CHAPTER TWELVE: In the Cold

December 22, 2002

Life doesn't wait for you to change with it, Stella mused.

The previous day, the snow was barely felt in New York; when she woke up this morning, she had to open her window to shake off the white blanket that marred her view. One minute, she was getting less than four hours of sleep a day to finish her degree in Criminology; the next minute, she was handed an offer to become a Crime Scene Investigator trainee for the graveyard shift. One day, Claire was there and it was good that she was indeed there because it was a reminder of which boundaries Stella shouldn't cross; the next day, the towers fell and everything else went along with it. A couple of years ago, Mac was genuinely excited when she told him over the phone that she was training as a CSI and maybe she was also genuinely happy for him when he told her of his future vacation plans with his wife; a couple of years later, there would be months when they wouldn't talk at all and when they do, he would be in a gruff for he wanted to be in Church to pray. They barely saw each other since Claire died; Stella wanted to be a friend to Mac, as he had been to her so many times, but he refused any kind of companionship – perhaps, especially from her. He had become his own damn safe haven throughout this city's storm.

It's either you get on with it or you get left behind, Stella finished in her head, watching a re-telecast of the September 11 commemoration event in Battery Park City. Her eyes focused on the eternal flame being lit by Mayor Bloomberg, thinking about Mac, Claire, and some good friends of hers who – in one horrid twist of fate – became names etched in stone or part of a historical statistic. It's not fucking fair, she resolved, turning the TV off.

Stella poured hot water into a teacup and dipped a Jasmine tea bag in it. She placed it on a kitchen counter, leaning on the nearby couch so that she could put on her socks. The heater wasn't working as well as she wanted it to, in this new apartment of hers, so she had to make do with double layers. Anyway, the rent was dirt cheap; she could move to a better place once she decided if she would take the job … as a CSI in the midday shift, the same as Mac Taylor's. That was, if she could decide.
Keeping herself busy around this time of the year was difficult with the snowstorm that threatened every waking hour. It was her creed to be occupied every year during this particular day; Stella watched the tea bag in her cup bob up and down around the hot water before coming up to her desk. She pulled out a drawer, rummaged through the college papers stored inside, and brought out a photograph. In it was a baby with olive skin, large dark grey eyes, pouty lips, and tufts of hair that promised larger than life curls once grown. It was the only photograph she ever took, and kept, of her daughter.

She would've been nine now, Stella mused, and like before, she allowed herself to drift off and imagine life if she kept her baby – maybe it wouldn't be this lonely, maybe she would be a soccer mom and would've worked extra hard to get a house in the suburbs, maybe she would never have returned to New York … and maybe, she would NEVER have returned to him.
There was a cake that she annually ordered. The flavors differed: sometimes it was strawberry shortcake, sometimes butterscotch, but usually it was dark chocolate. This year, she ordered dark chocolate and again, she'd be finishing the cake alone for the next couple of days until she felt less guilt and more chocolate-induced happiness for the life she gave up years ago.

The doorbell rang. Stella perked up, knowing it was the cake, and she readied the birthday candles she grabbed from a convenience store on her way home yesterday.

"Coming!" she cried out, fumbling with the locks until, with a whoosh, she threw the door open, a welcoming smile ready on her face.

But it wasn't the delivery.

It was Mac.

The smile on Stella's face transformed to a gasp of surprise.

"M-Mac," she stammered, hiding the candles behind her. She blinked hard, willing her vision to focus and maybe wanting his presence to go away; anytime of the year he would be welcome, especially after what had happened to him … but not now. Not on the 22nd of December. Not during the only time Stella permitted the memories to be real and to eat her up alive.
Yet, seeing him for the first time in what seemed like weeks also tore her up inside – here he was, finally, in front of her. Maybe he was ready to share his pains with her; maybe he was just there to ask for some comfort, as a friend. It didn't matter – there he was. With his eye bags darker than usual, his face contorted into a grimace of pain from either the cold or her stupefied reaction, his form bundled under layers of thick clothing, snow still dotting his shoulders.

He shrugged after a minute of staring at each other. "Can I come in?" he grumbled, shoving his glove-covered hands into his pockets.

Stella stepped away from the door, mutely nodding her head. As he went inside and hung up his coat in the rack, he noticed the candles behind her. "Are you expecting someone?" he asked. Then, as if he had been coming to her apartment every single day of that year, he closed the door behind them and bolted the locks one-by-one.

"Sort of," she answered, her face flushing. Stella shoved the candles on the kitchen countertop. "I- I was waiting for the cake I ordered. For Christmas."

A smirk found his mouth. "And you were going to eat this all by yourself?"

Like my guilt, her mind nagged, but she willed it away by forcing a smile. "Yeah, Merry Christmas, I guess." Stella opened her refrigerator and brought out a bottle of chilled Merlot. Her cup of tea laid forgotten on the dining table; Stella decided that a visit like this merited spirits, not herbs. "I was saving this for the 25th, but since you're here early … hey, what's one bottle, right?" Mac's smirk stayed as he sat down on her tiny dining area. He patiently waited as she nervously took out wine glasses from the cupboard, struggled with the cork, and opened the bottle with a loud pop.

Seating down in front of him, she poured wine into their glasses, the rich dark liquid swirling and twinkling beneath the fluorescent light. "I thought you were going back to Chicago for the Holidays this year?" They clinked their glasses together and Mac wasted no time taking a sip of his. Stella half-expected Mac to grimace at the wine's tangy aftertaste, but he didn't – which told her that he had lots of practice drinking alcohol alone in his house. Suddenly, she felt the itch for a cigarette.

"No, I thought I wanted to go home … but I really felt like staying here." His dark eyes turned watery for a second; next, he blinked and it was gone. Stella's heart dropped to the bottom of her gut. "I feel closer to her here."

Her. Stella sighed into her glass. Her. That was forever the pronoun in their lives and now, it had taken a horrific meaning. She grimaced. As his friend, what could she do to take his pain away?

"How are you, Mac?" she began, tentative, and he shook his head in reply. Stella tried once more. "I've been trying to call you … I've left some messages. I'm just worried about you."

"You have other things to be worried about," he tipped his half-full glass into her direction, an eyebrow raised. "Will you take the job?"

And be with me for the rest of your career? That was the unspoken question he was asking. He didn't need to say it out loud; Stella heard this in her heart.

"It's a big step."

"It's the necessary step."

Stella resisted another urge – this time to down the wine with one large gulp. He wasn't there to mince out his feelings: he was honest, too honest, and it was making her nervous. Anytime of the year she could handle it, but … not this time. She wiped the bead of sweat that was materializing on her forehead, despite the cold.

"Let's not talk about this, okay? It's almost the holidays and …" she trailed off, eyes trailing around the room. She settled by looking at the window that she had to open that morning to shake off the snow; it was starting to blur again from the beginnings of another blizzard outside.

"It's what you have been working for. You can't stay as a trainee in graveyard forever." This was Mac Taylor, future Head CSI, talking to her at present. Reprimanding her. The same Mac Taylor who told her years ago she could finish her degree because she was smart enough, and maybe the same Mac who held her tight one night in Chicago until all the pieces of her that she thought couldn't be mended suddenly healed. So, here she was again, back in New York, back to talking to him in another dingy apartment. In the cold, once more.

"I'll think about it, Mac," she resolved, then to her utter relief, the doorbell rang. She sprang out of her seat faster than Mac could; she happily unlocked the bolts and opened the door. As expected, it was a blue-faced delivery boy who looked like he was chilled to the bone. Stella had already paid for the cake online, but wanted to give the boy a tip, so after tucking the box beneath her arm, she reached over for her purse on the nearby countertop. However, Mac already beat her to it. He was behind her and over her shoulder was handing the boy a crisp twenty.

"Here, Merry Christmas," he said. The boy's face lit up like a lantern.

"Thanks, Mister!" he shouted. Then, to both of them: "Merry Christmas! Enjoy your cake!"

Stella whirled around to go to the kitchen, but was blocked by Mac's sturdy body against hers. He diligently took the box from her, his fingertips brushing against the back of her hands while doing so, and she couldn't control the shiver that visibly ran through her spine at the slight contact. She hoped Mac didn't notice.

He must've not, because he was already opening the cake on the dining table and reaching over to grab a knife to slice it with. Mac smiled widely when he saw the thick chocolate swirls and the fresh strawberries arranged atop it. "Dark chocolate," he chuckled, "Stella, your sweet tooth is showing."

She relaxed; the plates were in her reach so she grabbed two. "Well, I had to do something to beat the nicotine addiction." She handed him a plate and he placed a slice on it, the chocolate oozing out of the layers and onto his fingers, some on hers. She giggled, despite her initial nerves, reaching up to lick the chocolate off her fingers.
A hand on her wrist stopped her from doing so. Stella looked down, an abrupt tension as thick as the rich chocolate smeared on both their skins becoming palpable like a flickering livewire, and she watched with silent shock as Mac lifted her hand and, with no hesitation, brought her chocolate-covered fingers to his mouth. She didn't want to look; shouldn't look – but when his warm tongue flickered over her fingertips, she reflexively snapped her head up and held his gaze.

Her mind was spinning, synapses short circuiting – it was the wine, fuck the wine, and Mac was still staring so intently at her she thought she was about to burn, his mouth hot around her skin, making all of the hair at the back of her neck stand up.

Stella jerked away, crossing her arms underneath her breasts. When she did, she brushed against her nipples, which were jutting out of her thin cotton bra and loose t-shirt. Recoiling in horror at her body's betrayal, she started to take heavy breaths and moved away from him.

"Mac, this is not a good idea," she whispered, her voice smaller than usual.

Before she could take another step back, Mac was everywhere: his body flush against hers, his eyes like a dagger straight into her soul, his hand at the back of her neck urging her forward to him, his lips like feathers on her own. He kissed her at the side of her mouth, waiting for her protest, and when none came (and how could she when it felt so good?), he slatted his mouth on top of her, hungrily asking for permission.
Stella moaned, opening up to him, and there it was – Mac, his taste, his flavor, his undeniable passion. Their tongues met and caressed, dueled and danced, reacquainted and revived each other. Something inside Stella disappeared, and she was so warm all over that she thought she could set the rest of New York City on fire.

He rubbed his hardness against her, making her gasp, her arms coming around his shoulders and interlocking around his neck to make sure he never could break free. Without stopping their kiss, Mac hauled her body against his and lifted her. She took the cue and wrapped her legs around him, arching her chest into his and it was his turn to pause their kiss so that he could moan.

"Stella," he panted, resting her body roughly against the wall, just beside the door that led to her bedroom. She hit her head and it hurt a bit, but she didn't care; she busied herself with the vein throbbing on his neck. "Stell, if, if you don't want this, tell me and I'll stop. Just tell me and we can forget this happened." Despite his words, his body also betrayed him – his hips were grinding into hers, actively seeking her core. When he found it, they both gasped heavily into each other's mouths and Stella didn't think. No, not tonight: there was nothing else to think about. They could talk all they want about forgetting the past but here they were again on another cold winter, finding each other despite everything else.

The past will always find us, Stella's thoughts chanted as Mac unclasped her bra and within seconds was palming her breasts. It was so hot, fiery, she was about to spontaneously combust – Stella lifted her shirt off her head and helped him do the same with his. Once their skins made contact, they hissed at the remembered pleasure of it all.

The past will always find us. This Stella knew to be true as she assaulted his mouth as her final answer, a final lock to seal their complicated history together, for that one night.

"Where are you going?"

Stella cringed and stood frozen half a foot away from the door.

The sheets rustled and she could see his outline sitting up on her bed, beneath the three layers of fleece blankets. Mac ran a hand through his ruffled hair. She couldn't see it clearly, but she knew he was looking straight at her. "Where are you off to this time of the night?" he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

Tightening the robe around her body against the cold, and maybe against him, she abandoned her initial plan and leaned against the door. "I was planning to get a light," she admitted, partially true, at least. A chill passed through their bodies from the slight crack at her window and Mac lifted the covers up to his shoulders.

"I thought you quit smoking years ago," he remarked, blowing out hot hair to warm his hands. Stella also felt the cold, more palpable than a few hours ago when they were busy with their carnal activities, so she did the same. In the process, she watched her breath form a thin line of white in front of her. She wanted to answer, I thought I quit you years ago, but didn't.

When the silent static became too overwhelming, Mac motioned for her to come back to bed. She shook her head in panic.

"I don't think this is a good idea," she said, faltering when she realized too late that it was the same thing she said a few hours ago, before they made good of that idea three times into the afternoon and night. She wanted to smack her head or hit it against the wall – how could she be so stupid and let this happen again? Mac was at a vulnerable place and she was too – they both deserved more than this. And how could she possibly accept the job offer now after this shit they got themselves into?

Her axis started spinning. Stella rested her head on the wall and closed her eyes. She wanted to cry, but her body betrayed her once more by suppressing all her tears.

"Stell, come back here." The sheets rustled again and she knew that he was about to get up. "I promise, nothing else. Just lie back down with me."

We're screwed anyway, Stella finished in her head. Without any more words, she slipped under the sheets and lied down on her side, face-to-face with the man she recognized as her both her central crux and greatest sin for the rest of her life.
Mac gathered the sheets around their cold bodies, until there was a semblance of warmth in their bones. His arm snaked around her waist to pull her closer, his breath on hers. She imagined that it was another thin white line fanning her frozen face. The cold on cold.

"Stay here," he whispered against her lips, "don't go."

"I wasn't going anywhere."

"You were. I know what you were doing: you were about to run away."

"I wasn't," she protested, but she choked it out.

"You were," he insisted, placing a soft kiss on her lips, "I have insomnia now, Stella. I can't sleep longer than two hours. You forget this."

She almost laughed at that, but didn't. Instead, she tried to pull away but his firm grip held her in place. "Mac, we can't do this. Not like this. Not anymore … I-I, maybe it's better we don't see each other for a while," she proposed, but half-heartedly. Mac shook his head, understanding that there was no power in her words.

"Take the job, Stella. Take it. It'll be good for you. It'll be good for me. We'll be fine. We work well together."

"Mac …"

"None of this. I promise. None. I am so, so sorry." He brushed his lips on her cheek before dipping his head down to her chest. "This was all my fault," he declared and suddenly, he was clutching her too tight around her waist. There would be bruises tomorrow, Stella felt, and she wanted to break free, but then Mac started sobbing against her skin.
There it was. The storm in him had broken free and there was no dam left to hold it in. He sobbed so hard it reverberated against her bones, and Stella felt the tears pricking the back of her eyes as she cradled him close to respect his letting go. What a lie running away was – no matter where she went, no matter how far she'd run, he would always be there and she would always find her way back to him. And now, there was no way she could leave him. Not like this when he was so alone.

"I love her so much, Stella," he wept, a sound akin to a piece of her heart falling to the floor, "I love her so fucking much … I don't, I don't know what to do since she died. I'm so- so lost."

"Oh, Mac," she sighed; her lips and tears finding his hair.

Without warning, he wrenched himself from her chest and stared at her in the eye. "Stella, why can't I be your anchor?" he demanded, voice loud and clear amidst the static and cold. "Why can't I hold you to me? Why can't I make you stay?"

She had to be honest, because his eyes were screaming their own blunt frankness, because she felt she had nothing else to give, nothing else to ask for. This man was different the one she met years ago in a crowded early-morning NYPD station. This man was different from the one she made love with in an apartment he kept for her. This was a different man, as she was a different woman, and they both deserved the honesty at least for once in their life together.

"Mac, I can't because I'm not sure I can find the ropes to hold you down and tie you to me. I'm not sure you can love me."

"Stella –" he disputed, but she cut him off.

"From the beginning, it was clear: you loved her. I was nothing but distraction. As I am now," she pointed out, with a wry smile that belied the tears that threatened to drop from the corners of her eyes. Mac studied her face for a minute, a minute too long, and afterward, pressed his forehead on hers.

"If that's so," he hissed, "take the job. Let this be the last."

This will be the last, she promised herself and nodded, to herself and to his proposition.

In the cold, for one last early morning, they slept together. When her internal body clock woke her up at six in the morning, he was gone and there was no letter in sight.

A/N: Man, I enjoyed writing that chapter. I hope you like it as much as I did! Special shout outs to lily moonlight, Advazz, and Dizzy-Dreamer (A former reader! Yes!). Hope you're ready for the next installment.