TITLE: Intro Retrospection
AUTHOR: Rain Garcia
RATING: T
CATEGORY: Casefile and leaning a bit towards A/U.
SUMMARY: They went forward, but the past couldn't bury itself.
FEEDBACK: Yes, all the way. Makes the muse insanely happy that I have to put her on Tylenol.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Just borrowing.
A/N: This will be a run of at least twelve to thirteen chapters. It's pretty long, so please, please be patient with this (I know I'll have to be patient with my moody self).
Just to make it clear, in some parts, I'll be alternating between the past and present. It's going to unfold in both ways at the same time, just so no one gets confused.
Endless thanks to those who R&R "Checkmate".
CHAPTER ONE: Polar Magnetism
January 22, 1991
Their official wall clock was indicating that it was already half- past midnight; the next shift was about to pour in their meager offices, but no one still budged or gave a damn. Everyone had their own businesses to take care of. They were all either struggling with the lure of sleep or the itch of their tenacity.
On one side, eager bug- eyed policemen started to pack their briefcases, waving lackluster goodbyes to attentive colleagues. On the other side, apprehended criminals and their captors kept their shouting matches at ear- shattering decibels.
This was New York City, in the early morning. And he was still having a hard time telling when the city would actually sleep. Sometimes, it felt like she never did.
Mac Taylor stood up from his rickety swiveling chair and lifted his arms high up in the air for a good stretch. He had been working for ten hours straight - doing everything from filing cases, collecting fingerprints, making reports of his previous run ins, and generously giving coffee away to anyone who needed it. Being the so- called rookie of the NYPD, he felt the need to socialize a little bit more. He had only been stationed in New York for eight months. It was enough for him to say that he had friends, but not to say that he was at home with any of them.
Honestly, if it wasn't just for the higher paycheck that he desperately needed for his upcoming wedding, he wouldn't have left Chicago at all. But somehow, the city seemed to be a magnet for engaged young women - like his fiancée. She practically bounced on his lap when the NYPD offer came into their conversation, pleading and batting her eyelashes at him. She had a sister in New York and she expressed her fervent desires to spend some of her last single-status-time there. For even stranger reasons, she thought that raising a family in Manhattan was the greatest thing since sliced bread. He thought otherwise, but that wasn't important, anyway.
He took the last sip of his now- cool coffee and started toward the garbage can. He was beginning to crumple the Styrofoam cup when Detective Dave Patrick approached him. Mac immediately disposed of the cup and faced his boss.
"Hey sir. What can I do for you?" he opened at once, ever eager to lend a hand. This attitude often reminded him of the pathetic newcomers in his old office in Chicago: the way they straighten an inch higher when he came in view, the way they tried to carpet every centimeter of his footsteps. But that didn't matter to him. There was nothing to be embarrassed about here in New York. He was Tabula Rasa, a clean slate. He can slip and land on his ass and he wouldn't care if anyone laughed at him. No one knew him well enough to enjoy the mishap.
"Hey Taylor, I know you're on your way out and that you have been working like a fucking dog the whole day, but I have one last favor to ask you. I need to go early because the wife is now screaming 'bloody murder' …" Patrick shook his head, ruffling his already disheveled ashy blond hair as he continued. "Anyway, Officer Fein is with a shoplifter on my table and her prints are needed. The store owner is still deciding on whether or not to press charges, and mother fucker, is HE taking such a long time to decide!" He smacked his fist on the nearby wall, the hollow thud barely heard in the chaotic space.
"… While he's deciding outside, can you process this young woman for me? Fein should've been off- duty since eleven."
It also didn't matter that he was going off- duty in fifteen minutes himself. No, of course not. He needed the boost, as much as he needed the overtime pay.
"Yeah, sure, I can do that. Where is she?"
Patrick tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the already nodding- off Fein. Seated beside him, on Patrick's freshly minted desk, was a mop of curly brown hair.
"That her, huh?" he asked. Patrick agreed tiredly. "I can take care of this. I'll tell Fein to go now."
"Good luck, Taylor. The store owner has been trying to decide for the last thirty minutes and he apparently had called every living relative in his family tree." Patrick waved him away, giving him one last tap on the shoulder before practically flying out of the whole crazy scenario.
Mac shrugged. He was going to take his time; he had no one to go home to anyway. Claire was still having her festivities with her girlfriends.
He walked to his boss' table, nonchalantly greeting rugged colleagues as he did so, and upon reaching his destination, he immediately told Fein to go. The policeman whispered a gracious "thank you" to him, handed him the necessaries, and also followed Patrick's footsteps out of the office.
A smile lightened up Mac's face: He liked it better this way. When he was all alone, he could think and act better. He could produce astoundingly good results for all the supervisors to see.
Seating down on Det. Patrick's newly cushioned chair, he saw that everything was laid out on the table for him to feast on. All he needed was the fingerprinting ink. He began to search through the piles of objects on the table.
"Ma'am, if you would kindly put your hands on the table, I need to uhh," he paused, squirming as he reached underneath a mountain of case folders to retrieve the ink, "take your fingerprints-"
"Sure, fine, whatever," the woman said, then smacked her hands in front of him. The handcuffs rattled as they met with the wooden surface, groaning against the redness that it was embossing on her wrists.
At the sound of her sharp voice, Mac lifted his head up to take a good look at the lady.
He noticed that she barely had make- up on. Despite this though, he thought she didn't need any of that. She carried with her an impeccable flawlessness - from the tilt of her eyebrows to the height of her cheekbones, all creating a grandiose compliment to her olive skin. Her bouncy hair fought for stability on her rail thin shoulders, and the funny thing was that the shade of her hair matched her sleeveless T- shirt. She also faintly smelled of strawberries, and he silently wondered if that was the root of her crime.
He gently held her hand and guided her throughout the printing. At his peripheral vision, he could see her watching him with the eyes of a hawk. At the back of his head, he marveled at how a 'criminal' could have such soft skin.
Usually, he finished these tasks without any flaws. He rarely talked to suspects--- and if he actually did, only to ask for their middle initials, or if they wanted to get a lawyer. But for some bizarre inexplicable reason, he found protocol too far gone when he accidentally lifted his head up, making him gaze straight into the woman's eyes.
Quickly, they broke their stares off, both finding something else more amusing at the far (and opposite) ends of the room.
Finishing with her left thumb, Mac offered her a tissue paper. She took it without further meeting his eyes, busying herself with the cleaning process.
He grabbed this opportunity to take a look at her name on the file, and after squinting at Patrick's ungodly handwriting, he finally made it out:
Stella Bonasera.
He smiled. In his Chicago state of mind, it sounded so … New York- ish to him.
Mac watched as 'Stella' finished struggling with the ink, and with a few blotched attempts to remove them completely, she gave up with a sigh. She placed the stained paper on the desk, then resumed her tight- lipped stance.
"How did you get caught?"
Stella cocked her head toward him, looked at him as if he was a serial nut with an addiction, then opened her mouth to answer him.
"Is that important? Do you need to file that?"
His smile broke into a grin. "No, it's off the record."
"Oh," she said. "Off the record, Mister -" she quickly glanced at his nameplate, "- Taylor, It's really none of your business." She wrinkled her nose and diverted her gaze again.
Mac found his grin intensifying, rather than being appalled. This woman was a piece of work, a piece of interesting work. It was no secret to himself that he was drawn to difficult females.
"Are you sure you don't want to talk?" he prodded, making Stella raise an eyebrow. "I heard that the store owner is taking all the time in the world in deciding whether he should file a case against you or not. This could get boring, especially if I have to detain you inside."
She gave him that look again, then let out a sarcastic laugh. "You gotta be kidding me, right? Please tell me you're NOT hitting on me."
He lifted his arms out, shaking his head in amusement. "I'm NOT hitting on you. I'm engaged."
"Good. Because I have a boyfriend," she stated, slumping on the chair. Mac chuckled, for he immediately knew WHO this boyfriend was just from her body language.
"The store owner? You're the one who's kidding me."
"I was hungry. He was greedy. What can a girl do?"
"I don't know, buy?" he suggested. Stella blew a strand of hair away from her face, exasperated.
"No offense, Mr. Taylor, but not everyone feeds off Uncle Sam like you."
"He feeds me first class meals, what can a guy do?"
She was probably surprised by his open humor – and maybe even his zeal – that she finally stopped staring at whatever blank wall, and faced him. When their eyes met once again, he thought that her irises had the most beautiful green he had ever seen.
He cleared his throat to alert himself. He was tired and was at the borderline for illusion. He needed diversion. Protocol- wise diversion.
"In case he does file one against you, I'm sure Uncle Sam would provide you the best lawyer and you can also feed off his hand, like me," he murmured, trying to sound helpful.
"I know my rights."
"Is that so?" he replied, leaning against his chair, "And how?"
"I finished my first year of college in Criminology." She rattled the handcuffs and lifted them so that he could see how they were affecting her skin. "I only wish that my goddamn professor told me how these darn things hurt like bastards. Or maybe that's for the sophomores."
"They don't usually hurt. You must have sensitive skin."
"Great. More for me to worry about." She rolled her eyes.
"So, how did YOU get caught?"
She, again, appeared surprised.
"You really want to know? You sound like it's the Fatima Prophecy," she said, eyeing every inch of him. "It's the prophecy for stupid humans everywhere."
"Sure. It might bring me salvation."
"Just my luck. A catholic."
They both snickered. Then, it became awkward, so they stopped.
"I was hungry, as I've said," she started, lifting her hands to tuck thick pieces of hair behind her ears. "And I had my boyfriend's keys to the store … so I kind of shopped around. I didn't know that he left his wallet and that he was coming back. And being so stubbornly stupid, thinking that he would laugh it all off, I didn't hide. I could've easily escaped, you know. But I didn't because I had to give him a big, fat, wet kiss. After that, he pressed the alarm."
"Business IS business."
"He didn't seem all business when he was giving me those fucking keys. How should I know that he gave them to me as a spare? And that I'm not supposed to use them?" She gritted her teeth. "Now look at what I've gotten myself into. Just perfect. If he presses charges, I'll have to serve the term because I have nothing on me for bail."
"Don't you have relatives who can help you out?"
"Probably … unlike you, Mr. Taylor," she said, her voice softening. She stared down at her feet and ironically smiled sideways. "I don't have relatives. I grew up in St. Basil's Orphanage and that's my very family." She lifted her head and exhaled. "I don't think they'll be happy to offer assistance."
He opened his mouth to console her, believing that he offended her in some way, but was silenced when Officer Dewey Johnson cut in. The brooding young man nodded in his direction.
"Mr. Trick Simile has expressed his desire to not press any charges. He only said, and I quote, 'If I ever see that bitch anywhere near my premises again, I will get a restraining order'. So Ms. Bonasera is free to go." Johnson winked, as if telling them that 'shit happens'. "You can go too, Taylor. I'm here to relieve you."
Mac glanced at Stella, saw her blink away tears of frustration, and returned to Johnson.
"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute. Just let me release her." His colleague was quick to comply, finding something appealing by the water station.
Mac stood up and removed Stella's handcuffs. He returned them on Patrick's table, studied her while she rubbed her sore wrists, and helped her steady herself as she straightened up.
"You okay?" he whispered. She struggled to say 'yes', but nothing came out of her mouth when she opened them to speak. However, she pushed again, this time gasping out the syllables.
"He's my only fam – family. I … have nowhere to go." After that, she swallowed hard, forced out a badge of courage, and raised her chin high. Her eyes still shined beneath the airy façade, but he knew she was trying to be brave.
"Thanks for everything, Mr. Taylor. I'm sure I can manage," she supposed, barely above auditory level. She twirled around to leave him, but Mac held her in place by grabbing her elbow.
In that kindred moment, it felt like polar magnetism. The South to the North Pole for Mac. It was going against everything in his book, but he felt the incredible urge to help her. To give her something to eat, to give her something concrete to hold onto. Because it seemed like she had nothing left on her side.
"C'mon, I'll walk you out the station. I'll take you to a good doughnut place nearby and I'll help you work something out," he offered, noticing that he sounded as if he was giving an order rather than a choice.
Not that it mattered, because she already appeared to be surrendering herself to what he had to offer.
It was the traditional early morning city scenario: There were still people up on the streets, minding their own business, and acting as if sleep was the last thing they needed. Upon first experiencing it, Mac oddly found himself liking the 'night life', for it was always exuberant, always so alive. Rather than intimidating him, it made him feel safe – especially since he walked home to his apartment every day after his shift.
A cheese hotdog and two bagels disappeared from Stella's hands, and Mac was contented enough to stand back and watch such a tiny creature finish everything off in five minutes tops. It was refreshing to discern someone who wasn't concerned about her weight or whether the hotdog's calories would go straight to her ass. All she was worried about was biology. She needed to eat, so screw them all.
He sniggered when she hurriedly struggled with the plastic of ketchup. Hearing him, she stopped chewing and gaped at him. She smiled, the sides of her face bulging like giant Faberge eggs.
"Never … sheen a lady eat … like a man before, Mr. Taylor?" she inquired, and he resisted the urge to bop his head immediately. He didn't want to offend her any further.
"Well, let's just say that you fascinate me." He sipped at his cola, smiling in return. Stella pretended to think about that for a minute, then attacked her meal once again. This time, she was courteous enough to talk to him in between bites.
"I didn't eat lunch, you see. I AM really hungry."
"Yeah, obviously," he said, pointing at her with his drink to demonstrate his point.
Stella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "He must've burned all my clothes by now. He has a little arsonist streak in him."
"Then you can attempt to sue him back."
"With what? My strands of hair?" She shook her head to dislocate the curls, making Mac laugh. "I told you I have nothing on me, Mr. Taylor."
"Don't you have a job? Or anything? You seem smart and pleasant," he paused, for at that point, she snorted. He continued, "And you finished some college. People get by with less."
"My last job was as a salesgirl in a department store." She bit into her second hotdog, closing her eyes as if it was the tastiest meal on earth. "That was three days ago. Apparently, I'm not conducive to a friendly environment. I always piss people off."
"You're not pissing me off."
"Yeah," she answered, opening her eyes, baring those green liquid diamonds at him again. "Its baffles the mind."
Mac wanted to say something – anything – back to assure her that she really wasn't in anyway annoying or rude, but he didn't. Instead, he allowed her to finish her meal in silence.
A few minutes later, he did the most absurd thing he had ever done in his newfound life: Walk behind the shadows of the streetlights with a woman that they arrested for theft. His SuperEgo was telling him that this was irrational, but Id was patting him on the back, advising him that he was 'goddamn fucking lucky'. He had to admit, Ms. Bonasera was quite a looker.
Not that he was Freudian, anyway.
When they were nearing his block, he promptly stopped the uncomfortable silence dead in its tracks and asked Stella if she had anywhere, anywhere AT ALL, to go home to.
She tucked her hands into her faded jeans' pockets, shuffling her feet on the pavement as they walked. "I know a cool homeless guy. He has the comfiest box/home. He's … sheltered me more than once," she replied, with a hint of embarrassment.
Mac inhaled steadily. He stole a glance at his companion and watched her hung her head and accept everything that was going on with her life. He was getting the impression that she had gone through a lot of these setbacks, on a day-to-day basis.
"You can stay at my place. I have a guest room, and I promise you that you can lock it and keep the key, too."
They both halted walking at once.
Mac recoiled. Shit. Just when he thought he did the most absurd thing to date, he had to topple it over before it even made his record book.
Stella's eyebrows furrowed and she brushed hair from her face. "You realize that I was arrested for pilfering, and that you don't even know my name, and that you're asking me to stay at your apartment, right?"
"I DO know your name. It's Stella Bonasera. And your arrest was premature. You were hungry. A girl has to eat. And he DID give you the keys." He turned to his side to face her completely. His shadow meshed against hers on the concrete floor as he did, creating a spectacle of impeccable union.
She removed her hands from her pockets and crossed them under her chest. "You surprise me, Mr. Taylor. I … don't, don't really know what to say."
"Try, will you?" He brushed his cheek against his shoulder. "We still have a few steps to go."
"Okay."
Silence resumed at once. But Mac broke it again when his apartment complex was in his line of sight.
"Look, I have an offer –"
"You do, huh?"
"Yeah," he conveyed, ignoring her tone of cynicism. "I think that you have a lot of potential … to be something more than you are right now. You're just lost and you just don't know what to do about your future-"
"Don't give me that crap, Mr. Taylor, I'm not in nursery."
"Mac - it's Mac, Ms. Bonasera," he corrected. Before he could go on, Stella cut him off.
"Then … uhh, it's Stella."
He wanted to tell her that it was one of the most beautiful names he had heard, ever since he saw Tennessee William's award- winning play live onstage. But of course, he didn't.
"Okay, Stella," he emphasized, "I think I can help you out. There's this department that I think you'd find interesting, because it doesn't involve just getting the bad guys. You try and process the evidence, the truth, which is very important."
"Crime Scene Investigation?" Stella piped up. Mac grinned and consented this. She lifted her shoulders, "I've heard about it, it's different from being a Fed or a NYPD officer."
"If you can study for a while and train through scholarship, I think you'd make a fine CSI."
"After being 'in the system'? I can't be a CSI," she murmured steadfastly, tightening her arms around herself. "That's like asking me to be the Statue of Liberty three hundred sixty- five days a year."
"You can try. You promised that you'd at least try."
"That was if ever I'll be staying overnight at your apartment. There was nothing about this offer -"
"But I know you'd try." He saw the front door to his building and leaned against its Victorian- style stoop.
He confronted her: the green eyes that sparkled with the moonlight, the strength of her tongue, and the frailty of her spirit. "Think about it, will you? I can find you a good scholarship and an apartment you can stay in. I'm sure you'd do great."
She bit the inside of her cheek, unsure of how to take this. "Mist-, Mac, I don't know what to say …"
"You said you'll try."
"I KNOW," she reinforced, letting a smirk escape her lips. "This is just too much right now." Then, the smirk evolved into a smile. A full- pledged smile. He knew that she was finding this unusually comical.
"Well?" Mac asked, bringing out his ring of keys from his back pocket. He turned his back to her to open the front door.
"Can … we at least … uhh, talk about this? I haven't been to school for years."
"They say it's never too late." With a twist of the key, the door opened. Mac nudged one foot inside and then looked down at Stella, who was still contemplating everything below the stoop.
Without any warning or any attempt to stare up, she climbed the stairs. Mac held the door open for her and she entered. He followed afterward, switching on the lights of the main hallway and locking the door behind them.
END of CHAPTER ONE
C/N: There are subtle X- Files and Tori Amos references there. Brownie points to those who can guess which they are.