The room is buzzing with chatter when she walks in. She's traded the power suit and sensible heels for a sleeveless dress and a pair of painful but oh-so beautiful pumps that make her feel like she can take on the world. And she needs that tonight, the thought of having to make small talk with quasi-strangers, greedy for her attention, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She's briefly discomfited by the thought, as she's normally a willing participant in these networking events, usually leaving people laughing and smiling in her wake. But tonight, she's filled with a reluctance even she doesn't quite understand. She feels a vague sense of unease, though can't quite attribute it to anything quite yet.

She does a quick scan of her surroundings, mechanically, spotting no immediate danger, and forces herself to relax just a little. Another cursory glance and she notes the slightly outdated but generally pleasing décor of the place. She'd agreed to come to this conference in large part because of the location: isolated mountainous woodlands, and a small hotel, complete with hot spring and spa. The massage she had had earlier almost made up for the hours she had wasted today listening to an impressively dull talk on blood spatter analysis. Almost.

Her attention is drawn to the back of the room, where large French doors open onto a garden. She makes her way over briskly, skirting around the groups of people clustered around high tables, avoiding eye-contact. She craves the openness, the vastness of the outdoors and she doesn't want to be stopped. Stepping out into the air, she immediately feels more at ease, the cool evening settling over her skin while the stars above twinkle merrily at her. She'd forgotten, in all her years of city living, the wonder of a clear night sky.

She follows a well-maintained path forward, penetrating deeper into the garden until the din of voices behind her fades to a low hum. She inhales slowly, taking in the fragrant mix of flowers hovering in the air, wondering when she last took time to just breathe like this. Her moment of solitude is quickly interrupted however, a subtle shift in the atmosphere alerting her to the presence of another person and making her skin prickle. She briefly tenses in apprehension, the cop inside of her raring to go, while a smaller, quieter part of her flashes back to blood on porcelain and crushing powerlessness.

"I'd recognize those curls anywhere."

She freezes, every muscle in her body taut, because she knows that voice better than her own, but she hasn't heard it in several years now, by her own design admittedly, and she is not ready, will never be ready, to face its owner.

Slowly, she turns.

"Hi, Mac," she says weakly, butterflies fluttering low in her belly at the sight of him. And almost immediately, the pang of remorse follows, more acute than it should feel given the time she's spent mourning this man already, making her breath catch in her throat.

He smiles at her, softly, in that shy way that she's always found so endearing, and she allows herself a moment to drink him in, something she has resolutely avoided, deprived herself of, for years. He looks older, sure, but in that distinguished way that makes her want to bite her lip (she resists that particular impulse). His hair is more silver than anything else now, and the furrow between his brows has deepened, hard-earned after years of heavy focus, a quiet testament to infallible dedication to his work. But she notices new lines on his face, too, around his mouth and his eyes, from smiling she supposes, and she's hit once more with a sharp sense of loss. The stars are bright in his eyes and she feels weak. He's happy,she thinks, and hates herself for being momentarily disheartened at the revelation.

She wonders, briefly, if he's cataloguing her changes, too, making note of her curvier silhouette, of the wrinkles around her eyes, of the way her skin has less luster than before. But just as quickly as it comes, she chides herself for the thought. He's never really looked at me like that, anyway.

"You know, I'm surprised that we've managed to go this long without running into each other at one of these things."

She, of course, is not surprised, because though she'd distanced herself from him, more out of survival than anything else, she'd never actually tried to forget him. She'd long prided herself on her knowledge of his mind, and armed with it, she'd made a point of avoiding conferences that she knew would interest him. A full decade and she'd never been wrong. Until now.

"Funny that," she eventually replies, shrugging in a would-be casual way and trying to smile. Something in his expression, too shrewd for her taste, tells her he doesn't believe her. He seems to hesitate for a moment, but then changes the subject, perhaps recognizing that they aren't close enough anymore for him to call her out on the evasion.

"Is New Orleans still treating you well?"

Shit. She cringes inwardly at the way this conversation is going, knowing already that she's going to need to put on quite a performance to convince him of the stories she's spent years telling herself.

"Actually," she stops for a beat, faltering, "I'm in Jersey now." She avoids his gaze as she says it, knowing she'll find disappointment there.

"What? Since when?" he asks, one part surprise, and two parts incredulity. She thinks she hears an undercurrent of betrayal there, too, but brushes aside the possibility.

"Just a few months. Quinn got an amazing offer in D.C. and she put in a good word for me on her way out."

She doesn't tell him that she's been in contact with Quinn for a while, hoping to hear about a job opportunity, because while New Orleans was right at the time, and had proved to be challenging and invigorating and so rewarding, it had never become home to her. But really, how could it, when the only home she'd ever known was standing right in front of her?

"Why didn't you tell me? We could've…gone for coffee," he says it casually, but she can definitely hear the hurt now, and she feels slightly less pathetic for the way she's still reeling from just being in his presence.

"Come on, Mac…we haven't talked in…years."

And it's true. They haven't. She'd made a show of regular phone calls and emails for the first year after her departure, keeping herself up to date on all the members of his team (his, not theirs, and she had to keep reminding herself of that fact). But when she'd heard he was in a relationship again, and that it was seemingly serious, she'd withdrawn so far into herself that Lindsay had called the lab in New Orleans in a panic to ask if she'd fallen in the line of duty. After that, she'd made sure to send regular emails to Lindsay, at least.

She'd cut ties with everyone else though, telling herself that it was for the best, that she was never going to move on if she insisted on living in the past. It had worked, too, for the most part. She had bonded more deeply with her own team, made new friends, fully immersed herself in her work and the community. She'd dated, laughed, found pleasure in little and big things alike, and had offered herself a mental pat on the back for having survived heartbreak so efficiently. But every once in a while, usually in those last few moments between wakefulness and sleep, she'd let her guard slip just a bit too much and she'd think of Mac. If she'd had a particularly bad day, she'd stop lying to herself long enough to admit that she missed him more than anything. A few times, she had almost given in and called him, but then she'd remembered why she had stopped talking to him and her resolve strengthened. And on those few occasions that she'd allowed herself to feel the guilt of fully ghosting him, her best friend of more than a decade, without any warning or explanation, she'd reminded herself of his new girlfriend, and had told herself she was being quite selfless by saving him the trouble of having to check in on her, and that he couldn't possibly need her.

Looking at him now though, she's not so sure.

"I know. You stopped returning my calls," he mutters softly, sadness evident in the way his shoulders sag, and the downward tug at the corners of his mouth.

She doesn't know what to say to that, because she knows that anything she does say, except perhaps the truth,will sound cheap.

"How's Christine?" she asks instead, hoping to shift the conversation away from herself.

He looks momentarily taken aback by the question, but seems to accept the change in topic, albeit slightly grudgingly.

"You didn't come to the wedding," he replies somewhat tangentially, partially teasing, but a hint of reproval in his voice, and she gets the feeling that despite his quiet acquiescence just now, he is nowhere near finished with his interrogation.

"I sent a gift! A very expensive one, if I recall," she exclaims, smirking impishly and trying once again to steer them towards safer ground.

"Yes, you did. But I would've preferred to see you," he says quietly, honestly, trying to catch her eyes.

She obliges, forcing a lightness into her countenance that she doesn't feel. She shrugs her shoulders and raises her hands in exasperation, pushes out a huff of laughter that doesn't even come close to sounding genuine.

"You know how the job is, Mac. I just couldn't make it." Even as she says it, she knows how hollow it sounds, and she hates herself for it. But really, what did he expect? She couldn't very well tell him that she'd indeed briefly considered going to his wedding but had immediately quashed the idea when she'd realized that the sight of him and his bride would fully obliterate her. Or that she would've needed copious amounts of alcohol to get through the day, which would have put her at risk of making a drunken confession of love that was sure to make everyone singularly uncomfortable.

He looks at her with his penetrating gaze still, and she feels small under the weight of it. She's disappointed him with her answer again, but she doesn't have anything else to offer. Their conversation has her feeling on edge, so close is it to everything she keeps guarded and buried deep inside. She doesn't know how much longer she can keep up this dance. She hopes that she doesn't look as frightened as she is.

Then, because the years haven't robbed him of his singular ability to read her, he gives her an out:

"Christine is good…she has a new boyfriend and they're pretty happy."

"What?" She knows her mouth is hanging open unattractively, but she's completely blindsided by this news. Lindsay didn't mention anything…

"She left me about a year ago," he continues, undeterred by her expression. In fact, he seems to be holding back a laugh.

"I'm so sorry, Mac. What happened?" she asks, realizing just a second too late that she really doesn't have a right to ask about this. Not now that they've quite clearly established that they're no longer friends and that it's completely her fault.

Somehow though, he doesn't seem to hold any of this against her, and he responds, matter-of-fact in his tone, and only slightly subdued:

"She got tired of waiting for me to come home. We…grew apart, and she eventually found someone who wouldn't keep her waiting. I think she was hoping I'd retire sooner rather than later, but I just wasn't ready."

"I'm sorry," she repeats, and means it. His happiness has always been paramount to her, and while she's always hoped that she could be the one to provide that happiness, she's never once truly wished him misfortune. Still now, she wonders who's been taking care of him, and if he's reverted to his habit of not eating or sleeping until he's ready to collapse. She's filled with a desire so strong to hold him and stroke his hair that she barely catches herself, hands twitching at her sides.

But when she looks at him, he's smiling again.

"Thanks. She's living and breathing and she's happy. I won't say it didn't hurt, but that…I can handle," he says it casually, with only a hint of sadness in his voice, and she understands his meaning: it wasn't like Claire. She breathes in relief.

"What about you?" he asks suddenly, his voice full of hope, and she's so wrapped up in thoughts of him that she doesn't immediately comprehend the question. When she does however, her heart clenches painfully, because he knows, he knows, even though she's never explicitly articulated it, but he's always been skilled at seeing the parts of herself that she's worked so hard to hide, that what she wants more than anything is a family of her own.

"Oh…no," she says bracingly. She considers leaving it there, but his openness, his honesty, his eyes, have made her braver, and she feels compelled to share this bit of herself with him tonight, even though she knows this will bring them right back to danger, and she should be running, running as far away from this conversation as humanly possible. "I was with someone for a while…but then he wanted to get married, buy a house, maybe have kids."

"And you didn't want that?" he asks, and the confusion is clear.

She'd tried with Josh, really, she had. The sparks between them had flown from their very first meeting. He was a well-respected district attorney, and she'd been immediately drawn to his sense of justice (she'd chosen to ignore how it reminded her of someone else she knew). She'd liked his wit, and his sense of humour, and the way he made her feel special and loved. He'd respected her boundaries, never once questioning her fierce independence. He hadn't coddled her, nor had he faulted her when she refused to let her defenses down. He admired these things about her - he had told her that once - and while she'd loved him for that, she'd also known it was the reason it would never work with him. Four years into their relationship and he had asked her to marry him. She'd panicked. How can you want to marry someone you don't even know?

"But I do know you, Stella," he'd said imploringly.

"How can you?"

And she had packed up her things and left their shared apartment. They hadn't spoken since.

In front of her, Mac is still waiting in quiet befuddlement.

"I did. I do," she amends. "Just…not with him."

He takes a moment to process her answer. His brows furrow again like he's trying to solve the mysteries of the universe, except it's her he's trying to solve now, and she is both giddy and squirming with dread at the idea of Mac using his prodigious powers of thought to understand her. He stares at her fixedly, frowning.

She sees the exact moment he reaches a conclusion. He raises his chin and squares his shoulders as if bracing himself.

"Stella, why did you stop returning my calls?"

Her breath catches in her chest as her heart skips a beat. They have gotten to the crux of the issue at last because Mac notices everything and he never truly leaves a piece of evidence unaccounted for. He banks it for later, keeps it in his mental inventory, and continues to work diligently, collecting more data until suddenly, suddenly, he can see the bigger picture, and he knows exactly where that previously unintelligible piece goes. She's seen him do this a thousand times over, solving the case in the final hour, bringing the disjointed together so beautifully he makes it seem an artform. Everything is connected. How many times had she heard him utter those words?

But tonight, she's at the center of it, and his face tells her what she knows already: there is only one logical explanation for everything she's said, and everything she hasn't been able to say. There is nowhere left to hide.

"I fell in love with you, Mac. I don't know exactly when or how, but I did. And it was so clear to me that you…didn't feel that way about me. So, I contented myself with being your friend for as long as I could, because having you in my life, even if it hurt like hell, seemed better than not. But after Greece, and…Jess…I started to think…well it doesn't matter what I thought. Aubrey came along, and then Peyton came back, and I got the offer from New Orleans. I took it as…a sign, that it was time to let go, to start over. And talking to you…it was too painful. So, I stopped returning your calls. I figured it was the only way I'd get over you."

She takes a shaky breath, feeling surprisingly light, unburdened by the confession so long repressed. Mac stands in front of her, staring off into space, deep in thought. He's silent for a long time, his brow still furrowed, and she's brought back to countless memories of this exact expression on his beautiful face, of standing next to him thinking hard, and then, then, reaching the same conclusion simultaneously, feeling invincible and so, so…in sync. Reality comes crashing down around her as she realizes she has no idea what he's thinking now. She gets a pang in her chest for all that they were.

Finally, he speaks:

"Did it work?" he shifts his eyes up to meet hers, and though his voice is steady, his eyes are wide with…fear. She wonders if she's reading him wrong, because if anyone should be afraid, it's her. She's just laid herself bare to him, and now he's asking for more, for her to give up that last little piece of herself. She has never felt so naked in her life. Despite this, she considers lying for only a moment. His words from a lifetime ago come back to her unbidden: you're the strongest person I know, Stella.

"No, it didn't," she says, jumping from the precipice. She looks away for a moment, afraid she'll see pity in his eyes, but quickly returns her gaze to his, because despite it all, she still harbours just the smallest bit of hope, and she needs to know for certain, even if it means facing the dreaded rejection and humiliation that she's been actively avoiding since she first realized her feelings for him.

But his eyes show no pity. They widen in surprise, quickly replaced by tenderness and regret.

"You were wrong," he says, and there is guilt on his face, though for what, she isn't sure.

"Excuse me?" She doesn't take kindly to being told she's wrong, which he should know, of course, least of all when it concerns her own feelings. What would you know? she almost retorts angrily, because she is naked and raw and bleeding, and anger is so much more comfortable, infinitely more so than the desperation and vulnerability clawing at her skin, making her feel like she might break at any moment.

"You said it was clear that I didn't feel the same way that you did…but you were wrong, Stella." The regret is so plain on his face that it makes it hard for her to breathe, and it almost sounds like – no.

And yet: "I can't remember what it's like not to love you."

She's stunned into silence, because even in her fantasies, she's never let him say things like this, fearing the crushing disappointment of reality too much to allow it. She sways alarmingly on the spot, partly because she chose to wear these godawful (but gorgeous) shoes, but mostly because her world has just tilted off its axis and naturally that leaves her feeling just a tad unsteady.

But Mac is at her side in a second, solid, dependable as always, winding his left arm around her waist while his right hand settles gently on her bare upper arm. Her skin erupts in goosebumps, and she would normally feel betrayed by this reaction, only she's told him all her secrets now, so what does she really care if he knows the hold he has on her body, too. He's so close now though, and she can smell his aftershave, another wave of nostalgia crashing into her, making her go weak at the knees.

"Stella?" he murmurs, and his hand moves from her arm to her cheekbone, grazing it softly with his thumb. She wonders if he knows that, beneath the light makeup, he has found the exact spot where a faded scar lives, where another man touched her and stole her sense of peace. He leans forward and brushes a kiss to it, and in that moment, she's certain that he does know, and though she proudly rebuilt herself all on her own after Frankie, with this one gesture, he's somehow given her back something of herself that she's never quite managed to find.

He pulls back enough to peer at her again and his eyes are shining. She can still see the stars in them, but now she sees herself reflected there, too.

"I'm sorry I never found the courage to tell you," he says, wincing as though the thought gives him pain, and she realizes, with sudden clarity, that it does. She sees her own pain etched in the lines of his face, and she knows now that it's been the same for him, that she hasn't been alone all this time.

She wants to laugh and cry simultaneously because aren't they just a tragic pair of idiots. Like star-crossed lovers, she muses, and then almost does laugh, because the thought of herself as a woebegone pining damsel is so foreign to her being. But then she remembers the few nights she'd allowed herself to feel the depths of her own misery and thinks maybe she did cast herself as the lovelorn heroine in this story, as much as that makes her cringe.

In the end, she opts for neither. They've wasted enough time as it is. They're both here, now, and somehow, somehow, he loves her, and she's so in love with him it physically pains her. She can tell by the way his arm stiffens around her, that he has more things to say, more explanations to offer, more apologies to make, but she doesn't want to hear any of that right now. She wants to kiss him, has wanted to kiss him for longer than she can remember. And finally, finally, she does.

When their lips meet, the quiet of the night dissipates as the blood rushes through her ears. He's gentle with her, moving slowly, quietly, savouring her, or so it seems to her. But she needs more from him, and she's never been particularly patient, except in this, she supposes, but they've earned the right to rush just a bit. So, she slips her arms around his neck, pulls him tightly against her, and runs her fingers through his hair and her tongue across his lips until he groans softly into her mouth. He's caught her meaning though – they've already fallen back into time with each other – and nips at her lips, making her gasp, and then captures her top lip between both of his before deepening the kiss. The touch of her tongue against his seems to jolt him, and his kiss turns desperate. He drinks from her, like a dying man in the desert, and she is momentarily overwhelmed by his sheer need, by the realization that it mirrors her own, and that neither of them will have to live with the weight of it anymore.

Breathless, they pull away, and she leans her forehead against his for a moment, trying to recover from the onslaught to her senses. When she opens her eyes, he's smiling at her, grinning, and the fine lines around his eyes are more prominent than ever. He's happy, she thinks again, only this time it doesn't hurt.

"You've got the whole sky in your eyes," she says softly.

He gazes at her with something like wonderment:

"That's because I'm looking at you."

A/N: I'm a little late to the party, but I recently rewatched CSI:NY and fell in love with Mac and Stella all over again. I'm still super salty about the way Stella's departure was dealt with (or actually the way they just didn't address it basically - like, the lack of emotional continuity it gives to all the remaining characters just makes me so angry), and probably even more so than the first time I watched it. Anyway, after having read probably every piece of M/S ff that exists in the last few months (and a million times thank you to all of you amazing authors for your beautiful words), I wrote this to give myself some closure. Here's hoping it makes someone else feel something, too.

Also, I fully acknowledge that I didn't watch seasons 7-9, and don't really know much about what happened in that time for anyone, including Mac and Christine, and I don't mean to belittle what they had together. But Stella has my heart, and in my head, she has Mac's, too.

Thanks for reading! :)