CHAPTER THREE: The Balmy Sanctuary

December 19, 1992

That exact moment that he stood with the snow - in the freezing sub- zero temperature - and tried to breathe in all the stillness of New York into his lungs, Mac realized that there had been too many moments like these in his life lately. He kept finding himself outside and alone, shivering until he thought he couldn't feel his heart beating anymore. His inhalations would soften, his exhalations very belittled, and his eyes closed to a white darkness.

Each and every time that this happened, he would always end up at her doorstep, as if her apartment was some kind of a balmy sanctuary.

He'd knock feebly - trying to swallow the chattering of his teeth and sinking his uncovered hands inside his jacket's front pockets - then wait for her to answer. And as he waited for what seemed like centuries, he would gently put his head on the door and think that he had enough of this already.

The locks rattled and the door opened with a swoosh.

For a minute, she stared at him.

He refused to look at her; he was scared that if he did, he'd see the pity. Even back then, when she was nothing and he practically made her, he never did allow himself to give her any pity. Coming from the Marines, he firmly believed that pity was the last thing a person needed in his corporeal life.

Stella Bonasera wasn't as rigid, though.

"Mac," she whispered, opening her arms out to him in an unconscious gesture. He decided not to step into her hug, but she continued to hold them out. "Not again," she continued dejectedly, more to herself than to him.

He tried to shrug, but his shoulders were shaking as he lifted them up. "You'd think with our new house I'd have enough rooms to hide in. Guess I was wrong." He shuffled his feet on the welcome carpet. "Can I stay for the night?"

She gave him a look. One that said so much more and too much, one that told him that he could stay for eons if he wanted to, but it was temptation and he couldn't take it. It was always one night; never going further than that. However, it never strayed from his mind: if he really, REALLY wanted to, he knew that he was liable to stay forever.

Suddenly, her hug was irresistible and he gradually stepped inside her shadow. She immediately wrapped her arms around his body, sinking the wet snow on her own pajamas, and he buried his face in her curly hair.

Everything felt nice and warm after that.

Stella wrestled with the cappuccino maker while he watched on from her kitchen's meager two- person dining set. He huddled to suffice some warmth in his body … even if the heater were a few steps away. She had gotten used to the decreased warmth of her whole abode over the year, and these conditions were partly his fault. He had to admit that he didn't get her the best facilities that he could find because of his own financial needs. But he was able to provide her with something despite these complications and he was proud of that. She never complained, too.

He always believed that her mere presence could blanket the whole city with heat anyway.

The yellow bulb above him began to flicker as she finally extracted the cover from the appliance. Mac stared up at it with one raised eyebrow.

"You didn't tell me that your bulb's busted," he remarked, with a smidgeon of accusation. Stella snorted, and poured dark liquid on his mug. It was quite sad to think (and also charming) that he had been coming over for so many times that he already had his OWN mug in her place. The worst part was that he was the one who provided it for her.

"It's still working." She brought two cupfuls over at the table and settled one in front of him. He placed his fingers around the porcelain to force some warmth into his veins. She then offered him sugar but he refused.

The light flickered like a hyperactive disco ball as she sat down and blew air above her cappuccino. Mac rolled his eyes, "You couldn't study here in the dining room if it's flickering like THAT. Where are you studying now?"

"Bedroom. I guess it's a lot more comfortable there."

"Don't you know that when you study in too comfortable regions, it disrupts the study process itself?"

Stella laughed thinly, just for the sake of it, and because he knew that she didn't have anything else to say. The reason for him coming in the middle of the night was hanging on top of their heads, crashing at the toes of their minds like tidal waves. There was no escaping it, though he found himself trying every single time.

"Tell me about your day," he tried yet again, and she held herself from giving him another defining façade. He needed the space and she understood that for the most part.

"Aside from thinking about you?" she teased and winked. Mac smiled, then pretended to be absolutely flattered from this. She laughed genuinely this time.

"I just found out that being in the honor roll AND a lot older than your classmates takes it toll sometimes. Geeks keep asking me out as if I'm the flavor of the fucking month. Another geek, Christopher … I think, asked me again today and I reiterated that I was WAY out of his league. He followed me home, the ass." Stella took a sip and rolled the drink around her tongue before talking, "They don't understand how it is to be a working student at this age. Schedule's tighter than their balls." They both chuckled.

"I thought you asked for a transfer regarding your shift in the library?"

"I did, I did," she said, leaning back against the chair and propping her left leg atop her right knee. "But they only could offer me one period. So I literally have to run from the fifth floor towards the library every after lunch. STILL."

"That shits," Mac commiserated. "At least you get lunch. It was better than going for eight hours straight without any breaks."

"Yeah, at least."

They both shared silence after her last sentence. Stella refused to look at him as she downed her drink, and like a helpless captive, he meagerly followed her actions.

Then through her cup, Stella began to hum a song. Maybe off- key, and a little unusual for her, but she had a penchant for music and he had known her to use it from time-to-time. Especially as ice breakers. He always thought, unabashedly like a fanatic, that she had a better singing voice than most females he knew.

She stood up and left him momentarily to steal something from the refrigerator.

He sighed loudly and dropped his line of vision down to the half- empty cup of liquid that began to swirl and tremble in front of him. The vibrations made by the ten- wheeler trucks outside on the main road transcended into the room, making furniture and dining wares clatter in their continuous wake.

When everything silenced to their ultimate pristine forms, Mac started to speak.

"We've been trying to have a baby," he said, then paused as Stella paused herself too. She was halfway through the refrigerator, her head stuck in front of the water containers, her hand inside and grabbing something. Then he removed his eyes from her and returned down to his mug.

"We've talked about it in Rio, during the honeymoon. She said that she wanted two sets of twins. I wanted a boy then a girl. But despite our arguments about the children, we always agreed that we'd have kids in our first year of marriage. If not, we'll just keep on trying."

He heard Stella close the fridge and before he could even think about it, she was right in front of him, munching slowly on a slice of cinnamon bread. She didn't sit down on her chair; she only stood a few feet from his side, placing her hand on the table and anchoring her weight there.

"I told you before that Claire was really excited for the kids … she even bought that crazy little Rainbow bright doll that she would give to our first child. Whether it be a boy or a –"

"- girl," Stella finished for him, through her mouthful. She swallowed her food and then continued, "But you never told me about me being an auntie soon." Even if she was obviously lightening it up, he heard the snappish tone in her voice's arches. He had to admit that it was all his fault: they barely kept anything from each other and here he was, obliterating that silent trust. Especially with an incident this important to him. She would've expected to know first.

"Sorry, Stell. I tried to tell you, I really did … but even if we were agreeing on something, it wasn't promising. So I was edgy about putting it out in the open."

"Okay," she answered softly. He instinctively stared up at her, as if asking for a validation that they were really as she said they were. She smiled just as softly at him and he took that for what it was.

"This morning, before going to work, I accidentally stumbled upon some birth control pills underneath Claire's make- up supplies. I wouldn't have acknowledged them if they weren't new – we have been trying for almost a year now – but the date of purchase on the accompanying receipt said that she bought it a week ago."

His friend silently sat down before him and with a bewildered expression tainting her face, she took his hand in hers and encouraged him to continue. Mac, again, looked away.

"I – uhh, I tried not to think a lot about it at work, but I ended up calling her and there was no one answering in her office. When I came home, all hell broke loose. I confronted her about it and she told me that she … just wasn't ready."

"What does she mean she wasn't ready? You've been doing this for a year. You agreed on it." Her grip on his hand tightened.

"She said that New York posed more opportunities for her and the last thing she wanted to do was to be a working mom. But the thing is, you see, I took this offer in New York three years ago because of her persistence that raising kids here in the city would be a great challenge. I wanted to love the city the way she loves it, but I guess she was loving it for different reasons. Maybe that's why we couldn't see eye-to-eye lately. Even sex seems stale for the past few months."

"So she threw you out?"

He managed to chuckle at that, finding it crazily delightful how Stella could make a question rhetorical. He decided to respond, anyway. "Sort of. She said I was obstructing her hopes and dreams. And maybe I am, but I thought we were trying to make our hopes and dreams work, not only hers."

Stella bit her lip and shook her head, disarraying curls everywhere on her forearms. "Am I glad to still be single."

"Yeah, you're lucky." He shook his head. "I managed to grab a few things before I got out, though."

"You didn't need to," Stella countered. "You have enough here to supply you for a whole week."

He thought about that. Was that the punch line or the obvious truth?

Shrugging, Mac removed his hand from her grasp and rummaged inside the front lapel of his trench coat. He found what he was looking for and presented it on the table.

He pushed the black, velvet box toward Stella. It was the size of his palm, had red and gold ribbon wrapped around it, and a simpleton card hooked to the poinsettia that came with the bow. It read simply (with his sloppy handwriting), To my second favorite lady in the world. Merry Christmas.

Stella gingerly received it in her hands and raised an eyebrow. "This is too early, don't you think?" she kidded. Mac snickered sarcastically.

"It wasn't supposed to be, but think that it's an advanced 'thank you' for sheltering me again."

"I'll take that." She placed the box down, but Mac returned it back on her palms, and closed her fingertips around it to make sure that she wouldn't dismiss it anymore.

"Open it. I had it custom made."

Stella grinned and rolled her eyes, and did as he wished. She tore through the ribbon, however, not without keeping the card near her mug for safety. When the shiny ribbons were discarded, she flipped the heavy lid open and bit her lip. Her head was bowed down so he couldn't really see her facial reaction.

"Well," he inquired curiously, nervously. "Do you like it?"

"Well, Mr. Taylor …" Stella's voice quivered as she closed the lid with a loud snap. "I do, umm, probably too much and thank you … but I can't have it."

Oh Christ. There they go again.

It was like the time he gave her this apartment, the time he bought her new furniture, new clothes, a thermostat to bring to school, a cake for her birthday, fake flowers from Rio de Janeiro to adorn her living room.

She always had to fight against it. And he always had to fight for her to accept it.

"I had that custom made in Tiffany's for you only. I can't wear that while apprehending sex offenders, Bonasera." He reached over and reopened the box, turning it to her so that she could see how beautiful the jewelry was. "It's in Greek, see?"

"I can't understand Greek." She blinked profusely, and even underneath the flickering yellow light, Mac could see how she held back her tears.

"I'm hoping that someday you will. That's why you need this --- as a motivation." He stood up from his chair and hopped over behind her. He lifted the necklace from the box, unclasped the hook, and settled it around Stella's neck, flipping her hair away. Just as he had hoped, it perfectly rested on collarbone and also highlighted her olive skin. The golden strands meshed with the sheer luminosity of her complexion.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, while she felt for the necklace. She was still a little awestruck, he could tell.

"A little motivation won't hurt, will it?"

Stella pushed her hair away from her face. "Now that it's around my neck, I guess it wouldn't."

Then they both laughed together.

In the mornings, whenever he stayed over at her apartment, he would wake up before she did. He would make sure of that fact first, of course, by peeking through the open crack of his door and surveying the stillness of the living room. The scattered books that were piled up beside the basket of fake Birds of Paradises and Jasmines, the dormant cassette player, and his coat carelessly draped on the battered old couch were tell- tale signs of Stella's love of sleep.

He liked being the first one awake. He was able to buy breakfast form a nearby bakery, coffee from another nearby coffee shop, and even folded some of his things around so that when she got up, things would be ready for his departure.

But that morning it was different. He woke up to the octaves of Joni Mitchell (The song was Case Of You, if he wasn't mistaken) soothing his sore eardrums. He was cold, but when he left the bed to peek through the door's crack, he saw Stella clearing up the mess she made the day before, and everything was warm again. She was wearing those 1970's era of pink short shorts, probably the one she got from a flea market that she told him about, and a loose white t- shirt that had Prince's face splattered on it. She also was wearing the necklace he had given her, and it was as if the jewelry was dancing to its own beat around her neck.

It was sort of impossible to leave after that. So he decided to stay, just for another night. Just one more night and it wouldn't hurt a thing.

END of CHAPTER THREE

C/N: The evolution of this chapter is improbable. I probably had rewritten it thrice. I hope it came out as I wanted it to – as a parallel (or anti- thesis, if you may) to the first chapter and their conversation then. If it didn't, I'll safely blame it on my recent run- in with infection (heh). And I truly am sorry for the overdue update. I'll make up to it next time.