CSI: NY fic: Black Monday, Mac/Stella p. 2
Jun. 9th, 2005 05:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardMore of the Mac/Stella, and I'm not quite sure this is working, but, well...
Anyway.
There was faint hesitation in Mac’s eyes, hesitation and horror and something as close to lust as Stella had ever seen. He looked away when he caught her frowning at him. “I can’t –” he said. “You don’t – you can’t – can’t mean that –”
Stella curled her fingers more fiercely around his. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
Mac reached for his glass with his free hand, tossed back the last half-cup of whiskey in one sleek movement that exposed the line of his throat. “You can’t do that,” he said, very softly.
Stella wondered, fleetingly, if he was thinking of Claire, then pushed the thought away. You’re dead, she told Claire’s ghost. Gone. Leave him alone. Let him have some peace, for God’s sake.
No, Claire seemed to say, and Stella leaned forward deliberately. “Mac,” she whispered. “It’s not about me.” She kissed him before he had a chance to reply, letting teeth rasp gently over his lips before she adjusted the angle.
Mac made an indeterminate sound in the back of his throat, like he wanted to pull back, pull away, and his fingers clenched even tighter around Stella’s. Instinct, though, was a very good thing, and she thought it might have been that which kept him from breaking and running.
For once lab rumor was right; he was a good kisser, although there was something very practical, very restrained, about his mouth on hers. There was something familiar too, which should have surprised Stella but didn’t, because after all, this was Mac. Why should kissing him be any different than watching his back when a case goes bad, working a scene with him, double-teaming a suspect? Why should kissing him be any different than bullying him into something almost like sanity, than discussing cases and, occasionally, department politics over dinner, than, on the (extremely) rare occasion, getting drunk with him? It was the same feeling, of support and a tenuous grip on his Marine’s temper. Of partnership.
Mac’s eyes were glazed by the time they broke apart, alcohol and lust and despair mixing together into one Long Island Tea of Something Interesting. Stella could tell she was flushing from the heat rising to her cheeks, and there was something like real arousal in the pit of her stomach and between her legs. This is real now, she thought. This is the time when I look at this and wonder how things will change.
She didn’t, though, and maybe she should have wondered at that, but she didn’t. Instead she stood up and tugged Mac away from the bar. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs. Unless you want to give these nice people a show.” She turned her head toward the other patrons of the bar, most of which were studiously eyeing their glasses or companions. A few were watching her, or maybe it was the dress.
Then again, maybe it was the fact she’d just made out with her boss in public.
If this was New York, Mac might have protested slightly. If this was New York, Mac would probably be sober. If this was New York, she wouldn’t be doing this.
If this was New York, it would have mattered.
But it wasn’t New York. This was Chicago, and Mac needed – something. An anchor. Something to tie him down, hold him until the conference was over and they could get back to New York, to the NYPD and the blood and grit of casework. Until Mac could forget his parents, forget Jefferson Maclarin Taylor and the perfect son he couldn’t be, and just be himself, crazy, coffee-fuelled, insomniac. Even that seemed better than the half-stranger, half-friend that stood across from her now. I want my Mac back.
She tightened her grip on Mac’s arm, and he seemed to shake himself out of whatever funk he was in and stare at her with wide eyes. “Hey,” Stella said, and cocked her head at the door. “Upstairs. I’m not much for voyeurism.”
Mac frowned a little. “Neither am I,” he said very softly, like he wasn’t quite sure it was the right thing to say. He gave her a small, frantic look, and Stella stroked comforting fingers along his bicep and pulled him out into the foyer that separated hotel, restaurant, and bar.
He slid away with her with his hands in his pockets as she punched the “up” button by the elevators with more force than was probably necessary, and it didn’t take her more than a heartbeat to realize, huh. That’s probably a bad idea.
“I think –” he said, and seemed about to sidle back into the bar when Stella grabbed him by the shirt lapels and kissed him, hard. She broke away as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.
“Upstairs,” Stella repeated, pulling him into the elevetor and pushing at the “12” button until the doors slid shut with a slight ching. “There’s a mini-bar there, remember? And the ICSIA is paying for everything.” At the moment, she was pretty sure that Mac needed to be more liquored-up before he unwound enough to get clothes off. In the long run, maybe it wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had, but –
Hell, what could it hurt?
*whimper* I am trying to decide between starting the Snafu rewrite and starting Omerta, and I'm leaning toward Omerta on the grounds that once that's done, I can go back and rewrite the trilogy and foreshadow this time. Although Omerta scares, possibly for the five or so plotlines.
Anyway.
There was faint hesitation in Mac’s eyes, hesitation and horror and something as close to lust as Stella had ever seen. He looked away when he caught her frowning at him. “I can’t –” he said. “You don’t – you can’t – can’t mean that –”
Stella curled her fingers more fiercely around his. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
Mac reached for his glass with his free hand, tossed back the last half-cup of whiskey in one sleek movement that exposed the line of his throat. “You can’t do that,” he said, very softly.
Stella wondered, fleetingly, if he was thinking of Claire, then pushed the thought away. You’re dead, she told Claire’s ghost. Gone. Leave him alone. Let him have some peace, for God’s sake.
No, Claire seemed to say, and Stella leaned forward deliberately. “Mac,” she whispered. “It’s not about me.” She kissed him before he had a chance to reply, letting teeth rasp gently over his lips before she adjusted the angle.
Mac made an indeterminate sound in the back of his throat, like he wanted to pull back, pull away, and his fingers clenched even tighter around Stella’s. Instinct, though, was a very good thing, and she thought it might have been that which kept him from breaking and running.
For once lab rumor was right; he was a good kisser, although there was something very practical, very restrained, about his mouth on hers. There was something familiar too, which should have surprised Stella but didn’t, because after all, this was Mac. Why should kissing him be any different than watching his back when a case goes bad, working a scene with him, double-teaming a suspect? Why should kissing him be any different than bullying him into something almost like sanity, than discussing cases and, occasionally, department politics over dinner, than, on the (extremely) rare occasion, getting drunk with him? It was the same feeling, of support and a tenuous grip on his Marine’s temper. Of partnership.
Mac’s eyes were glazed by the time they broke apart, alcohol and lust and despair mixing together into one Long Island Tea of Something Interesting. Stella could tell she was flushing from the heat rising to her cheeks, and there was something like real arousal in the pit of her stomach and between her legs. This is real now, she thought. This is the time when I look at this and wonder how things will change.
She didn’t, though, and maybe she should have wondered at that, but she didn’t. Instead she stood up and tugged Mac away from the bar. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs. Unless you want to give these nice people a show.” She turned her head toward the other patrons of the bar, most of which were studiously eyeing their glasses or companions. A few were watching her, or maybe it was the dress.
Then again, maybe it was the fact she’d just made out with her boss in public.
If this was New York, Mac might have protested slightly. If this was New York, Mac would probably be sober. If this was New York, she wouldn’t be doing this.
If this was New York, it would have mattered.
But it wasn’t New York. This was Chicago, and Mac needed – something. An anchor. Something to tie him down, hold him until the conference was over and they could get back to New York, to the NYPD and the blood and grit of casework. Until Mac could forget his parents, forget Jefferson Maclarin Taylor and the perfect son he couldn’t be, and just be himself, crazy, coffee-fuelled, insomniac. Even that seemed better than the half-stranger, half-friend that stood across from her now. I want my Mac back.
She tightened her grip on Mac’s arm, and he seemed to shake himself out of whatever funk he was in and stare at her with wide eyes. “Hey,” Stella said, and cocked her head at the door. “Upstairs. I’m not much for voyeurism.”
Mac frowned a little. “Neither am I,” he said very softly, like he wasn’t quite sure it was the right thing to say. He gave her a small, frantic look, and Stella stroked comforting fingers along his bicep and pulled him out into the foyer that separated hotel, restaurant, and bar.
He slid away with her with his hands in his pockets as she punched the “up” button by the elevators with more force than was probably necessary, and it didn’t take her more than a heartbeat to realize, huh. That’s probably a bad idea.
“I think –” he said, and seemed about to sidle back into the bar when Stella grabbed him by the shirt lapels and kissed him, hard. She broke away as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.
“Upstairs,” Stella repeated, pulling him into the elevetor and pushing at the “12” button until the doors slid shut with a slight ching. “There’s a mini-bar there, remember? And the ICSIA is paying for everything.” At the moment, she was pretty sure that Mac needed to be more liquored-up before he unwound enough to get clothes off. In the long run, maybe it wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had, but –
Hell, what could it hurt?
*whimper* I am trying to decide between starting the Snafu rewrite and starting Omerta, and I'm leaning toward Omerta on the grounds that once that's done, I can go back and rewrite the trilogy and foreshadow this time. Although Omerta scares, possibly for the five or so plotlines.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-10 12:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-10 11:55 pm (UTC)And it's such a good thing she's nowhere near Mac's parents right now, otherwise...er, that wouldn't go well. At all. Like, ever.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-10 01:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-10 11:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-10 09:20 pm (UTC)I like Mac's reluctance, too, as it's clear that, on some level, he *does* realize that he needs and wants this, but is holding back out of understandable fears. He has to make the token protest, but I get the sense that he wants her to talk him into it, wants to find the reasons why this really is okay for them to do.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-11 12:38 am (UTC)Exactly. Partnership is all tied up with them, together, one way or another, whether it be on the job or off it. Like I said, earlier, she's desperate to ground him, so that he doesn't lose his mind completely and float off. Turn into someone she doesn't know. It's her job, personal and professional, to keep him him, and she'll do it anyway she has to.
I like Mac's reluctance, too, as it's clear that, on some level, he *does* realize that he needs and wants this, but is holding back out of understandable fears. He has to make the token protest, but I get the sense that he wants her to talk him into it, wants to find the reasons why this really is okay for them to do.
Right. He's not as drunk as I expected him to be at this point in time, but maybe it's better this way. Because in his mind, it's bad for him to be attracted to her, to let someone else try and comfort him, and the fact that it was his parents isn't helping at all. Because it shows weakness. But if she talks him into it, then it's not really his fault. He needs reasons, evidence, and Stella can't give them to him in any way he'd understand.