MacGyver/Hawaii Five-0 @macs-paperclips - Tumblr Blog

Looking Through A Window (20)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Happy New Year! Truly, I cannot imagine posting this chapter on any other day. There's a certain hopeful joy on New Year's Day, is there not? Fitting for this chapter, I think.

Please excuse the horrific number of metaphors in this chapter. In the first draft, there were more. So. Many. More.

I know it's hard to stay connected to a story that updates as infrequently as this one, so I dedicate this chapter to those of you who have been here since the beginning and are still here. Thank you for hanging on. I love you.

*****

Despite his exhaustion, sleep doesn’t find Mac easily. He tosses and turns, not bothering to conceal his restlessness from Riley since she’s tossing and turning too. The gray morning light peeking through the bedroom window isn’t helping either. When all else fails, Mac finally just throws an arm and a leg over Riley and pulls her close, wanting the comfort of her in his arms.

He nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in, fighting the urge to press his lips into her warm skin. It feels so good to have her with him, despite not quite having her the way he wants. But he could. Have her, that is. They just need to cross that final bridge, but he’ll be damned if they don’t cross it together. They’ve come too far for him to rush and blow it at the finish line.

Between the precarious mission and the even more precarious state of their relationship, it’s a lot to worry about, all at once. But even though his anxious brain is keeping him awake, his body craves rest.

Mac tries one of the grounding exercises a Phoenix therapist taught him. He starts by noticing his breath, slow and deep. On his next inhale, he shifts his awareness to his feet; on the exhale, he lets them get heavy and sink into the mattress. Mac repeats the exercise moving up his body—legs, hips, torso, shoulders, arms, head. Another breath and his whole body sinks even deeper into the mattress.

Giving up on the hope of sleep, he does his best to ignore the fact that Riley’s laptop is currently open at the foot of the bed, programmed to alert them as soon as someone makes the first 911 call about the bomb.

Even though he’s waiting for it, the notification comes entirely too soon.

Live satellite imagery shows first responders from all over the city converging on the capitol. Or rather, what’s left of it. Mac’s chain of bombs worked a little too well—leveling not only the building, but the landscaping and a chunk of the parking lot as well.

Mac’s stomach drops as his mind immediately jumps to the very real scenario of a bomb having not gone off with all the rest. He can only watch the screen in horror as he pleads with the universe that some unlucky firefighter doesn’t stumble across an intact device. He wants to scour the place himself.

There’s no way Matty would let him do that. There’s no way Riley would let him do that.

It doesn’t take long before the news coverage begins, and Mac streams the live video on his phone while Riley keeps them tapped into the first responders’ radio network. They’re desperately listening for one thing, and one thing only: whether there were any casualties.

An hour passes. No bodies, yet.

Matty calls, confirming no one was in the building. She had analysts monitoring the security cameras all night long to be sure. She also assures Mac and Riley that they were not caught on camera. No one in the intelligence community has a clue who did this.

After Matty hangs up, a long time passes before Mac feels like he can breathe again. No one died. I didn’t kill anyone, he thinks.

But the anxiety kicks in, like it always does, questioning, But what if you did?

It’s taken a lot of time and therapy over the years to learn how to shut down thoughts like that, but Mac still struggles. He needs something to do with his hands, to give him something else to think about. Even though he’s not hungry, he says, “I’m going to make breakfast.”

Riley looks just as lost as Mac feels as she nods. There are dark circles beneath her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. “I need to lay back down for a minute,” she says. Riley closes her computer and flops onto the pillows, eyes closing. “I’ll help you in a bit.”

Mac squeezes her shoulder before heading to the kitchen and making himself a cup of coffee.

Working with his hands has always quieted his mind. Since he was a kid, Mac would turn to building something—or taking something apart—when he had something to work through in his head. There was a calm, focused order to his actions, which translated to a calm, focused mind.

It was only well into adulthood that Mac realized his strategy applied to cooking. Granted, he doesn’t have the instincts to make a good chef, not like Bozer, and often the results leave much to be desired where taste is concerned, but there’s an organization to cooking and baking that Mac’s brain likes. His pancake batter comes together quickly, and Mac is grateful that the agents who set up the safe house thought to stock the kitchen with nice cooking tools.

They don’t, however, have a griddle, so he heats up a large skillet and ladles batter into neat circles.

Step by step, he works through his stress about the bombing, through his anxiety over what the Patriots might ask for next, through his terror last night when Riley didn’t respond over comms. Mac’s heart races as the memory replays in his mind, first as it happened, then in a warped worst-case scenario. He sees Riley getting dragged across the grounds by those cops and roughly thrown into the back of their car. The powerlessness he feels is hard to swallow.

Mac takes a deep breath. That didn’t happen. He found her. He was there to help her.

He wants to be there for her for the rest of his life.

More than half the pancakes have been cooked by the time Mac hears the soft sound of feet on carpet, and then a bleary-eyed Riley turns the corner into the kitchen, still wearing those damn pajamas that make his brain cease to function. He’d really like to run his fingers along the gap between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her shorts, just to hear what sound she’d make when his fingers graze her skin. Seemingly unaware of his staring, Riley makes a beeline for the coffee pot, and Mac has to stifle a laugh when she overfills her mug and has to bend over to slurp some before even lifting it from the counter. His own half-drank cup is over there too, forgotten, and she refills it and brings it to him by way of greeting. Mac thanks her.

“You fell back asleep, didn’t you?”

“Yeah until Harley kicked me right in the stomach. She’s having another one of her weird dreams.” Mac sympathy-winces into his coffee. This new cup tastes better than the one he made himself.

“Breakfast is almost ready.” He checks the pancakes—still too pale.

“How can I help?”

Unable to help himself, Mac smiles at her. “Can you please wash the strawberries?” Riley nods into her coffee.

Mac loves how easy this is—still in their pajamas, seamlessly cooking together. His anxiety doesn’t feel so overwhelming when she’s around. Just being near her makes him feel warm and safe and at peace. It’s everything he wants.

Wants with Riley, no one else.

Her back is to him while she rinses the berries, but Mac can’t help smiling at her. He’s so in love with her that it hurts; his heart squeezes as those three little words rise in his throat.

“I love you,” he says.

Riley turns to him, lips parted.

“I am undeniably, irreversibly, in love with you,” Mac repeats. It’s exhilarating to finally say it. He takes the two steps across the kitchen to stand before her, cradling her face in his hands. “I love us. I love the trust we’ve built and how I feel safest with you by my side. I love that you continually push me to be the best version of myself. I love your determination and patience and compassion. And I love the way you ruined the possibility of ever loving anyone else the way I love you.”

Eyes lined with silver, Riley tugs him closer until their bodies are pressed together. “I love you too, you know.”

His heart squeezes. Shatters and re-forms with her inside it. Years of friendship and partnership and loving her crashes over him, surrounding him, filling him. “I do,” he says hoarsely.

A tear escapes her eye, then another, and Mac gently kisses them away, tasting salt on his lips.

Riley sniffs. “Mac.”

“You,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against hers, “are so beautiful.” He traces a fingertip around the outline of her lips, marking exactly where he plans on kissing her next, then tilts her chin upward. Deep in his chest, he feels this tugging sensation toward her, the atoms in his body desperate to intertwine with the atoms in hers. She’s close enough that he feels her breath on his face. She’s so close. She’s so damn close, but even after everything he still needs her to be the one to finally close the gap between them. To step through that door.

“Mac, the pancakes.”

“Fuck the pancakes.”

“Mac, they’re burning.” She pushes his chest for emphasis.

Mac groans, but he gives in, flipping the slightly burnt pancakes as fast as humanly possible. Setting the spatula down, he puts both hands back on Riley’s face. “Now, can I kiss you?” Riley smiles, and it’s like the sun shining in the kitchen, just for him.

“Yes.”

The first kiss is soft but sure, just as Mac has never been more sure of anything in his life than telling Riley he loves her. Riley parts her lips, but Mac doesn’t speed up as he tastes her. He just continues to kiss her slowly, deeply, thoroughly. And Riley kisses him back, each press of her lips like a puzzle piece finally sliding into place.

“I love you,” he whispers into her mouth, just because he can.

The second kiss takes a different turn, heated and desperate. It feels like the culmination of all the years of waiting and wondering and hoping. The burn of the surety of her lips against his proves that it was all worth it.

They only pause to take the pancakes off the stove.

By the third kiss, Mac has found the confidence to move his hands freely along her body, tugging at her waist, stroking his thumb across her ribs. Meanwhile her fingers have found the spot at the base of his skull that makes him want to melt in a puddle on the floor. Nails scratching lightly, she grips his hair and tugs, and the resulting surge of want is so strong it takes every ounce of Mac’s willpower not to lay her out on the floor. Or over the counter. Or against the wall.

No. The first time will happen in a bed. Nowhere else.

Mac is so absorbed in Riley that he almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door. Chest heaving, he rests his forehead against hers as he tries to catch his breath. The knocking only grows more insistent.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Riley mutters.

Sneaking in one more kiss on the cheek, Mac offers, “I’ll get it.”

It’s Carrie Ann at the door. Because somehow she always finds a way to insert herself in the middle of their major relationship milestones.

But his annoyance at her interruption is curbed by the look of genuine worry on her face. Before he can ask what she’s doing here, she asks in that intrusive but well-meaning way of hers, “Is everything alright? Last night I heard Harley barking, so I came over to check on y’all, and your car was gone. I kept a lookout and you were gone all night and have been real worried ‘bout you.” She crosses her arms.

They’d heard Harley whining when they returned early this morning, but learning she’d done that all night makes an acidic sort of guilt burn a hole in Mac’s stomach. The look on Carrie Ann’s face makes it clear she wants an explanation, so he scrambles to come up with a decent lie.

“Thank you for checking on her,” Mac begins, glancing over his shoulder to where Harley dozes on the couch. “We spent last night in the ER. Gen had some nasty vertigo that wouldn’t go away, but she’s fine now.” He’s surprised at how easily the lie rolls off his tongue.

Relief washes over Carrie Ann’s face, although the neighborly concern remains. “I’m glad she’s alright. Why don’t I bring you two dinner tonight so you don’t have to cook? You look like you could use some rest.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist.”

Mac glances at the floor, embarrassed to be taking advantage of her generosity after lying to her face. But he looks her in the eye when he says, “Thank you. We would really appreciate that.”

“That’s what neighbors do. They take care of each other.” Carrie Ann smiles. “I’ll be back around six with your dinner, that work for you?”

Mac can only nod, a lump forming in his throat.

“Tell your wife to call me when she’s feeling better.”

The word wife hits Mac square in the chest. His lungs seize, halting as he tries to reconcile the roles they’re playing with the roles they’re choosing. They went into this as coworkers and friends and partners, pretending to be married. If they stay on their current path, they’ll be coming out of this still as partners, but of a different, deeper sort. Perhaps even on the road to getting married for real.

It’s too early to think that. But it’s not, because now he’s lived it and it’s everything he wants.

Wants with her. For real.

His eyes water as he returns to the kitchen, which Riley notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He wraps her in a tight hug, letting her anchor him amidst the current of thoughts and feelings flowing around them. “Just feeling a little emotional at the moment.” She laughs into his shoulder, sounding a little choked up herself.

After breakfast, Mac has every intention of kissing Riley for as long as she’ll let him. She tastes like coffee and maple syrup and peace, and his hands fit around her hips like they were carved from the same chunk of universe as he backs her against the cabinets.

His hands aren’t shy as they relearn her body in this new context. She feels warm and familiar, yet wholly new and different at the same time. He moves freely between parts of her he’s never touched and parts he’s touched a thousand times.

What he doesn’t do is rush. Not when this moment is years in the making. No matter how much he wants to, he resists the temptation to let his fingers tease the strip of exposed skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her shorts. Instead he keeps her clothes as a barrier—one that he’ll only cross with her express permission.

Riley pulls back, giving him that look that says she knows what he’s thinking. “You don’t have to be so careful, you know.”

“I do. Have to be careful, that is,” he clarifies. Kissing her is just as terrifying as it is exciting, and most of his fear is that he’ll do something to make her end this before it even begins. They’ve come too far, crossed too many lines—especially now that he knows how she tastes—to go back to being friends. And Mac doesn’t plan on losing her.

“I want this,” she reassures him, kissing him as if she’s trying to breathe confidence into his lungs. “And everything that comes with it.”

“Everything, huh?” Mac smirks.

Of its own accord, his thumb slips beneath the hem of her shirt, stroking soft skin. She gasps at the brush of contact—a sound that will ring in Mac’s eardrums until the day he dies.

Riley nods desperately, confidence reduced to speechlessness with one small gesture. Pride swells in Mac’s chest. He did that to her. He caused that reaction.

He wants to do it again.

Mac lowers his lips to her ear. “Tell me, exactly, what you want.”

She shivers.

“This?” He presses a kiss below her ear. “Or this?” He nips at the skin over her pulse. “Or maybe this?” He grazes his fingertips up her bare thigh.

The whine that escapes Riley’s throat is a straight shot to his ego.

“Do you even know all the ways I’ve imagined seducing you?”

Too much. He’s gone too far with that one, based on the way Riley stiffens. Mac backpedals, the beginning of a jumbled apology tumbling from his lips. But then Riley grabs his face with both hands and forces him to meet her gaze.

“I want you to show me what you’ve imagined.” She swallows. “And then I’ll show you mine.”

*****

Mac has never hated Conrad more than when the bastard blows up his phone while he’s got his mouth on Riley’s collarbone and his fingers undoing the drawstring of her shorts. He’s no murderer, but he might make an exception just this once.

There’s an emergency Patriots council meeting in an hour, and James and Genevieve are expected to be there.

Goddamnit.

They scramble to shower—one at a time, unfortunately—and drive over, pulling up to the Patriots’ warehouse with only a couple minutes to spare. They bring Harley with them, feeling guilty for leaving her home alone so much.

Predictably, they’re the last to arrive, and Conrad glowers at them as they take their seats. Harley sniffs the room before dutifully laying at Riley’s feet.

A perfect foil to Conrad’s foul mood, Ethan sits at the head of the conference table wearing a practiced neutral expression that even Matty would admire. Hands folded in his lap, he looks the picture of calm and at ease. If Mac were a fool, he’d think this was just a regular Wednesday council meeting.

But Mac’s no fool, and nearly a decade of black ops has taught him that that level of calm on a powerful person’s face should only elicit one emotion: fear.

Conrad snaps, “We have a rat problem.”

Mac stiffens. Almost immediately, Riley’s knee bumps his under the table, a silent reminder to control his reactions. He reaches down to scratch Harley’s head, forcing his lips into an irreverent smirk. A smug mask to hide the fear of getting caught too soon. “Need to borrow my dog, Conrad?” Mac goads.

Months from now, the glare Conrad levels at him will be laughable. No doubt spectacularly reenacted by Riley as they tell this story around Mac’s fire pit. Even now, a few snickers break out around the table until Ethan holds up a hand, silencing them.

“What he means to say,” Ethan begins, “is that there is a wrinkle in an otherwise perfectly executed demolition of the capitol.” The temperature in the room plummets. Mac wishes he could ask Riley if she feels it too, that it’s not just his imagination. Ethan continues, “There wasn’t a single injury or casualty this morning. You know why? The capitol was empty.”

A few murmurs break out, but the air in the room remains tense, frozen as they wait for the hammer to drop.

“It has come to my attention that capitol employees were given an impromptu day off. And since the only people who knew about this plan are in this room. . .” Ethan pauses, taking time to look each council member in the eye. “There is obviously a mole in our organization, and it’s one of you.”

Well. That’s inconvenient.

“We’re giving you twenty-four hours to come forward as the mole. If you come forward during that time, we’ll release you from service without repercussions.” A blatant lie if Mac ever heard one. “If you do not come forward, when we find you, there will be consequences for your actions.”

No doubt those consequences will be swift and bloody. A fate he’d like to avoid.

“James. A word.” Ethan rises from the table, and Mac and Riley exchange a brief look before following. No need to piss him off even more.

In his office, Ethan elects to stand, fingertips pressed into the lacquered wood of this desk. On instinct Mac positions his body slightly in front of Riley like he can shield her from the verbal lashing they’re about to receive. But she bumps him with her elbow—a move so subtle anyone else would think it an accident—and steps forward so she’s even with him. Equal partners, always.

It’s nice to have someone to share the burdens of this job.

“My first instinct is to blame the two of you for this mishap,” Ethan says, his too-casual tone making Mac internally cringe. “Care to share your thoughts on that?”

Without missing a beat, Mac replies, “It only makes sense. We’re new and thus the least trusted. You’ve looked into us, I’m sure, but we’re the outliers in this equation. New features to an already well-oiled machine. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust us either.” If Riley was in his ear rather than at his side, no doubt she’d be yelling, What the fuck are you saying? But she’s trapped in a position where she has no choice but to show a united front, and Mac continues his misdirection without interruption. “Because of this fragile trust, we did not take certain creative liberties we might’ve otherwise. Our planning was exactly to Conrad’s specifications, from the number of bombs to their placement to the time of detonation. So if you’re looking to point fingers, I wouldn’t aim at us.”

Mac didn’t lie. Every word of that speech is true. It’s just carefully crafted to avoid any mention of evacuating the building.

“That doesn’t change the fact that the governor is still alive. We’ll have to do this again.”

In the last few days, Mac had honestly forgotten the point of all this was murder, not just making a statement. Now the conversation they overheard between Ethan and Cody at the gala comes roaring back, drowning out whatever Ethan says next.

“Perhaps,” Riley says, coming to his rescue, “our next attempt should be done with more finesse.” It’s like she knew Mac was lost in his thoughts, knew she needed to shift Ethan’s attention off him and onto herself. All without looking at Mac. She knows him.

Ethan slowly repeats the word finesse, turning it over in his mouth as he considers Riley’s statement. “Mrs. Turner—”

“You can call me Genevieve.”

“Genevieve,” Ethan amends, wearing an expression Mac can’t quite place. “And what would this finesse look like?”

It’s a test, obviously. A challenge to contribute without undermining Ethan’s authority.

“With all due respect, a big bombing is messy. Too many variables to ensure such a precise desired outcome.” Her voice is cold and unfeeling in a way Mac hasn’t heard in a long time. Like she locked her humanity in a box so all that’s left is that wicked brain of hers, solving a puzzle like a machine would, without the influence of morality. “If you want to assassinate the governor, it needs to be simple and precise. His security will be heightened after this, but no person is invulnerable. Getting out of their car is a good time to catch a man off guard, then all you need is a sniper on a nearby roof.”

“Public or in private?”

“You can do it in his own front yard for all I care.”

Later tonight, that sentence will haunt Riley’s nightmares and put her on her knees in front of the toilet. Keep her on the bathroom floor as she processes what she said. She’ll let Mac tie back her hair, let him hold her while she cries, but they won’t talk. He knows her.

“And are you my sniper?”

Mac swallows. Riley replies, “No, I am not. But I can put you in contact with someone I trust.”

“Is he discreet?”

“She is.”

Something flickers in Ethan’s eye at the pronoun correction, but he doesn’t respond right away. He makes a show of thinking it over, although Mac doesn’t pay him much attention as he’s too busy trying to keep up with Riley’s scheming himself. Obviously the sniper is Desi; they’ll have to get her on board. And if she gets involved. . . perhaps they could fake the governor’s death, at least temporarily.

“I won’t tolerate being disappointed again,” Ethan warns.

It feels like damning himself as Mac promises, “We won’t.”

*****

Back at the apartment, the rest of the day passes as planned. They sleep on the couch until Carrie Ann drops off dinner, which is surprisingly good. And when the nightmare of her own words drags Riley from bed, Mac brings a pillow and blanket to the bathroom. He doesn’t get to press a litany of I love you-s into her skin the way he imagined doing this morning. Instead it’s just one, whispered into her hair amid gentle shushing noises as he rocks her to sleep.

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