a/n: I sort of lost my inspiration for this, so thanks to cornish pasties for giving me a kick in the pants to finish this last chapter and put it up. Massive thanks to Isa4everSMacked, cornish pasties, smuffly, oliya, Detective Rumskey, tlh45, guest, and lily moonlight for sticking with me and reviewing.

chapter fifteen

Mac was the kind of person who owned multiple shirts in the same colour and style. He didn't vary much from his staples of solid Oxfords and solid ties, which is why it took him a while to realize that he'd been wearing the same thing over and over again. He was coming to be comfortable in Stella's apartment. He knew where most things were, and although he didn't ever intrude into her bedroom, he'd carved out his own niche in the guest bedroom, and he most definitely had taken over the leather armchair by the window.

They had settled into a routine that was familiar and comforting, and helped take his mind off the massive gaps in his memory. Every day brought back new flashes, from laughing with Stella over coffee when passing the café in question, to buying groceries when he went out to the corner bodega. Every once in a while work-related things came back, too, crime scenes, or dusting for fingerprints when he spilled flour on the dark granite countertop and left white prints down the front of his pressed trousers. He twirled his pen experimentally over the spill, trying to remember exactly how it all worked.

He found packing tape and carefully cut a square, pressing it over the smudged prints. He peeled it back gingerly, and studied the ridges for what seemed like hours, holding the small, sticky strip up to the light. Once he was satisfied, wiped up the mess, and got back to making pancakes for himself, which was what he'd originally been doing.

It was only when he was bringing his laundry up from the basement that he realized they hadn't been back to his place since he'd left the hospital. They had intended to, but crime rates picked up in the annual holiday bustle, and Stella had simply been too busy.

He sat slowly in the stairwell, dimly lit in dusk, and pulled the hamper onto his lap. Blinking owlishly at the metal stairs above him, he tried to remember anything about where he lived, but he couldn't. Hell, he didn't even know his apartment number. He closed his eyes, willing images to come back, but only blackness rested behind his lids.

Mac wasn't sure exactly how long he'd stayed like that, just sitting in the rapidly darkening staircase, the warmth fading from the laundry in his lap. One of the doors above him flew open with a bang, and he got to his feet stiffly, picking up the basket and climbing the stairs to their – her – apartment, still puzzling it over.

He folded his clothes and put them away in the dresser she'd bought for him, turned on the music to a classical station, and turned his focus instead to supper. While he chopped, peeled, and fried, his mind was elsewhere. He'd never been one to become complacent, or at least the old Mac never had been, but he was finding some level of comfort in his newfound domesticity. Since Claire's death, he'd become even more of a taciturn self-confessed bachelor. He needed his space, and cohabiting with anybody else, even Stella, made him nervous, but somehow their arrangement was working out better than expected.

On the other hand, he was starting to feel the beginnings of restlessness, but knew full well that if it had been Danny, Don, or anybody else, he wouldn't have wanted them back until they were able to do their jobs, which at this point, he couldn't. Although he appeared to be a functional person, he still struggled with tasks like counting out the right amount of money when getting groceries, but luckily the bodega owner, Ricardo, understood, and quietly corrected him when he mixed up fives and tens, and even that was an occurrence that became rarer by the week.

Stella came in the door just after eight, and he could tell by the sound of her footsteps that it hadn't been a good day. She went straight for the bottle of wine in the fridge, poured herself a generous glass, and sat down at the table, sighing defeatedly.

"Rough day?" Mac asked gently, pushing a few slices of baguette in front of her.

"Our guy jumped off a roof. Don tried really hard to talk him down, but it didn't work. He's taking it hard," she explained, running her fingers through her curls wearily. "We got to the would-be vic in time, but her prognosis isn't good. Lindsay's over at Trinity now. On top of it all, I'm up to my neck in paperwork, and Gerrard's breathing down my neck."

Mac had a flash of standing in front of a thin, balding older man's desk, and suppressed a groan. He had a feeling he hadn't liked Gerrard. He didn't remember a whole lot about his time as a detective, but he knew it was a political game, and he'd been trapped between doing what was right and doing what the brass wanted more than once.

"Can I help in any way?" he asked, patting her shoulder. "Eat something."

"If I had a dollar for every time I've said that to you…" she said, with the first hint of a smile since she'd gotten home. "Clearly I've rubbed off."

"Clearly," Mac said, pouring her a glass of water and sliding it next to her rapidly diminishing glass of wine. "I was serious, though: can I help?"

"Nah." She shook her head, hair bouncing, and rubbed a hand over her face. "I can handle it."

"If you're sure…" he trailed off, and turned to the stove, ladling her a bowl of stew. He filled another bowl for himself, and set them both down on the table.

He waited until they had both finished before broaching the subject of his apartment. If he was being honest with himself, he had been grateful to avoid returning, but it had been over a month, and he needed to restock his wardrobe, amongst other things. There were a plethora of painful memories waiting within the doors of his darkened apartment, and he wasn't sure he wanted to face them.

"You've got something on your mind," Stella said quietly, leaning across the table. Her hands were clasped around her glass of water. "You're brooding, Mac."

He took a deep breath. "When's your next day off or on call? I need to go back to my apartment at some point."

"I'm on call on Thursday, actually," Stella replied, draining the last of her wine. "I'll take you over then. That sound okay?"

"That's fine. Thanks," Mac said, as Stella stood up and began to load the dishwasher.

"I think I'm going to call it a night," she said, closing the dishwasher and heading towards her room. "See you in the morning."

Thursday dawned rainy, and Mac and Stella found themselves in the middle of a torrential downpour. They navigated puddles to Stella's car, and took the drive to Mac's apartment in silence. He hadn't quite gotten over his tendency to stare out the window as if transfixed, trying to memorize every light, every crack in the sidewalk, every apartment building.

"We're here," Stella said, as she pulled up in front of his modest apartment building in midtown. She let him take his time, and followed him inside once he finished taking in the outside of the place he'd lived the past six months.

Mac stalled outside the elevator, and turned around, eyes silently asking Stella which floor they were going to. She held out his keys, but said nothing.

"I'm not sure… where I'm going," he admitted finally, twirling his keychain in his fingers. His cheeks were darkening as he stared at the elevator, confusion evident.

"Follow your gut," she prompted, waiting patiently just behind him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking as hard as he could. "Can I just walk through the first few floors, see if I remember anything?"

"Sure. Take as long as you need," Stella replied, as he punched the call elevator button.

He wandered through the first floor with Stella trailing behind him, running his fingers over doors, tracing apartment numbers. Nothing. Once satisfied, he moved onto the second floor, repeating the process. He swept the pads of his fingers along doorknobs, tracing the grooves in the walls.

They stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, and Mac's stride quickened. His grip tightened on the keys in his palm, which was suddenly slick. He let his instincts guide him, eyes pressed shut as he walked, hand on the wall. He stopped in front of an apartment towards the end of the hall, and tried the key. It turned in the lock, and he pushed the door open.

His apartment was dark inside, the air heavy and stagnant. Mac gathered himself and stepped through the doorway, aware of Stella's comforting presence behind him as she lingered in the hallway. Mac knew as the head of the Crime Lab, his pay grade was a little bit higher than Stella's, and despite his unassuming apartment complex, it was nicer and larger than what he'd expected. Exposed brick lent a vintage feel, and there were large windows that looked over to the matching building across the way.

Moving slowly through the place, he took his time re-familiarizing himself with his home. The kitchen was small but well-equipped, and he spent a few minutes opening cupboards and looking through the fridge. "Do you want a cup of tea?" he asked Stella, indicating the shiny kettle and assorted boxes in the top cupboard.

"Only if you're having some too," she replied, coming up behind him and poking her head over his shoulder.

"Why not?" Mac filled the kettle and turned it on, pulling down the boxes and examining them, squinting at the labels – green, black, orange pekoe, Sleepytime. He smelled each one in turn, letting them bring back bits and pieces – late nights, rainy days, early mornings. Judging by the massive bag of coffee beans in the fridge, he'd been something of a caffeine junkie, but tea was liquid comfort.

They stood in silence until the kettle clicked off, steam issuing from its spout. Mac poured them each a cup, and moved past Stella towards his living room. There was a cozy leather armchair by the window, stacks of books, a flatscreen TV, and various personal effects. The flashbacks came almost constantly, every item triggering memories, some small, some larger.

His bathroom was unremarkable, small, neatly organized, but his bedroom intrigued him far more. It too was neat, almost monochrome, lacking personal touches. He ran his hands over his suits, collecting shirts, slacks, and ties on his navy blue bedspread. He packed them into the suitcase Stella had brought, wandering around the room. He flipped through the books on his bedside table, and felt around in the back of his closet, searching for anything he hadn't found so far. Much to his surprise, he found a beach ball, still partially inflated. He pulled it out, staring at it in confusion. It was significant, he could feel it in the tingle that ran down his fingers the second he touched it.

The salty wind whipped their hair, as they strolled down the boardwalk, hand in hand. Claire's cheeks were glowing, and she tugged his hand, pulling him towards one of the booths along the beach. It was a simple carnival game, hit three out of five and win a stuffed animal. "Win me something?" she asked, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

"Of course," he replied, handing over a few tickets, and picking up the tennis ball. He aimed, knocking every single rubber duck off its pedestal. He leaned in again, their lips meeting in a chaste kiss. "Pick whatever you want."

"That one, please," Claire said, standing on her tiptoes and pointing to a beach ball. She took it from the man, thanked him, and held it out to Mac.

He reached for it, but she swiped it out of his reach. She stopped, took a deep breath, and blew it up, sucking in air and pushing it into the plastic sphere. Once it was full, she capped it, and tossed it to him.

It sailed straight into his waiting arms, and he held it away from her, ducking away as she reached for him, wrapping her arms around his waist and distracting him by pressing her lips gently to the back of his neck. One hand snaked around his torso, reaching for the beach ball and pulling it away.

Mac chuckled, pulling her tightly to him, while extracting it from her grip, and bouncing it gently off her messy ponytail. "That the best you can do?" His eyes were sparkling.

"Oh, I can do much better." Raising herself onto her tiptoes, she stared directly into his eyes, lips curving into the smile he knew and loved. Beach ball forgotten, her arms around him, she captured his lips in a kiss.

"Come on, Mac, let's go home," Claire whispered in his ear, filling his nostrils with the smell of sand, sunkissed skin, and her shampoo.

Mac snatched his hand away from the half-inflated beach ball, rubbing at the crackle of electricity running down his arm. He wiggled his fingers, and picked it up again, half expecting to feel a buzz, but there was nothing. Not quite disappointed, he sank down on the bed, cradling the beach ball in his arms. Claire's face was imprinted on the back of his eyelids, and he felt as though he could almost reach out and touch her. One hand wavered from his lap, and met only empty air. Swallowing his disappointment, he stood up and began to circle the room again, going through his bookcase, closet, and dresser.

Once he'd packed his clothes, he kissed the beach ball gently, and put it back in his closet. It was just all about he had left of Claire, and although he wasn't quite ready to let it go, he wasn't about to bring it back to Stella's.

One of the hardest things he'd had to go through since the accident was mourning for Claire a second time. Somehow, locked deep inside, he knew she was had left an indelible mark on him. He was grieving for somebody he felt he'd never known, somebody who existed only in his dreams. The gold band circling his right ring finger spoke to a deep connection, a deep love, and it devastated him that he might never be able to remember most of it.

He stood up reluctantly, letting the auburn-haired beauty fade from his vision, and reached for his suitcase. It was time to let go and move on, and wallowing in a past he couldn't remember wasn't going to help.

"Are you okay?" Stella asked, getting to her feet, and putting down the book she'd been thumbing through.

"I will be," Mac replied, sinking heavily into the sofa across from her, face rigid and eyes distant.

She let the silence spread out between them, and tucked her legs underneath her, finding her gaze drawn out the window and to the windows across the way.

"I remembered Claire…" Mac trailed off, suddenly unsure of how to continue now that the words were out. "It felt like I could reach out and touch her, but she wasn't there."

"Oh, Mac." Stella's eyes were wide and sympathetic, and she crossed the room, settling herself next to him on the couch. One hand reached tentatively to rub his shoulder lightly, and he didn't shy away from the contact as she'd expected. Instead, he reached up and wrapped cool fingers around hers.

He looked over at her, as though seeing her for the first time since they'd arrived. The corners of his lips curved up slightly, and he didn't loosen his hold on her hand. "It's part of the process. You have to break before you can heal."