A/N: Spoilers for "Night, Mother".

CHAPTER EIGHT: Enjoy The Silence

March 23, 1993

Spring was truly his season, Mac decided with a twinge of redress. The sun was warm enough to caress your winter- laden skin without the obtrusiveness that summer brings. Birds chirped hesitantly above everyone's heads, awakening from their long slumbers and stretching their vocal chords for the long months of singing ahead. And the best part of it all was the resurrection of nature around – from the careful crawl of tiny, newborn green leaves from shivering brown branches, to the first flight of children's laughter.

It was also her season, he thought unabashedly, as he sighted the tops of her curly hair from the dismissed crowd of the University. She wore one of her favorite light colored sleeveless tops, as if they were all she received during the Christmas haul. Oranges brought out the pinks of her high cheekbones, pinks highlighted her sharp curves, and his favorite color on her – the striking yellows, created lazy apparitions on her olive skin as she sauntered by, giving her a sun kissed glow that could only rival an Amazonian woman.

Over the months of schooling that she endured, she had made quite a handful of friends, and he liked the idea of a social Stella. He watched her interact from one of the University's accommodating benches, leaning his body back against the cool metal, spreading and draping his arms on it, casually resting his ankle on top of his knee – an arrogant male position, and he couldn't help it. She made him arrogant; she made him proud.

From the distance, Stella pretended to be engrossed in a conversation with a young blonde, but her eyes glazed over the whole front lawn of the grounds. She quickly spotted his figure - despite him being clandestine beneath a large Oak tree's shadow -, and she waved at him coyly. He waved back – as much 'pleasant' as he could muster, silently telling her that she could take all the time she needed. Stella smirked at his obvious pretension for her needs, because she knew that if he had it HIS way – they would be up and running within the next millisecond.

She finally broke free of her passing talks shortly after, and made her way towards him. Two girls lingered behind her, asking her questions and debating amongst themselves, but obviously, Stella had all of her attention readily reserved for him.

Reaching him, she dumped three thick medical books on his lap and sat down. Stella adjusted the straps of her undergarment as she inched closer to his form, but didn't quite fix her attire that well. She started talking, "Professor Chris dumped a whole lot of paperwork for us over the weekend on a new topic we BARELY understood. God only knows how we're going to pass the exam tomorrow."

"EVERYONE knows that you're going to pass the exams, Stella," her raven- haired companion purred, glancing at Mac uncomfortably before returning her gaze to her schoolmate. "You're the only one who understands what that sicko's talking about anyway."

Stella laughed. "No, that's not true. There's Brian," she looked at him and he acknowledged her by fixing her peeking undergarment himself, "but he's such a nerd that no one could talk to him without having to recite the Star Trek code of allegiance."

"Oh, and YOU'RE not a nerd?" he teased, and her eyebrow raised, intercepting him. Mac shook his head and leaned forward to give her a soft kiss on her flushed cheeks – as his 'official' greeting. But before he could give her a second one, Stella cleared her throat and motioned to her friends.

"I forgot to introduce you to … uhh, Mac, this is Andrea and Candace, we all take Physics class together. Guys, this is Mac," she said, then cleared her throat again. "He's my … umm, friend."

"Hey," the blonde (or Candace) greeted, then nudged the brunette (or Andrea). She followed her friend's example and offered him an unsure smile.

Stella sensed the discomfort in the air and decided to break the little powwow. Why in the hell did these school girls follow her like puppy dogs, anyway? Mac thought, irritated.

"Guys, I promise to come early tomorrow to help you figure out our exam. Is 10 AM all right?"

The two girls agreed that it was just right, and they bid them both a goodbye. As they walked away, Mac could clearly see them gossiping rapidly, lips flipping in lightning speed.

He gazed at his lover, and decided that it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Charming girls." He curled an arm around her shoulders, and she rolled her eyes. "Haven't they seen a guy kiss a gal on her cheek before?"

"They've seen you before, Mac," she defended, crossing her arms, pretending to be huffy about it – but he knew better, of course. "They never quite figure out what we are to each other. I guess I wasn't helping when I said that you're my 'friend'."

"Oh, so I take it that they are not really into the whole secret identity thing that we have going on?"

Stella allowed her lips to tug upwards, a little bit. "Yeah, they don't know a thing, Batman."

"Good to hear, Wonder Woman."

They smiled, breaking whatever petty annoyance she harbored for him, and decided to start moving for her late lunch. He easily picked up her books with one hand, hauled it against his hip, and protectively laced his other free appendage around her waist. He was content to hear her stories of the whole day, happy that it was her voice filling his ear after a nine- hour shift's worth of cursing criminals, incriminating bosses, and mechanical dispatches. Her sounds – speaking or not – would always be music to his irritated ears.

Before he could even step into his car, she had already grabbed his keys and was fine tuning the ignition. Immediately afterwards, she diverted to the radio, allowing it to sputter to life before turning the knob to one of her favorite radio stations. A new wave of sounds filtered in his car, mostly consisting of drums, mild guitar, and a throaty riff from the lead vocalist.

Mac sat on the driver's side, pretending to be cautious of what Stella was listening to. While she bopped her head to the music ('alternative' genre, it seemed – at least that's what she called it), he retrieved the McDonalds paper bag from the backseat.

"What? Lunch in the car again?" Stella jutted her lower lip out. Mac ignored it, despite thinking of how cute she was whenever she acted like a pre-puberty eleven-year-old.

"Why can't we eat somewhere today? Where are we going, anyway?"

"I need to get some papers from the City Hall, from my lawyer, downtown. It's a long drive from here. I thought you'd like to get some late lunch."

"Very, very late lunch," she added, taking the bag and opening it half- heartedly. As she was rummaging through the bag, Mac stepped on the gas to stimulate his valiant steed.

"What in heaven's name is THAT?" he demanded with a hint of annoyance, reaching to turn the radio off. Before he could, she slapped his fingers. He drew back reflexively.

"Stone Temple Pilots, alternative gods extraordinaire." She arched both of her eyebrows, daring him to push another hand forward to stop her music spree. Mac surrendered, tucking a mental note about how he'd make her pay later.

She gulped large portions of her iced tea, and fingered a salty fry with contemplation. As the vehicle began to move into a safe speed, she gingerly chewed on her food.

From the corner of his eye, Mac watched this with slight trepidation. He knew this woman – he ate with her, slept with her, took baths with her, and woke up with her. When she wasn't with him, he constantly thought of her as if she was a perennial ghost that hovered nearby. Every single quirk of her eyes, every single turn of her lips, every single sigh that escaped her mouth --- he memorized them all, stapled them in his cerebral cortex, and he intended to keep them there forever. It was safe to say that any change in her behavior would worry him to the ends of the earth. It was safe to say that he knew when she was bothered.

Of course, she had the tendency to eat like a Central Park horse. One that had been hauling overweight tourists all over New York the whole day – and he meant that as a compliment. Seeing her chewing on a fry wasn't exactly convincing.

"What's going on?" he inquired in a low, hanging voice. It was a tone he used on her whenever he didn't know how to anticipate her next actions --- whether she would start slapping him or fucking him.

Stella finished her fry, shook her head unconvincingly, and took another large sip of her iced tea.

They faced a blinking stop light and he stepped on the breaks. Turning to her, Mac stretched to cup her cheek in his palm.

Thank God, he thought, as he felt her gradually leaning in his touch, rubbing her face on his upturned hand, her long eyelashes brushing against the tips of his fingertips like soft feathers.

Despite knowing her through and through, Mac never ignored the fear at the back of his brain: the one that told him that whenever she wanted – despite of everything they had shared and everything that he had given her -, she could leave him. Flat out; without any qualms. Yes, he could safely say that she was his, but the only things he owned were her body and heart. He never could hold her soul, and sometimes in the evenings, he would wake up to just watch over her --- make sure that she was beside him and that she wasn't going anywhere.

He was afraid that she might decide to take up her old hobby of running. She told him otherwise before, but the fear was always there. Mocking him.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he further asked. Stella shrugged.

"Nothing … I don't feel like eating."

"Coming from you, it sounds like an apocalyptic sign from Revelations." He further moved closer, brushed ringlets of curls away from the side of her face, and grazed his lips on the back of her earlobe. Goose bumps rose up to meet his kisses.

He motioned to their front, towards the seamless blue skies resting on the road's horizon. "I'm half- expecting the Seven Horsemen to start clopping their way to Manhattan."

He was rewarded with a small laugh.

Mac drew back and returned his attention to driving, seeing that the green light decided to make an appearance just when he believed he was succeeding.

Most of their drive was spent in relative silence, silence that he loved to call as 'comfortable', - for it really was. Small talk passed between them, but when they both knew that they didn't want to bother trying anymore, they stopped, and that was okay.

He avoided comparison, but sometimes he couldn't help it. His relationship with Claire was so far from what he had with Stella. What years he spent building for Claire and their marriage, he had with Stella within three months. There were times in his marriage when he wouldn't know what his wife would think of him when he did a certain action, but with Stella, he was so damn in his element that he could walk butt naked across her apartment – scars and all – and she'd find the good graces to laugh at him, or seduce him to her bed. Not that Stella wasn't as difficult as Claire, but that difficultness only drew him closer to the Greek goddess, making him snap his point of curiosity. Claire's difficultness could oftentimes kill him then and there.

Even if Stella told him to shut up eons ago, he couldn't still help wonder what if she was the one he married. What if he met her a few days earlier than Claire? What if he realized his feelings for her a few days before his wedding?

Nearing downtown, Stella coughed out and toyed with her necklace. Mac kept a smile to himself: She usually played with her necklace whenever her nosiness was piqued.

Within a second, his guess was confirmed:

"What are you going to get from your lawyer? Insurance?" she piped up, a far cry from her mood a while ago.

He grinned. "No - maybe."

"Well, only ONE answer, partner!" she said, sliding closer to his driver's seat. She nestled against him and smoothened his hair at the nape. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

"No." He smirked, and it earned him another irresistible pout.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because I'm telling you after I talk with my lawyer. It's nothing deathly important, I promise you." He made a sharp turn towards the curb, a few steps away from the entrance of the City Hall. He parked leisurely – still wearing that damn smirk- , enjoying the suspense he was keeping his lover in.

He removed his seatbelt and looked at her. Stella had her hands crossed over her breasts, eyes squinted in lethal slits (to his direction, of course), and mouth sporting a more embellished pout.

It was too much for him, so he leaned in and pressed his lips lightly on hers. She was unresponsive at first, trying hard to maintain her image of a woman scorned of good information, but he pressed his finger to her side, she giggled, and it opened her mouth. Mac immediately plunged in, taking time to feel the contours of her insides as if he had never tasted her before, as if he was a foreigner to her vast country. Not long after, her tongue met his and they dueled in a delicious battle, striking each other ferociously. In his brain, he counted the hours since they last kissed, since they last made love, and decided that it was far too long since the last time. He needed to finish his meeting at once.

He then wondered vaguely if she was thinking along the same lines --- especially with the way she teased the roof of his mouth with that limber tongue of hers.

He broke their kiss off reluctantly, watched her lick her lips in sweet surprise, and then whispered against her neck that she needed to stay in the car. He was only transacting for a few minutes, and there was no need for her to accompany him.

The trip in and out of the car was a swift one, punctuated by his spry steps, quick hellos to familiar faces, and unanimated goodbyes to those who mattered. His lawyer, Jack Pete, was already up and waiting for him in his office when he arrived. They exchanged an even quicker conversation, with his friend commenting that Mac was in "obvious" hurry (punctuated by a challenging wink). Mac waved him away, gathering the papers that he needed, and shook hands. Their hands were barely apart when Mac started to exit.

Stella was enjoying another spring of those god- awful alternative songs when he appeared at her side. She jumped a little in astonishment.

"Geez, you almost gave me a seizure," she commented, putting a hand on his chest. He leaned into her car window, smiling pleasantly, and enjoying the uncharacteristic surprise he brought to her nerves.

She rolled her eyes and raised her chin to look at him. "Are you done?"

"Yeah," he replied, and that was all he allowed himself to say before crossing over to the driver's side. Stepping in, he felt her eyes scanning his body.

"So you're going to tell me what the papers are for?" She opened her hands to receive the manila folder that he was holding, but he held back, as if suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. The part that he still hadn't explained to her.

"Umm," he stalled, reaching for his seatbelt and clicking himself to safety. "I have to tell you something first, if it's okay."

Stella flipped her hair away impatiently, but managed to retain a façade of calm demeanor. "Okay, then. What do you want to tell me?"

"I talked to Claire this morning."

All cross- sections of either mirth or petty frustration disappeared from her face. These emotions melted into one pot, creating an unreadable expression that he never expected from her: she was nervous when she twirled her finger on a lock of dark brown hair, but her eyes were steadfast as she stared at him and waited for him to continue.

Mac willed himself to stay focused.

"I … we talked about where we are now, what we want to do. She's, still not in the forgiving mood. I wasn't too."

When she spoke, her voice was soft and beaten. His heart ached as she clamored for something to tell him --- as she opened her mouth for a moment, and then found nothing to say. Eventually she did, and just as he expected, her words were sharp and stale.

"Will you ever be in the forgiving mood?"

"I'm not sure," he answered at once, doubted himself for only a minute, then realized that this was the truth. He still loved Claire, he did, but his being belonged to someone else now …

"Stella, the papers –"

"What are they?" Now her voice was shrill, small. Frightened.

He shoved them in her direction. He half- expected her to jump back, as if it would scald her, but she didn't. She only accepted them on her lap, though she didn't touch them.

Mac cleared his throat, hating the way she stared at them as if they were such evil things.

Maybe in a way, they were.

"They're divorce papers. I'm filing for a divorce next week."

Stella didn't reply. She only lifted the manila envelope, her face a mask of pure nothingness, then handed them back to him.

Their drive home was spent in more silence. But this time, the silence was far from comfortable.

The decision for a divorce wasn't one- sided. If it was, then he would never have gone through with it. But the problem was that Claire seemed to want it more than he needed it.

The tone of her voice was predictable as she answered his call. He remembered counting, again – counting how many days they had been apart; counting how many months. Just as she sighed when he said a garbled "hello", he decided that the time they spent without each other didn't matter anymore: they were already on different hemispheres. They were already too far gone.

He never told her about his affair with Stella – never would've dared - however, Claire good- naturedly asked about her so he answered as innocently as he could. Maybe his answer gave it all, because when he finished talking, she gave him her final decision:

"I want this to end. I want YOU to end it."

He could've asked for a second chance, he could've asked for her to stop this charade once and for all. He could've asked her to work for it – they could still work for it, he firmly believed, but his tongue got tied. Through the knot in his throat and inside his accelerating heartbeats, he knew that this was what he wanted, too. He was already in love with another woman, and he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her. Claire was already in love with her New- Yorker's life, and she wanted to spend the rest of her days without him.

Stella's reaction to the divorce didn't tatter the plan – nor did it suppress the reinforcement. He wasn't sure what was going in on her mind when he revealed what he and Claire actually talked about, and the days that followed were all a blur. Stella never finished a conversation about the matter, nor did she open one about it. She ignored the whole damn thing as if it never existed – as if it wasn't in front of their faces the whole time. She pretended as if everything was still the same between them.

By the end of the weekend, he stopped trying to open up to her about it. He just gave up and told himself that when it's all said and done, that was when she'd surely give the divorce some attention. Because after it, they were going to get more serious with each other.

Of course, destiny had other plans.

Mac came home late one evening, past his shift, and he knew he was in for a whole lot of ribbing. He promised Stella that he'd be home at 11 PM, but somehow, time escaped him as he was interrogating a robbery suspect. He wasn't the type of person who prioritized his job BEFORE his personal life, so he vehemently wondered if he was gestating into something inhuman right then and there. After the rigid questioning, he took a quick look at his wristwatch and realized that it was past midnight. He was a dead duck.

He entered the apartment as stealthily as he could, trying hard to not rouse Stella from her hard- earned sleep, but he was surprised to find that the TV in the living room was open, that he could view Stella's silhouette sitting aimlessly on the couch, and that she was still very much awake. She had a tough day in school, and when they talked on the phone that afternoon, she sounded really depressed about the way she had handled her daily tests. She mentioned that she was so tired and emotionally incapable that she was going to sleep the whole evening off. With a warning crescendo, she told him that he better be home by 11 or else.

He didn't think she was THAT serious.

"Stella?" he called out softly, taking time to drop off a bag of cinnamon bagels on the kitchen counter before hurrying towards her form.

She didn't answer at first, and when he neared her, he realized why.

She was crying.

Mac stood in front of her and he thought he heard his heart break. God, what IS going on, he thought as he kneeled down before her and cradled her hand in his grip.

She was nestled in his velvet bathrobe, and it was draped on her body as if she didn't care if she showed any skin or everything at all. Her right shoulder peeked, the garment falling until the tops of her breast – only a few inches before complete nakedness. A long slender leg was also propped on the couch, uncovered and cut. Mac shook his head as he inspected an 'X' of bandages on her knee, and discovered on his own that it was probably done during her shaving.

What was most striking was her curly hair wildly flailing on her shoulders, hiding almost all of her face. But it wasn't enough to hide from him the flagellation of her usually perfect features: Her eyes and nose were horrendously red, her lips trembled as if the simplest touch could break her into a thousand little pieces, and her cheeks were angrily flushed. The glow of the TV bounced on her slick skin, creating an eerie blue madness on her olive epidermis.

He removed flowing strands of her hair so that he could fully see her face. He tucked them behind her ear, still holding her hand tightly against his chest. "Stell, what's wrong? Are you okay? Why didn't you call me?" He could've gone home early with just the slightest emergencies --- if she called him to proclaim that she cut herself during shaving, he would've flown from the NYPD to her side. He could do that, just for her.

She didn't answer, only extending her free hand to grab a tissue from the coffee table. Mac gritted his teeth, not understanding which was happening first: his heartbreak or hers.

"Is it what you're watching?" he tried, then craned his neck to see what was on the tube. It was only CNN.

He returned to her. "Stella, tell me what's going on with you. I almost couldn't recognize you lately --- one minute you're threatening me, the next you're crying here all alone. One minute you're annoyed by me, the next minute –"

He wasn't able to finish the sentence. He supposed that he wasn't meant to, because her mouth was on his within the next instant. Hot, wet, and livid like an electrical jolt from a livewire. She was suddenly everywhere.

The notion in his head popped, and he couldn't help but acknowledge it:

One minute you're annoyed by me, the next minute you're all over me.

Stella groped him with a surge of desperation that his head swam with pure desire. Her hands were tearing his jacket off, his tie off, his shirt off, and before he knew it, he was half- naked. Her fingernails raked on his chest and he hissed, feeling the uncertain prick of pain and pleasure.

She only paused to tear her lips away from his, allowing them enough moments to keep their lungs oxygenated, then she undid the lousy knot of his robe and slid them off of her body. It pooled at her knees, and that was only when he realized that she had maneuvered herself from the couch down the floor. Mac's eyes were on the discarded material, then he saw her bare kneecaps. His eyes drew upward, and he realized another thing: she was naked underneath the robe.

Mac's wholeness swelled with passion. Jesus, she is fucking beautiful.

That was something he could never dispute, for even in her worst times, she WAS beautiful.

Stella anchored a hand on the floor, just beside his legs, and crouched down to touch his belly with her mouth. His muscles tensed as her wet kisses trailed a fiery ascent from his stomach and up to his nipples, then to his clavicle. Her other hand held his neck in place, and she kissed the tiny dots of sweat that he never knew were there.

Mac closed his eyes, at the same time that he felt her eyelashes flutter on his jaw line. She rested her forehead on his chin and whispered the words that he never expected to hear that evening:

"I love you, Mac."

He didn't give it any second thought – the fact that it was the first time she had the courage to tell him that, or the fact that with just those words, everything was forgotten. It was as if he never saw her crying that evening, as if she was never so confusing to him, as if he never existed before that moment, before that single moment that she finally opened her heart to him.

All he knew was that he was going to make her feel his response, just like she did that first night. No words were needed; they were going to enjoy the silence.

Mac cupped her face tenderly, took some time to memorize the feel of her skin against his rough fingertips, then gazed into her hazel eyes. He stared at her pools of green diamonds intensely, trying to imprint in the unreachable part of him every line, every twinkle, every tear.

Just when he thought he was able to see through her soul, she broke their trance and kissed him hard.

He woke up, his head was clear, the sun was up in the sky, the sheets were warm, and the TV still hummed softly in the living room.

But she was alreadylong gone.

Mac sat up, his teeth gritting so hard he almost felt one of his morals breaking. The cool air cascaded on his naked flesh; he shuddered. Forlornly, he tried his best to not look at her side of the bed, even as he put on his boxers, even as he opened her closet to find that there was nothing in there anymore, even as he punched the closet door.

Splinters penetrated his skin, and small flecks of blood danced on his knuckles. He disregarded this and walked out of the room, as if hoping to still see her there outside – dancing her ass to Joni Mitchell, with those short shorts and an oversized "ILOVE NY" t- shirt.

The living room was bare.

He moved to the kitchen, his hands in his hair now, his eyes swelling painfully. His mind was a dreadful blank, but his emotions were overflowing, too much that it hammered on his rib cage, as if threatening to tear through his tissues. A tear fell, then a thought came.

One minute you're next to me, telling me you love me, the next minute you're running away. The next minute, you're gone.

Mac bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

He crept closer to the kitchen counter, almost staggering to the cold table as his legs seemed to give up on him, and he found what he was looking for atop the bag of bagels he bought her last night.

Picking up the note with shaking hands, he read it silently:

Mac,

You once asked me if I could try. Well, I did. I tried and I tried, and before I knew it, two years had passed. I tried all the way, and I think I made it. But this is as far as I can go.

I once told you that I could never, ever leave you. Forgive me if I lied. Not because I had to but because that was my truth back then. Now, I can't stay here with you anymore.

You once told me that your soul belonged to me. If that's true, then it'll prove itself someday.

I love you, and believe me when I tell you that the hardest part about all this bullshit is that it is true - I DO love you, but this is all that I can do for now. I tried, we BOTH tried, but it wasn't enough.

Don't try to look for me. Go back to her, she needs you more than I ever will.

Stella

The note fell to the floor.

The tears came so hard and so arrogantly that it was beyond him, and his legs buckled. He collapsed on the floor, on his knees, and the pain was there. It shrieked against his muscles as they were assaulted, then it began to chew on his heart. Mac reeled in shock, and tried to regain himself. But before he could, the thoughts suddenly came.

Loud and taunting.

He KNEW that she would eventually leave. He KNEW that she was lying to him all along, he was expecting this and when he woke up, he felt it. He FELT that she was gone, he felt that it was the end. Last night, when they made love, she gave him everything that she could that he wanted to ask her why, but he never gotten around to it. When she held him afterwards, she held him so tight he almost couldn't breathe, and he wanted to ask her why, but goddamn it, he fell asleep. He FUCKING fell asleep.

He still wanted to ask her why, why she had to leave him like this, but she was gone. He was never going to see her again, he was never going to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her …

Mac shoved his palms over his ears - his forehead pressing on the ground and touching the pool of wetness his tears created - wanting for the thoughts to stop coming, however, they only grew louder. He sobbed, his own disgruntled voice sounding so small and petrified.

He closed his eyes shut, needing the silence.

Like her, the silence never came back.

C/N: Eternal thanks to everyone who made it possible for this fanfic to win the CSI Fanfic Award. You can say that this chapter is a thank you chapter, since this answers most of the questions that has been raised in previous installments. Most, not all, though.

Thanks to everyone who R&R too. Do keep them coming, they make me extensively happy and progressive!

The decision to break the flashback-present-flashback sequence of the story was longtime coming. I knew that it was going to happen eventually, so I decided to use it on this two chapters because of its continuity. I also decided that it was time to answer some of those questions that the story created.

If you guess which part serves as spoilers for Night, Mother, then you really are a CSI:NY fan. Heh.