear him moaning again, but this time there were words. "Please – now, please…" He was begging her, and her heart melted.
Stirred into action, she reached up to his shoulders, slipping off her soaked panties and twisting herself around until she lay on her back. She pulled him on top of her, and his sudden weight made her gut spasm. Wrapping him up in her legs, she guided him to her wet, open body: at the first touch, his instincts took control and he thrust himself inside her, gasping and trembling, barely supporting himself on strong, shaking arms. She enveloped him in her embrace as he moved in and out, smooth and slick and huge inside her. She tightened herself, and felt his response: he was almost keening now, utterly lost in his sensations as his thrusting became more urgent – more ragged and desperate.
Using her feet, she pulled him in still further, wanting this to last for ever, but knowing that he needed the release now. As she sensed him beginning to climax, another surge of heat suffused her body with raw delight and naked lust: she felt stretched, universal – powerful and free. As the fire flashed within her again, she felt his own explosion, and flames of a different kind rushed through her, liquid and unstoppable as he poured himself out, becoming one with the sun and the stars and all living things, and crying aloud in his ecstasy.
She didn't hear what he said. She was too drunk and dizzy with sensation, too weak with delicious complacency. She was utterly fulfilled and satisfied, her mind spinning out of control and the world whirling around her, and it was all due to this wonderful, astonishing man who now lay heavy on her breast, panting with his own fulfilment, half-conscious in the aftermath of sex. She held him to her: that part of her mind that had maintained its footing in the mundane world knew that she would not have him for much longer, and she wanted to cling to him for as long as possible.
She found some strands of his hair in her mouth, and explored their coarseness with her lips and tongue as her consciousness settled. She found that she wanted to say I love you – she opened her mouth to say it – and knew that she must not. It wasn't entirely a lie – but it wasn't entirely the truth, either, and he deserved more than that. Instead, she mouthed her words to the air and the gods, a silent blessing on the man she held so tightly.
What had she done, she wondered? What the hell had she just done?
Trembling from the intensity of the experience, she gently pushed him back onto the bed, still holding him, desperate to keep that physical contact for as long as possible. Blinking the sweat away, she saw his closed eyes, and briefly knew disappointment. Whatever fantasy she had just lent herself to, it had nothing to do with her.
But she couldn't think now: she just had to look after him. She wondered if this was what it felt like to love a child, and shivered.
Collapsing at her side, as if to reinforce her last, strange thought, Mac crawled into her shoulder like a baby. Still holding him safe against whatever demons might remain, she realised he was crying, and tried to pour a lifetime's love into her embrace. She became aware that he was murmuring something, over and over, and strained to hear his words. His word.
"Claire."
* * *
When she awoke, he was gone. It had taken her hours to fall asleep: the waves of exhaustion and confusion had not easily been assuaged. She had told herself she had done this for him, when all along she had really been doing it for herself: she just hadn't realised it until he'd spoken, and with a single word brought her subtle house of cards tumbling down.
But she had done a good thing, she knew: for a few hours he had forgotten his grief, and even a few hours out of a lifetime could help heal wounds. She turned to where he had lain: on the pillow was a single freesia stem, yellowy-lilac and fragrant in the heavy morning air. She sat up and smiled: he must have crept out, gone all the way up to Ninth, and come back with this solitary stem, before stepping back into the real world.
She snuffed up the delicate scent. It was a tiny gesture, a small green thing that would be dead within a week, but he had taken the trouble to make it anyway. As if from behind a curtain, she had a sudden glimpse of what it must have been like to be married to such a man, and knew a moment of powerful, futile longing for something she could never have.
In the paleness of a lonely dawn, Aiden started to cry.
* * *
By the time she reached the lab, she was back to her old, sassy self. She glanced at her colleagues, insensible as to how she had spent the last twelve hours, and remembered the feeling she'd had when, as a schoolgirl, she'd slunk into class after her first sexual encounter and known the thrill of secret, forbidden knowledge.
Casually, she allowed her eyes to wander across the room: there was Mac, standing in his office reading as he so often did, looking for all the world as if he had spent the previous evening curled up with nothing more than a glass of wine and a good book. She scrutinised the line of his shoulders: perhaps it was her imagination, but she could have sworn he seemed more relaxed. She smiled to herself.
But he hadn't spent the previous evening curled up alone, and now she had to face the music. She had lost a good hour that morning thinking long and hard: she knew herself well enough to acknowledge that, if he had turned to her and said I love you she would have wept for joy; but she had also heard his warning that this was 'an evening outside of time' – one that would have no impact on the real world. She had not embarked on this course with any idea other than to make him temporarily happy: if the price to be paid was her temporary peace of mind, then so be it.
She didn't love him – she was clear on that – but it would have taken very little to tip her over that dangerous cliff and into the glorious ocean below. And she knew it would be glorious: she had glimpsed that far-beyond country, and knew its beauty and power. For her own sake, if he chose to walk away, she must remain heart-whole.
For a brief, mad moment, she toyed with the notion of going in and simply holding him, in full view of everyone. A very brief, mad moment.
She moved towards his office, and he immediately caught her eye. She realised he must have been aware of her from the start, despite appearing so convincingly to be absorbed in his reading. Beckoning her, he nodded his permission to enter. She opened the door, stepped inside, and cleared her throat. "Hey, Mac!"
"Aiden." He scarcely looked up, and she was struck not only by his cool demeanour, but by the irony of their opening words: identical to those of the conversation that had started all this only a week ago.
"Mac, I just need to say…"
Now, he looked up: his face was impassive, but his eyes were gentle, and she thought his colour was a little higher than usual. "There's no need to say anything."
"I just want to say," she continued firmly, "that it didn't happen if you don't want it to. And if you did – do – want it to, then it did. OK?"
"OK."
She waited for something more, but it didn't come. Was that it? Did it mean that little? She blinked. No, it hadn't meant that little – not at the time. For one brief, wild evening, he had been completely hers. And she'd known what risks she was taking – what more did she want from him – gratitude? She sighed a small sigh, and turned to go. Her disappointment was acute: dammit, she wasn't falling for this guy! No way, she told herself – no way.
"OK," she echoed as she opened the door.
"Aiden!" Her heart jumped.
"Yes?"
"Thank you." His eyes were deep: it was a message from the heart.
She almost said for what? She was, for a moment, torn between leaving without a word, and running to his side to demand more.
She did neither. Aiden was large of heart and soul, and her innate kindness won out. She smiled a soft, slow smile. "Any time." She meant it, too.
And then she left, to start living the rest of her life.
The End