SF: Home
Flack took it as a sign of trouble when she came back out of her building only 20 minutes after she had gone in.
He was seated comfortable in his patrol cruiser, 2 cups of hot Starbucks coffee on the dashboard and an unfinished crossword on his lap. He had prepared well for the long night watch – a blanket and a pillow in the backseat too, just in case he got to drowsy (or the coffee ran out).
He was only beginning to settle in when his well trained eye spotted frantically stumbling out of the building with her bags and a few clothes in tow.
Like a mad man, he stepped out of his car and made a dash for her, struggling to keep up with her hustled pace.
"STELLA!" he called repeatedly, keeping his eyes trained on her curly, brown locks.
She, however, remained obliviously deaf to his strained cries. When he finally caught up with her and laid two hands on her arms to stop her, she jerked with a frightened gasp and sucker punched him right in the stomach.
Flack doubled over and grimaced in pain as Stella quickly realized who she had punched.
"DON? Don!" she said, supporting his body by gripping his arms.
"God, Don! I'm so sorry! I was… I just thought…"
"It's okay, Stella," Flack managed, shaking his red face.
He recovered quickly and peered into Stella's gashed, bruised face, realizing by her red eyes and wet cheeks that she had been crying. He took one look at the newly stitched cut on her cheek and immediately cast his eyes away.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, surprised at how harsh he sounded.
"I should be asking you that same question," she answered back, in a tone colder than his. "What are you doing here, Flack?"
Her eyes were piercing and she was looking for some answers. Flack scratched his head.
"I only happened to be passing by…"
"That's bullshit, Flack," she cut him short.
He took a step back and apologized for having offended her in any way. She made a disbelieving sound that interrupted him again.
"Did Mac send you?"
"No… no." Flack should his head, almost embarrassed.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
"Me," Flack muttered, his ears turning pink.
His answer caught her off-guard and her features softened for a split second before the imminent frustration returned to her hazel eyes.
"Flack, thanks but… I can take care of myself," she said, almost speaking to herself. "Goodnight. Goodbye. Go home."
She turned around without another word and started to walk off. Flack quickly laid a hand on her arm and stopped her from getting any further.
"Stella, you can't just…!"
"Flack, I'm a big girl for chrissake!" she half yelled, letting her emotions get the best of her. "I don't know if you think I'm weak or that…"
"I do not think you're weak, Stella!" Flack interrupted, fuelled by a sudden burst of rage. "I just wanted to look out for you, god dammit! Punch me again if I'm not allowed to protect you because… I do not want you to get hurt again!"
The punch came, harder than the first, but Flack didn't wince. He kept a straight, unwavering face, his eyes brimming with extreme sincerity.
"You should really mind your own business, Don," she said angrily, ramming her fists continuously into his toned stomach.
"You should mind your own business!" she cried again, letting all her angry and emotions flow to her balled up fists. Tears spilled down her face – tears of remorse, guilt and most of all, fear. Flack took blow after blow to the stomach – but did not falter or move away.
He struggled to wrap his arms around her trembling body, and she melted into him, tears staining his suit.
"You are my business," he whispered, his blue eyes downcast, his voice broken by her tears.
"Bring me home, Don," she begged, eyes pleading with him.
So he took her in his arms and did just that.