Chapter 2 – September/October 2009

"What's this?" Stella looked around in confusion as Mac took her hand – Mac took her hand! – and guided her past the economy check-in to business class. "Mac – we're flying economy – I can't afford $1,000 for 400 miles!"

"I can." He stopped and turned to face her. "I wasn't so drunk last night that I don't remember what I said, and I'm not doing it surrounded by screaming kids and starving students."

"You said…?" She didn't actually remember much of what he'd said – hadn't thought she needed to take notice of it. She did remember the warmth and the feel of him, but that wasn't on offer here.

"I need to talk to you about something. Come on – here we are."

They arrived at a small check-in desk, staffed by a very blonde woman in the very sky blue livery of Dutch airlines. Mac handed over their tickets. "You – bought the tickets?" Stella said stupidly.

"Well you can't fly without them," Mac whispered.

"No – I – how much…" She gathered herself. "I hope we'll get a refund on the others."

Mac grinned. "Stella."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

* * *

It was a small aircraft, seating perhaps only seventy, but its size and the fact that they were in expensive seats guaranteed them the undivided attention of the flight attendants. Which, it seemed, was not what Mac wanted.

After one particularly assiduous attendant's third foray to their seats – snugly in the centre of the cabin, with a spectacularly unimpeded view from the window – Mac asked, somewhat brusquely, to be left alone. Stella couldn't help noticing the knowing look in the attendant's eyes, and stared in hostility at her retreating back.

She took a deep breath: time to face the music. Though what sort of music, she had no idea.

"OK," she said, "What's going on?" Mac was silent. She turned to face him – he had insisted that she take the window seat – and saw that he was looking down at his hands, clasping and unclasping them in his lap. He looked nervous. "Mac?"

He looked up, but didn't meet her eyes: instead, he stared out at the impossibly white clouds below them. On the ground it had been a dull, grey morning: up here, the sun's light was glorious and undiminished. He took a breath. "Last night… Last night I said I had something to talk to you about."

"Yeah?"

He grimaced. "Well I'm not so drunk now, so it's more difficult."

"Mac – I'm your oldest friend. Best friend." She didn't know if either of those assertions was true, but she wanted them to be. "What can't you say to me?" She could make a list: I'm getting married, I'm leaving the lab, I have terminal cancer… Please God, none of those.

He smiled, but still didn't look at her. "We used to live on the same floor as a couple called the Emersons. They moved there just after we did, and by the time I left – they had six kids. They started off in the apartment next to ours – they had two then – and ended up taking the next apartment along as well, just to give themselves room. They had one in his name, one in hers – and they knocked holes in the walls and put in doors to make it one huge apartment. They had bookcases on wheels that they slid across when the super came up. I don't know if he ever knew.

"We used to baby-sit. In the end, it got too much, but it was fun at first. Claire – Claire always hated giving them back at the end of the evening. She was daft with kids…"

He paused, lost in remembrance for a moment. Stella wanted to reach out a hand, but did not.

"Anyway, they produced more than enough kids to make up for us," Mac went on. "I even had a test to see – well, we knew Claire was OK – but it was just – 'bad luck', they called it. I wasn't in any hurry – I thought we had years. And secretly I was kind of relieved, each time – I hadn't had a father since I was a kid, I didn't know how to be a father – I was afraid of letting Claire down.

"So it suited me fine when none came along – and then, the last two years – she began to change. New Year's Eve 1999 – I guess a lot of rethinking of lives was going on then. She said she really wanted to try: not just 'letting it happen' like we'd been doing, but really try. I was terrified. But the bad luck went on, and by the time – just before she died, we were talking about alternatives. IVF, adoption – not things I'd ever considered. I would have done, if she'd wanted.

"I wish – I wish I hadn't been scared. I wish I hadn't waited. I took that away from her. If we'd been in earnest earlier – who knows what might have happened? But I wouldn't, and she didn't pressure me till too late."

He sighed. "Whenever I come across kids – a part of me just wants to take them home. Not for them – for me. Then I stamp it down and it's gone, till the next time. Holding Lucy – " his voice broke, and now Stella did take his hand. He did not return her pressure. "All those children we never had," he whispered. "Something Claire and I never got to do."

His breathing was heavier now, and when Stella looked at him she saw that tears had rolled down his cheeks. He brushed them away impatiently.

"Sorry. You'd think that eight years – well, gone now." He tightened his hand around hers. "You know, those kids had never played cats' cradles? They loved it – they say give a child a cardboard box and it'll be happy. They were fascinated by a piece of string. I – I miss not being able to give someone that kind of love." He looked at her suddenly. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Miss having children."

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. The question was so unexpected that she couldn't even think of a flippant answer, let alone a serious one. "I – I – " The tiny baby abandoned by its rich parents for a European trip, then given back because they weren't really bad parents – the little boy cut from his mother's dead body and finally in the arms of his grandparents – these and other images that she didn't know she'd remembered slammed into her mind. "Yes," she said, in something like surprise. Why had she said 'yes'? She'd never even thought about it…

Not consciously, anyway.

Mac took a deep breath. Here it comes, Stella thought. "I always assumed I'd have kids. I – I wasn't always an only child, and having kids gave my mom and dad so much pleasure…" Stella blinked and tried to take it all in. This was information she might never be offered again, information precious to the speaker, and that she'd never known before. "When my sister died, and it was just me, my mom said 'it's all up to you now, Mackie – to carry on the Taylor-Mackenzie genes'. There was never any pressure, but… I was all she had, and I guess she always looked to me to give her grandchildren – something to remind her of…" He broke off, clearly having been taken down a road he wasn't yet willing to travel. Stella squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, glancing at her with gratitude in his eyes.

Then he stared out the window again. "It didn't happen with Claire – when mom died I knew she wanted to tell me it was OK, that I hadn't let her down, but…" His eyes grew wet again. "She couldn't. She never was any good at telling untruths, my mom. Tried, though – she did try.

"And now it's too late."

"Mac – you're a young man! You're…" What could she say without exposing her feelings, and intruding on his? "There are women out there who'd give their I-teeth to be with you. It's not too late!"

"The point is, Stella," he said quietly, "would I want to be with them? I want – I mean I would want – the mother of my children to be clever, intelligent, witty, bright, fun – I'd have to spend a lot of time with her after all. Who the hell would put up with me? And it's the years taken to get to know someone – you can't go up to a stranger and proposition them. Well, I can't. No, I've run out of time."

"Mac – oh – no, don't say that." She placed a hand on his cheek. "It's never too late – you know that. We've seen so many broken lives rebuilt – your kids would be so beautiful…" she stopped and looked down. That was a close one: she'd be calling him beautiful to his face next.

Her heart ached for him. All she had to do was reach out, take him in her arms, reach up for a kiss… Yet, if he'd wanted that, surely he'd have said so by now? No, he didn't want her – an available, known woman – presumably she wasn't clever or witty enough. She felt momentarily bitter. She would have given him everything, and all he wanted was…

She took her hands back, and stared at them. Her best friend, her respected colleague, the man she would dearly love to count as her own, was pouring his heart out to her – telling her secrets she hadn't even suspected –and all she could do was think of her own desires? Shame on you, Stella, she thought. Shame on you. She linked her arm with his, interlacing their fingers, and wrapped his hand up in her own. He might not want her love, but he sure as hell would know that he had it.

"Stella…" She raised her face to him: open and receptive and free of all self-pity. How she would love him! And here was her opportunity.

"I'm here, Mac. Always."

He hardly seemed to hear her. Instead, he played with her hand until she nearly cried out in frustration. Then, finally, he spoke. "Would you consider – I mean, do you think it would ever be possible – you're my dearest friend, Stella, and I care for you without reserve – you're everything I could ever want, but… If we did everything properly and didn't do anything you didn't want to and I know it would change everything completely – for ever – but little Lucy and those kids and it all seems to have come rushing at me, all at once… Could you have children with me?"

He stopped. Through the meandering, desperate byways, he had finally managed to say what he'd been working towards. There was a silence, and it occurred to Stella that he was waiting for an answer.

She could hardly believe what she thought she'd just heard. She swallowed, and tried to process his words. She shook her head slightly: it was too much to take in. And yet… To carry Mac's child – to give birth to Mac's child…

It was beyond imagining: she couldn't get her head round it, simple concept though it was. Holding Mac's child in her arms... She wouldn't do it. She couldn't do it. Loving him – oh yes, she wanted to be loving him – but a baby? Pain, worry, suffering, family.

Family. His had clearly been loving, and it had known tragedy too. But he must have adored his mom… Family for her had been foster homes, some good, some not so – a friend sworn to sisterhood in blood, an escape as soon as she was able… Family was the lab: Mac, Danny, Adam, Lindsay, Sid, Don. This was family – these people were family. Mac was family – her brother, her father, her son – oh God, what would Freud say about that?

But Mac was family. And you do things for family that you wouldn't do for anyone else. Even give Mac a child when he didn't love her.

Perhaps it would make him love her – perhaps being together would make him love her? Perhaps he would grow into loving her without even realising it, and one day they would wake up together and find that the love was right there, in the room with them. Perhaps he would whisper 'I love you' after all, as they made love in –

Woah! Oh no – no, no, no! Making love – Mac – making love…

She whimpered slightly: why, she didn't know. The thought of Mac – doing that – to her… She grew hot. But without love… Did she, she wondered, have enough for both of them? Could she go through with something that ought to be the pinnacle of her existence, but which instead would just be – practical plumbing?

For Mac? For Mac?

It would break her heart.

She took a deep breath. For Mac, she would do anything. For Mac, she would lie down in front of an oncoming train. She stopped: would she? Or would she sit by the side of the tracks, screaming, wishing she could be stronger?

She became aware of movement: the world might have paused for her, but it hadn't for the plane. Every second took them nearer New York, nearer having to do something, even if it was only getting up out of her seat and walking away. If Mac was going to get an answer, it had to be here.

"I – that's quite a surprising request," she said. "It's not one I get very often. Have you thought – I mean – how? How?"

Mac smiled. "Well – the normal way, I suppose. I – no, I guess that wouldn't be appropriate. I'm sorry – not thinking. Erm – syringe?"

"Ugh – God, Mac, what? Syringe?"

"Large syringe," he clarified.

She pulled a face, visualising contortions in her bathroom as she – no, oh no, it didn't bear thinking about.

"Of course," he said, "I'd prefer the traditional method, but I wouldn't impose that on you. Never."

She fell silent again. This was her opportunity to say something large and moving and wonderful, and all she could think of was that Mac didn't seem to want to touch her. That old selfishness rearing its head again. And yet – it was a lot he was asking. Just the rest of her life…

She would always be with Mac if she did this. She would always have Mac's cells running through her veins – well, for at least seven years or so – wasn't that how long it took for the body completely to renew itself? And a child would have their DNA, combined in irreversible, interlocking twists and turns that no-one, not even his God, could untie. She would always have a part of him – not his love, which was the part she craved, but almost everything else.

How bloody ironic.

But that wasn't a good reason for saying yes, she knew that. She had to say yes because she meant it, because she was willing to sacrifice a part of herself for Mac – as, she knew, he would do for her. It had to be for him, and any fringe benefits that might accrue to her would be just that – fringe. And the child – children – must be paramount. Their health and welfare was far more important than either hers or Mac's – but he would understand that. He was wise, and good, and knew stuff like that. Who else understood her so well?

They began to dip below the clouds: New York couldn't be far away. She had to give him a reply: make a decision that might change, irrevocably, the rest of her life. She took a deep breath. "Mac…" He gripped her hand more tightly. She looked him in the face, forcing him to do the same to her. "Let's do it. Let's take the chance, yeah?"

He grabbed her and held her close: she felt the shudders pass through him, but when he drew back his face was shining with a fierce joy.

"Um," she continued, "I – think we'll go for the traditional delivery method. In the first instance. I – I don't get on with syringes."

* * *

Their first attempt at following in the Messers' footsteps was something of a disaster.

Both were tired after a long day at the lab: Stella had assiduously worked until the last possible moment, not wanting to appear inappropriately keen, and by the time she had eaten and taken a cab to Mac's apartment, was almost shaking with a mixture of fatigue, anticipation and dread.

Mac seemed no better: he greeted her with a nervous smile, showed her into the living room and offered her a coffee, after which he spent some twenty minutes in the kitchen alone: steeling himself for the experience, Stella assumed. She wished she had the guts to go to him – she would have put her arms around him and told him it was all going to be OK and he would have turned to her and held her close – but she didn't, so they remained in their separate rooms until Mac came in and said that he supposed they ought to… Well, do something… Before they lost their nerve.

It was not as she had imagined. And she had imagined it, often: but she had pictured them dressed in flowing romantic clothing atop the Empire State Building, or – in darker, more exciting dreams – ripping off their day clothes and spreading themselves frantically across Mac's desk, sweeping its contents to the floor in a rage of uncontrollable passion and reaching for the skies in ecstatic abandonment. She shivered: she had waited so long for this, and now it seemed – she had to admit it – a non-event.

After the coffee, they had made their way reluctantly to Mac's bedroom, where Stella could smell the clean – no, the new – sheets he had lain on the bed. That was considerate, she thought, though in her fantasies it hadn't mattered.

"I – I don't quite know how you want to handle this, Stella," Mac had said, and she'd heard the tension in his voice. A sensible woman would have realised that neither was in the mood, and that the best thing would be to adjourn to the living room for beer and a laugh, after which events might have unfolded quite differently: but Stella, faced with the prospect of sleeping with Mac for the first time, was not inclined to be sensible.

The outcome was not good. Mac was so nervous he couldn't stop shaking, and Stella suddenly found she didn't want the lights on. Mac tried to accomplish his task while touching Stella as little as possible, and it was only after an hour of tentative and failed fumblings that both came to their senses and gave the whole evening up as a bad job.

Stella was almost crying, though she did find it in her heart to consider that Mac must be feeling pretty awful too: it could hardly be what he had anticipated when they embarked on this crazy scheme. Perhaps, she thought when safely back in her own apartment and wrapped up in her empty bed, they should have gone with the syringe after all.

* * *

Next day, she was relieved to see that Mac seemed completely unfazed by the experience. "Stella?" he said brightly as she walked into the lab, "how are you feeling?"

She looked him in the eye. "Frankly? Rather foolish." He smiled, and she found herself wishing she'd been able to do something to make it work. "Look," she rushed on, keeping her voice low but determined to speak before discretion got the better of her, "if you want to give this whole thing up, that's fine, I don't mind. Not that I don't think it's good idea – still – but if it's not going to work…"

"Hmm." He sounded rather grim. "I didn't go through all that last night just to give up at the first hurdle. Did you?"

"I'm – I'm sorry. I just don't think I did very well."

He moved nearer to her. "You know what they say," he whispered, "about the first time usually being – less than perfect. But," raising his voice again, "if at first you don't succeed…"

They had been walking through the lab and had now arrived at Mac's office, and Stella began to breathe a little more freely. "I just – I just don't want to let you down," she mumbled, not looking at him.

"Stella!" She looked up. "I think I was the one… Adam! What can I do for you?"

"Er – I can come back. I can easily come back," stammered the lab tech, obviously aware that he had stumbled in on a private conversation.

"No, that's fine," Stella said breezily. "We'll get back to this, Mac – yes? Say in a couple of days?"

He nodded, and she left, feeling his eyes on her.

* * *

Later, she suddenly began to grin uncontrollably. Indeed, she even began to giggle, and so loudly that Lindsay looked across at her, somewhat bemused.

"Stella?"

"Oh – something funny last night," she said. "Nothing – it's OK."

Lindsay went back to work, but Stella continued to stare at her bench with a very silly smile on her face. She couldn't help it: and the more she thought, the more she grinned. She was profoundly grateful that no-one could read her mind: apart from being deeply embarrassing, no-one would have believed her.

The light had been dim in Mac's apartment, but not that dim.

I've seen Mac Taylor naked…

* * *

To be continued in Chapter 3