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“Hold on for me, huh, Mac?” Jack tells him, and he swallows his own burning emotions when he sees a tear track a clear path down Mac’s bloodied and dirtied cheek. Jack casually slips the hand on Mac’s head down, cradling his cheek. His thumb brushes away the tear, using the leverage to tilt Mac’s lax head towards and upwards to him. “Gotta stay with me, Mac, you ain’t leavin’ without me, man, you know this.”
Blood slowly seeping from the cracked corners of his mouth, Mac doesn’t reply, or if he does, it’s lost in the roar of helo blades and updraft winds.
for @appalachianapologies part two of our elements + injury + rescue series
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@sabbystarlight "jinxed" it for 10k... so I guess I went a bit overboard? 😁 Thank you, Sabby for being my sounding board and letting me scream at you about this fic. And the brainstorming.
So, a new promise to myself I try to go by: don't think of average number of words you are going to write, because you always end up writing more.
And that's not all. I still have some scenes to write.
For one, single weak willed moment, Mac wants to call out, to crawl to where Jack is no doubt sleeping soundly and with no want to be disturbed, especially with something like this.
Mac even opens his mouth, calling “Jack?” softly.
To his mortification and dismayed relief, his voice cracks half way through, scratchy and soft with his near tears. He presses his mouth shut tightly, hand clamped tightly over his lower face, short nails biting into his cheeks even as sparks ignite from his wrist, surging down his forearm, into his fingers. Mac chokes down the tears, his own needy selfishness that has him wanting to disturb his partner, and instead takes quick, uneven exhales through his nose, heedless of how it has his ribs aching beneath bruise tender skin, trying so desperately to hide his noises, to stop the tears he can feel burning across the bridge of his nose, falling off his face to wet his pillow.
@appalachianapologies you know!!!!!! A thousand apologies but I’m so enthralled with writing this fic!!!!
A knock on the door has Mac straightening, hands tightening around one another before he uses one to grab a piece of toilet paper to wipe his mouth, spitting one last time into the toilet before flushing it. By then however, the toilet door has been shouldered open and then closed, and like he always does, Jack has made himself at home at Mac's side, sequestering Mac between Jack's side and the wall, a position of safety and overwatch familiarity from Afghanistan. Even when they’d been in FOBC, in relative safety, Jack had always made sure to put himself between Mac and the rest of the room, and it had extended to their everyday, nominally civvie life; in every hotel they’d ever been in, Jack always made sure that the beds were never too near the windows or the door, and Jack always had to sleep in the bed closest to either.
“So,” Jack says into oppressive silence, legs stretched out before him as best he can in the small plane bathroom. His thigh knocks against Mac’s ankle, his own legs tucked against his chest, hands carefully, obsessively tucked away. “Rough day, huh?”
Shoulder to shoulder, Mac can feel the warmth of Jack’s body, the curve of his well built shoulder, the bunch of his biceps as Jack taps what sounds to be the chorus of Stormtroopers by Sabaton out into the well worn denim of his skinny jeans. Mac finds himself leaning into Jack's shoulder, heavier than he meant but finding he can’t bring himself to care.
“Think that’s a bit of an understatement right now, man.” Mac murmurs, and even with just Jack's sheer presence, finds himself unfurling, untwisting out of himself into someone Mac could almost be proud of. Jack has always made Mac feel like that, as if he could do something good with his hands, with his life. He sinks further against the sink cupboard, letting himself go somewhat boneless with the relief of knowing Jack is here.
A silent, almost aching, specter. You leave your bed, for all that it feels more like a coffin that you long to linger in, and you unlatch the window. He is not a vampire, nor any other creature of legend, but he requests permission regardless.
He enters, and the steps are silent as he approaches, dark eyes illuminated in a crescent moonlight. A splatter of blood, sticky and still warm, across his face. His mouth, the bridge of his nose.
He comes to you, killer, death, ghost.
He's as silent as he ever is, a ghost that you're not entirely quite sure why you are so attached to. He has wrought damage to you, to your friends, and to cross this line means to cross your friends - your family.
They would never forgive you, not for this. Not for him. Never for him.
You yourself don't understand it. This - this attraction you feel, to a man that has hunted you down for sport, has made you scream awake in the dead of night.
He wakes you still, in the crescent moon, beneath the smog filled skies that seem so different since you stand beneath them with him. He wakes you still but this is with softness, leather gloves upon the crown of your head, the softness of lips against your brow. He treats you as if you are precious, a treasure he hasn't quite figured out how to hold properly.
You swallow your hesitancy, the way you wish to tell him that you are human, that you've sat in his chair and he has wrenched a scream from you that should tell him you are human, as much as he is.
Instead, he laughs, he huddles close, and for all that he is the same size, broad shoulders, lithe legs, he is an all encompassing being, he makes you feel small, vulnerable.
You swing between liking it and feeling like a prey animal drowning slowly in your own blood.
He calls you his, his Angus, his Sun, his Compass - as if he is standing on an horizon and you are the only thing that has ever been able to direct him.
He hands you a knife, and you hand him your hands. He calls you his darling and your breath comes in fits and starts. His hands, his leather gloves are sticky, tacky with blood, and you know it leaves marks upon your face as he cradles your jaw. His breath is stale, coffee and peppermint gum. You smell only him, leather, gunpowder, cinnamon.
You had laughed the once. That such a great monster beneath the bed of the agencies had smelt like cinnamon. Now, even a mere whiff of it has you weak at the knees, longing. He has turned you inside out.
You are a hollow vessel for his being, you slip inside of him as if you are two sides of the coins. As if he is the moon and you are the sun.
He kisses you, and you're never quite sure if it's a benediction, or an injustice.
His lips taste like blood, and you tremble beneath the weight of it, the knowledge of what he has done. In the darkness, even with the blood, it is easy to not think. It is in the light of the morning, as he slips away, that makes it hard to think of why your mouth - your face, your hands, your bed - is scarlet with blood, dried, hands upon hands upon hands-
He comes to you in the night. He should not, but you let him anyway.
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