The quiet in Stella's apartment was beginning to overwhelm her after just a few minutes. She had spent plenty of time just hanging out with Mac on a usual day in comfortable quiet. But not this oppressive silence. They might just be eating a slice of pizza together at a new place he'd discovered and enjoying each other's company, but there would be the noise of the restaurant, the people around them, cars driving by. Here in the apartment, it was just Stella, Mac and the weight of everything that had happened.

She didn't want to disturb him. She felt she had no right. Anything he was feeling in this moment was more than earned, but she wanted nothing more than to make him feel OK, despite that.

It was passing on early evening, now, and the light through Stella's windows was carrying a warmth of color to them, and she had a moment to think to herself that the weather had a lot of nerve to be so nice. At least it made it easier for the rescue efforts, she supposed.

Selfishly, she couldn't take it anymore and glanced over at Mac, gently putting her hand to his shoulder, so as not to startle him with her voice. "Mac," she almost whispered, "You should take a shower while I make us some food."

Mac said nothing, though he did manage to look over at her, never meeting her eyes. It appeared to take far more effort than the movement should have. In his thoughts, Mac was trying to process what the words she'd said even meant. Especially that word, "us" when Claire wasn't in the room.

Stella persisted, though gently, "you're covered in dust and ash, Mac."

Mac looked down at himself in the same slow motion he'd looked at her, as though it was taking all of the effort his body had to simply glance down at himself. He nodded, gently, and began to push himself to his feet. It was slow going, not just because of the despair he was obviously in, but because sitting hunched and pulled together the way he had been had stiffened almost every joint in him. Stella pointed toward the bathroom, fearing he'd forgotten where it was in his haze, and offered a gentle, "take your time."

Once he'd disappeared behind the closed door, she headed towards the kitchen to see what she had to offer. She hadn't been to the grocery store this week, having planned to be in Ohio until the day after, but was sure she could manage something. Unfortunately, there was even less than she'd thought…it wasn't like she'd been expecting company, never mind hosting Mac of all people for the foreseeable future.

"Well, it's something," she supposed as she grabbed the carton of eggs and loaf of bread and started making some French toast. She always found it to be a comfort food, at any rate. Some vague memory about the sweetness and one of the nuns in the orphanage. Maybe it would cheer Mac up a bit.

While that was going, she looked through her closet for something Mac could wear. She has some clothes from boyfriends past she's worn home and never returned. She might not let men come to her apartment (usually, her mind interjected, thinking of the man currently in her shower), but that didn't mean she had to pass up on the boyfriend hoodie tax. Or maybe she was just a little bit of a clothing thief.

A pair of sweats and a NYU hoodie were going to have to do. She set the clothes outside the bathroom door, rapt gently and called to him over the water, "I found something you can wear, it's outside the door when you need it."

There was nothing from Mac, but she hadn't really expected a response.

Heading back to the kitchen, she found the French toast was just on the good side of being almost burnt, and she quickly plated it before she managed to ruin one of the easiest foods to make. Glancing at the clock, she saw Mac had been in the shower for about 15 minutes. Stella pursed her lips to the side and began to worry…just a bit.

In an attempt to ignore the concern growing in her, she sat down and tried to watch TV. After about ten minutes of non-stop coverage of the aftermath of the attack on nearly every channel, or messages of condolence, she turned it back off. She didn't need to see it on TV, she could watch it from her window.

Now 25 minutes had passed, and he was still in there. The water still running. She gave a look of discontent once more.

After 30 minutes, she couldn't take it any longer, there had to be something wrong.

Quietly, padding down the hall in her bare feet, she returned to the bathroom door and knocked. "Mac?" She called out gently.

There was no reply.

"Mac, hey… you okay?" She tried to hide the concern in her voice, and sound cheery. She was failing.

When he didn't respond again, she considered a moment, before making the executive decision. She tried the knob to the door and found it was unlocked. Slowly she went ahead, quite unsure of what she was going to find.

She hesitated. Just a second, before pushing the door wide.

The first thing she noticed was the steam in the room. The mirror was fogged over, and for one delirious moment, she marveled at how well the hot water heater held up. A simple, normal thought in the midst of circumstances anything but...something her mind offered as a shield against the darker whispers she was trying to ignore; what she half-expected she was about to find.

The moment passed, and she forced herself to look toward the tub.

Her hand rose to her mouth to stop the gasp that wanted to come out.

Mac was just sitting in there, fully clothed, not even an attempt to close the shower curtain. At least he took off his shoes, she thought, but that was all. There was still dust caked onto the hems of his pants where the water couldn't reach. Otherwise, Mac's clothing was soaked and clinging to him. His head tilted forward, and he stared passed his knees, almost in the same position he'd been in her entryway, minus a wall to steady him a bit.

The too-hot water streamed over him, his expression blank, oblivious to his surroundings. It fell from his hair, his sleeves, his hands. But his eyes remained dry.

Stella didn't know what to do or say. She felt like a voyeur, looking at him like that, but her heart was leaping into her throat with a need to do something for him. Her first instinct was to call out to him again, but something told her that whatever place Mac was in right now, it wasn't the right time to call him back from it. Here and now wasn't safe yet for him, and he didn't want to come back. If the hot water and quiet was what he needed, she'd leave him there to rest in it.

But she wouldn't leave him alone.

Without allowing herself to think about the absurdity of it, she walked over to the tub and stepped inside without a thought to what it would do to the dry-clean only dress she'd been wearing since she rushed out of Columbus.

Slowly she crouched down beside him and finally allowed herself to give him at least a one-armed side hug. Her dress began to cling uncomfortably to her almost at once, but she ignored it. Mac's grief had broken her heart, and it was the only thing left she could think to do for him. Not let him drown in this moment alone.

For his part, Mac neither looked at her, nor pushed her away, so she felt that at least gave her some tacit approval.

They stayed like that, the water raining down on them for a few moments longer, until she realized that despite the heat Mac was beginning to shiver. Stella gave him a gentle squeeze, and whispered, "You're going to get sick if you stay in here like this."

Though he didn't answer, he finally moved, just a fraction, leaning on her a bit, and she took that as more permission for her to guide him. "Let me help you."

She took his hands from his knees and clasped them in her own, standing, and bringing him along with her. To her surprise, he followed easily. He still wasn't responding, but he was standing at least. Stella reached for the lapels of his gray jacket and managed to get them down his arms without too much trouble. The clinging wetness of the fabric against his button up beneath wasn't the easiest to work with, but thankfully the jacket decided to cooperate, even without Mac's help.

Stella tossed the jacket to the floor and made a note to herself to come back and hang it up for him later.

She felt a moment of hesitation before reaching to undo the buttons of his shirt. Under no circumstances did she want to give Mac the wrong idea of what she was doing, but it seemed that Mac either understood or simply didn't care. There was no resistance to her continued efforts to undress him. This fabric was a bit less forgiving and the buttons didn't want to work with her, but eventually she got them all free and his shirt joined the jacket.

Finally, he was down to the black shirt he wore beneath his suit. In that moment, the way it clung to him, Mac looked so very frail. Stella felt the tears threaten to fall once more. Mac, always so strong, now so helpless. She didn't know if she could take much more.

But then, as Stella reached forward to untuck the shirt for him, Mac suddenly jolted to life. He gasped for breath like he'd been underwater, and his hand jerked up to grab Stella's wrist. It wasn't violent or painful, just a firm sign that he was finally back with her. For the first time since she found him near the Towers, he looked in her eyes.

Mac's moment of clarity brought confusion. Questions formed as useless observations: I'm soaked, fully clothed, Stella is undressing me and I'm in someone's shower. But then the time delay on his memories caught up and he remembered why he was here. Shame began to take over for his uselessness, and terror at realizing just how exposed, mentally and physically, he was.

It wasn't the intimacy of the moment that scared him. There was just something about that last layer of clothing protecting him being suddenly removed. Like the Hanes T-Shirt was the only thing that stood between him and the harsh reality that he was alone.

Somehow, in the already blooming non-verbal language that existed only between the two of them, she understood. She removed her wrist from his hand, and stepped out of the tub, "I'll let you to it." No anger or reproach. "I brought some clothes for you, I'll leave them on the sink. And with that, Stella closed Mac back in to his own space.

Now removed from the heat of the foggy room, the air conditioning of the hallway left Stella freezing. As quickly as she could, she removed the dress and left it in a pile outside the bathroom door. More to hang up to dry later, she thought, just a bit dour.

Despite the cold, she noticed her skin was a lobster red from the heat, and again worried for Mac and the amount of time he'd been in there. Her hands were now trembling from the pent up emotion she was trying to hold back for his sake. She leaned against the wall for a moment and just rested her head against it; closed her eyes.

Finally, she felt like she had the energy to get herself dressed and went to her room.

By the time she returned, the shower had finally stopped. She made her way to the kitchen, hoping Mac was going to come and eat. She'd be waiting to join him if he did.

When Mac finally found enough within himself to open the door, a wave of steam followed after him. He stepped into the hallway barefoot, hair still wet and his own skin still flushed. It wasn't the most productive shower he'd ever taken. His arms didn't feel like scrubbing, never mind what it would've required for him to actually shampoo his hair. But at least the water helped soothe him a bit and he felt like he looked like a human being again.

The hoodie was too big and hung off of his shoulders. He'd had to roll up the sleeves a bit as well. On the contrary, the pants were actually a bit too small and clung a bit around his waist. But it was OK. He felt warm and he felt at least a little safe again.

He slowly made his way into Stella's kitchen, where she was sitting at the table, idly rolling her fork between her palms for something to do. When she heard him come in, she looked at him and gave a small smile. Despite everything, she was happy to see him upright and clean.

She pointed to the food on the table and gave another smile, this one of the embarrassed sort, "The food's probably cold, I'm sorry."

Mac shrugged. It didn't really matter, all things considered. Sitting across from her he picked up a fork of his own. The sweet smell of the syrup hung between them.

French toast was probably the last thing he would have expected for dinner, had he thought much about it at all, but somewhere inside a part of him perked up at the thought of finally receiving nourishment. For her part, Stella was relieved to see him start to eat, she'd been afraid he might argue about it.

With that first bite, chew, swallow, Mac was no longer in New York.

He's in Chicago. It's 1992. Claire's taken him to the Diner Grill. She's laughing about a forgotten comment he made over the menus sticking to his hand. Oldies are playing on a radio and the cloudy day fit his mood perfectly well. He'd come home to see his father. The cancer was killing him, and Mac wasn't handling the knowledge as stoically as he wished he could. Wasn't as strong as he wanted to be. For the first (but not last) time, Mac's father had asked him to end his life. Claire didn't know that, but she knew something was wrong.

So, she did what she always did, the bright ray of light in his murky life that she was. She pulled him away from it all, and told him that just for today, just for a little while, they were going to pause reality. Pause the pain and just pretend to be kids again. She insisted he had to order something childish, and especially full of sugar. There had to be sugar. It was just silly enough that he managed to laugh. It was a gruff huff a laugh, but she'd managed to get it out of him, like she most often did.

"I'm no good at stuff like this, you know that. Tell me what to order at least." He finally conceded in defeat.

"French toast." She answered without hesitation, "French toast, I've found, is always good, never disappoints, and since it has eggs, you can pretend like you ate a healthy, hearty breakfast, if you'd like." At that, Mac gave her another of the gruff laughs she loved to tease out of him so much.

In 1992, Mac found solace in his pain.

In Stella's apartment, in 2001, the current bite he was working on felt stuck in the back of his throat.

He blinked.

Once. Twice.

On his plate, he noticed there were drops of water. His face felt hot. Mac was confused and touched the drops, unable to understand where they'd come from. He realized his face was wet as well. And it was getting wetter. How? He'd been out of the shower for ages now.

Stella saw the look that came over him, that of a lost child, and she was beside him before he could figure it out and try to hide. Her hand landed gently on his arm, and she helped him up and over to the couch.

Mac sat for a moment, Stella beside him. And then…finally…almost blessedly, he broke.

The serious, stoic Marine. The man who barely blinked at times, finally began to cry. Not silent tears and not tears only. He folded over like a newspaper and began to shake. It hurt so much inside him, he wasn't sure if he could even breathe. He was gasping with the weight of it, and kept trying to hold it back, so Stella couldn't see. That fight was quickly lost. It was that loud crying, where your body lets loose with a noise between a laugh and a groan, and he just wanted to disappear inside of himself.

Instead, Stella pulled him gently toward her, and he collapsed to his side on her lap. Legs up on the couch, and he was completely lost in his sorrow. Stella wrapped an arm around his chest and shoulders and held him against her. She couldn't take this away from him, but at least he didn't have to be alone. There was a blanket over the back of the couch, and she did her best with the one hand she had to tuck it around Mac.

He wanted to apologize to her for how he was acting. He wanted to be embarrassed, felt like that was the correct emotion to feel, but he couldn't quite grasp onto the ability to feel so. He said nothing but tried to catch onto the rhythm of Stella's steady breathing.

He couldn't, and the tears and sobs kept coming. His ribs and stomach were starting to hurt, which made it all worse, made the pain more real. Made it impossible to convince himself it was a dream.

Stella tried to be his silent protector. Tried to be strong so he could be weak, but she was finally cracking. Her own tears began to fall. Not only for Mac. For the city she loved. The people in it. The people dead she didn't know and the ones she did. She had no idea who else, loved one of a loved one, she was going to see buried in the coming weeks, but she knew it was coming. She cried for Claire. But she did cry for Mac. Mac lying broken and raw in her arms, falling to pieces.

At some point after night had well and truly fallen, Mac's tears stopped, and the shaking slowed. He hadn't fallen asleep so much as given into collapse. His body was spent, and it took him into a blessed oblivion. The silence that oppressed Stella when they first arrived had returned, but at least now they weren't alone.

She did her best to find a comfortable position without disturbing him, leaning her head against the seatback. Before long, she managed to put this never ending day behind her as well.