Chapter 11

When she arrived home, she paced in her kitchen, willing herself not to reach for the fresh bottle of wine in her fridge. She knew when she was feeling so nervous, one glass wouldn't be enough. She'd want another and then another, until she was finally condemning herself to a hangover the next day. Food was making her incredibly nauseous, so she knew that drinking on an empty stomach would be the worst thing for her today.

So she paced. Perhaps a glass of water would help soothe the nervous energy growing unsteadily inside of her. She took a clean glass and filled it to the brim, taking shaky sips as she wandered around her kitchen once more. She tried to take stock of the things around her, to try and make her mind do a u-turn on the events of today.

A pile of dishes to be washed, dust gathering on the counter, wine rack nearly empty and frying pan needing thrown out. Come to think of it, the place was starting to smell a little, too. It was nowhere near as bad as Flack's place, but it certainly wasn't good. The garbage needed changed and the floor mopped, but what could she expect when she was barely home.

Could she even call it home anymore?

Years ago, she would sit with Mac and Claire in her old place, eating pizza and drinking beer. They would watch baseball games or listen to Stella's record player, and Claire was the kindest guest she could have hoped for. She would help with dinner where Mac didn't bother, and bringing a bottle of wine or flowers became customary. She would compliment the smallest of change to the apartment; new cushions, a new set of wine glasses. Everything Stella had ever did with Claire around was absolutely beautiful. She had let Mac sleep in her guest room after Claire died, and the two feel into quite the nice little routine. When he cried, she sat near him on that old brown sofa, and once his tears had subsided they watched a film - which Mac always chose. He liked action films or war films, but never ever romantics. She had hosted christmas parties and team dinners in that apartment, memories of Mac wearing a stupid Christmas hat and reading the joke from his cracker, or Danny getting a little too drunk on the first Christmas without Claire.

Frankie had ruined the idea of home for her.

Home was no longer a safe haven for her. No one came here to sip beer or watch movies, nor for dinner parties or Christmas celebrations. That was over. The Stella who adored company was replaced by an angry and terrified woman who merely lived for the job, who slept with her gun under her pillow and flinched at the smallest of noises.

Flack was so good to her after the attack. She recalled the worry spread across his face as he saw her for the first time, battered and bruised. He had worked through the pain and the difficulty with her for days. He didn't dare rush her and he soothed her. He was there when her best friend wasn't.

And today, she got him shot.

Throwing her glass against the floor, she fell down after it. Glass crunching below her hands as the pain from the wounds pulsed through her palms. Before she could yelp in pain, she stopped herself. What right had she to cry in pain when Angell might lose the man she loves because of her? Who was she to wince when this was the very least of what she deserved?

But when the tears began to course down her cheeks, she couldn't stop them. All she could do was cover her face with freshly wounded hands. She screamed in sorrow and slapped the nearest cupboard door with a crack, causing the pain in her hands to intensify.

What had happened to her? Where was the Stella who fought for herself and protected the people she loved? This wasn't her. This was some useless broken model, getting in the way of everything and everyone.

Why was it Flack? Why not her?

Mac would kill her for saying so, but if it wasn't for her, Flack would be perfectly fine and he would be having a date with Angell or spending a night at work, laughing with the guys in his precinct. He'd be eating some greasy burger and washing it back with a beer.

Right now, he would be lucky to be eating hospital food.

She swiped her tears away angrily and pushed her way up from the floor. Enough, she thought, and the tears stopped. She couldn't afford to break down now.

Instead, she went on the hunt for her phone. She wanted to know how Don was, what she could do to help. Angell barely spoke on the way home, but perhaps she would appreciate some company at the hospital or a fresh set of clothes.

When she eventually found it, she seen messages from Danny and Hawkes, but neither of particular importance to her at the moment. Flack was her priority.

"Stella, what's up?" asked Angell, voice strained from crying. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear and started to pace once more.

"Angell, how can I help?" she asked, tears threatening her own eyes. "Please, let me do something for you. Would you like some company? Can I bring you food or clothes up to the hospital?"

"Stella…"

She felt a pain in her chest, one that had become all top common in previous weeks. She focused on Angell's voice.

"No, please. Let me be useful."

The younger woman sighed, "Don's going to be fine, Stella. So just focus on getting yourself better because that would be incredibly helpful to all of us."

"But Jess, my arm only got grazed by the bullet. I'm fine."

"Stella, something is clearly going on with you. I know you think it doesn't matter because you're the only person you're hurting. But Flack got seriously hurt because of you today. I really like you, Stella. But until you get this, whatever it is, sorted, I'm not interested anymore. I want to help you, we all do. But I don't want the people I love getting hurt because of you. Mac and Danny and Hawkes and even Flack, they won't say this to you, but I will. Please, Stella, get help."

And the tears started once more. How dare she? There was nothing wrong with her. She was tired and a little stressed, but she was the assistant head of a busy crime lab, she wouldn't be doing her job right if she wasn't tired or stressed. Angell was a cop, she should know better. Surely she had some rough days?

"Angell, what is it you think is wrong with me?"

"I think that's a question for your doctor, Stell. Could you do something for me?"

"Of course," she choked, attempting to keep her emotions at bay.

"Just do what you need to do to sort this, yeah? Cry, drink, take some time off, whatever. I just want the old Stella back."

"Me too," she replied tearfully. Taking a deep breath, she could feel her body quickly returning back to a state of calm, and she finally felt in control. She didn't need a doctor, she was fine. and vowed silently that she would get over whatever this was. She was sick of being pitied, or a topic of concern.

She was Stella Bonasera, and they were daft if they thought she was going to give up without a fight.

She was tough. She had defended herself in the most horrific way possible. She was kept a prisoner in her own home and tortured for leaving Frankie the way she had. He had taken advantage of her love and admiration of him and he had used one of their intimate moments for his sick little website.

She had gone through a HIV scare practically on her own, the fear that the life she hoped to build for herself was but a futile dream. Mac said he would be there for her, and he had been. But the moment Peyton was on scene, that was it. Any promise of his support during this time was replaced by sweet and adoring looks from the English ME. His attention was diverted and she was fine with that.

She was better on her own.

X

The moment he knocked on her door, he wished he had just stayed at the hospital with Angell and Flack. He didn't even know why he was here, Stella hated having people at her apartment anyway, and so perhaps she might just ask him to leave.

When the door swung open, he was startled by the sight which greeted him. Her face, blotchy from crying, was not only pale but puffy. Her hands were cut all over, bleeding for God knows whatever reason. She had changed her sweater and now wore a red cable knit, shivering despite it's warmth. He took a step towards the door and she a step back, inviting him in.

The house wasn't as clean as it usually was. A stale smell in the air and today's jacket and shoes thrown haphazardly by the door, his eyes met hers in questioning. She rolled her eyes and continued into the living room, Mac following behind her. She took a seat on the couch, waiting for him to talk.

"How's your arm?"

"Fine," she snapped before softening. "What brings you here?"

Joining her on the sofa he looked over at her before releasing a sigh, "We need to talk about today. About the past few days actually. People are worried, well, I am too. I just want to know what's going on with you."

She scoffed, "Since when?"

"Stella, what do you mean? You mean a lot to me."

"I mean a lot to you when it suits you," she replied calmly. He looked at her in disbelief, before standing up. She had pushed him one step too far.

"Stella, I know you're going through a lot right now, but I am not your punching bag. If you have an issue, I'd rather you just said."

She stood up to join him, " You want to know my issue?"

"Very much so."

"I was here for you every day after Claire died. I was here for you when you wanted to be angry or sad, when you needed to cry or vent or swear or scream; I was here. God, I coached you through more panic attacks in the year after Claire died than I knew was possible. I love you, Mac, you're my best friend in the entire world. And what am I to you? Some woman you work with? Seriously Mac, you left me alone after Frankie. You left me during the HIV scare and now I've lost someone I care about and all you want to do is shout at me? I expect that from the rest of the team, but I thought you would understand how lonely I feel."

"No, Stella. I don't," he snapped taking a step closer. "You never tell me what's going on. Stella, I want to be there for you, but you don't make it easy. I'm sorry that you feel like I haven't been there for you this year. but you must understand that you haven't asked for my help."

A tear dribbled down her cheek, "After Claire, I went out of my way to make sure you were okay. I let you stay with me, I cooked you meals and I even let you watch Die Hard, which I hate. I'm miserable here and you just don't care."

He withdrew in shock, watching his friend fall to pieces before his eyes. Did she really mean what she had said? Or was she just tired? He watched as her knees began to buckle and caught her by the elbow, leading her to sit on the sofa. Sitting by her side, he stroked her arm as she cried loud, ugly tears. He stayed quiet until her tears came to a stop and she wiped her tears, embarrassed he presumed.

"Listen, Stella," he started, hoping that he would say the right thing to get himself out of this mess. He did care about her. He cared about her a lot actually, but he couldn't say that out loud. When he cared about people, he lost them and he was not going to lose Stella. She was his rock. She was one of the best detectives he had ever met, and he wouldn't dare jeopardize that.

But when she took a stood close, her green eyes piercing his, he could hardly remember why.

"Stella, you're tough. You can get through this," he said. "We have a great team and we are clever, we'll find out what happened to Jennifer and we will put them behind bars for a long time. But once that happens, you need to rest. You need to eat. We need you far too much to let you run yourself into the ground."

He watched as her eyes filled with tears once more. Pulling her into his arms, he felt her nuzzle into his neck and relax against him. Stroking her hair, he was hit by a sudden, horrible thought; how Stella fit so much better into his arms than Peyton ever did.