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bedlamsbardMy computer's being a bitch. *face*
Ahem. Porn. Sort of. And that's all I'll say.
In retrospect, taking Stella to the bar had probably been a bad idea. A very bad idea. After all, he hadn’t realized just how worked up she was over Nick Bonasera, although the amount she drank even when nothing was wrong should perhaps have been a clue. As it was, she was half in the bag already, and it was barely a quarter to nine.
“Mac,” she said, and made a game attempt to crawl into his lap. He pushed her, very gently, back down into the high-backed seat of the booth they were in. “Stella, I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Not too much,” she slurred. “You haven’t had enough.” She shoved her Long Island Iced Tea at him, a little slopping over the edge onto the battered wood table.
Mac took it away from her and sniffed at it. “How much vodka did you put in here?”
“Mac…”
He set it back down. “Never mind.”
She put one hand on the back of the seat next to his face, and leaned over him. “You need to unwind,” she said, and as she opened her mouth Mac caught the heady scent of alcohol and behind it Stella, clean and crisp, faint whiff of gunpowder and latex and something like saltwater, and it went straight to his groin.
“Stella…” he said softly, trying to keep his voice level. He’d been drinking since they’d arrived, small sips, but he’d already gone through two drinks and was on his third. “I think –”
“You do that too much,” she said, and kissed him. Her mouth was hot and wet, tasting like alcohol and something familiar he’d been trying and failing to forget, and Mac couldn’t help but fall into it.
Stella traced one hand down his chest to brush over his crotch. Mac gasped, arched upward into her hand, and felt her laugh against his lips. “Yeah, you want this, don’t you,” she murmured, and kissed him again.
Mac caught one hand in her hair and pulled her closer, very aware of her breasts pushed against his chest. She was in his lap now, bracing herself with one hand on the seat back and the other stroking oh so lightly over his erection, and she hooked her feet around his ankles for better leverage. He kissed her back, teeth knocking briefly against hers before she adjusted the angle, and it wasn’t hard at all to melt into her mouth and against her body. Stella’s hand halted a moment, then disappeared to reappear on his thigh, and even as Mac mastered a protesting moan she ground against him, and that protest turned into something else indeed.
He turned his head aside to breathe, and Stella licked an arching line along his jawbone. “Mac…” she said softly, and he froze, then pushed her off him and into her seat.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. No.”
“Mac!”
He shook his head again and stepped away from the table. “No.” Sense breaking in, pushing lust and alcohol from his brain, and he couldn’t do this, not with Stella, not here, not in New York, not where he could still remember Claire whenever he turned his head toward the Manhattan skyline. “No,” he said again, strangled, and went as quickly as he could towards the door, to lean against the brick wall outside and shake, search the sky above for the constellations that didn’t change no matter where in the city you were.
He liked Stella. He did. She was his partner, and a beautiful woman, and a good detective. But she was also Stella. Stella, who’d seen him through everything, through all his time in New York. Stella, his partner. He liked her – maybe even loved her, trusted her with his life, certainly, and his deepest secrets, but he couldn’t – couldn’t –
“Mac?”
He didn’t look up. “Stella, you’re drunk.”
“So are you.” She was walking unsteadily, and when she reached for his arm he flinched away, leaving her blinking uncertainly at him. Her eyes were glazed, lust and alcohol warring for control, and her mouth was swollen.
Mac looked away.
She stepped closer to him, pressed her body up against his. “Mac,” she said softly. “You – you –”
“Stella – don’t –”
She kissed him again, dragged her teeth over his lower lip and let him gasp against her mouth before letting her tongue twine around his, and God, she tasted good. Better than she had a few minutes before. Better than –
Stella shoved her hand down his pants. “Oh, look,” she said breathlessly, and kissed him again while Mac arched and whimpered against her.
“Stella – we’re in – public – oh Christ.”
“Like that, do you,” she panted, and gasped a little herself as Mac pulled her towards him with his hands on her waist. “I always thought –”
She was wearing slacks; Mac managed to negotiate one knee between her legs and she yelped and humped him furiously. “Fuck, Mac,” and he slid one hand down her back to cup her ass. She reached up with her free hand to cup the back of his head and drag him down for another kiss, and then he was shaking against her, braced between his partner and the wall, head thrown back as he came. When the stars cleared from his eyes, she kissed him very gently on the corner of his mouth and passed out in his arms.
*
He put Stella away into his bed, dragging off her shoes and jacket but leaving the rest of clothes on, and leaned forward to kiss her self-consciously on the cheek, glancing around after he’d done so, even though he knew for certain there was no one else in his apartment besides the two of them. Then he turned the air conditioner up and pulled the light comforter on his bed over her, and closed the door behind him as he left.
There was an afghan crumped on the floor; Mac folded it neatly and draped it over the arm of the couch, tucking one loose corner back into place, then went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. It was cool against his mouth, the thick taste of city water still lingering despite the filtration system he’d installed and washing away the heady Stella taste still there.
She. Was. His. Partner. His partner. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t touch her like that, or think of her as she had been that night in Chicago, slim and lithe and sure beneath him with her legs clamped around his waist and her hands caught in his hair. Couldn’t think of the taste of her, or the feel of her skin on his, or the whimpering little gasps she’d made when he’d dragged his teeth over the curve of her neck. He couldn’t let his mind be dragged away during an interrogation to the memory of the red dress – the dress, God, he couldn’t help but wonder where she’d found such a thing or why she’d brought it to Chicago – the red dress falling away, and the perfect breasts with the pert nipples he’d seen before he’d dropped his eyes to her silk-clad lap. He couldn’t. It wasn’t worth it, not worth the risk to both their jobs. Relationships up and down the chain of command weren’t advised, would lead to disciplinary hearings at the very least, to officers transferred out of their divisions and their precincts. Nothing good could come out of he and Stella carrying on anything but a professional relationship. Nothing good at all. Except –
He shook off the thought, the visceral memory that sent shivers arching along his spine for a moment, and stood up to wash and dry his water glass. This done, he stacked it neatly in the cupboard next to a line of identical glasses and went back into the living room.
There were books stacked in neat piles along one edge of the coffee table in front of his couch. He sorted through them, not so much to check which was which but for the ritual of it. Professional magazines, copies of Forensic Science and The Law Enforcement Bulletin, and beside them the classics he’d buried himself in when he’d been a boy in Chicago. Another world; one way to escape the life he’d hated. He picked up a book at random and flipped through it, dog-eared page to dog-eared page. Used copies, not the gilt-edged leather-bound books from his father’s library, but the words were the same.
Although not what he wanted tonight. He set Great Expectations aside and reached for the neat stack of case files he’d brought home with him. Most were unsolved, a few were decisively closed, and one, at least, was still open. The Constantine-Pagliuca-Patriso files. The one on top was the Darin Pagliuca/John Doe case, of course, and the rest followed in reverse chronological order. Homicides, kidnappings, robberies, smuggling – the files covered the whole gamut of criminal charges. Some were federal, cases the NYPD had reluctantly turned over to the FBI Organized Crime Division, and he leafed through those curiously. None of the charges against Val Constantine had done more than come to court and been dismissed, but his father had gone to prison almost thirty years ago on a variety of charges. Conspiracy, murder two, smuggling, prostitution – no drug dealing, though. Evidently there were some things even criminals would draw the line at. Mac turned to the front of the file again. Luciano Constantine was due for parole sometime in the next six months.
There, though, in the older generation, there was no connection to either the Pagliuca or Patriso Families. Whatever it was that had brought Frederico Patriso’s grudge against both families must have come in Val’s time. The federal files, released extremely reluctantly to the NYPD showed nothing but a confused tangle of relationship piled on relationship. Marriage, in some cases, alliance, in others, suspected political murder after alleged murder. A sure but steady collection of NewYork’s worst. After staring at the files for almost five minutes – several inches thick, each of them, and there were three in front of him, the edited versions – Mac stood up and went over to his desk in a corner of the room, pulling a thin stack of white paper and a black ink pen out of a drawer. Then he sat back down and began to try and chart out the relationships, the connections.
Alphonse Constantine, Sr., had married Caprice Brasi, and they’d had a son, Alphonse Constantine, Jr., known as Al Junior. He’d been a soldier in the Brasi Family – which had later become the Dellacroce Family – and by all accounts a charming and influential man. Salvatore Brasi had appointed him to take charge of the Brasi Family’s interests in New Jersey, and when Al Junior returned he broke off from the Brasi Family and began his own, bringing a number of former Brasi men over with him. Salvatore Brasi had been succeeded by his nephew, Luca Dellacroce, the current head of the now-Dellacroce Family, which reputedly had the worst relationship with the Constantine Family out of all Five Families except for the Patriso Family in recent years. However, the d’Alessandro Family – not one of the Five Families, but a minor one who swore loyalty to the Dellacroce Family – had a son who was a member of the Constantine Family, despite the fact that both his father and his brother had given their loyalty to the Dellacroces. D’Alessandro… Mac flipped back to the Darin Pagliuca file. Carmine d’Alessandro, Val Constantine’s underboss. He’d been at the Pagliuca house that morning with Val, and at the precinct the day before.
He shook his head slowly. They weren’t even up to the past generation yet, and he’d barely covered half of the Constantine file, skimming for familiar names. He’d thought his family tree was complicated; the Mafia ones made it look simple. Glancing aside at the notes he’d made, black scribbles of names and arrows and lines blending together into a tight knot of incoherency, he despaired of ever making sense of the tangled mess that was the Five Families of New York.
He should at least try to sleep. It would only be polite, and besides, the last edges of alcohol were still gnawing at his brain, promising a hangover and a headache no matter what he did. He probably wouldn’t be able to, but he had to at least try. Stella was here. Mac wasn’t entirely sure what that had to do with anything, but he was sure it meant something. This decision made – made reluctantly – he closed the OCD files and restacked them, put his notes on top of them, then leaned over to turn the lamp off.
The sudden shock of darkness was as much a surprise as it always was, no matter how much he expected it. Mac tugged the afghan over himself and waited for his eyes to readjust, thinking with dim gratitude of his gun on the coffee table a foot or so away. Then, above him, the glow of the city at night brushed through blinds, comforting, familiar, a reminder of life outside his apartment. There was something different, too, something familiar he couldn’t place for a shaky minute. Something reassuring but strange, and then he realized what it was.
Stella. Asleep in his room. Someone else in his apartment, in his life, for the first time in four years, and after that initial shock it wasn’t strange at all. Stella. Someone else. The one person alive he trusted, trusted with everything, forever, and it was – comfortable.
Maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight after all.
God, I love this whole laptop thing.
Ahem. Porn. Sort of. And that's all I'll say.
In retrospect, taking Stella to the bar had probably been a bad idea. A very bad idea. After all, he hadn’t realized just how worked up she was over Nick Bonasera, although the amount she drank even when nothing was wrong should perhaps have been a clue. As it was, she was half in the bag already, and it was barely a quarter to nine.
“Mac,” she said, and made a game attempt to crawl into his lap. He pushed her, very gently, back down into the high-backed seat of the booth they were in. “Stella, I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Not too much,” she slurred. “You haven’t had enough.” She shoved her Long Island Iced Tea at him, a little slopping over the edge onto the battered wood table.
Mac took it away from her and sniffed at it. “How much vodka did you put in here?”
“Mac…”
He set it back down. “Never mind.”
She put one hand on the back of the seat next to his face, and leaned over him. “You need to unwind,” she said, and as she opened her mouth Mac caught the heady scent of alcohol and behind it Stella, clean and crisp, faint whiff of gunpowder and latex and something like saltwater, and it went straight to his groin.
“Stella…” he said softly, trying to keep his voice level. He’d been drinking since they’d arrived, small sips, but he’d already gone through two drinks and was on his third. “I think –”
“You do that too much,” she said, and kissed him. Her mouth was hot and wet, tasting like alcohol and something familiar he’d been trying and failing to forget, and Mac couldn’t help but fall into it.
Stella traced one hand down his chest to brush over his crotch. Mac gasped, arched upward into her hand, and felt her laugh against his lips. “Yeah, you want this, don’t you,” she murmured, and kissed him again.
Mac caught one hand in her hair and pulled her closer, very aware of her breasts pushed against his chest. She was in his lap now, bracing herself with one hand on the seat back and the other stroking oh so lightly over his erection, and she hooked her feet around his ankles for better leverage. He kissed her back, teeth knocking briefly against hers before she adjusted the angle, and it wasn’t hard at all to melt into her mouth and against her body. Stella’s hand halted a moment, then disappeared to reappear on his thigh, and even as Mac mastered a protesting moan she ground against him, and that protest turned into something else indeed.
He turned his head aside to breathe, and Stella licked an arching line along his jawbone. “Mac…” she said softly, and he froze, then pushed her off him and into her seat.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. No.”
“Mac!”
He shook his head again and stepped away from the table. “No.” Sense breaking in, pushing lust and alcohol from his brain, and he couldn’t do this, not with Stella, not here, not in New York, not where he could still remember Claire whenever he turned his head toward the Manhattan skyline. “No,” he said again, strangled, and went as quickly as he could towards the door, to lean against the brick wall outside and shake, search the sky above for the constellations that didn’t change no matter where in the city you were.
He liked Stella. He did. She was his partner, and a beautiful woman, and a good detective. But she was also Stella. Stella, who’d seen him through everything, through all his time in New York. Stella, his partner. He liked her – maybe even loved her, trusted her with his life, certainly, and his deepest secrets, but he couldn’t – couldn’t –
“Mac?”
He didn’t look up. “Stella, you’re drunk.”
“So are you.” She was walking unsteadily, and when she reached for his arm he flinched away, leaving her blinking uncertainly at him. Her eyes were glazed, lust and alcohol warring for control, and her mouth was swollen.
Mac looked away.
She stepped closer to him, pressed her body up against his. “Mac,” she said softly. “You – you –”
“Stella – don’t –”
She kissed him again, dragged her teeth over his lower lip and let him gasp against her mouth before letting her tongue twine around his, and God, she tasted good. Better than she had a few minutes before. Better than –
Stella shoved her hand down his pants. “Oh, look,” she said breathlessly, and kissed him again while Mac arched and whimpered against her.
“Stella – we’re in – public – oh Christ.”
“Like that, do you,” she panted, and gasped a little herself as Mac pulled her towards him with his hands on her waist. “I always thought –”
She was wearing slacks; Mac managed to negotiate one knee between her legs and she yelped and humped him furiously. “Fuck, Mac,” and he slid one hand down her back to cup her ass. She reached up with her free hand to cup the back of his head and drag him down for another kiss, and then he was shaking against her, braced between his partner and the wall, head thrown back as he came. When the stars cleared from his eyes, she kissed him very gently on the corner of his mouth and passed out in his arms.
*
He put Stella away into his bed, dragging off her shoes and jacket but leaving the rest of clothes on, and leaned forward to kiss her self-consciously on the cheek, glancing around after he’d done so, even though he knew for certain there was no one else in his apartment besides the two of them. Then he turned the air conditioner up and pulled the light comforter on his bed over her, and closed the door behind him as he left.
There was an afghan crumped on the floor; Mac folded it neatly and draped it over the arm of the couch, tucking one loose corner back into place, then went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. It was cool against his mouth, the thick taste of city water still lingering despite the filtration system he’d installed and washing away the heady Stella taste still there.
She. Was. His. Partner. His partner. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t touch her like that, or think of her as she had been that night in Chicago, slim and lithe and sure beneath him with her legs clamped around his waist and her hands caught in his hair. Couldn’t think of the taste of her, or the feel of her skin on his, or the whimpering little gasps she’d made when he’d dragged his teeth over the curve of her neck. He couldn’t let his mind be dragged away during an interrogation to the memory of the red dress – the dress, God, he couldn’t help but wonder where she’d found such a thing or why she’d brought it to Chicago – the red dress falling away, and the perfect breasts with the pert nipples he’d seen before he’d dropped his eyes to her silk-clad lap. He couldn’t. It wasn’t worth it, not worth the risk to both their jobs. Relationships up and down the chain of command weren’t advised, would lead to disciplinary hearings at the very least, to officers transferred out of their divisions and their precincts. Nothing good could come out of he and Stella carrying on anything but a professional relationship. Nothing good at all. Except –
He shook off the thought, the visceral memory that sent shivers arching along his spine for a moment, and stood up to wash and dry his water glass. This done, he stacked it neatly in the cupboard next to a line of identical glasses and went back into the living room.
There were books stacked in neat piles along one edge of the coffee table in front of his couch. He sorted through them, not so much to check which was which but for the ritual of it. Professional magazines, copies of Forensic Science and The Law Enforcement Bulletin, and beside them the classics he’d buried himself in when he’d been a boy in Chicago. Another world; one way to escape the life he’d hated. He picked up a book at random and flipped through it, dog-eared page to dog-eared page. Used copies, not the gilt-edged leather-bound books from his father’s library, but the words were the same.
Although not what he wanted tonight. He set Great Expectations aside and reached for the neat stack of case files he’d brought home with him. Most were unsolved, a few were decisively closed, and one, at least, was still open. The Constantine-Pagliuca-Patriso files. The one on top was the Darin Pagliuca/John Doe case, of course, and the rest followed in reverse chronological order. Homicides, kidnappings, robberies, smuggling – the files covered the whole gamut of criminal charges. Some were federal, cases the NYPD had reluctantly turned over to the FBI Organized Crime Division, and he leafed through those curiously. None of the charges against Val Constantine had done more than come to court and been dismissed, but his father had gone to prison almost thirty years ago on a variety of charges. Conspiracy, murder two, smuggling, prostitution – no drug dealing, though. Evidently there were some things even criminals would draw the line at. Mac turned to the front of the file again. Luciano Constantine was due for parole sometime in the next six months.
There, though, in the older generation, there was no connection to either the Pagliuca or Patriso Families. Whatever it was that had brought Frederico Patriso’s grudge against both families must have come in Val’s time. The federal files, released extremely reluctantly to the NYPD showed nothing but a confused tangle of relationship piled on relationship. Marriage, in some cases, alliance, in others, suspected political murder after alleged murder. A sure but steady collection of NewYork’s worst. After staring at the files for almost five minutes – several inches thick, each of them, and there were three in front of him, the edited versions – Mac stood up and went over to his desk in a corner of the room, pulling a thin stack of white paper and a black ink pen out of a drawer. Then he sat back down and began to try and chart out the relationships, the connections.
Alphonse Constantine, Sr., had married Caprice Brasi, and they’d had a son, Alphonse Constantine, Jr., known as Al Junior. He’d been a soldier in the Brasi Family – which had later become the Dellacroce Family – and by all accounts a charming and influential man. Salvatore Brasi had appointed him to take charge of the Brasi Family’s interests in New Jersey, and when Al Junior returned he broke off from the Brasi Family and began his own, bringing a number of former Brasi men over with him. Salvatore Brasi had been succeeded by his nephew, Luca Dellacroce, the current head of the now-Dellacroce Family, which reputedly had the worst relationship with the Constantine Family out of all Five Families except for the Patriso Family in recent years. However, the d’Alessandro Family – not one of the Five Families, but a minor one who swore loyalty to the Dellacroce Family – had a son who was a member of the Constantine Family, despite the fact that both his father and his brother had given their loyalty to the Dellacroces. D’Alessandro… Mac flipped back to the Darin Pagliuca file. Carmine d’Alessandro, Val Constantine’s underboss. He’d been at the Pagliuca house that morning with Val, and at the precinct the day before.
He shook his head slowly. They weren’t even up to the past generation yet, and he’d barely covered half of the Constantine file, skimming for familiar names. He’d thought his family tree was complicated; the Mafia ones made it look simple. Glancing aside at the notes he’d made, black scribbles of names and arrows and lines blending together into a tight knot of incoherency, he despaired of ever making sense of the tangled mess that was the Five Families of New York.
He should at least try to sleep. It would only be polite, and besides, the last edges of alcohol were still gnawing at his brain, promising a hangover and a headache no matter what he did. He probably wouldn’t be able to, but he had to at least try. Stella was here. Mac wasn’t entirely sure what that had to do with anything, but he was sure it meant something. This decision made – made reluctantly – he closed the OCD files and restacked them, put his notes on top of them, then leaned over to turn the lamp off.
The sudden shock of darkness was as much a surprise as it always was, no matter how much he expected it. Mac tugged the afghan over himself and waited for his eyes to readjust, thinking with dim gratitude of his gun on the coffee table a foot or so away. Then, above him, the glow of the city at night brushed through blinds, comforting, familiar, a reminder of life outside his apartment. There was something different, too, something familiar he couldn’t place for a shaky minute. Something reassuring but strange, and then he realized what it was.
Stella. Asleep in his room. Someone else in his apartment, in his life, for the first time in four years, and after that initial shock it wasn’t strange at all. Stella. Someone else. The one person alive he trusted, trusted with everything, forever, and it was – comfortable.
Maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight after all.
God, I love this whole laptop thing.
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-10 04:52 am (UTC)Okay, well-written wall sex is pretty much *always* a good thing, as far as I'm concerned, but this was a *really* fab example. It's severely hot, and it's also...sad and tender, and the complicated feelings that exist between them come through sharply. This kind of deeply-felt partnership bond just *gets* to me, and it's really moving. It's clear how much Mac is struggling with this, and also clear how this thing with Stella is just hitting him with the force of a freight train.
I also like the little details: his books and his magazines, and the identical glasses in a neat row. And this: It would only be polite, is just so *Mac*.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-11 12:48 am (UTC)You know, I feel morally obligated to add at this point that I don't and never have considered myself a Mac/Stella shipper, so I have no idea at all how I ended up with this. Mac doesn't have a clue what's going on or how to deal with it, and Stella's drunk, so she doesn't really have a say in anything. I'm really glad it worked, though; Mac and Stella are hard to write.
I also like the little details: his books and his magazines, and the identical glasses in a neat row. And this: It would only be polite, is just so *Mac*.
*shakes head* He's so weird.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-11 03:03 am (UTC)Oh, hi. *So* not a Mac/Stella shipper either (and was mortified when some people interpreted a couple of my stories as M/S), but the thing is, with these stories you've been doing...I see a way for it to work, and to be compelling and believable and in-character. And that's as this: it's a natural extension of their partnership, and it springs from that fierce sense of loyalty, and it...this is going to sound weird, but it still permits them their dignity. It doesn't turn them all sappy or weepy.
Plus it's sexy as hell, which certainly doesn't hurt. *ahem*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-12 09:19 pm (UTC)Oh, it doesn't sound weird. And that's exactly what I'm trying to do - it's an extension of their partnership, like with Danny and Flack, except of course in a slightly different kind of way. I think one reason it involved into M/S is Mac is so out of it - or going to be out of it - with a bunch of various things over the next couple stories, as well Omerta and Black Monday, that he really needs something to ground him, otherwise he's going to be floating off into outer space. And because of who he is and who Stella is, the sex is the only thing that's working, because it's all they got and the physicality of it will drag Mac back. Um. Sort of. If that made sense at all.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-12 11:11 pm (UTC)It does make sense. It's...he's a guy who gets so wrapped up in his own head, and in intellectualizing everything -- to the point where, I think, he sometimes just shuts down entirely and can't deal with it. And I think, along with that, he has a tendency to shut out the physical, and not be so much in tune with those needs. For whatever reason (probably largely to do with partnership and trust), Stella's able to get past that barrier with him, and getting him to focus on the physical and shut off his brain seems to be *exactly* what he needs to do right now. Because it works to center him and ground him, and get him to think clearly again once they've done the deed. (And they seem to be enough in tune with each other that the sex is also really good.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 12:59 am (UTC)Exactly. He lives so much in his own mind that he doesn't bother with his other needs a lot of the time - like, you know, sleep. *grin* I wouldn't be surprised if he'd been the dreamy type as a kid, especially since I can't see him as one of the jocks, or even the more ordinary high school student. The kind of student that blends into the background, doesn't command attention at all, basically passes through school with very few people knowing he exists. You know?
For whatever reason (probably largely to do with partnership and trust), Stella's able to get past that barrier with him, and getting him to focus on the physical and shut off his brain seems to be *exactly* what he needs to do right now. Because it works to center him and ground him, and get him to think clearly again once they've done the deed.
*nods* Right. And in some cases it's such a shock - you know, like getting doused with cold water. Brings him back to himself.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 05:19 pm (UTC)Pfft, sleep. Who needs sleep? Sleep is for
the Armyother people. People who are Not Him. But, oh yeah, I totally picture him as this very dreamy kid who was very happy to blend into the woodwork and keep his head down and study, and be noticed just as little as was humanly possible. I *really* can't picture him as a jock, or even an average sort of semi-popular kid. I think it's more likely he was always the odd kid out, and *way* deep down inside his own head.What Stella's doing is forcing him to confront the physical, for the first time in probably ages, and I think it's sort of serving to...wake him up. Ground him, bring him back to himself, and simultaneously make him sit up and take notice of what's in front of him.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-10 10:29 pm (UTC)I really enjoyed this ....can you tell...I will stop rambling now.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-11 12:54 am (UTC)You have no idea. They're insane, the both of them, and neither of them has much of a clue what's going on. Stella more than Mac, of course, but not by much. I'm so glad you think I have Mac down; he's probably one of the hardest characters to write.