A/N: I tried my best to fit it into the PG- 13 rating. I really, really did. I think I was successful on some levels, but I'll hang this warning in the air just to be sure.

CHAPTER SEVEN: His Soul Belonged

January 2, 1993

He sat down on her couch and patted the space beside him. The wooly fibers felt cool beneath his touch, and after he showed her his invitation, he couldn't help huddling in his jacket. It was getting colder now; as they entered the apartment, Winter constructed a catastrophic blizzard outside.

Stella stood before him, also snuggling into her thinner layers of jackets. The light behind her figure created a yellow outline that surrounded her entirety, a silhouette so fine that tiny flying optic fibers were visible to his naked eye. Mac settled in the darkness her shadow created over his frame, but before he could revel, she had accepted his invitation and had sat beside him. The luminosity struck his eyes, and he turned away, only to find himself face-to-face with her.

Their faces were so close to each other that he could almost feel the tip of her nose against his own, and the warmth of her breath against his lips.

Dear God, she is beautiful, he thought. Her eyes were wide and tragic, red and a little bit swollen, as if she had just met her end and then had resurrected before anyone could miss her. Her skin was fragrant – the wet snow, the tinge of drying sweat, the baby cologne she put on hours ago. Her lips trembled against his breathing, her cheeks turned into a darker shade of pink, and her disarrayed hair kept falling on her face. She brushed them away, and as she did, the humble sparkle of her Greek necklace bared itself to him.

He wondered, deep in his million and one thoughts, how could anyone blame him for worshipping this woman? She was real, every second he spent in her company felt like a roller coaster of wit and emotions --- hell, he was never bored in her presence. She could laugh hard over his corny jokes, and then the next second, cry with him over a dumb old movie.

Mac drew forward and cupped her cheek tenderly, as if she was made of the finest china in the world. He expected her to jolt away, but to his pleasant surprise, she tilted her head towards his touch.

"Stella, what you heard – when I was speaking to Claire, you know you shouldn't believe in a word that she said. Or in whatever I said. This is a couple that's … on the rocks. We're trying to resolve things, but at the same time we're grasping at things that we think would … help us fix conflicts. Claire … happened to find you and she …"

"She never liked me, Mac," Stella finished for him, putting her hand over his and removing it from her face. She gazed down at their intertwined fingers on her lap. "Why do you think I always manage to squeeze out of affairs that involve you, her, and me? I wasn't comfortable in her presence – and I still am not."

He drew into his lungs a chilly gust of wind. He knew of the hidden bitterness Claire harbored towards Stella – he really did, inwardly, but he never wanted to acknowledge it. Not because he was afraid that acknowledging would make it real, but because he knew that if it was out in the open, he would have to make the decision about leaving Stella. And that was not an option. He never thought it was … until now.

"I know, I'm sorry if I ever forced you to mingle with her. But you have to understand that it was important for me to have the two most important women in my life to be friends."

"I know that."

"Yes, and you have to also know that what she said --- you're, you're not my," Mac stalled, hating the word and hating himself for being in the position to clear it up for her, "you're not my whore, Stella. Of course you're not, it's just Claire's state of mind. She's confused and I am too, and I tried to get the best out of it –"

"Will you return to her?"

Mac paused and rethought that one before he was able to answer. "Yes, I want to return to her. I still love her."

"And when you do, will you leave me?"

Damn it.

The way she said it, as if her whole life depended on him and as if he was her only savior, how could he ever leave her? This was a woman that he made, loved, and took care of. He had given her everything he could for a better life, and in return, she had given him so much more. She had given him everything that Claire couldn't give him. The truth for Mac was that he probably depended on Stella as much as she depended on him. If not, more.

This was his life already – two responsibilities, two destinations, two women. He didn't know what to do about Claire, and he didn't know what he had with Stella yet. But he discerned, somehow, that he should try and define what they had together --- if he ever wanted to see both of them again.

He gripped her hand. Hard. "You know I could never do that," he replied sincerely.

Stella allowed a little smile to flutter through her face.

"You're my best friend, Stella," he attempted, then found that it couldn't fit. "I, you mean to me a lot and you … if I lose you, I'll have to find you. Over and over again."

"What if you did lose me? What I left you?"

The scenario – the mere suggestion of it - devastated him immediately. It felt as if someone stuck his hand into his chest cavity, and started to slowly pull his heart out. The pain grew tenfold with each crushing, pulling, second.

Mac resisted the strong urge to flinch. "Why, will you do that to me?" he had to ask - he just HAD to ask.

Stella blinked hard. "Of course not, Mac."

He sighed in relief, then collected himself. "If I lose you, if you left me … you know I'll always try to find you –"

"Mac," she whispered, and their eyes met.

Gravity met gravity, and he was compelled to stare deep into her green irises, to read her soul, to read her. It was as if he was staring into the abyss of who she was, as if she was showing him her whole self without anymore barriers.

It frightened him, but at the same time, he felt exhilarated. Honored.

A tear slid down her cheek. It appeared tired, effortful, as it landed on her chin.

Stella gasped, "You – you love me, don't you?"

Mac held their gazes for another minute, before jumping out of the couch and walking a few centimeters away from her. He turned his back to her and placed a hand on his chin, trying to think everything out.

Still on the couch, he heard her talk, "It's impossible, I know that, and I hardly believe it myself, but Mac, what other explanation can we give? How can we name this? I don't think you DO love me in that sense, it is damn farfetched that you love two women …"

Maybe she talked a little more, maybe she stopped, he didn't know. He was already lost: He didn't know which to believe, which was real, which wasn't. Stella's knowledge about his love for her didn't shock him – it was THE truth. He did love them both. But he didn't quite understand how or why that was possible.

Abruptly, she broke the stellar situation. As she spoke, her voice transformed from being too shaky to being too collected – too much that it sounded affected.

"Mac, I'm going to bed. I'm tired and I'm sure you are too, maybe we can talk about this tomorrow." He heard her stand up, then her footsteps fell on the cemented floors like giant anvils echoing in his head.

He turned around and found himself trying, all over again.

"Yes, I do love you," he said.

Stella stopped. From his vantage point of view, he could see from her back how she became stiff, as his voice wafted in the whole apartment.

He took a step forward. "I don't know if this will sum this up -"

"Mac, I told you, that is impossible."

"Let me finish, Stella," he sternly pointed out, but when he spoke again, his voice was soft. Almost on the verge of surrendering.

"It IS possible for me to love both of you at the same time." Another step towards her direction was made. "My heart belongs to Claire, there's no question about that –"

Stella's shoulders slumped, and within that interval, he found himself only a few inches away from her. He was so close, he could hold her waist and crush her back to his front …

"But my soul belongs to you, Stella," he murmured against her hair, closing his eyes. "If I lose you, my soul will always find you – will always hunger for you. I don't even know if I can go on without you … it was never a choice for me. It could never be."

The silence came after that. Long, hard, and punishing.

Mac longed to hold Stella. He wanted to feel her body against his, to tell him that it was all right and that they could be just like they were before, and that this FINALLY, finally solved everything that was bothering them. He could go back to his wife, and then they could continue this relationship that they had, he could have both of his great loves at the same time – as selfish as it sounded -, he needed them both. They would work something out and it wouldn't be …

Stella faced him. Through the imminent brightness, he saw that something changed in her eyes. Something different – something he had never seen there before.

Gradually, her eyelids dropped, and their faces – their lips – were barely apart. Then, with a sigh, Stella delicately kissed him.

This is wrong, his mind shouted, but he found himself opening his mouth for her and then devouring her, with all of what he had left in his system. Her kiss sent through him a shockwave of emotions – of things he never thought he could feel all at the same time. It was everywhere, sensitizing his nerves, making it unable for him to resist her. He had to taste, taste that damn essence of hers that he had avoiding for so long.

I can't do this, his heart thumped again, but he ignored it, snaking his arms around her waist and pressing her wholeness against him, on his body, as tight as he could. He didn't want to have to let go, he didn't want to have to remove his tongue from hers. Every slip of their kiss was delicious, captivating.

Then something in his brain must have exploded after he felt her nip at his bottom lip, for after that, the thoughts were no more. All he could do was feel, breathe, and love her. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else.

He wondered how he could put into words what they had done and what he needed to face in the future, as consequences to this. He didn't particularly understand if this proved things on so many hidden levels, or if it only disproved different perspectives – most especially of his wife's. Perspectives which declared that what he shared with Stella was only shallow. It certainly wasn't. He constantly believed that the relationship he had with this woman was beyond so many that he possessed in his lifetime. And maybe, the culmination of this relationship – their love making – was only a testament to his personal gospel.

His soul belonged to her, and the incident last night laughed in his face, mocking him, badgering him to admit that yes, the assumption that his soul belonged to Stella was an understatement. God dammitt, his whole being belonged to her.

The way she moved underneath him, caressed him, and adored him brought tears to his eyes. He found himself asking her questions as they explored each other: How someone so, so scarred, so frightened, so alone could love like this? How could anyone love someone like him with so much passion, intensity? How could he not have seen it before, with all the time he spent in her company, how could he have been so blind?

Stella would only smile, and then kiss him hard. It was her feeble attempt at shutting him up, but when he would latch his fingers onto her nipple, she'd moan that heavenly guttural sound and he would be free to start speaking again. He liked to think that his voice soothed her, that it brought her to another plane – far from New York, far from all the chaos and reality.

Sometimes, he believed that he DID bring her to another place. Especially when she would arch her back, cry out obscenities that were severely coupled with his name, and close her eyes so tight that droplets appeared at their edges.

He honestly never saw a woman have an orgasm quite like Stella did. She allowed herself to really release, without any deep, angst- ridden emotional insecurities to stop her. When she had sex, she ONLY had sex and she fucked the world off. She made him feel like he was the only man she had ever been with. Ever.

Then, a moment came that evening. He remembered it vividly, as if it continuously replayed in front of his face. He remembered trailing his lips on her abdomen, telling her fervently how much he loved her, how much he wished she could've come sooner, how he wished she could've been the one he married.

Stella stopped breathing for the longest second, freezing in her position, and alarming him. As he waited for her to respond, Guilt came and danced with Stupidity. They had a late Christmas celebration at the back of his brain, kicking his gut until it was beaten to a pulp. He didn't know what she was going to do: Was she about to back out on this? They've already made love, twice, and now … was she going to tell him to get out of her apartment, to disappear? Would she have to run away? From him? After all of this?

He felt her hands on his shoulders, pinching him, asking him to come up and confront her. He did as she had silently requested, and they laid front-to-front, their nudity rubbing against one another's, their insecurities whitewashing below the security.

She grazed a kiss on his cheek and rested a hand on his naked hip.

"If that happened, Mac, do you think it would've been this special? Do you think we could've reached this point?"

What point? He wanted to ask, wondering if they did ever reach any point at all. Maybe this – them - was God's sick way of telling him that he fucked up somewhere. If so, it's not a point, it's a statement. Maybe they were the fulfillment of all he had been working for, maybe it was his payment for all the goodness he had done for her. Then it's not a point, it's a reward.

Honestly, though, he didn't want to care what it was called. He just wanted to love her over and over again, until it was physically impossible for them to move. He wanted to discover every single secret she kept in her body, to imprint the plane of her skin on his tongue, to know which buttons he could push to give her the most amount of pleasure.

After that question, he stopped telling her many things. Guilt and Insecurity boarded a plane ride towards nowhere, and he forgot about everything else. It was only him, her, and the insatiable desire.

But he never did stop telling her that he loved her. She never reciprocated this verbally, but he felt her love for him on the acres of his body. She loved him as if he was the only person in the world for her. As if he was her one and only great true love.

Waking up and opening his eyes, Mac realized that the blizzard had been thoroughly laborious throughout the whole evening. He had hoped the next day would bring with it a fine weather, only to hear the winds howl and thump against the windows. He groaned in disappointment.

"It's still crazy out there."

His attention immediately shifted from the white wonderland outside, to the beautiful, disheveled young woman laying down beside him. It appeared as if she had woken up hours before he did, probably reassessing if the sky had not fallen yet, however not bothering to fix up. Her curly, brown hair was tousled against the faded light blue sheets, her bare shoulders still bearing territorial scratches that he himself made, the Greek necklace was sprawled messily around her neck, her face still sporting a natural flush. A smile was painted lovingly on her lips, crafted as if Van Gogh himself touched her face with his delicate brush.

Seeing her for the first time like this, in this new light, brought to him a warmth he had never experienced before. It felt as if his chest was about to burst into a thousand pieces, with the way his heart beat on it.

Mac leaned down to capture that irresistible smile with his own mouth, and he drank some of her for himself. Afterwards, he straightened up on the headboard, not even bothering to gather sheets around his nakedness.

"Yeah, it still is," he agreed, reaching down to take her hand. "What about here? Still crazy?"

Stella laughed, one that traced fiery shivers down his back. "No, I don't think so." Her smile became naughty, sexy, with one end coming up over the other. "Unless you want it to still be."

He smirked, and slid down so that they could be front-to-front, face-to-face, once again. He loved this position. He could see all of her, and what she readily offered to him. Their noses touched, and if he moved a little bit closer, he could feel her heartbeat knocking on his bare chest.

His arm found her waist, and his hand slid down to her bare ass. Stella bit her lip, and snuggled in closer to his embrace, resting her head on his clavicle.

This feels right, he heard his brain whisper. It felt right when she was in his world, when she was his and he was hers. It felt right that he knew that she wasn't going anywhere, that she was stationary. In this bed and in his touch.

He dipped his head to reach her ear, "Do you still want to run, Ms. Bonasera?"

Stella giggled, nibbled the underside of his chin, and shook her head. "You know I couldn't anymore."

"Good," he expressed, genuinely happy for the first time in how many weeks. Because from that moment on, he knew that nothing else mattered to him except who Stella Bonasera was for him, and who they now were to each other.

END of CHAPTER SEVEN

C/N: Thanks to everyone who R&R the last chapter. You can draw your own conclusions with this new installment (I know, the muse is being way too happy about recent progressions in the story), but I promise you that clarity will come in the succeeding chapters.

Voting already started in the CSI Fanfic Awards, btw. You can vote for Intro Retrospection by sending an email here: csifanficawards at yahoo. You can write in it WIP (CSI: New York) and underneath it, raingarcia022: Intro Retrospection. For the complete list of stories that were nominated, you can see it at Livejournal, in the community csifanficawards. I'd really, really appreciate your support!