Title: Serenity in the Palm of Your Hand
Fandom: CSI: NY
Pairing: Mac Taylor/Jon Turgis(OMC)
Content Warning: Mac's paired up with an original character. Oh, and manly smex.
Spoilers: Set after 3x11 - Raising Shane, but technically, there are only spoilers for the season two finale and the aforementioned episode.
Summary: "Mac felt no shame or embarrassment, although he was completely exposed, stripped of all his armor and pride." A Mac-centric story.
Disclaimer: Mac Taylor doesn't belong to me, but Jon Turgis sure does!
Author's Notes: This is a guilty pleasure fic for me. I've always wanted to write Mac, uhm ... losing it. -shifty eyes- Been on a Mac lovin' streak these days, and this Mac-centric story popped out of nowhere and hammered my brain into writing it.
Jon Turgis, a fellow Marine and former cop whom Mac had known for decades, was the only man in the world capable of terrifying him to the marrow of his bones.
"Whisky no good?"
Mac startled inwardly at his old friend's low question, staring at the man with a sharp gaze. Jon was slouched on the black leather couch in the middle of his living room, holding an empty glass in one of his large hands, staring back just as hard.
The CSI couldn't verbalize a reply. He maintained eye contact with the other man's unreadable silver eyes though he felt like looking away at anything else. The whisky contained in the glass he grasped wasn't bad at all, and the alcohol wasn't what made it difficult for him to speak.
He just never realized how good Jon truly appeared in a sleeveless jersey shirt and black jeans. For a man who was the same age as him, the seven-foot tall giant had a hulking physique that would usually belong to a fit, healthy man half as old. If Jon ever bothered to dye his cropped, pepper hair to its original dirty blonde color, he was sure to fool a lot of people about his age, regardless of the lines on his face. Mac was just as certain that nobody would believe Jon was an FBI agent, much less an assistant director with his own spacious, furnished office and secretary.
Moreover, the guy's muscular arms were as defined as they were during their Marine stint so many years ago. Seeing them without the man's coat covering them caused Mac to clench his free hand into a fist.
He still hadn't forgotten what it felt to have those arms around him.
"You know your tastes in alcohol have always been … infallible," Mac murmured. He raised his glass to his lips and downed the last mouthful of Jack Daniels. It left a burning wake down his throat.
"Hnn." Jon sprawled even more on the sofa, spreading his legs. "So what's with the long face then?"
Again, Mac was taken aback. "Long face?"
"Yeah, ya know, long face like a horse's. What, there's trouble in yer labs again or somethin'?" The angular planes of his friend's face creased in a smirk. "Need yer FBI friend to bail ya out again or what?"
Mac's own features crinkled in amusement. "For the record, I do not have a long face like a horse's."
Jon's silver eyes narrowed. He never once glanced away from Mac.
"You're doin' that avoidin' thing again. And usin' them big words too."
One of Mac's eyebrows shot up. "Infallible is a big word to you?"
Jon leaned forward to leave his glass on the coffee table in front of the couch, then rested his elbows on his knees. "C'mon, talk, Maclaren."
"Now look who's avoiding questions," Mac said, sending his friend a diminutive smile. He couldn't help it whenever his friend said his name in full. No one else in his life did that, not even his parents.
For the longest time, he assumed he was the one person around who objected to people calling him by his full first name as much as he did. Then, a young, brash detective by the name of Danny Messer came along. Mac had heard rumors Danny would literally blow a gasket if anyone dared to call him Daniel, and the one person who did that and got clean away with it was none other than a certain blue-eyed homicide detective. That was no longer any surprise to Mac, what with him knowing those two detectives were in a serious relationship now. He bet Daniel was the least of names Flack had for his protégé.
Part of Mac wondered if him enjoying Jon calling him by his full name was an indication of something significant. Another part of Mac was yelling at him to not contemplate on that at all cost, considering his recent quarrels with his current girlfriend, Peyton.
His hazel eyes shut at her name. His fingers involuntarily tightened around the glass in his hand. This was not a good time to think about her.
Mac drew in a deep, soft breath, and glanced out the window to survey the inspiring view of the New York city skyline at night. Damnit, Jon was deliberately dropping his voice. And the bastard knew how that affected him.
"C'mon, Maclaren, ya didn't call me out fer dinner tonight 'cause ya missed my ugly mug," Jon rumbled.
The CSI gazed at the other man from the corners of his eyes.
"Didn't realize it's a crime to have an old friend out for dinner these days," Mac said, a sarcastic curl to his thin lips.
Jon shook his head. There was a perceptive gleam in those silver eyes.
"Dinner's done." The FBI agent angled his head. "Question is … whatcha doin' here at my apartment?"
Mac turned to fully face his friend, standing with his arms at his sides, lips pursed into a line. There was a sudden flare of anger within him, and he tried his hardest to not let it show. However, he wasn't too sure if he succeeded in concealing the hurt he felt after hearing the other man's blunt query.
"If you didn't want me here, you should have said something."
Jon sank back onto the couch. His mien was expressionless, inscrutable.
"That ain't what I'm askin'."
The intensity in Jon's gaze was boring a hole right through his chest. It was abruptly challenging for Mac to just breathe. The temperature in the room must have spiked, because it was as if he was scorching from the inside out. It took everything he had to not reach up to the collar of his black t-shirt and tug at it, or shove his hand into the side pocket of his faded jeans.
Why the hell did he pick the tightest pair he owned, anyway?
Mac was already giving himself mental kicks while he mumbled, "I have to go."
Jon didn't say anything. Just stared at him, those heavy-lidded eyes seared transparent by the bright lights hanging from the ceiling of the living room.
For some reason beyond his comprehension, Mac waited for some response from his friend. His feet wouldn't move. His breaths were going in and out harsher than he liked. And, shit, his face was not warm.
A minute of taut silence passed with the slowness of a soldier's dying breath.
Jon's mouth stayed closed.
Without a word, Mac slammed his glass on top of the coffee table, then stormed up to the left side of the couch where Jon sat and where he had set down his jacket. He snatched it with a forceful swipe. Couldn't bear to look at Jon, to see the disappointment that had to be there. Couldn't rationalize to himself why it pained him to let down the man who knew him better than anyone else.
And what remained of his wits in his present situation wouldn't let him even think for a second why he would be disappointing Jon in the first place.
The answer, which emerged in the audible form of Jon's unexpected question, frightened him to the core.
"Peyton Driscoll, is it?"
Mac became rigid as stone.
His fingers dug deep into the folds of his dark brown jacket. He glared down at Jon with wide eyes.
The unexplainable anger inside the CSI boiled over without warning.
"Don't talk about her."
"Why not, Maclaren? Hnn?" For the first time since they were in Jon's apartment, there was a heated blaze in the FBI agent's eyes. "What's wrong with talkin' 'bout her? Don'tcha wanna know how I know 'bout her?"
"It's none of your busine-"
"Well, shit, it's not like we're in some kinda relationship or somethin', Maclaren. S'not like you're cheatin' on her or that she looks a hell lot like Claire -"
"SHUT UP, JON!"
One of the glasses that had been on the coffee table flew through the air to shatter against the wall beside the sofa with an acute, cracking noise. The splintered, transparent shards glittered like diamonds as they showered onto the floor. Jon didn't even flinch at the impact or when some of the smaller pieces fell on him, stinging his skin.
A stunned gasp broke out from between Mac's parted lips. He stared at his open right hand, bewildered over how he'd gone from grabbing his jacket off the couch to hurling the very glass he drank from at a wall.
And almost smashing apart Jon's head with it.
Mac faltered into a contrite silence. His mind was reeling, echoing a familiar name.
Six whole years. Six years of questioning himself day after day why his late wife had to die in the September 11th tragedy, without being given a chance to say goodbye. Six years of gritting teeth and steeling the walls around him whenever her name was mentioned. Six years, and it was evident the hole in his heart where Claire used to be was far from healing.
Jon was brushing the debris of Mac's fury off his jersey and jeans.
"Nobody's forcin' ya to stay, Maclaren."
Mac's head snapped up at that. The strange constriction he felt around something inside his chest was back again. He was a damn first grade detective and investigator, and yet, it was incredible how tricky it was to read his former partner's veiled words and body language.
He supposed that was why Jon was the only man in the world who could get under his skin over and over. And so much more.
At length, Mac decided to interpret Jon's statement as a hint to get the hell out of there, and slowly put on his jacket, looking anywhere except at the other man. Once that was done, he attempted to button it up with trembling hands. It seemed to be an impossible task just to get one button through.
After an eon, he heard the leather couch squeak as Jon stood up. He gave up on buttoning his jacket and merely stood there, ramrod straight, staring ahead into space with haunted eyes. His view of the lit panorama of the city was then replaced by a broad chest. Jon was at least a whole head taller than he was, compelling Mac to tilt his head back to look Jon in the eye.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The whispered question escaped Mac's mouth before he could stop it.
Whatever anger that might have been in Jon's eyes had vanished. All that was left was something akin to regret and empathy.
"I'm not doin' anythin'. It just is. Like it's always been."
Mac twisted his head away in a reflex action when Jon tried to cup the side of his face with one big hand. The motion didn't seem to offend the other man in the slightest. Instead, the growing warmth in those silver eyes became even more apparent.
"I'm sorry. I was outta line just now, Maclaren. You didn't deserve any a' that."
Calloused, experienced fingers touched his face again. This time, Mac permitted Jon to stroke his face and turn his head so they faced one another.
"But I know what you're like. I know who ya are. Ya just clam up like an oyster unless all yer buttons are pushed. Don'tcha know that's bad for yer health?"
Mac sighed, a forlorn smile on his lips.
"I should have known you'd find out about her sooner or later, Jon."
The taller man displayed an almost melancholic grimace. "Geez, ya sound like I'm 'bout to beat ya or somethin'."
"I didn't mean it that way. I meant … you're a man of many resources. It would have been only a matter of time before you learnt about her."
Jon was staring at his face, eyes utterly unguarded and laying open the windows to his soul. The candor of the scrutiny made Mac tingle all over in a way he hadn't for a very, very long time.
"Lemme guess. Yer co-workers don't have a fuckin' clue 'bout you and Driscoll."
Mac shook his head from side to side. "No."
"Not even the Greek goddess?"
The CSI chuckled at Jon's nickname for Stella. Mac knew his friend had a huge crush on his CSI colleague. "No. Not even her."
"Huh. Keepin' it under wraps, eh?"
"It's -" Mac bit his lower lip, at a loss for words for a minute. "It's complicated."
Jon rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. That's just Taylor talk for 'I don't wanna talk 'bout it 'cause it involves feelings.'"
Mac's handsome visage split in a wide, amused smirk. The uneasy knot within his chest was disentangling itself. Jon's steady equanimity calmed him down fast, like it always did. It was such an irony that the man who managed to make him lose control in seconds was also the same person who never failed to cool him off as quick.
Or turn him on like a switch and keep him in that mode with a mere glance.
"See? You're not even denyin' it," Jon teased, flicking his thumb across Mac's chin in an affectionate manner.
"I mean it, Jon. It's …" - Mac sucked in a shuddering breath - "Complicated." He sensed Jon running long, strong fingers through his dark curls, and he slanted his head to the side, eyelids flickering at the physical affection. There was no other man in his life whom he tolerated to touch him this way. Danny might have been another, but he belonged to another man now. And even if Mac had ended up in a relationship with the younger CSI, it would have been vastly different.
It was tough for anyone to outdo the thirty plus years of camaraderie, kinship and shared experiences he had with Jon.
Even Claire couldn't, alive or not.
"Complicated … I'll bet it is."
The FBI agent's voice had sunk even deeper, sending shivers up and down Mac's spine.
There were very specific moments when Jon's voice became that resonant.
And as far as Mac knew, all of those moments had involved him lying on his back, screaming his lungs out while his sweaty body writhed on damp sheets.
Mac had to squeeze his eyes shut at the surge of lust-filled memories in his mind. Memories of fine, light brown sand and humid, sweltering days, of gun smoke and deafening explosions. Visions of large, beautiful eyes gazing out from behind black burqas, and svelte dancers in silk twirling in the candlelights. And, more than anything else, the intimate sensations of large hands all over his torso and between his legs, fierce silver eyes gazing down at him while he begged for release, for Jon to push inside him, take him, anything -
Jon's hands were soothing weights on his tremulous shoulders. Mac had to peel his hazel eyes open with some effort, such was the force of his vivid recollections that continued to inundate his thoughts.
He had to do something before he snapped.
"How did you find out about Peyton?" Mac rasped. His throat felt parched, and the soft laugh that followed his words was croaky. "Did you install spy cameras in my apartment? Or maybe bugs? They've always been your specialty."
Jon was studying his face once more. It oddly assured Mac that Jon was the one doing the guessing for a change. Meant his mask wasn't broken. Yet.
"I'm not like that. Thought you'd know me better than that."
Mac stiffened. Jon's hands were squeezing more and more around his shoulders. There was no way in hell he could make a run for it now, whether or not he decided to do it.
"Even if I wanted to, there wouldn't have been any point to it. After all, the best action has always been between us … hasn't it, Maclaren?"
Jon's dangerous, sensual smile renewed the shivers that rushed up and down Mac's spine.
No, wait, Jon was pulling his jacket off his shoulders -
"I know you. I know the real you. I'm the only one who knows ya inside and out, the good, the bad and the ugly."
The massive man inhaled deeply, as if he was breathing in Mac's scent, a grin spread across his sharp, granite visage.
"Ohh, do I remember the good."
Mac's brown jacket plummeted to the floor.
A tiny noise, something close to a whimper, seeped out from between his lips, though they were pressed together. His jeans were getting too constricted around his groin for his liking.
"And I remember, I remember the real reason why ya called me Nuclear Jon."
The insignificant distance between them was closing. Mac could feel the heat emanating from the other man's colossal figure, like a stoked, fiery furnace that strengthened life in the bleak of winter.
Jon's lips were mere inches away from his.
"Do ya remember the real reason why I called ya the Screamin' Mac Attack, hmm?"
The taller man's warm hands cupped his lower jaw, lifting his face up higher. Mac smelt the whisky tang in Jon's breath so close, as well as a whiff of cigarettes and another scent that he could only define as … Jon.
"I remember, Maclaren."
Firm lips brushed against his, and Mac's eyelids began to flutter shut, his own hands stretching upwards to enclose Jon's extensive, unyielding shoulders.
"And I know, so do you."
The CSI responded by dragging Jon's face the last couple of centimeters towards his, crushing their lips together in a ruthless, fervent kiss that stole their breaths.
Upon contact, the last remnants of control Mac harbored fractured into a million pieces.
Mac instantly opened his mouth wide, giving Jon's slick tongue entrance to play with his own tongue. He felt Jon's strong hands travelling down his arched back, dipping under his rumpled t-shirt and the waistband of his jeans, clenching around his buttocks when Jon realized he wasn't wearing any underwear. Entwined his fingers into Jon's short but thick hair, holding his friend's head close to his, like he always did, every time they did this.
He wasn't sure who was making all those moans and groans, too busy clinging onto the other man's shoulders as Jon easily haul him off his feet and treaded with heavy steps to the bedroom. The FBI agent's gargantuan size was a very advantageous asset for occasions such as this. Jon wasn't much of a moaner, which could only mean -
Mac landed on his back on the silky surface of Jon's king-sized bed with a faint grunt. He panted softly, pushing himself up onto his elbows, watching Jon undress with wide eyes. The man's sleeveless jersey was the first to go. Mac didn't know whether to grin like an idiot or feel totally envious about Jon's hairless torso being as toned and muscular as his arms were. The various scars that were scattered across Jon's upper back and abdomen didn't diminish his desire for his friend one bit. He'd be a hypocrite if he did, seeing as he had his own share of unsightly scars.
"You just gonna lie there and look at me all night, or do I hafta strip ya myself?"
Jon's black jeans and boxers were puddled on the floor.
Mac's gaze fell to the unmistakable, flushed erection between Jon's strapping, lengthy legs. He swallowed visibly. Inside the confines of his jeans, his hard cock jerked once.
Jon grinned and swiveled around to proudly show off what good genes had bestowed him. The giant man's erection was enormous and long in proportions, like the rest of his body. It curved up to his flat belly, nearly touching the skin there. It was smooth with merely one or two visible veins, with a nicely shaped head that made Mac's tongue flit out.
The fantasy in Mac's mind was nothing compared to the reality that was right in front of his face.
"So." Jon placed his fists on hips, standing with his legs slightly apart beside the bed. "Do I get the Taylor seal of approval?"
Mac got to a sitting position, and without a word, slid onto the floor on his knees in front of the other man. He knew the move surprised Jon, based on the man's silver eyes widening that much. Staring into Jon's eyes, he unzipped his jeans, pushing them down to mid-thigh, unable to curb his moan when his erect cock was finally freed.
Whatever Jon was going to say ended in a choked gurgle. Mac wanted to smile, but his lips were way too stretched around the girth of Jon's erection. He immediately began bobbing his head back and forth, wrapping his hand around the rest of the red, firm appendage that he couldn't take into his mouth and throat. Jon was huge.
"Oh, fuck, holy shit -" Jon's baritone voice was gruff with shock. "You're … hot damn."
In the majority of their sexual romps, Jon was typically the one who initiated things and was the aggressor, so to speak. Extreme anxiety of being exposed kept Mac from ever making the first move, so it was a damn good thing Jon had no qualms about jumping Mac a lot at the beginning of their friendship and onwards. Jon had eventually discovered Mac was ten times more of a sex freak than he was, once they got past the foreplay anyway.
Now, decades later, in a classy, high-maintanence apartment in one of the greatest cities in the world, Mac thought it was about fucking time he turned the tables on the man he secretly deemed his soul mate.
He inhaled through his nose, then swallowed all of Jon's length, going till the tip of his nose brushed the coarse pubic hair at the root. He had to admit he was astounded himself that he wasn't suffocating or panicking from his throat being obstructed as it was. In all their years of sexual intimacy, Mac had never succeeded in wholly deepthroating Jon's erection. Until now.
It took Mac a dazed while to realize Jon was very quiet. He started to hum low in his throat, knowing the other man loved that. He heard a muffled groan. Then he felt Jon's fingers curling in the locks of his hair.
The CSI let out a gravelly cough when he was pulled off Jon's stiff cock all of a sudden. His throat convulsed. Another guttural cough escaped his gaping mouth. Tears sprung to his hazel eyes, and he wiped at his wet lips with the back of one hand. He sat down hard on his feet and bent legs, rather disoriented by the hasty disconnection. His own erection drooped just a little, hidden beneath his t-shirt.
He was being lifted to his feet, off his feet, sailing through the air to land on the bed again. He was flung with such power, he bounced once on the springy mattress and ended up sprawled with his arms spread out, his legs still imprisoned in his jeans. For an instant, staring at the ceiling, he believed he was going through some déjà vu experience, and he was going to get up onto his elbows to see Jon removing his clothes for the second time -
Mac grunted in alarm at how rough Jon was stripping his jeans off. He swore he could feel a burn on his thighs and shins where the fabric rubbed viciously. Jon had probably chucked his shoes and socks away somewhere in the vicinity of the room, and, in a stupor, he watched his jeans soaring through the air to settle in a heap on Jon's dressing table.
Mac's entire body went rigid upon hearing the severe tone of the other man's demand. Shit, Jon sounded pissed off.
Before he could protest, Jon manhandled him upright and proceeded to wrench Mac's t-shirt off in a fashion that bordered on ferocious. Mac's loud grunt was subdued due to his shirt being yanked over his head and off his raised arms. Fuck, what the hell was Jon doing -
The moment his shirt was removed, Mac pushed back his shoulders, straightening his back, hands in fists, his countenance set in an incensed scowl.
"Jon! Goddamnit -"
For the third time that night, Mac was thrown back onto the bed, naked and furious. This time, however, a fellow Marine who was just as mad as he was leapt onto him, pinning his wrists on both sides of his head with effortlessness. It merely aggravated Mac more, and he struggled with all his strength to break free of Jon's gigantic hands holding him down.
The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged. His white teeth bared in a fierce grimace. He released a roar, and against all the odds, he freed one of his arms, only to have it restrained again moments later. His legs were useless, trapped beneath Jon's.
Mac's panting increased. As much as he tried not to acknowledge it, he was heading straight into a rare, full-blown panic attack. He'd never seen Jon so enraged before, and Jon was immobilizing him like he was nothing but a rag doll, and oh God, he recalled all over again why Jon Turgis was the only man in the universe who terrified the living daylights out of him -
The snarled query somehow got through to Mac. Gradually, his thrashing dwindled. Lying on his back and out of breath, he stared upwards with apprehensive eyes at Jon's face, noticing the same rage that had been in his friend's silver ones earlier that night when they were in the living area.
When Jon had brought up Peyton.
"Who else, Maclaren," Jon growled.
The hands around Mac's wrists tautened.
Mac blinked. No, he was wrong. It wasn't anger he was seeing in the other man's eyes at all.
It was jealousy.
Much wiser, Mac relaxed his body to the point he was limp, sucking in a quick breath to clear his mind. Jon was jealous. It definitely explained the hostility during their very brief discussion of his girlfriend. But, this. What did he do to make Jon feel so -
He got it.
"Jon. There's no one else."
The pressure around his wrists lessened somewhat.
"No one else." Mac sent his friend a meaningful glance. "Only you."
Jon's heavy-lidded eyes were tapered in a mixture of doubt and hopefulness.
"But, you've never been able to - how -"
Mac stayed lax and unresisting, gazing up at Jon with fond eyes. Sometimes the big lug could be so damn oblivious. And sometimes …
The CSI chewed on his lower lip.
Sometimes, it wasn't fair for Jon to be the one baring his heart all the time.
After a few minutes of staring at one another, Mac puckered his lips and looked at Jon from under half-lidded eyes.
"What can I say, Jon?" Mac deliberately raised his hips and rubbed his lower body against the other man's. He released a shaky exhalation. "I missed you."
The animalistic heat in Jon's silver eyes would have scared him if he didn't know the guy as well as he did.
He felt Jon's hot erection twitch next to his on his abdomen.
The rest of the FBI agent was so motionless, Mac was beginning to ponder whether he'd said the wrong thing.
He was happily proven incorrect within the next minute or so.
"You stay there."
The CSI kept quiet and unmoving, obeying the other man's command without objection. It felt good to have someone else take charge, even if it was simply for a short time.
Jon ran his large hands down Mac's upper body, pressing his hands down just hard enough to cause Mac to moan at the resolute caress. The hefty man's fingers lingered on the bumpy scar on his chest, over his heart.
"Fuckin' hell. Three seconds."
Jon suddenly seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere far away where the smell of cordite permeated everything. Those long fingers traced the uneven vestige of his near death encounter in Beirut over two decades ago.
"Three seconds, and boom, you woulda been six feet under the ground instead," Jon murmured.
Mac covered his friend's calloused hands with his own. He called Jon's name to get the man to look him in the eye.
"Jon ... I'm here."
Those two words seemed to rock Jon to his essence.
One minute, Jon was bent over him, staring down at him with his lips parted like he got kicked in the teeth, breaths heavy and slow. The next, Jon was gone out of sight, opening up some drawer and rummaging inside in a frenzy for what they needed.
Then he heard something small and light drop on the bed near his hip. Felt Jon's hands on his inner thighs, spreading his legs up and wide apart.
A ripping sound, as the wrapper around a condom was taken off.
A pop of a cap, a squirting noise of lubricant being squeezed out of a bottle.
Mac swallowed visibly, maintaining his stare on the ceiling above him. There was something wrong with his body. It wouldn't stop shaking, especially his hands and legs. Every breath sounded like a gale, and the blood rushing through his ears sounded like formidable torrents of water. The hammering of his heart seemed to rival the noise of a rattling machine gun.
Jon returned into view, a looming, comforting form on top of him, between his legs. His enormous friend had such expressive eyes when all those walls were down.
"Yes," Mac rasped in reply to the other man's unuttered plea. "Yes."
Two great hands clasped the back of his knees, shifting his legs up even more, then those hands were around his hips, dragging their bodies closer. Mac instinctively rested the back of his shins on top of Jon's hunched shoulders. One of his arms moved on its own accord, desperately searching for something, anything to cling to before he lost all logical brain function. His hand caught on a plush pillow, and he towed it towards him, intent on sinking his teeth into it.
Whatever hope he had for staying quiet before Jon flew out the window with Jon smacking the pillow away from his face.
"Ohh, no, this ain't Lebanon or Saudi Arabia, Maclaren."
Mac felt the unusual and yet familiar pressure between his legs, carefully pushing into his bowed body.
"Here, you're gonna really live up to yer nickname and scream to yer heart's content."
Mac opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a hoarse cry that reverberated in the bedroom. He flung his head back, face flushed a dark red, his eyes screwed shut and the tendons on his neck standing out. His feet arched, and his hands grappled at Jon's brawny arms with each of Jon's thrusts deeper and deeper into his body.
Oh, fuckfuck, he'd forgotten how gigantic Jon felt inside him. The burn was nearly unbearable. Like he was ripping apart, and at the same instant, becoming truly whole once more for the first time in many, many years.
It felt so fucking good.
"Oh, oh .. Jon -"
His whisper transformed into another throaty shout as Jon drove in all the way to the hilt with his final thrust. A tremor shook his perspiring body from head to toe, and Jon slid a hand behind his neck, supporting his head, stroking his cheek in hushed concern.
It took Mac some time to loosen up, letting his arms fall to his sides, easing the inner muscles constricting around Jon's erection. He swore he could feel the other man all the way up to his mouth. After the third time Jon murmured his name, Mac finally opened his hazel eyes to slits, gazing up at his friend through blurry vision.
"Did I …" Jon's sentence died away.
Mac's eyes had brimmed over, and a single tear rolled down his warm cheek. It was wiped away by Jon's thumb.
He reached up one hand to touch Jon's downturned lips.
"Keep going." Mac blinked a few times, then sent his friend a wavering smile. "Please. Need …"
Jon stared at him for a while, silent and seemingly introspective. After a tense minute, the man must have seen whatever it was he was seeking in Mac's glistening eyes, for he drew up, tenderly maneuvering their bodies farther up the bed to a more stable position. The gentle motions already triggered bolts of pleasure within Mac, prompting him to bite his lower lip to rein in his groans.
A hand wrapped around his leaking, hard cock, fondling it with the skill of an experienced lover.
"Hnnh .. aaahhh!"
Mac twisted his fingers into the softness of the pillow he'd seized earlier on.
Jon completely withdrew, then drove back in to the root in one go.
Mac's eyes snapped wide open.
"AaaaAAAAHHH! Oh, fuck, FUCK!"
Jon was laughing, his face crinkled in mirth and a whole lot of exhilaration. The only signs that he was similarly affected by all the stimulation was the ruddiness of his face and neck, and the sweat drops on his high forehead.
"There ya are … there's my Screamin' Mac Attack."
Jon began ramming in and out of Mac's body without reserve, gazing down at him with wide, silver eyes, breaths huffing in and out as powerfully as his thrusts. Mac was so overwhelmed by the mighty sensations quaking his body, he could no longer articulate words, only raw moans and whimpers that accelerated Jon's movements.
When Jon leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss, Mac's eyelids flickered and suddenly, he was no longer in New York city. He was no longer Mac Taylor the crime scene investigator, but Mac Taylor, the young Marine who was in a hotel room with his closest friend, his legs high in the air, fingers tugging at Jon's dirty blonde hair, screaming into the man's ear and dying from the surfeit of pleasure.
Jon's hair was so thick and golden, and it felt so good to intertwine his fingers in those curls, just as it was so good to feel Jon filling him up and moving so hard and deep and fast, and he was going to explode -
Jon was grinning, like he always did, grinning with the brilliance of the Arabian sun.
"S'just you and me … you and me, and we can take on the whole motherfuckin' world, yeah."
Something wet was trailing down Mac's face. He wasn't certain if it was because their physical activity was making the bandaged, mending wound on his chest hurt again, or because he wanted so badly to tell Jon the truth of his heart, but was too damn chickenshit to do it.
"Nobody's gonna ever tear us apart, Maclaren, ya hear me?"
His lean, sweaty body was stiffening with the impending orgasm that was teetering on the horizon, and he could merely croak, "Yes."
The prostate gland deep inside him was rubbed again, and more mind-blowing pleasure coursed through him. Mac arched his back, mouth gaping in a silent scream. Oh, shit, just one more -
"Nobody's gonna ever tear us apart, nobody, nothin'."
Jon's hair was pepper grey once more.
Mac kept his moist eyes open, looking deep into Jon's silver eyes while they kissed, while Jon persisted in striking that sweet spot in his body with unerring accuracy. His friend's hair had aged along with the rest of the man, but those eyes … those eyes would never change.
Just like they would never change.
It wasn't Jon's big hand around his dripping erection that brought about his staggering orgasm, nor was it his friend's thrusting cock or the fierceness and rugged magnificence of that face. It was the soft whisper in his ear, a whisper that conveyed to his heart the precise three words he never had the courage to say to Jon, even now.
Mac wept into the crook between Jon's neck and burly shoulder long after the orgasmic shudders had deserted his limp, exhausted body. It was the quiet kind of weeping, the kind where he made no sound at all, save for the intermittent sob that quavered his shoulders and chest. The kind that banished the darkness inside, and it didn't matter that was temporary. He felt no shame or embarrassment, although he was completely exposed, stripped of all his armor and pride.
It was okay. It was Jon who was with him.
Jon was someone he could trust. Jon was safe. Jon filled the gaps in his splintered soul.
And now, he also knew without an ounce of doubt that Jon was a man who loved him too.
"Ya really needed that, didn't ya?" Jon murmured into his damp hair.
Mac lay on top of his friend, his wet face buried in the warmth of Jon's neck, soothed by the constant rhythm of the taller man's heartbeat. Jon's well-built arms enveloped him, grounding him to the present, keeping the howling wolves of his past at bay. One hand was around the back of his neck, massaging the muscles there. It helped to replace the dark, painful memories with much brighter ones of bliss-filled encounters in unmarked bedrooms and on sturdy army cots, after which Jon had done the exact motion.
There was nothing else he could reply except a muffled, "Yes."
Jon hummed low in his throat, chest rising on a deep inhalation.
The CSI sniffled once, shifting his face to the side to breathe easier. Jon's other hand was now on his lower back, caressing that part of him with slow, firm strokes. He wriggled a bit to settle himself in a more comfortable position. His inner thigh brushed against Jon's cock. The condom was gone.
It dawned on him that he didn't have a clue whether Jon came or not, and Mac shot up onto his elbows, leaning over the FBI agent with a grimace on his face.
"Jon, did you -"
Jon was guffawing even before Mac finished his question.
"Geez, Maclaren, that doesn't matter," Jon said with a tiny smile as he playfully bumped his knuckles on Mac's chin. "What matters to me is what you've been bottlin' up inside yerself all this time."
Mac actually considered playing the ignorance card and deny anything was amiss, but it was foolish and wrong to lie to his old friend. His crying jag just now would have blown his fib sky high out of the water anyhow.
"What, been havin' a bad day at work?" Jon asked.
Mac lay back down on the other man, moaning softly when Jon resumed kneading the back of his neck. "Been having a bad year at work."
Jon sniggered. It turned his hulking torso into a living vibrator, which suited Mac just fine.
"Tell me 'bout it."
"Well …" Mac paused, then said, "I nearly lost a fellow detective to a bombing. You know about that, don't you?"
Jon made a concurring sound. "Yeah. We had a field day grillin' Lessing after ya apprehended him, and I had a field day grillin' the agents who let him get as far as he did. Schizophrenic bastard with a Marine obsession who friggin' loves explosives? And they gave him the green light?"
"They got you to interrogate the other Feds who were involved in the bombing investigation and Lessing?"
"What can I tell ya." Jon shrugged. "Seems I'm a fuckin' scary sonofabitch who makes both C4-humpin' psychopaths and trained FBI agents shit their pants."
That set off Mac into an amused snicker. Jon was a scary sonofabitch, a brave and crazy fighter who had stared death in the face and made it say uncle countless times. Mac rubbed at the scar on his chest. Jon's undefeatable valor was precisely why he was still alive.
"C'mon, there's gotta be more than that," Jon prodded.
Mac sighed. "It reminded me of Beirut."
"The 1983 barracks bombing?"
"Yes." Mac shut his hazel eyes, listening to Jon's beating heart in an attempt to shove away the unbidden memory of blood splashing him, or the wheezing breaths of the dying soldier beneath his helpless hands, or how the life left the man's eyes, those eyes that stared at him ages after they were closed..
"You're thinkin' 'bout that kid." When Mac didn't respond, Jon added, "It wasn't yer fault he died, Maclaren. He was done for the instant he got hit, and you know that. He knew that."
Mac remained silent.
"Ya can't save everyone," Jon said, stroking the back of his head.
"I know," Mac eventually said. "It's just … I thought he was going to die. Detective Flack, I mean. It was even worse than what happened to that soldier in Beirut. I could see his guts. He was lying there, pale like a ghost, and he looked dead and … I had to tie up a bleeding artery with a shoe lace."
"It saved his life."
Mac blinked. "Yes, I guess it did."
An easy silence reigned over them for about ten minutes, Mac deep in thought in wake of the simple albeit noteworthy revelation and Jon stroking his back from shoulder to buttocks, drawing circles here and there with his fingers.
Jon broke the hush with, "What else?"
Mac's eyes fluttered open in refreshed alertness. Since they were talking, really talking, it was probably prudent to bring up another touchy subject now than later.
The CSI anticipated some sort of negative reaction from his friend. He got none. In fact, Jon was as unperturbed as ever, back to playing with the muscles of the back of his neck.
"You were right about her."
Now that got a reaction out of Jon.
"Maclaren, I didn't mean what I said earlier tonight. I was … I wasn't thinkin'."
Underneath him, Jon squirmed. The imperceptible movement made Mac shift onto his elbows so he could gaze the other man in the eye. For a serious matter like this, he had to know what Jon felt about it.
"Listen to me. You were right. She is a lot like Claire. I suppose that's why I became attracted to her in the first place." Mac let out another sigh. "And it's also the reason why the relationship is on the rocks at the moment."
Jon was deceptively straight-faced.
"I didn't want anyone at the labs to know about the relationship, and …" Mac ran his hands down his face. "We fought over it. And I called her Claire by accident."
Jon hissed in sympathy.
Mac bowed his head, nuzzling his face against Jon's, concealing it from his friend's shrewd gaze. "I want to move on. I want to, but … it always feels like every woman who comes my way is just … a replacement."
The larger man's next exhalation was audible.
"Thing is, I'm not one to believe in the concept a' replacin' someone with somebody else," Jon murmured into his ear. "Specially if we're talkin' 'bout love."
Mac raised his head, looking down at his friend.
"Believe me, Maclaren, I've tried."
There was a great and undeniable emotion in Jon's eyes as he said those words, and Mac's heart was way ahead of his brain in recognizing it.
All of a sudden, Mac's throat felt clogged up. A hot wetness manifested behind his eyes.
He must have been so blind all these years to not see what he always had.
And Jon was really just a human being like everybody else, in spite of everything.
Mac outlined the other man's angular features with trembling fingers.
"No one could ever replace you, Jon."
It was very quiet in the room, except for their breaths and the indistinct noises of the city outside. Mac would never really know if it was his mind fooling him or if Jon's eyes were gleaming as much as his probably were. He had on no account ever witnessed Jon shedding any tears, not even when he got shot multiple times in the belly.
"Damn straight." Jon's pearly teeth glimmered even in the semi-darkness of the bedroom. "You know ya can't get 'nough a' me, Taylor. My giant cock in yer tight ass -"
Mac laughed out loud, thumping Jon hard on his broad chest. "Fuck you, Turgis, the world does not revolve around your dick!"
Jon's thick eyebrows were high on his forehead in a skeptical expression. "Well, sure, whatever ya say, you keep on livin' in denial there, I'll be just fine -"
Mac laughed again, and tilted his head downwards to plant a kiss on Jon's firm lips. Before he knew it, they were rolling around on the bed sheets, sucking each other's faces off and groping one another like it was the end of the world. And maybe the end of the world had already happened for Mac, because it sure felt like he'd regained a slice of his lost paradise.
They ended up in the center of the bed, Jon flattening Mac into the mattress, and Mac doing his damnest to buck Jon off him, grinning widely as he did so. After a while, Mac became motionless under Jon, licking at dry lips.
"Fucker," Mac declared with the utmost affection.
Jon was smiling too. "There's my Screamin' Mac Attack, there you are."
"I never left, Jon," Mac whispered. "It's just not easy for me to … let go."
"No shit, Einstein!"
The nude CSI snickered at the comical vehemence of Jon's statement. Okay, understatement of the century, he got that.
Jon embraced him and rolled them over, putting Mac back on top. They exchanged a few more kisses, and then Jon murmured, "Stay."
Mac didn't reply. He merely wriggled off the colossal man to pull the blanket out from under their bodies and over them. Jon opened his arms to let Mac lie on his chest and shoulder, rearranging the warm blanket around Mac's shoulders once he did so. Mac's eyes slowly fluttered shut.
And in his peaceful slumber, Mac dreamed of a grinning giant with dirty blonde hair, attired in camouflage, laughing a laugh that was his and his alone.
"Look, I said that I want the report by two this afternoon, and when I say I want it by two this afternoon, I want it by two this afternoon!"
Mac couldn't help smirking as he sipped his mug of coffee. He sat at the kitchen table, a quiet observer to Jon stomping around the place with a mobile phone stuck to his ear and his free hand trying to knot his tie around his neck. It was somewhat bizarre and also funny to see his friend complaining about late reports while dressed in a spotless, white dress shirt and grey trousers that belied Jon's dynamic Marine and NYPD history.
"Two o'clock, Brady!" Jon disconnected the call with a press of a button on his black, sleek cel phone.
"Everything alright?" Mac inquired nonchalantly.
"Ah, the usual crap," Jon said, standing next to Mac at the round table. "Rookies makin' a mess, rookies gotta write a report, rookies procrastinatin' and makin' a mess of the report …"
The CSI snickered. Heh, he knew where Jon was coming from. Danny's first six months of working for him had ensured that. Of course, had he known Danny's mistakes mostly resulted from the younger detective being so nervous around him, he might have been more lenient. Well, just a bit.
Mac gulped down the last of his coffee, placed the mug on the table surface, then got to his feet, face to face with Jon. He gently moved the other man's hands away and fixed the dark red tie around Jon's neck with swift efficiency.
"And that's how you tie a tie," Mac said with a smug countenance.
"Don't expect any thanks from me with that haughty behavior."
Mac's smirk changed into a warmhearted, amused smile. Other people would think he was insane, but to him, Jon appeared positively handsome under the vivid, morning sunlight that streamed through the tall, rectangular windows.
He was well prepared for the kiss, angling his head for the FBI agent and lowering his eyelids until his eyes were slits. He wanted to remember the moment and every sensation he felt for many years to come. He needed all the good memories he could get to battle those of bloodshed and greed and death that he already owned, and those that were yet to come.
"I have to go," Mac rasped into Jon's parted lips. He had said the same words last night, except this morning, he wished with all he had that circumstances followed what they both yearned.
Jon's expression said everything for him.
The two men sauntered to the front door of the apartment, side by side. Mac tugged at the sleeves of his jacket and buttoned it up while Jon unlocked the door and opened it.
"Thanks for dinner."
Mac glanced at Jon, lips curving up in a diminutive smile at the twinkle in his friend's silver eyes. "You're welcome. You know this means the next one is yours, right?"
Jon's gaze was meaningful. "Next one, huh?"
Mac became still, realizing the implication of his words. His smile faltered, though the warmth in his hazel eyes did not.
"And it's gonna be Chinese again?"
Mac chuckled. "If you like."
"I like," Jon rumbled, waggling his eyebrows.
The warmth spreading over his visage encouraged the detective to dip his head and glance sideways through the partially open door.
Jon opened the door wide.
"Until next time, then."
Their arms were brushing against each other.
Mac looked up one last time at the unforgettable features of his old friend, tongue flitting out. He could still taste the other man on his lips.
"Until next time," Mac said in parting.
He felt Jon's steady gaze on him all the way down the corridor to the apartment building's elevator, but he didn't look over his shoulder. He hadn't said goodbye either, which wasn't out of the ordinary between him and his former partner.
They never said goodbye.
It wasn't necessary when Mac knew in his heart they would always see each other again.
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