I don't know where I'm going to go with this story, the only thing I know at this point is that I've giddily watched nothing but 2 seasons of csi:ny in the last two weeks and I had the compulsion to write something about it. And to definitely write something about Stella and Mac, because I am a very heavy Stella Mac shipper. I don't know if this fic will suffer my perseverance to be continued as a long term story, or if I only have enough steam in me for this one short introduction. But the point of it eventually is to develop my very own SMacked relationship the way I am adamant it should exist on cbs. I own nothing.
Getting shot is an alarming thing. It is a shock when that tiny metal slug the size of sin barrels through your side for the very first time. Having never felt it before all your mind can do to comprehend the pain is to avoid it, and only when it has long past clean through you does an agony begin to persistently arise. So persistently, in fact, and so insistently thoroughly that it's all you can do not to pass out -- and very soon you only wish you had. It's far different from an uppercut to the face, a chokehold, nothing strikes with more certain eventuality than a bullet as it whistles through your gut.
When it passed through me, the initial shock made me only aware of the sharpest sting in my side. My hand flew there and my mind grappled with an unawareness. When I looked down in confusion and in a non-comprehending stare, all I heard was Mac shouting my name, and all I saw was the blood on my fingers. Everything else came to an abrupt stop as every other perception arrived at a significant standstill. "Stella. Stella," he said, urgently, as he glared at me strong and pertinently, taking quick strides towards me. The shooter, he blanched as cops quickly surrounded him, forcing him hatefully and aggressively to the ground. Mac came up behind me, and immediately took the brunt of my weight where I had not known it had needed bearing. He took my hand, held it over the hole that hadn't been there before, and pressed with all his might, to hold the blood in. It was as if he refused to see any of it, refused to see a drop of me spill onto the ground. I leant back against him as he guided me gently onto the sidewalk. I could feel it, definitely, now I could feel the pain.
Barely seconds ago, we had been making the final arrest on a suspect, finding him at his place to confront him with all the evidence we'd found to incriminate him truly and surely. Mac and I had been assisted by four other cops, and the six of us had come up to him just outside his front door. Mac went up to him sternly, facing him with the evidence we'd stacked up against him, telling him that his time was up and he would here today be apprehended. But then the suspect reacted, resilient and defiant, whipping out his piece he had in his trousers and struggling past Mac to point his gun anywhere, and everywhere. And under Mac Taylor's arm, he shot me.
Sitting there on the pavement, in Mac Taylor's arms, my side hurt like a bitch. Like a mother fucking bitch, and I told him so. Beside himself he gave a quick chuckle, and then derided me, and then gently, told me EMS was arriving anytime now and to take his hand. I held it, and held it tight. And I kept holding onto it as they hefted me onto a stretcher, held onto it tight all the way through the ambulance ride, held onto it as he told me I was going to be fine, and held onto it as I told him it was really nothing at all, just a straight through and through, that the only thing was that it still hurt like a bitch, and held onto it all the way through.