Winter wasn't usually too much of a problem in New York City. Just bundling up, doing a little sidewalk shoveling and brushing off your car was about it as the snowplows did the work on the streets. Business as usual, but when Stella finally left the hospital on Sunday to let Mac go into surgery, it hit her.
Hell, this was one doozy of a storm.
Finding her car on the parking complex, Stella drove home to find Rupert Mulligan, her neighbor who had just moved here from England, out shoveling the nine or so inches of powder on the sidewalk away. He greeted her with a smile, and she returned it. Stella just went inside, but after peering out the window numerous times and seeing Rupert all by his lonesome in the cold, she felt guilty and pulled on her snow boots.
"Thought you could use a little assistance," Stella grinned when she got outside.
"Thanks, it's really appreciated," Rupert replied, grunting after every shovel of snow.
"When the hell did this get here?" Stella said.
"Last night. Where have you been?"
"At the hospital."
"Why?" he panted. "Interrogating a victim or something?"
"I guess you could say that," she said quietly.
Rupert stopped and propped his arm up on his shovel. "And how goes the CSI business?"
Stella stopped as well, muttering loud enough for Rupert to hear her, "…My colleague was shot."
Rupert looked genuinely saddened for Stella. "Oh, that's terrible. Is he alright?"
"I left when they took him into surgery, and before then we had been talking, so I guess you could say he's fine."
"Goodness, Stella, I'm sorry," he said remorsefully.
She forced a smile. "It's Mac. He bounce right back."
Rupert picked up his shovel and continued. "You're a poet and don't even know it."
"Lots of words rhyme with his name. Of course I know I'm a poet."
The two shared a few laughs, and then went onward down the sidewalk that hadn't been cleared yet. As she plowed through, Stella thought of Mac, probably under deep sleep somewhere in a cold operating room by now, not helping her in place of Rupert as he had done so many countless years before. What a depressing thought.
"Cunningham said full recovery, and I tend to believe him."
"Oh, thank God."
After a few hours of being knee-deep in snow, Stella returned to the hospital to find Mac wide awake and raring to tell her the good news.
"They're actually releasing me today.
Stella froze for a moment. "You're going…to your home?"
"Yeah." He sighed. "Something wrong with that?"
She rubbed the back of her head nervously, saying, "I dunno, Mac, if there's someone after you, it's not such a good idea to go to your own home, is it? You never know."
He folded his hands on his chest. "Then where should I go?"
Stella shrugged. "I've got room at my place. You could bunk there until this whole thing is cleared over."
"You sure I'm not kicking you out of your home?"
"Positive. I haven't had company in so long."
He looked away, down at the radiator and the rusting chair, then back at her, saying, "Thanks."
She patted him on the hand gently and replied, "My pleasure."
"Damn…door!"
The door in question finally gave way after minutes of yanking.
"Make yourself at home," Stella panted.
Like a crippled puppy, Mac limped after Stella and into the familiar setting of a New York City apartment. With relief flowing through his veins, Mac spied Stella's couch and ambled over to it, lying down and breathing a tremendous sigh.
"Ah, sweet relaxation."
Stella's amusement became known from the kitchen, within sight of the living room. A loud clank of metal startled Mac, but when but when Stella eased him by explaining a dropped frying pan, he leaned back again, willing himself to not concentrate on the rest of the world.
It didn't last long.
"You want something to eat?" Stella yelled. "I'll cook whatever you want."
He wheezed a little and called back, "A glass of water would be fine, thanks."
"I see. You just want to sleep, right?"
"Mm-hmm."
A minute later, Stella set the large glass of crystal-clear spring water ("Never trust the tap water, especially in this city.") on the coffee table in front of him. He seized it and gulped its contents down rapidly.
"Jeez, you really were thirsty."
"Damn straight," he muttered irritably.
Stella chuckled. "Just give me a yell if you need anything." She checked her watch and added, "I'll wake you up in a few hours for your medication, okay?"
He grumbled his response.
Half an hour later, Mac was out cold and snoring like a bear. Every time Stella passed him, she had to plug her ears and stifle a laughing fit. She couldn't have asked for anything more than good laugh after so much seriousness in the past few days.
Curiosity was slowly getting the better of Stella. Her investigative mind longed the wound in Mac's abdomen.
Of course, she did.
Kneeling on the rug beside the couch, Stella steadily lifted the bottom of Mac's T-shirt up just enough to reveal the bandage over the bullet orifice. She held her breath as she carefully peeled the gauze back, eyes darting to Mac's face every few seconds to make sure he wasn't waking up.
The skin around the entrance wound was turning a deep shade of purple, but the wound itself looked absolutely horrifying. It seemed as though someone had taken a tiny corkscrew and plunged it into him. She had only seen this a few times in her entire career.
"Damn. That was one bad-ass bullet," Stella mumbled with a grin.
Mac stirred and shifted away, and Stella froze. He groaned softly, and she heard him say something in audible. She moved a little closer, hoping to hear it again.
"Stella…Stel…"
She raised an eyebrow. Was he awake?
"Stella…no, get away from her, you…"
Is he dreaming…about me? Stella thought.
"Stel…you okay…?"
Stella quickly covered the wound back up and pulled Mac's shirt down.
"Please…tell me you're alright…"
She couldn't help it. "I'm fine, Mac. Thanks for asking." She imagined a young Mac Taylor lying in bed with the covers kicked off yelling for his mother in his dream, and the image brought an ear-to-ear grin to her face.
"Stella? Stel?"
Mac awoke to a seemingly empty apartment after his restful nap. The air was still, the taxis beeped their loud, annoying horns down below on the crowded street – and Stella was nowhere in sight.
"Hey, Bonasera, you alive?"
"I'm in here!"
He followed her voice down a sunlit hallway and into a luxurious bedroom. Stella was perched on the foot of the bed, Indian-style, wearing ripped jeans and a blood-red shirt. She was flipping through channels on a small television.
"You have a giant plasma flat-screen T.V. in your living room and a miniscule old Sony model that could be the flat screen's Mini Me in here. Do I sense some issues…?"
"It was an impulse, Mac. Get over it," she scoffed jokingly.
He inched into the room. "You changed."
She didn't pull her eyes from the screen. "Glad you're observant."
Eventually, he came to sit next to her. The bed dipped with his weight, which Stella curtly remarked about, causing Mac to roll his eyes.
"Put on the news, will you, Stella?"
"What channel would you like, your Majesty?"
"Channel 7 if you please, my servant."
Stella smiled smugly and flipped the channel just as a news report was coming on. After only listening for a second, both Mac and Stella's eyes widened at what the reporter was saying.
"Our sources tell us that Detective Mac Taylor was out for the evening when he was pulled into and alley and shot once in the abdomen…"
Stella pointed a finger at the screen. "That wasn't supposed to get out. Not at all."
The reporter wasn't finished. "The detective was released from the hospital just today to stay with a close. The attacker has not yet been…"
"No, damn it!" Stella exclaimed. She flew to her feet, fists clenched so hard her wrists were turning white. She spun around and faced Mac. "Someone wants you dead, and they just gave that son of a bitch a full confirmation that you're still alive. If they know you well enough to follow you on a date, then they probably know who you would turn to if something like this happened!"
He stood, matching her height, and eased, "Calm down – you're way out of control."
Her arms flailed in rage. "Mac, you're in danger!"
Mac placed his hands on her elbows and pulled them back down. "Yes, and that's part of the reason why yelling frantically and drawing attention to yourself isn't the best way to solve the problem."
Stella stood tense for a moment longer, but finally relaxed. "I'm sorry. I'm just…really stressed about everything." She walked away from his grasp and put a hand to her forehead. "I just…I don't want to see you hurt. I care about you, Mac."
The words escaped her lips before she even had a mind to stop them.
He cocked his head. "You…you do?" He sounded like an awkward teenager who just found out his crush returned his affections.
Stella tried to redeem herself; she hadn't realized how easily the words could come out of her mouth. "Of course I do. I'm your friend – I'm always looking out for you."
Had he thought she meant something different?
More importantly…what did she mean?
