A/N: Just a little (long) birthday fic for Lily Moonlight (I was, well, out of the country for the actual day, but I guess the old adage 'better late than never' is apt here)... a bit of peril, angst, experimentation (on my part), and the tiniest, most microscopic bit of fluff. Words may be my specialty, but they can never adequately express my gratitude for all you do. Hope you enjoy, dear friend!
Disclaimer: I think after 57 stories, you get the idea.
Blown
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The steady blip from the heart monitor sounds louder to Stella's ears than it should, given the amount of noise from outside the ward. From the corner of her eye, she can see a pair of nurses on the other side of the glass doors, laughing noisily about something she's sure is absolutely trivial in light of her present condition. She feels scarlet creeping up her neck, the heat settling in along her soiled collar. Gritting her teeth, she wills herself to take a few deep breaths to quell the unusual rage rising within her.
It wouldn't make much of a difference anyway. And it really isn't their fault.
It's hers.
Her gaze travels to the supine figure lying deathly still among the white sheets. Short, dark hair against the pillow is the only normality she can see. He looks too pale next to the colorless bedclothes, too weak with the half-dozen wires running from his body to the various machines surrounding his bed, too lifeless without the normal pink hue in his cheeks. Instead, they're white. As white as the blanket upon which his motionless hand rests.
It should've been easy.
Eleven hours earlier
Darkness settled over the lone, black car, parked next to the curb in the only quiet neighborhood in New York City this night. The streets were empty, and a streetlamp about half a block down served as the only illumination. Outside, a stiff autumn wind howled around the pair inside the car, and within minutes droplets of water appeared on the windshield as a fine mist coated the car.
"How can it be this cold and only October?" Stella heard Flack complain from his position in the driver's seat.
In the passenger seat next to him, Mac grinned. "Global warming?" he suggested, a hint of rare humor creeping into his voice.
"Ha ha," the younger detective retorted sarcastically. "Let's just hope Matheson shows up."
"A mercenary like Matheson? He'll be here."
"He'd better be here," Stella piped up from the back seat. "I didn't get all dolled up for nothing, you know."
Flack chuckled. "Could always go hit up the clubs if this gets blown."
"Let's hope that doesn't happen."
They'd been after the infamous hired gun for the better part of two weeks, since he mercilessly slaughtered a major partner at one of the largest investment firms in the city. Mac shook his head in disgust, recalling the gruesome crime scene: Blood coating the walls like a second shade of paint, the wide gash in James McAllen's neck, his green eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling where the arterial spray had created an macabre near-rendering of a Jackson Pollack painting.
Tracing the man behind the killing had been relatively easy. James McAllen's business partner, Allan Ferguson, hadn't hidden his tracks very well, at least not well for a man who boasted such a high IQ. Finding the offshore accounts had been like finding a seashell on the beach – child's play. He hadn't thought to change the name on the account from which he'd withdrawn the three million dollars, nor had he thought to get rid of the pre-paid cell phone from which he'd done the business.
Breaking Ferguson had been just as easy. His greed was all-consuming. As soon as Mac had mentioned freezing every single bit of Ferguson's assets as proceeds from an illegal business transaction and turning it all over to the Securities and Exchange Commission, Ferguson sang like a canary. He told Mac that he'd hired Paul Matheson, a former Navy SEAL, to commit the murder and give Ferguson an alibi. He even went so far as to give Mac the number at which he could reach the mercenary.
And so there they were, inside Flack's unmarked car, next to a warehouse where in just three hours Stella, posing as a rich socialite wanting out of a marriage but not willing to follow a pre-nup, would meet with Ferguson and catch him red-handed.
"Think he showed up earlier than us?" Flack asked.
Mac shook his head. "We'd have seen something." He turned around in his seat, fixing Stella with his steel-gray gaze. "You clear on the plan?"
Stella released a mock-sigh. "We've been over it ten thousand times, Mac."
"Good. We can't risk blowing it and having him get away."
"He won't get away." Deep inside, she wished she felt the conviction infused in her voice.
He regarded her for a long moment before a smile finally split his face. "Okay. Better go meet Lindsay down the block."
"Yeah." She returned his smile as she opened the door and stepped into the cold October wind. Leaves skittered across the road, blown about by the heavy breezes. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
This just had to work.
She sighs, swiftly wiping at the warm liquid sliding down her neck.
That had been the plan, at least. And it had been a good one. Danny and Adam had spent hours planning, researching the killer.
Two days earlier
"That's him?" Stella asked Danny, staring at the computer screen incredulously, green eyes widening slightly.
Danny glanced up at his friend and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, that's him. Paul Matheson."
"Hmm. I didn't expect him to be quite so…"
"Ruthless?" Danny supplied.
"Handsome."
Mac rolled his eyes good-naturedly as Danny scoffed and carried on with his presentation. "Thirty-three years old, hailing from Flint, Michigan. Former Navy SEAL until a blown op forced him into early retirement. Apparently the Navy had a problem with him going berserk and killing a bunch of Afghan women, even if they were in a house with six known terrorists."
"I'll say," Mac commented from his place beside Stella. She smirked slightly, and from her peripheral vision, she noticed a quirk at the corner of Mac's mouth as well.
"Yeah, well, he made a quite a name for himself afterward. His fingerprints were found at the scene of a murder in Milan six months ago. And three months ago, a guy lookin' a lot like him was seen walking away from a car explosion in LA. LAPD and Interpol both want him for questioning, but no one seems to know how to find him, and those who do know how to find him aren't talkin'."
"Well, they'll get next crack at him," Mac said firmly. "First he has to answer for the McAllen murder."
"So what's the plan?" Stella queried, shifting slightly so she could fix him with her gaze.
Mac thought for a moment. "He's a man. And he's greedy. Let's use both."
Stella glanced down at Danny, who stared at her with raised eyebrows. Suddenly she smirked. "Well, at least I don't have to flirt with the ugly guy this time around."
At first she had thought it was fun. She'd grinned as Mac had handed her the very expensive outfit she was to wear, along with the comment that she had better not get it dirty. She had joked that this was the only time in her life she'd get to dress like this on the taxpayer's dime. He'd laughed along with her as Lindsay took her into another room to get her fitted for the wire. Being New York City, they didn't have the technology the federal government would have, but they had managed to hide the microphone underneath the collar of her silk blouse.
Her observant eyes had not missed the stunned expression on Mac's face when she'd reappeared. Her unruly curls had been swept up into a loose chignon so that a few caramel spirals fell into her face. Dusky eye shadow had been applied to her eyes so that the green in them stood out like the first spring bud. The navy blue silk blouse and gray pencil skirt completed the image of a beautiful, wealthy, ruthless woman. Fiendishly she'd asked him how she looked. The best response he could give was an open-mouthed stare and a few noises in the back of his throat.
He'd never looked at her like that before.
And it had sent such feelings rushing through her, familiar yet foreign at the same time. That familiar want, but that foreign heat that maybe, just maybe he could reciprocate.
A hand on his shoulder startles her out of his memories, and she jumps slightly. But it's a familiar grip leading to a familiar face, and she relaxes when she realizes it's just Flack. "He still hasn't woken up yet?" the detective asks, but the inflection in his voice is more of a statement than a query.
Unwilling to answer, Stella just shakes her head.
"They're going over the scene now. I told IAB to stick their investigation where the sun don't shine."
Stella chuckles despite the gravity of the situation. Flack grins. "Maybe not in those exact words," the detective continues. "They'll wait until he wakes up."
Stella nods once, the careful wording not lost on her. "Thanks, Don," she whispers, her voice husky with disuse and emotion.
Suddenly the detective looks down, and a frown crosses his face as he notices the fresh blood on Stella's torn and tattered collar. "You should get that looked at," he says, gesturing to the six-inch cut along her neck.
"Already did."
"Then you should get it looked at again." Stella glances at him, and something in her eyes must make Flack back down, because a sudden expression of sympathy crosses his handsome face. "Okay. I get it." She knows he really does get it. "I'm gonna grab some coffee; want some?" A shake of the head and a grateful smile. "Okay. I'll be back in a few then."
A split second of ringing telephones fills the air as Flack opens the door, and then it's silence again, except for that infernal beeping. Stella grimaces in pain as she sits back in her chair. She stares at his unmoving form, taking in the slight rise and fall of his chest and the bouncing blip on the heart monitor.
He really shouldn't even be here in the first place, the voice of self-doubt whispers to her.
It kills her that the voice is right.
Eight hours earlier
Stella fidgeted impatiently as Lindsay's nimble fingers deftly straightened the blouse's collar to better hide the microphone. "Can't have him seeing that now, can we?" Lindsay muttered, giving her boss a playful but stern glare.
"I didn't like it when the nuns dressed me; I don't exactly like it now," Stella complained good-naturedly.
"Well, you'll have to deal." Giving the collar one last pat, Lindsay stepped back. With a final, approving nod, she reached for a small device about the size of an insect lying on the table. "In your ear," she directed, handing it to Stella, who complied.
"I'm not about to ask how much all this equipment cost."
Lindsay chuckled. "Standard issue, of course."
"Right, sure." Stella adjusted the earpiece and studied herself in the mirror Lindsay had set up in the back of their nondescript cargo van. "I feel a little like a Bond girl."
"You kind of look like one too."
Now it was Stella's turn to laugh as she checked her watch. "Guess it's time to go."
"Don't want to be late, Cinderella."
"Hmm, I wish." With a parting smile, Stella jumped out of the van, careful not to break one of her extraordinarily high heeled shoes. Lindsay handed her a briefcase full of marked hundred-dollar bills, a reassuring smile on her pretty face as she reached out and softly closed the door behind Stella. "On my way," she whispered into her microphone. Her long strides quickly carried her toward the warehouse. Half a block away from the building's front door sat Flack's unmarked car, nothing but two dark shadows inside it. She didn't even look at it as she strode past, didn't even hesitate in her gait.
"Not bad, Stell," came the impressed remark from Flack. She bit the corner of her cheek to keep from smiling. They'd been briefed well before this meeting. McAllen was a smart man, and they knew that smart men would always watch the approach before meeting. SWAT was still three blocks down the street on either side of the building, waiting patiently for Flack's signal before moving in to cover every carefully studied exit. Right now, Flack and Mac were her only backup.
She paused for a moment in front of the door. Deep breath in, deep breath out. She would have to become the rich socialite she was playing. She could do it; she had no doubt, nor did Mac.
So she reached out and yanked open the door. The loud creak emitted by rusty hinges echoed in the gigantic, empty room. And even she jumped slightly as it banged shut behind her, the ensuing reverberation sounding like a gunshot in the hovering darkness.
"Alpha team one, two, and three, move into position," Mac's voice sounded in her ear. "Stell, be careful."
This was it. Now all she – and they – had to do was wait.
Wait.
It's a four-letter word in her vocabulary. Stella Bonasera doesn't wait. She's never been one for patience. Always impetuous, always moving before her brain finally kicks into gear. Life has never required much patience for her.
Except when it comes to that man in the bed in front of her.
It's ironic, she thinks. She's waited for Mac for her entire life. Friends and colleagues for more than a decade, confidants for just as long. He's seen her through terrible relationships and personal disasters, and she held his hand through the worst day of his life. All this time, she's waited for him, waited for him to be ready, to make his move, for those lines they'd drawn in the sand so long ago to be eradicated forever.
It seems inconsequential now.
Now she's just waiting for him to open his eyes again.
She bows her head, tangled curls a caramel halo around her face, ignoring the warm liquid slowly dripping down her neck and pooling along her collarbone. It hurts, but not as much as the fear of him leaving her like this.
It's funny. She's never been one for fear, either.
Must be a night for firsts.
Eight hours earlier
Faint yellow light streamed into the cavernous room from a window high above Stella's head, the only source of illumination on a moonless night. She paused, free hand on her hip, standing in the center of the room. She could see nothing in the deepening shadows all around her. Pretending to sigh impatiently, she dropped the briefcase with a loud thunk.
"Mrs. Hanson, I presume."
The deep, masculine voice resounded off the walls, making it impossible for her to tell where it was coming from. She squinted in the blackness, trying to make out a human shape somewhere among the shadows.
"Yes," she called. "Are you there?"
"Leave the money, and I'll call you in an hour," the voice replied.
Stella laughed humorlessly. "What, you think I'm stupid? I don't do business with people I can't see."
The silence lasted for a long, pregnant moment. Doubt niggled the back of her mind like a bothersome insect. Perhaps he didn't appreciate being spoken to like that. Or worse, perhaps the operation had been blown. She willed herself to stay calm, tapping her toe like the spoiled millionaire she was supposed to be. Her palms slickened with sweat, and she swallowed hard, eyes still searching the dark shadows besieging her.
At last, one of the taller shadows just a few yards in front of her moved. "Smart woman," Matheson's bass timbre reached her ears. He stepped into a small sliver of light reaching into the room from the window. Almost immediately she recognized the visage dotted with black, unshaven stubble; the strong, angular jaw that jutted forward defiantly; the cold, emotionless gray eyes that remained fixed on her face. "You brought the money?"
"A hundred grand, just like we said," she replied, affecting a cross tone, indicating the briefcase in her hand with a gesture. "And you'll make it seem like an accident?"
"Assuming you make it worth my while."
Stella let out an arrogant chuckle. "Believe me, my husband's death will make me a very, very rich woman. And that tends to make me very, very grateful," she said, adding a sultry inflection that brought a leering smirk to Matheson's face. "A hundred thousand now, two hundred thousand when the job is complete. Fair enough?"
"Oh, certainly. But I'd be an idiot if I didn't count it now."
Primly she shrugged one slim shoulder. "Fine. Go ahead." She held out the briefcase.
Matheson regarded her wordlessly for a moment, then stepped closer. Stella made sure his fingers brushed hers when he took it from her hand, giving him a seductive smile as he knelt down to open the case. "It's all there," she said, watching him deftly flip through the stacks of hundreds.
"Good, Stell," Mac's voice said through her earpiece. "We've got him. Get out of there."
"Well," she said as he finished, "now that that piece of business is out of the way, I'm running late for a dinner party. You have a week to do it." She turned to strut out of the warehouse when his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist like an iron vice.
"Not so fast, Mrs. Hanson," Matheson said, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. Alarm bells clanged loudly in Stella's head. "I did a bit of checking on you. Your history was very convincing."
'Thanks to Adam,' Stella thought.
"But something bothered me," Matheson continued. "You looked familiar."
"Stella," Mac's voice broke in, concern lacing the baritone timbre.
She clenched her jaw. She couldn't let him break her concentration. "Ever thought I might just have one of those faces?"
Matheson's laugh dripped with a sardonic delight. "Believe me, honey, you definitely don't have one of those faces. But imagine my surprise when I looked through some old pictures online and found a woman who looks a hell of a lot like you." His grip tightened, and Stella bit back a yelp of pain. "She's a cop."
"Stella, we're coming in now." Flack's voice, this time, urgent concern making his accent even more prominent.
She took a deep breath, knowing that she had precious few seconds before all hell broke loose. "You know that saying, everyone's got a doppelganger?"
His chuckle was perilous, cruel. In the oppressive silence, she heard a soft 'click.' Her blood ran like ice through her veins when she saw a yellow glint off a metal blade held in front of her eyes. "Something tells me that's not the case here." The knife disappeared from view for a second until she felt the chilled metal press to her carotid.
"Pity," he said. Her eyes drifted closed, silently offering a prayer to a God she'd never really believed in before that her friends were about to burst through that door. "You're an awfully beautiful woman. We could've had a lot of fun." His calloused fingers whispered over her clavicle, and she ruthlessly stamped down the revulsion welling up in her like high tide.
"Stella Bonasera," he whispers, and it sounds like a curse coming from his mouth. "You've been blown."
Suddenly the door slides open again with a whoosh, catching Stella off guard. Her gaze snaps up and her hands grip the arms of the chair fiercely until it registers that it's only Flack. The detective stares at her for a long moment, his perceptive blue eyes boring into her. "You okay?" he asks at last.
"Fine," she replies in what's quickly becoming an automated response.
His eyes narrow for a moment, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead, he holds out a small Styrofoam cup, and the distinct aroma of her favorite tea wafts into her nostrils. "I know you said you didn't want any, but I know you," he says simply.
Her smile is grateful; he's such a good friend. "Thanks, Don," she says, her tone finally warming. And his responding smile lights up the room.
"Of course." He drops his long, lanky frame into the chair on the other side of Mac's bed and leans his head back.
She takes a sip of her tea. It slides down her throat like ambrosia, and she sighs contentedly.
"I meant to tell you," he says softly, holding her gaze. "I found the doc while I was gettin' coffee." Eyebrows lift in a silent question. "He says if Mac doesn't wake up in the next hour or so, he'll officially be in a coma."
And then her world comes crashing down again.
Flack must know, because he adds hastily, "I told the guy he didn't know Mac very well. Ain't no way he'll settle for being in a coma." She glances at him sharply. His oceanic gaze is resolute, determined. He knows he's right; there's not a doubt in his mind.
She wishes she could be so certain.
It still plays back in her mind like a movie. The knife at her neck, his hot breath against her ear. She'd thought she was going to die, and she'd made peace with it. And then came the explosion that had sounded like a thunderbolt; SWAT had detonated a charge on the back door to open it. Matheson had glanced up sharply, and she'd seized her chance. Her elbow connected with his gut, his breath escaping in a pained gasp. The knife slipped, slicing deep into her neck, but she barely registered the searing pain as she twisted out of his grip.
Mac had been the first through that door, shouting at Matheson to get down on his knees. And suddenly she'd noticed another glint of cold metal in his other hand, this shape cylindrical and deadly. He'd managed to pull a gun somehow, and it had been pointed directly at Mac. Amidst the shouts of "Get on the floor" and "Drop it", she watched in horror as Matheson's lips stretched into a cruel grin and his finger tightened on the trigger. Rage, fear, horror, and disgust had surged through her body all at the same time as Mac flew backward to the ground, deep crimson materializing on his shoulder, right next to its juncture with his neck.
The rest is still hazy to her. She remembers hearing the loud report of four automatic rifles, recalls seeing Matheson's body twitch like a marionette on a string as the bullets' impact, but it seemed so distant as she rushed to Mac's side. There was so much blood all around, and she'd pressed her hands to his wound, begging him through her sobs not to leave her. His eyes had connected with hers for a split second before sliding closed.
"Stella."
The voice sounds distant, shaking her out of her memories, but she's reluctant to come back. She keeps replaying the look in his eyes, the gentle squeeze of his hand around her blood-soaked fingers, the way his face had gone as white as a ghost.
"Stella."
Finally she looks up to see Flack staring at her, the same concern etched across his handsome features. "You know it wasn't your fault the op was blown," he says softly. "None of this was your fault. We got caught. It happens."
Deep in her gut she knows he's right, but she wishes she could convince herself of it. They'd thought it through, planned it out, but they hadn't anticipated this. They should have, but they didn't.
And now Mac lies in that hospital bed, suspended in that horrible state between life and death.
What Flack doesn't understand is that it's not just about blown undercover operations. It's blown chances for the both of them, times that they could've had something special but were too stubborn or too wrapped up in work to bring themselves to take a step forward. It's wasted opportunities for happiness, wasted glances, dates that should never had been, kisses that should have been reserved for him and him alone. She sees it. She knows what could have been, what they could have had.
And now she sees it slipping away.
Suddenly she feels something wet and warm on her cheek, and furiously she wipes at the salty tear trekking across her cheekbone. Quickly she blinks back the tears that threaten to follow suit, barely making out Flack's sympathetic gaze through her watery vision. "You know," his quiet voice breaks through her thoughts again, "there were a lot of times I wanted to slap Mac upside his head."
Despite herself, Stella laughs and asks why.
"Because the two of you belong together. I know it, Danny and Lindsay know it – hell, the entire lab knows it."
Shaking her head, Stella reminds him gently, "Don, it isn't just Mac's fault."
"Oh, I'm not letting you off the hook either." This time he catches her gaze and holds it. "But that's why he's not allowed to go yet. Because you two belong together, and neither one of you can go before that happens."
The tears well up in her eyes again, and she hurriedly blinks them back. "Thanks, Don," she whispers. "But, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone with him for a minute."
His smile is understanding as he pushes himself out of his chair. "Sure," he says softly, squeezing her shoulder as he passes.
She waits until he's gone before she moves to the chair Flack just vacated. Reaching out her hand, she slowly twines Mac's lifeless fingers with hers. They're still warm, and she tells herself that that's a good sign.
"Mac," she whispers. She knows from her years of studying biology that he really can't hear her, but that doesn't matter so much now. "Mac, you have to wake up."
Tears are flowing freely, but she ignores them.
"You have to wake up because I don't think I can live without you. So please. Please, open your eyes."
No more wasted moments. No more blown chances.
"Please, Mac. Don't leave me now."
For a second, she thinks she sees his eyelids flutter. She stares at them unblinking for what seems like an eternity, but there's nothing else.
Her grip tightens on his fingers.
"Please," she whispers.
And then…
Slowly his eyes blink open, squinting in the harsh, fluorescent light. His fingers clasp hers tighter, maneuvering until they're interlaced with hers. Their eyes connect, sea green with steel blue, and though his smile is drugged and slightly pained, she knows it's genuine.
Tearfully she returns it before pressing a gentle kiss to his warming hand.
She'll never wait so long again.