Title: Caught in the Moment I - Recklessness

Author: Peach

Disclaimers: They are not mine, and I'll let you know that I am broke to a point where I can't afford to spend $$ on a Starbuck coffee, so, don't even think about suing me. You won't even get your lawyering fees back.

Genre: This is more angst and romance... wow, what a change! gasp

Spoiler: I'm WAAAAYYYY behind… but I'm getting there. Presenting the post-ep for 01.19 Crime and Misdemeanour

A/N: This story would have finished a LOT earlier had my muse not decided to die on me for a week then decidedly become single-track and pursue stories with NCIS, then come back and make sure I have to do an overhaul of the whole story. The result is this: something I have yet to try with the CSI: NY fandom. Read on to find out…

Feedbacks, I want feedbacks -- run out to put a sign on my front lawn -- I want feedbacks! I'll cry if I don't get any feedbacks… or I can go on strike…


Mac waited patiently for the phone to be picked up. It was the middle of the night, and he had nothing but persistence and time.

Finally, after about five rings, a groggy and not-so-pleasant voice answered, "Bonasera."

"Hey, Stella," he said good naturedly, knowing full well that his partner may have his six for waking her up in the middle of the night after the shifts she pulled to crack the case.

"Mac?" she sounded more awake upon hearing his voice. "Something's up? You want me to meet you somewhere?"

"No, it's not that," he corrected softly, already regretting having woken up his partner. "I can't sleep."

"Then go to work," she grumbled a little.

"I'm already at work," he admitted. "I ..."

"You never left, did you?" she picked up where he trailed off, and sighed. "Mac, you need to sleep."

"What's sleep?"

Both were quiet. They were comfortable enough to just hear the other breathe without words. It was a connection they both treasured.

Finally, after several minutes of the silent bonding, Stella, as usual, broke the silence, "You wanna come over to talk?"

"I should let you get back to sleep."

"Bull," her tone was almost chiding - almost, "You wouldn't have called if you wanted to let me sleep. Come on over, and we'll talk."

She hung up without saying goodbye. He put the phone back in its cradle and turned to look at the wall of his office. There were pictures of the work he'd done as a marine, a beat cop, and a detective. Those were evidence of his youthful time when Mac Taylor would do the irresponsible things, the same impulse for which he just gave his young charge a serious dress-down.

The phone on his desk rang, and without thinking, he picked it up, "Taylor."

"You didn't wake me up just to leave me hanging, Mac," it was Bonasera, and apparently, she knew him well enough to know he would be dwelling still. "You get in your car and drive to my apartment and ring the doorbell so I can open my door to let you in."

He chuckled at her tone, "Any more instructions, ma'am?"

"No," she scoffed, and chuckled. "Just get here. I'll make coffee. I still have that Irish coffee you like so much."

"I'll be there," he promised, and this time, it was he who hung up.

The drive over to Stella's passed quickly. Though the traffic in New York rarely eased up, Mac easily navigated his vehicle to her place. Her apartment building is set on a deserted street, back away from the crowded concrete forest where even the nights were bright as days. Her apartment's light – he would know which one to look for from the numerous times he stayed in his car to make sure she got into her apartment alright – was the only one on. Considering all her neighbours were "normal" people (but, really, who could be the judge of what was normal?), they would all be asleep.

Stella Bonasera was never the "normal" type, of course; neither was he.

In quick steps, he marched up the stairs and into the foyer of his apartment building. She had given him the door codes earlier in case of emergency, and he had had it memorized. The elevator was too slow for his taste, and he swiftly moved to the stairwells. She lived on the seventh floor – not high enough to give her the perfect view of the city, but not low enough so that her apartment would be the venue-of-choice for burglars, either.

He was in front of her apartment when she opened her door.

"You're slower than your last timing," she said by way of greetings and stepped aside to let him into her apartment.

"Thanks for keeping tabs," he responded dryly and followed her into her homey apartment.

Conversation ceased after he set foot into her home, her turf. They moved comfortably around one another with the ease of old partners and friends. This was the part of the relationship Mac treasured the most: they didn't have to use words to communicate. Everything was so easy with Stella, sometimes easier than it had been with Claire.

He knew better than to try and take over the task of getting them beverages – "I live here, Mac Taylor, and no matter how dear a friend you are, you are still a guest, and I don't want you to have to serve yourself in my apartment," she had said in exasperation once, much to his amusement – so he got himself comfortable on the couch. Stella Bonasera was many things, but she was not patient, and he knew she would be on his case very soon.

She came back out from the kitchen carrying two cups. From the smell alone, Mac knew she had brewed the Irish coffee she kept just for his visits, as she had suggested on the phone.

"So, Mac," she started as she curled up on the couch beside him. "Talk."

Very much so her style – direct and to the point.

Mac sat quietly beside her for a moment and opted just to study her features. He knew Stella probably caught on that something wasn't right the moment he chose not to be in the interrogation, and she didn't press him for details.

"I'm sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night," he said by way of starting. He did feel bad for waking her up, especially after how hard she had worked on the case. He knew, because he saw her initials on so many of the analysis that were done to apprehend the guilty.

"Tell me what happened at work that got you so worked up," she prompted gently.

He was partly surprised to learn she had pinpointed the cause of his current mood so easily – though he shouldn't be, because she was Stella Bonasera, after all – and his expression must have shown the sentiment, because she shrugged, "You can't sleep, and you were already at work when you called, so this must be something that's bothering you because of work, and you, Mister, need to talk about that."

"Did you have a major in psychology?"

"No," she shook her head, "But I've read enough self-help books to have at least a basic understanding of human emotions."

He watched her still, and saw the shimmer of pain in her eyes before she hid them from his views again. Someday, he vowed, he would be the one to talk to her about her pain and let her know she was not alone. Not now, but someday, when he was more stable himself.

"Did you hear what Danny did?" he set the cup on the coffee table in front of him and said, finally.

Stella only shrugged and kept looking at him.

He leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling instead of looking at his partner, "I told him to drop the investigation – there was no homicide and he had better things to do, like helping us out. He just marched head on into it; he even dragged Aiden into it."

"Okay," was all she said.

Mac shifted so he was facing his friend directly, "What, no comment?"

Stella again gave a non-committal shrug, "You didn't wake me up in the middle of the night just to tell me Danny disregarded your orders again – those are your morning rants. If it were that simple, you would have worked up a temper and dished it out tomorrow – or, rather, today – morning. So, tell me what's really bothering you before I fall asleep here."

He looked at his long time friend carefully, wondering how Stella managed to read him so well. For someone who valued his privacy so much it was unnerving to have his thoughts so neatly laid out and handed back to him.

"There used to be a time when I would act as he did," he closed his eyes briefly.

"But not anymore," she filled in for him.

He nodded his agreement, "Not anymore, but I used to."

"Mac, it's like a phase. You go through it, others go through it. You're not the only one that has to leave something behind."

"I just can't help but wonder if I've been too hard on Danny," he rubbed his eyes tiredly. Almost immediately after Danny turned the corner and walked out of the lab, he regretted the dressing down he dished out to his young charge. "I mean, I was once like him."

"Back when you still wear your heart on your sleeves, you mean?"

"I guess," he admitted reluctantly. To be honest, he wasn't too thrilled with what he had done.

"You said it yourself, Mac. It was a different time. You've grown since the time when you were like that. Make Danny understand that. Teach him the lesson that you've had to learn the hard way."

Mac sucked in a deep breath at her mention of the lesson he was taught for his recklessness. It was one of the demons that occasionally kept him up at night; one of the many that he shared with his partner after the Towers fell and she stayed with him through his lowest.

"Don't beat yourself up too badly for that, Mac," she chided, as if she could envision the mental beating he was lavishing on himself.

"How can I not?" he rubbed his face with his hands tiredly, hoping secretly the action would end all nightmares. "If it weren't for me and my stubbornness and my selfish action, McAllister wouldn't have to retire early."

"Mac, you were young. You just joined the force. You saw something suspicious and you followed your gut. That was what your marine training and instincts had you do. You just didn't remember that it was not the Marines anymore. It was an honest mistake by a jarhead-turned-rookie."

He closed his eyes against the waves of attack of the cruel reality of what had happened. He was young, as Stella said, just graduated from the Academy and was assigned as McAllister's rookie. He was a great teacher, taught him most of the stuff he had to know on the streets. Then, one day, at a stake-out, his confidence made him reckless, and despite McAllister repeatedly telling him to hold his position, he trusted his gut and took off after a shadow and left McAllister without a partner to cover his back. By the time he heard the gun shots and realized he was only chasing a shadow and returned, McAllister was already injured and on the floor, his career bleeding away with his blood.

The finger snapping in front of his face woke him from the horrible nightmare, "Focus, Mac. You don't do things recklessly anymore, and that is something you have gained from that horrible incident. McAllister didn't blame you. He helped you understand what you did wrong and made you realize what it really means to be in a team. Help Danny understand that."

"What if I can't?" He hated the vulnerability he detected in his voice. In his world where things had never gone right for a long time, he had gotten used to being strong, never weak.

"Of course you can," she must have seen something in his expression to notice his distress, because she reached out and gently rubbed his cheek – a gesture he didn't realize he had missed since she stopped doing it after the Tower … after he was thrown back into solitude in life.

"You have too much faith in me, Stella," he bit his lips to keep from groaning when she took her hand away. He didn't want to appear needy. "How can I help him when I can only barely stop myself from doing the reckless and irresponsible thing?"

"And what is that?" she prompted.

He closed his eyes and cursed himself silently for not noticing the direction this conversation was going earlier. He should have known. Stella would have been a very successful psychologist had she chosen that field of studies in University instead of chemistry and criminology. He should have realized she could get him to talk about what she wanted, directly or indirectly.

"Mac, don't hide from me now," she requested softly.

"And if I don't want to talk about it?" he snapped, impatient. She should have known by now that whenever he didn't want to share some information, it was for her benefit. She should have known, should have trusted him to have her best interests in mind.

"Mac," she sighed softly, as if saying his name would soothe all that was making his vision red.

"Why are you pushing it, Stella?" he felt remorse immediately for being short with her and sighed tiredly. "Why are you so insistent?"

"Because I am your friend, Mac, and I want you to feel better. You can't keep everything bottled up, partner. You gotta let things out every once in a while. That is definitely not good for you."

"Even if it may compromise everything? Ruin everything I've worked for?" he shook his head at the thought. "No, Stella. It's not worth it."

"It won't leave this room," she promised. "If you're worried about how things will be changed, I can promise you it won't. I won't say a word to others."

He was torn. Her offer to unburden himself was tempting, and a voice in his head kept telling him to give in. But to give in would mean the irreversible change of one relationship he had always found to be stable, one he was certain would not abandon him and leave him hanging, grasping for more.

"You know what I will do if I decide to through caution out the window and let consequences be damned?" she suddenly started and her voice penetrated through the fog of his internal deliberation.

He shook his head negative and was mildly amused. Stella's temper was well known, and even though he knew she wouldn't do anything overly reckless, she wasn't one known for exemplary restraints either.

Her voice shook a little, and (maybe it was his imagination) she seemed to have shifted a little further away from him, "I will kiss you senseless while the others look on."

She had said it so softly that he almost didn't hear her, but he did. His pulse was rising, he knew. Appreciation and adoration for the woman before him filled his insides. She understood his fear and his reluctance, and had opened herself up for his benefits so he wouldn't be the only one laying bear his demons.

He tried to get her to look at him but she refused. She dipped her head and closed her eyes. He was humbled, and he knew, then and there, he could trust Stella Bonasera with everything in him, including those darkest thoughts he was harbouring in him and she would still stand by him.

She was strong, maybe stronger than he, and she could take what he dished out to her.

"And I will kiss you back until you can't breathe," he returned just as softly.

He heard her gasp as she slowly raised her head to look at his eyes, gauging his sincerity in what he had just said.

"Mac," she breathed softly, biting her lips in hesitation. "Don't say something you don't mean just to make me feel better."

"Have I ever done that to you?"

Stella sighed at his words, her eyes closed. He waited patiently for her to respond, because, frankly, he couldn't understand where the decision to say the one thing that would alter the relationship came from, but he definitely wasn't going to say more until he knew where he stood.

At long last, she opened her eyes again and looked directly at him, "And what are we going to do about it?"

"Nothing," it almost killed him to say that, but he had to. There were things he could only do when he was dreaming; Kissing Stella Bonasera would be one of those things.

"Nothing?" her voice shook a little, and he berated himself for the loss of control on his part to cause her the pain.

"There is nothing for us to do, Stella," Be strong, he reminded himself. You have to be strong. "You said it yourself. What we said won't leave this apartment."

"But you're still in the apartment," she protested softly. "I promise this won't change anything outside of this apartment, but we both want this. You and I, we both want this."

"It won't be the right thing to do," he offered even tough he felt his resolve breaking.

She seemed resigned at his last rebuttal, and the loss and emptiness that filled him was a surprise. Abruptly, he stood up from where he sat beside her, "I better go. We still have to go to work tomorrow."

She nodded and stood up without a word.

Silently, they made their way to her door. She handed him his jacket and he shrugged into it all the while looking at her.

"Are we good?" he had to ask, had to know, because Stella's friendship was one thing he always counted on.

She was looking at him with something he couldn't recognize in his eyes, and before he could decipher that message hidden, she leaned in and brushed her lips gently against his, "Yes, we are."

"Stella," he started, but she had already moved to stand beside her apartment door.

"We'll be fine, Mac. We always have been, and that's not going to change. I promised you what was said in this apartment would stay here. Don't worry."

"But I worry," he countered.

She sighed and refused to look at him, "It's really late now, Mac. I'll see you tomorrow at the lab, alright?"

He could hear the determination and finality in her voice, and he voiced the only response acceptable, "Goodnight Stella."

"Goodnight, Mac," she said, and the door was closed behind him.

For some reason, he felt as if the source of content and pleasure in his heart closed its door on him at the same time.