Chapter 4 – February/March 2010
A/N: I have made assumptions about what happened to Danny in the months following 5.25: please forgive me if I've got them wrong! Also, thank you, everyone, for your reviews – there have been so many that I haven't been able to answer them all personally, which I normally like to do. Every single one of them is very much appreciated.
* * *
Stella was shouting. She didn't care that they were in the parking lot below Danny and Lindsay's apartment block and that, if their hosts had followed them down, they would have heard every word of their argument. She didn't care that Mac's face was grey with pain and distress.
"Stella – please!" He reached a hand towards her, and she saw the chill that swept across him when she pulled away.
"I said no!" She fought to control her breathing, trying not to cry – she was angry and hurt, but she did not want to cry. She couldn't bear this any more – enough was enough and she'd had a lot more than enough. "Don't touch me!" She didn't care if she was hurting him – her own pain was all-consuming, and she had no room for any agony of his.
Gasping, she slowly calmed down, still keeping her hand outstretched against Mac's concern: he stood less than four feet away from her, but the gulf between them was unbridgeable.
Which was exactly what she wanted.
* * *
They had spent the evening with the Messers, laughing and chatting and playing with Lucy: Danny's health had come under scrutiny, and Stella had been moved by his bravery. And bravado – it took a special kind of person to cope with what he had experienced, and only someone with his cheek and chutzpah could have made it through untainted by anger or bitterness. He had been angry at first – furiously, insanely angry – but his responsibilities as a father, husband and friend had steadied him in ways that Stella had hardly believed possible. He had learnt how to put himself last, and had become a richer and – ironically – a happier person because of it.
She and Mac had revelled in each other's company. Their relationship had matured since the new year and, while not the expression of 'true love' that Stella still yearned for, was tender, exciting and intellectually fulfilling: Mac was good in bed, but he was also fun to read the Sunday papers with. Short of him saying those three magic words – and meaning them in the way she wanted – life was perfect.
Lindsay knew: Stella was convinced that Lindsay knew. She saw the younger woman watching them occasionally, a slightly wry smile on her face that didn't entirely disappear when she caught Stella's eye. But Mac had wanted to play things close, to keep things to themselves for as long as possible, and she respected his desire for privacy: he had told her about Peyton's need for public acknowledgement, and she'd had a hard time keeping the distaste off her face. When you had the love – the almost-love – of the most wonderful man in the world, what need was there for anything more?
When Lindsay and Danny went into the kitchen to make coffee – and to give her and Mac, Stella thought, a few moments alone – they had touched fingers, and the charge between them was so erotic that Stella though the sofa might catch fire. She felt like a flower in the sun: warm and open and about to burst with happiness. She loved Mac – loved him so much… Romantic heroines – Jane Eyre, Lizzie Bennett, Scarlett O'Hara – what did they know! She loved him with every atom of her being – hell, she loved him with the spaces between the atoms! She had to tell him – had to share this overwhelming joy – had to whisper that he was everything to her, and without him life would be unbearable. She even opened her mouth – was aware of the words travelling from her brain to her lips – had begun to form them in a daring rush – before common sense asserted itself and she said something else entirely.
But, she had promised herself, she would tell him that night, when they were alone and he could respond freely and without constraint. She stroked his face, a feather-touch to tell him what he was to her, but dropped her hand as Lindsay returned. Mac hid his grin, and they drank their coffee in delicious conspiracy.
Then, at the evening's end, she went to the bathroom and emerged a different woman: another month, another failure.
Her heightened emotions had made her particularly susceptible, perhaps, to the disappointment. She hadn't been drinking – she'd given up alcohol, much to the astonishment of her colleagues, after New Year – but she felt dizzy, uncoordinated.
And outraged.
Mac saw it at once, and knew its cause. She saw the concern in his eyes, the quick glance at their hosts to see if they'd noticed, the anxiety to leave – and, irrationally, hated him for it. What right did he have to know her so well? What right did he have to put her through this, just for his own immediate and future desires?
She knew she wasn't being intelligent or sensible, but she didn't care. Yet another month of hoping, planning – yet another dashing of those green and delicate dreams, withering in the harshness of the rich red sun. She was drained, alone, unsupported and wretched, and she couldn't do this any more. The fact that the cause of her anguish would also be – if she let him – her greatest support, was utterly irrelevant.
* * *
"It's over, Mac." Even to her crazy ears, the words were hackneyed. But who cared? Not her… "I've had enough. Every month's a roller-coaster, never knowing what's going to happen, never knowing where we'll be four weeks from now – the anticipation, the let-downs – I can't deal with it any more. It's destroying me! Can't you see, it's destroying me!"
"But – "
"No – I tried, OK? I really tried – I wanted to do this for you, Mac. I never imagined – " she drew a breath " – I never realised what it would mean. What it would cost. It's different for you – it's my body, my damage – it's over."
After a slight pause, Mac spoke carefully: she heard the quiet tension in his voice. "What's over, Stella?"
"Us! This! I'm not good enough."
"Stella, that's not – "
"Enough, Mac! That's it – OK? I'm not doing it any more. It's not worth it – it really isn't worth it." She was close to tears now, but determined to remain dry-eyed: if she showed any weakness he would take her in his arms and comfort her and – and… She wanted so much to be loved! Wanted so much to make this work! But she couldn't take the constant pain of disappointment: she had to think of herself.
He looked lost, like a drowning man about to lose his grip on the last piece of a shipwreck. "I still – we don't have to – I need you, Stella." It was whispered: she hardly heard him.
But she hardened her heart: he could find someone else. "No," she said flatly. "You don't."
"But," he stammered. She'd never heard him stammer before. "But – still friends, right? We'll always be friends, Stella, yes?"
"Yeah – so? I need the space, I can't handle any more crowding!"
She thought she heard a whimper, but didn't care. He'd get over it.
* * *
A month later, Stella was in the lab clearing batches of paperwork – Mac was in his office doing, as far as she knew, the same. It was the end of the financial year, and everyone was trying to tie up loose ends.
It was days – weeks – since they'd spoken: Mac had been keeping her at a distance, and she had made no effort to bridge the widening gap he had put between them.
She knew, of course. It didn't take a rocket – or a forensic – scientist to work out why: during their last genuine conversation, she had effectively told him their whole relationship was over. She'd seen his face crumble at her words, but her own pain had been so overwhelming that she simply hadn't had room to think of his.
Since then she had worked through her disappointment – alone, as was necessary – and accepted that, inevitably, it went with the territory. There were enormous questions to be faced that she had previously succeeded in avoiding: questions of her love for Mac, her desire for a child, the importance of her job, her need for companionship. The last had given her most trouble. She had always thought of herself as a loner, wanting others but needing no-one; but this 'loss' of Mac – his body, his affection and his company – had coloured every area of her life, and it had taken her weeks to acknowledge that, at last, she actually needed him.
She needed Mac: the revelation was devastating. That she loved him she knew – that had been astonishing at first, but she was used to the idea now. She wanted him – oh God, how she wanted him! Over the past months her body had developed a craving for his: for his kiss, his touch, his passion. She felt empty without him: she thought of his strong, hard physicality against her, inside her, enveloping her, and the want was a bodily ache that nothing could wash away.
Bu that she needed him: that was different. That meant she was no longer self-sufficient, no longer a proud, isolated island. Someone had built a bridge into her heart, and she had welcomed the invasion as if her life depended on it. And now, it did. And the irony was that, just as she was beginning to realise the extent of her commitment to the man with whom she had spent such a crazy, wonderful year, he finally gave up and began to move away.
Immediately after her outburst he had withdrawn a little, but made it clear that he was still there for her. A touch on the arm, a smile in the hallway, help in the small hours with a particularly tricky task: he had made himself available and she had been grateful. But she had never reached out for anything more: looking back, she realised that she had used him as a safety net as she worked through her own troubles, that knowing he was always there had enabled her to face and answer some of the hardest questions of her life. But, having found her way again, by the time she was ready to take his hand, he had given up and withdrawn completely, rebuilding the impenetrable shell that he had constructed after 9/11 and which it had taken him so long to allow anyone to break down.
He was pleasant, friendly, professional and courteous: and she had never felt so alone.
Perhaps he thought she had meant those harsh words; perhaps he thought she no longer needed him; perhaps he thought she no longer loved him. The thought made her gasp in pain: the man she loved thought she was indifferent, and seemed to have no desire for a relationship that had become life and death to her. If she couldn't have him – if she couldn't spend her life loving him, being with him – she caught a glimpse, for the first time, of how people arrive at a place where life becomes intolerable, and was terrified.
Walking swiftly to the bathroom, she leant against the cool tiles. What was happening to her? Where was the strong Stella she had spent her whole life creating? Where was the powerful woman she had always been, even in the ghastly hours of Frankie, the awful days of Greece? Where was she – where was she now, lost, alone and afraid in the dark?
She knew: she was wrapped up in Mac's heart, and he had locked his heart up, and her with it, because the pain it gave him was too great to bear. The true horror was that she had made him do it: if she had given him even a shade of hope, she knew he would have kept that door open. Now it was closed, and she had no idea how to get in. She was in a hot, beating desert, and the only water was beyond her reach.
And without that water, she would die.
She cried out, losing control just for a moment, her agony was so great. Then, horribly, she became aware of someone with her: for a ludicrous moment she thought it might be Mac, but this was a women's bathroom, and the shape resolved itself into Lindsay.
Concerned, affectionate and bloody infuriating Lindsay, whose arms were suddenly round her – how surreal was that? – and on whose shoulder Stella sobbed out her incoherent pain until she had no more words or thoughts or anything at all.
Straightening, she looked her in the eye. If she asks me if I'm OK, I'll hit her…
But she didn't: instead, Lindsay handed her a drink and simply held her hand. She pushed a strand of hair away from Stella's face in a gesture so redolent of Mac that she began to say his name: and then the agony washed over her again, and the word died on her lips.
She shook her head. "Lindsay… Please – don't tell anyone. Don't – tell Mac." Her voice was a whisper. "Just – got to move on. Just – got to leave…" Her breathing became ragged. "How do people do it?" she suddenly broke out. "How do people cope with – loving someone? It's impossible!" She stood up and began to pace the floor. "How do you do it, Lindsay? How do you and Danny do it without tearing yourselves apart?"
Lindsay was quiet for long enough for Stella to calm herself, and by the time she began to answer, she wasn't really interested any more. But she heard, nonetheless. "We listen to each other. We try not to let pride get in the way. We try to imagine what we look like from the other side of the room. We – we try not to be afraid."
"Afraid? You and Danny?"
Lindsay smiled. "Loving someone isn't so hard, Stella. It's letting yourself be loved that's difficult. You've got to be unbearably open: it's not called wearing your heart on your sleeve for nothing." She glanced down at her arm. "I got a lot of bloody shirts learning to be with Danny. Still get one occasionally. You and Mac – "
"I didn't say it was Mac!"
"No, you didn't. But you guys… Come on, Stella, everyone wants you two to be happy."
"I didn't say…" Stella repeated.
"You have to learn to be vulnerable. Both of – you're the sort of people who need to be in control, and sometimes that can make you appear, well, closed. You need to show a weakness – even make a mistake. Ask for help. Do something which shows you're not completely self-sufficient."
Stella frowned. "But – people don't respect weakness, Lindsay – they respect strength. If I show weakness, I'll lose his respect. I'll lose my authority."
"Well," Lindsay said blandly, "if the 'person in question' is understanding, and can separate work and leisure… Then he's quite capable of distinguishing capable, competent working Stella from vulnerable, loving personal Stella. Don't you think? And trusting you to behave appropriately?"
Stella stared at her. When had Lindsay got philosophy – and psychology? Did she really imagine that Stella letting her guard down was going to bring Mac running to her side? He was the sort who needed a strong woman, not some squealing weakling.
And yet… If Mac needed to be protective and she didn't need protecting, wasn't she denying him something? Or was that the age-old argument of women becoming what men wanted simply to get love and keep them happy? Where did gentleness end and compromise begin?
She didn't want Mac to protect her – she didn't want to be beholden – and it came to her suddenly that she wanted to protect him. She was strong, powerful, a figure of authority and control: but did she really want him to be weak and yielding so she could feel good at his expense? She realised that protecting someone was a lot more complicated than she'd thought. She wanted to shelter Mac, to hold him against pain and terror and unhappiness: but that was because she loved him, not because he was weak. It didn't diminish him in her eyes that she needed to care for him.
So why should it diminish her in his?
She buried her face in her hands. "Oh hell…"
"You could just go out there and tell him," Lindsay said.
Stella gave up the pretence that they weren't talking about Mac. "What – " her voice cracked slightly. "What if he said no?"
"Doesn't mean you give up! Isn't he worth more than one try?"
"I can't do this, Lindsay – I can't dance around like this."
"Then – look, what have you got to lose? And what have you got to gain? And how the hell did you guys get together in the first place and why can't you do that again?"
"We got drunk," Stella whispered. "It was an accident."
"Then have another accident! Spike his coffee! Sit in his lap! Spill his coffee in his lap and then sit in it!"
"Lindsay!"
"Well do something! The longer you leave it the more he'll think you don't want him and the higher those defences will go. You've known him longer than anyone – you know it, Stell!"
She knew.
* * *
She did nothing that afternoon: her mind was too full of new thoughts and notions and daydreams of protecting Mac from real and imagined monsters to figure out a plan. But the following morning she saw Lindsay's exasperated expression and knew she had to act. Lindsay in nag mode was not something to be encouraged.
Her chance came when she had to collect an evidence box from central storage. It was old – there was some re-testing and cold-case matching she wanted to do – and the handles were none too reliable, so she had to carry it in her arms. It was also a bulky, non-standard size and, as she climbed the steps up to the lab, she stumbled slightly and swore: fortunately, neither she nor the box hit the floor.
"You all right, Stella?" Mac's voice leapt out of nothingness at her elbow.
She jumped. "Oh – er – yeah – just tripped, that's all. Fine, thanks."
"Need any help?"
"No – no, it's fine. Just a bit awkward."
"OK." He turned away, and Stella suddenly realised that this was exactly the opportunity she'd been waiting for. The box was large and heavy: she was perfectly capable of carrying it, but Mac had offered to help, and perhaps this was a safe way of being vulnerable without calling her scientific expertise into question. Still, it went against the grain… She gritted her teeth, and called him back.
"Um – actually – could you – would you mind? It's these old boxes…"
The smile on his face – instant and immediately veiled – was worth every cent of embarrassment she might be feeling. Hell, it was worth a thousand dollars of embarrassment. Stella began to glow.
Mac took the box from her: their fingers touched, and the sensation went through her like fire. Involuntarily, she raised her eyes to his, and she saw him colour slightly.
Her heart somersaulted in her chest: he felt the same: he must feel the same! If he didn't, he wouldn't have blushed – it wouldn't have meant anything to him. He still loved her, still wanted her after everything – oh God, he still needed her like she needed him! He must do – he must do… Please, let it be love and not embarrassment – let it be shyness and not disdain. As they walked to her office, she placed a casual hand on his back, as she had so often done before: she felt him react to the touch, but no-one in the lab turned a hair. She moved her hand, very slightly, up and down the soft material of his jacket. Did he feel it? Did he want it?
Did he love her?
"There." He placed the box carefully on her desk, standing back to give her room to examine it. Instead, she turned to him – as anyone might after being helped – and smiled. "Thanks, Mac." He was facing away from the door – there was scarcely six inches between them – no-one could see that electric space. Quickly, she reached out a hand and traced her finger down one of his. It was a tiny gesture, over in a second: a passer-by might have mistaken it for a friendly pat, as one would give a dog or cat.
Mac did not: he drew his breath in sharply, and looked at her with anxious, expectant eyes. "Stella," he said softly.
She had to say something – something not too emotional but that he couldn't fail to understand. She searched her heart: what could she say that would tell him how she felt – tell him she was sorry – without saying the words?
"I miss you," she whispered, hardly daring to look up at him. "I miss you, Mac."
"Do you?"
"There you are!" All unaware, Sheldon Hawkes entered the room, eyes fixed on the report in his hands. He thus failed to see the guilty expressions that crossed his listeners' faces, and they were able to recover themselves before he continued. "Mac, you wanted to see this – the results on… Hey, I'm sorry – were you two in the middle of something?"
"No – no," Stella replied, confident, careless smile firmly in place. "Mac was just helping me with that box." She turned to Mac. "Thanks!"
"No problem," he said smoothly, for all the world as if nothing had happened. "Hawkes – let's have a look at this…"
The two men left, examining the file before them. As they turned into the hallway, Mac looked back, and met Stella's eyes for an instant. Then he was gone.
* * *
To be continued in chapter 5
