"and this one is for bravery / and this one is for me"
title: Awake
with: Mac/Flack
rated: FRAO
herein: “Officer Blue” post-ep, part two (part one: Sometimes)
note: You should know that my brain believes Jack Abernathy is canon. He belongs to stellaluna_ and first appears in Light from a Dead Star.
disclaim: Pffft-please, people, if I owned them there’d be so much cursing and screwing that CBS would’ve been dismantled by the FCC long ago, and then where would we be?
They don’t talk on the way back to Flack’s apartment. Mac tries not to fill the silence by thinking, but his brain never shuts down entirely. There at the edge of his mind-the alley behind Sullivan’s, Stella reaching out her hand, somber faces in blue dress, it shook the windows of my patrol car. He never wants to hear the alarm in Flack’s voice again, though he knows he will. The alley behind Sullivan’s. Warm friction against his lips-he balances on that sense memory without allowing himself to slip back further. On the other side of it all the past is startlingly close.
Something in Mac’s chest unknots, and he feels a little lightheaded as he follows Flack up the stairs. He attributes it both to the affects of the alcohol and to the sudden realization that he’s not about to walk into his own apartment.
Flack leads the way inside. “Well, here we are.” It’s small of course. Not exactly messy, but rumpled. Very lived in. Mac stares at the dark blue couch until he realizes he’s avoiding Flack, and when he does look up Flack’s eyes are on him. Clear eyes. But his face is more guarded than back in the alley. He’s waiting.
There’s a half-moon stain of a heel print just to the left of Mac’s feet. “I don’t do this very often,” he says, and it’s not a lie because he didn’t define often.
“Oh.” Flack shrugs. “Okay.” Flack seems to waver, and Mac wonders if it’s the alcohol playing tricks with Flack’s balance or his own eyes.
And Mac wonders if he’s supposed to say something else, but then Flack is kissing him. He reaches up to Flack’s neck, tilts his head up into the kiss, and it’s still strange but it’s familiar too, the way Flack’s tongue slides over his own. Underneath his thumb Flack’s jaw is shadowed with stubble, and it’s terribly familiar. The world tilts sharply-it’s just the alcohol-but he’ll always believe dry air smells like gunpowder-or maybe it’s the other way around. Sand can get in everything, in your mouth sometimes if you were to kiss someone properly.
Mac pulls away, opens his eyes, and it’s only a third floor walk-up in Queens and Flack watching him too closely.
Flack frowns but doesn’t ask, and Mac wants to kiss him again. It’s a real dark-eyed frown and not something he sees often on Flack. He drags his thumb along Flack’s lower lip, dimly aware that his own mouth is still open.
Flack’s tongue darts out, then he reaches up to move Mac’s hand from his mouth. “We’re both pretty hammered so maybe we should sit down.” He threads their fingers together and pulls Mac to the couch.
Mac sits next to him and spreads his other hand on the arm of the couch. “Good idea.” Afterthought is a strange word. He knows he should allow his body to take over at this point, but he’s out of practice. The arm of the couch is rounded beneath his one hand, and his other hand is hot. Mac almost laughs because he is suddenly, irrationally grateful that he’s never had sweaty palms.
“Earth to Mac.” Flack smirks, and if the man were less direct-and less drunk-it might pass for sly. “You here?” He leans toward Mac slowly but bypasses his mouth. Their cheeks brush, and the friction sends sparks down the back of Mac’s neck. Flack’s tongue traces his ear, then licks down to his neck. Teeth rasp against his pulse point, and Mac gasps. “Flack.” He clutches at the edge of the cushion.
“Like that huh?” Flack’s mouth curves against Mac’s neck, and he runs a hand up Mac’s chest, under his coat to his shoulder. “I think you can call me by my first name, given the circumstances.”
It echoes in Mac’s head-call you by your Christian name, like this-and he moves his hand from the cushion, moves it to Don’s knee. It’s better like this, Mac realizes. This way nobody rhymes.
He runs his palm up Don’s thigh and back down again, light scratch of wool under his hand. “Don,” he says, and digs his fingers into the back of Don’s neck to kiss him hard. Don moans now, pressing closer, yanking the hem of Mac’s shirt from his pants.
They kiss and tug at each other’s clothes by increments-coats, ties, button up shirts. They’re both wearing t-shirts under that, and Don shoves his tongue into Mac’s mouth again before breaking away to pull the shirt over his head and toe off his shoes. He starts to lift the edge of Mac’s shirt, but Mac moves forward, kissing him hard and running a hand up his bare chest. Lean muscle, warm and solid and more familiar than it should be given-given how long it’s been.
There’s an edge to it now, and Don kisses him back with teeth. Mac presses forward, pushes Don to his back, and Don pulls him down after. Mac settles on top of him, panting against his neck. Hard upper body below him, hard lower body, and Don’s hips jerk against his. They both groan, and Mac can no longer ignore how painfully hard he is from this, how much he must want this to happen, how he’d allowed Don to kiss him in the first place. The surprise isn’t so much what’s happening-he could have predicted that since Don looked at him in the alley-the surprise is in how good it feels.
Calloused hands drag beneath his shirt, and Mac keeps his eyes open as he kisses Don’s neck because otherwise he’s going to remember. He doesn’t want that. Whatever Don said back in the alley, this is not about remembering.
Mac’s shirt is hiked up, and Don’s trying to get him to back away long enough to pull it off. “C’mon,” he murmurs, licking Mac’s ear again, and Mac finally sits back on his knees to get rid of the shirt. Don tilts his head and his eyes flicker over the scarring, then he runs his hand up Mac’s torso, fingers flicking over a nipple before he pulls Mac down again. Chest to chest, and it sends heat washing through Mac.
“That’s better,” Don murmurs, running his hands down to the small of Mac’s back, then even lower. “Fuck, that’s better.” Mac hums an agreement against his jaw then into his mouth.
The kiss slows down, and Don pulls him even closer. That thick black hair is one detail that shakes Mac away from the familiarity of it all, so he tangles his hand in it, sighing around Don’s tongue.
Hands creep around to open his pants. His dick comes into contact with the tightness of Don’s stomach, and Mac can’t help but moan and thrust his hips. Don shoves his pants down and drags his blunt fingernails across his ass. Mac shudders and rocks down again.
“Wait.” Mac’s breath stutters, and he rests his forehead on Don’s chest, trying to find some control.
Even if Mac doesn’t remember (he doesn’t) it’s not difficult to figure out how this should go, so he fumbles with Don’s pants for a long moment. When he finds heated flesh Don groans and rubs himself into Mac’s palm. Mac shifts his weight back onto his knees again, and Don lifts his hips so Mac can pull his pants down to his thighs.
Their cocks line up and Mac curses softly. Don tilts his head, a smirk playing on his swollen lips, then he wraps his hand around them both, jerking them off slow and rough. Mac curses again, and Don echoes him almost word for word. The litany catches in his ears, and Mac reaches between them as well. Somehow, Don manages to smirk and gasp at the same time.
Mac presses his hips down, and Don is solid below him and so very alive. Biting his own lip, Mac runs his thumb below the head across the cap and back again, and Don arches and comes, head pressed back into the cushion, mouth open. His eyes flutter closed, and he groans. “Motherfuck.”
There’s something bare in it when Don looks up with his pupils blown wide like that, and Mac wants to shut his own eyes. It only lasts a moment because then Don kisses him, drags his teeth back down to Mac’s neck as he jerks him off, and Mac comes hard, shaking as stars skate through his vision.
Mac collapses a little to the left, towards the back of the couch, but he lies there plastered against Don far longer than he should. His pulse roars in his ears even after it slows, and beneath his hand he can feel the steady pulse at the hollow of Don’s throat. Mac is warm everywhere they touch, but a chill runs down his back. They must look absurd-two grown men tangled on a couch with their pants shoved down-and that seems worse than if they were completely naked.
He shifts awkwardly, trying to find a way to sit up without elbowing Don. Don blinks up at him, a little disoriented, and Mac coils into himself.
“Sorry, started to fall asleep there.” Don’s voice is rough and he clears his throat.
They separate with a smack that makes Mac cringe. Don grabs his t-shirt from the floor and wipes at Mac’s stomach though it doesn’t do much good at this point. His hand rests warmly on Mac’s chest, but his eyes meet Mac’s like nothing much has happened, like he’s forgotten he’s touching Mac at all. Don’s hair is ruffled and sticks out to one side in a way that makes Mac want to smile. Familiar starts to creep up on him again, and he pulls away.
Mac re-dresses, but Don just pulls his pants back up and watches with half-lidded eyes as Mac buttons his shirt. There’s nothing really to say. At least, Mac can think of nothing, and Don says nothing. Mac wants to kiss him all over again for that, but shoves his tie into his coat pocket instead.
Don rubs his face and opens his eyes a little wider. “Sex always knocks me out. You’re not going to fall asleep on the train or something right?”
“I’m fine.”
“S’right, Stella always says you don’t sleep.”
Mac smiles, and he’s caught off guard when Don stands and presses a quick kiss to this side of his mouth.
Outside, the air is cool and dry. Mac couldn’t stay any longer. Even if Don had asked him to he couldn’t. Truth be told he doesn’t want to return home either. He’s still a little drunk and he smells like-he doesn’t smell like himself, so he certainly can’t go to the lab like he usually does when he feels unsettled.
The night sky is sharp above him, and he shakes off the last of this restlessness and heads home.
…
thanks for reading; feedback much appreciated
with: Mac/Flack
rated: FRAO
herein: “Officer Blue” post-ep, part two (part one: Sometimes)
note: You should know that my brain believes Jack Abernathy is canon. He belongs to stellaluna_ and first appears in Light from a Dead Star.
disclaim: Pffft-please, people, if I owned them there’d be so much cursing and screwing that CBS would’ve been dismantled by the FCC long ago, and then where would we be?
They don’t talk on the way back to Flack’s apartment. Mac tries not to fill the silence by thinking, but his brain never shuts down entirely. There at the edge of his mind-the alley behind Sullivan’s, Stella reaching out her hand, somber faces in blue dress, it shook the windows of my patrol car. He never wants to hear the alarm in Flack’s voice again, though he knows he will. The alley behind Sullivan’s. Warm friction against his lips-he balances on that sense memory without allowing himself to slip back further. On the other side of it all the past is startlingly close.
Something in Mac’s chest unknots, and he feels a little lightheaded as he follows Flack up the stairs. He attributes it both to the affects of the alcohol and to the sudden realization that he’s not about to walk into his own apartment.
Flack leads the way inside. “Well, here we are.” It’s small of course. Not exactly messy, but rumpled. Very lived in. Mac stares at the dark blue couch until he realizes he’s avoiding Flack, and when he does look up Flack’s eyes are on him. Clear eyes. But his face is more guarded than back in the alley. He’s waiting.
There’s a half-moon stain of a heel print just to the left of Mac’s feet. “I don’t do this very often,” he says, and it’s not a lie because he didn’t define often.
“Oh.” Flack shrugs. “Okay.” Flack seems to waver, and Mac wonders if it’s the alcohol playing tricks with Flack’s balance or his own eyes.
And Mac wonders if he’s supposed to say something else, but then Flack is kissing him. He reaches up to Flack’s neck, tilts his head up into the kiss, and it’s still strange but it’s familiar too, the way Flack’s tongue slides over his own. Underneath his thumb Flack’s jaw is shadowed with stubble, and it’s terribly familiar. The world tilts sharply-it’s just the alcohol-but he’ll always believe dry air smells like gunpowder-or maybe it’s the other way around. Sand can get in everything, in your mouth sometimes if you were to kiss someone properly.
Mac pulls away, opens his eyes, and it’s only a third floor walk-up in Queens and Flack watching him too closely.
Flack frowns but doesn’t ask, and Mac wants to kiss him again. It’s a real dark-eyed frown and not something he sees often on Flack. He drags his thumb along Flack’s lower lip, dimly aware that his own mouth is still open.
Flack’s tongue darts out, then he reaches up to move Mac’s hand from his mouth. “We’re both pretty hammered so maybe we should sit down.” He threads their fingers together and pulls Mac to the couch.
Mac sits next to him and spreads his other hand on the arm of the couch. “Good idea.” Afterthought is a strange word. He knows he should allow his body to take over at this point, but he’s out of practice. The arm of the couch is rounded beneath his one hand, and his other hand is hot. Mac almost laughs because he is suddenly, irrationally grateful that he’s never had sweaty palms.
“Earth to Mac.” Flack smirks, and if the man were less direct-and less drunk-it might pass for sly. “You here?” He leans toward Mac slowly but bypasses his mouth. Their cheeks brush, and the friction sends sparks down the back of Mac’s neck. Flack’s tongue traces his ear, then licks down to his neck. Teeth rasp against his pulse point, and Mac gasps. “Flack.” He clutches at the edge of the cushion.
“Like that huh?” Flack’s mouth curves against Mac’s neck, and he runs a hand up Mac’s chest, under his coat to his shoulder. “I think you can call me by my first name, given the circumstances.”
It echoes in Mac’s head-call you by your Christian name, like this-and he moves his hand from the cushion, moves it to Don’s knee. It’s better like this, Mac realizes. This way nobody rhymes.
He runs his palm up Don’s thigh and back down again, light scratch of wool under his hand. “Don,” he says, and digs his fingers into the back of Don’s neck to kiss him hard. Don moans now, pressing closer, yanking the hem of Mac’s shirt from his pants.
They kiss and tug at each other’s clothes by increments-coats, ties, button up shirts. They’re both wearing t-shirts under that, and Don shoves his tongue into Mac’s mouth again before breaking away to pull the shirt over his head and toe off his shoes. He starts to lift the edge of Mac’s shirt, but Mac moves forward, kissing him hard and running a hand up his bare chest. Lean muscle, warm and solid and more familiar than it should be given-given how long it’s been.
There’s an edge to it now, and Don kisses him back with teeth. Mac presses forward, pushes Don to his back, and Don pulls him down after. Mac settles on top of him, panting against his neck. Hard upper body below him, hard lower body, and Don’s hips jerk against his. They both groan, and Mac can no longer ignore how painfully hard he is from this, how much he must want this to happen, how he’d allowed Don to kiss him in the first place. The surprise isn’t so much what’s happening-he could have predicted that since Don looked at him in the alley-the surprise is in how good it feels.
Calloused hands drag beneath his shirt, and Mac keeps his eyes open as he kisses Don’s neck because otherwise he’s going to remember. He doesn’t want that. Whatever Don said back in the alley, this is not about remembering.
Mac’s shirt is hiked up, and Don’s trying to get him to back away long enough to pull it off. “C’mon,” he murmurs, licking Mac’s ear again, and Mac finally sits back on his knees to get rid of the shirt. Don tilts his head and his eyes flicker over the scarring, then he runs his hand up Mac’s torso, fingers flicking over a nipple before he pulls Mac down again. Chest to chest, and it sends heat washing through Mac.
“That’s better,” Don murmurs, running his hands down to the small of Mac’s back, then even lower. “Fuck, that’s better.” Mac hums an agreement against his jaw then into his mouth.
The kiss slows down, and Don pulls him even closer. That thick black hair is one detail that shakes Mac away from the familiarity of it all, so he tangles his hand in it, sighing around Don’s tongue.
Hands creep around to open his pants. His dick comes into contact with the tightness of Don’s stomach, and Mac can’t help but moan and thrust his hips. Don shoves his pants down and drags his blunt fingernails across his ass. Mac shudders and rocks down again.
“Wait.” Mac’s breath stutters, and he rests his forehead on Don’s chest, trying to find some control.
Even if Mac doesn’t remember (he doesn’t) it’s not difficult to figure out how this should go, so he fumbles with Don’s pants for a long moment. When he finds heated flesh Don groans and rubs himself into Mac’s palm. Mac shifts his weight back onto his knees again, and Don lifts his hips so Mac can pull his pants down to his thighs.
Their cocks line up and Mac curses softly. Don tilts his head, a smirk playing on his swollen lips, then he wraps his hand around them both, jerking them off slow and rough. Mac curses again, and Don echoes him almost word for word. The litany catches in his ears, and Mac reaches between them as well. Somehow, Don manages to smirk and gasp at the same time.
Mac presses his hips down, and Don is solid below him and so very alive. Biting his own lip, Mac runs his thumb below the head across the cap and back again, and Don arches and comes, head pressed back into the cushion, mouth open. His eyes flutter closed, and he groans. “Motherfuck.”
There’s something bare in it when Don looks up with his pupils blown wide like that, and Mac wants to shut his own eyes. It only lasts a moment because then Don kisses him, drags his teeth back down to Mac’s neck as he jerks him off, and Mac comes hard, shaking as stars skate through his vision.
Mac collapses a little to the left, towards the back of the couch, but he lies there plastered against Don far longer than he should. His pulse roars in his ears even after it slows, and beneath his hand he can feel the steady pulse at the hollow of Don’s throat. Mac is warm everywhere they touch, but a chill runs down his back. They must look absurd-two grown men tangled on a couch with their pants shoved down-and that seems worse than if they were completely naked.
He shifts awkwardly, trying to find a way to sit up without elbowing Don. Don blinks up at him, a little disoriented, and Mac coils into himself.
“Sorry, started to fall asleep there.” Don’s voice is rough and he clears his throat.
They separate with a smack that makes Mac cringe. Don grabs his t-shirt from the floor and wipes at Mac’s stomach though it doesn’t do much good at this point. His hand rests warmly on Mac’s chest, but his eyes meet Mac’s like nothing much has happened, like he’s forgotten he’s touching Mac at all. Don’s hair is ruffled and sticks out to one side in a way that makes Mac want to smile. Familiar starts to creep up on him again, and he pulls away.
Mac re-dresses, but Don just pulls his pants back up and watches with half-lidded eyes as Mac buttons his shirt. There’s nothing really to say. At least, Mac can think of nothing, and Don says nothing. Mac wants to kiss him all over again for that, but shoves his tie into his coat pocket instead.
Don rubs his face and opens his eyes a little wider. “Sex always knocks me out. You’re not going to fall asleep on the train or something right?”
“I’m fine.”
“S’right, Stella always says you don’t sleep.”
Mac smiles, and he’s caught off guard when Don stands and presses a quick kiss to this side of his mouth.
Outside, the air is cool and dry. Mac couldn’t stay any longer. Even if Don had asked him to he couldn’t. Truth be told he doesn’t want to return home either. He’s still a little drunk and he smells like-he doesn’t smell like himself, so he certainly can’t go to the lab like he usually does when he feels unsettled.
The night sky is sharp above him, and he shakes off the last of this restlessness and heads home.
…
thanks for reading; feedback much appreciated