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kathierif_ficTitle: Scars
Author: Kathie
Rating: FRM
Warnings: Threesome, SPOILERS for Charge of this Post, H/C
Pairing: Mac/Don/Danny
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Mac, Don and Danny deal with the repercussions of the bombing in “Charge of this Post”. A bit of a post-ep.
Authors Notes: Dedicated to Ginny. For the wonderful feedback. Thank you. And for the rest of the CPWA, as well.
***
"Don?"
Danny took a careful step closer, but Don didn't move away from the window.
"Don?" Danny whispered again and put a hand on Don's back. The muscles there were tense and knotted, and Danny started to rub them softly.
"Are you okay?"
Don nodded and rested his forehead against the cool plane of the window. "'m fine," he muttered. "Just tired."
Danny nodded and continued the soft massage. "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested.
The muscles under his hands slowly loosened, and Danny couldn't stop the grin from forming.
"Come on, let's go and sit down," he said and wrapped an arm around Don's waist.
He immediately realized that it had been a mistake. Don was fine, the doctors had reassured them, but he would have scars for the rest of his life, and the area where they had pulled pieces of the bomb from his body was still tender.
Don stiffened in his arms, and Danny quickly released him from his embrace and took a step back. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, and when Don didn't reply, he quickly whirled around. "I'm calling Mac. We're going to the ER..."
"Danny."
The softly-spoken word stopped him mid-thought and mid-movement.
"I'm fine. Just tired," Don repeated and wrapped his arms around his chest. "I think I'm going to bed."
Danny nodded numbly. "Do you need anything?" he finally asked helplessly.
Don rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, really. I didn't lose my legs or anything."
"No, but..." Danny bit his lip. "I'm sorry," he finally offered.
"What for?" Don shrugged. "It's okay, Danny." He smiled at Danny, but it was only the shadow of his usual smile.
"I love you," Danny impulsively said. He didn't use those words often, and usually when he did, Don kissed him and accused him of being sentimental, but this time, he didn't even react.
"Don?"
Don blinked. "I'm going to bed. Are you waiting for Mac?" he asked.
Danny shrugged. "You go ahead. You need your rest. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Don looked down at his socked feet. "Night, Danny," he muttered and disappeared in the bedroom.
When Danny checked up on him ten minutes later, Don seemed to be asleep, wrapped tightly in the blankets.
Deciding that waiting for Mac was probably fruitless, considering the sheer mountain of paperwork that had grown on the man’s desk while Mac himself had been at the hospital, at Don’s bedside, he undressed in the dark bedroom and crawled into the bed.
He curled up next to Don, who was breathing deeply. “Don?” he whispered, but Don didn’t answer. Danny’s hand sneaked out without his conscious decision, expecting to touch warm skin over hard muscle. He frowned when his fingertips touched the expected heat, but it was covered with fabric.
Slowly his hand crept along the curve of Don’s spine, ghosting feather light touches over the shirt, over the curved edge of a shoulder blade and down his arm, and again up and over Don’s neck. He rubbed a strand of the soft hair between thumb and forefinger for a moment, before releasing it and spider walking his hand back down, along the sharp edge of Don’s vertebrae, until he found the waistband of his sweatpants.
He frowned slightly. Usually Don wore only his boxers to bed, like Danny himself – a compromise they had agreed on early in their relationship. Mac was the only one who was, occasionally, wearing pajamas, but Danny was working on that, slowly but surely.
“I love you, Don,” he whispered again, in the safety of the dark bedroom, before he let the sound of Don’s breathing lull him into sleep.
He woke briefly when the bed dipped under the additional weight of a third person, but a brush of lips over his and a muttered “it’s me” made him realize that it was, indeed, Mac who had found his way home.
He allowed Mac to unwrap his boneless and sleep warm body from the blankets and rearrange him, half across Mac’s broad chest, his fingers playing softly with the soft material of Mac’s t-shirt while he drifted between sleep and consciousness. Mac’s arm came up around him, naked skin, finally, and Danny hummed appreciatively.
He knew that, as soon as he would sink back into sleep, he would roll off Mac, but the sure and steady heartbeat under his ear soothed him, and Mac’s body heat, surrounding him from all sides, gave him a long-lost feeling of safety and home.
And with these half-thoughts, he finally drifted off to sleep, quickly followed by Mac.
In the darkness none of them saw the tight grip of white-knuckled fists on the sheet, or the unfocused look of blue eyes in the dark, turned away from them.
~*~*~
Mac woke up from a kick to his shin. Without checking he knew that it was around 3 am, and without moving a single muscle, he knew that it had been Don who had kicked him. Danny’s head was still pillowed on his chest, his fingers twisted half in, half under his t-shirt, and the only sound that filled the room was the occasional rustling of blankets and the soft breathing of three grown men.
Danny shifted slightly, and Mac’s arm automatically tightened around him.
“Don?” Danny whispered softly and stretched his arm to touch Don and soothe his sleep.
Don stiffened. “I’m fine, go back to sleep,” he whispered roughly. Mac frowned slightly. The slight hitch in his young lover’s voice told him that Don was far from fine.
“You sure?” Danny asked softly.
“Yeah. Go back to sleep before Mac wakes up.”
Mac stretched his own hand towards Don and settled it on the curve of his waist. “I’m awake.”
There was a brief silence, then Don sighed. “Go back to sleep,” he repeated, and if his voice sounded slightly choked, it was because he was tired and because Mac imagined things. “You have to be up in four hours.”
Danny leaned up on an elbow. “But now that we’re all up…” he began and let his hand wander suggestively over Mac’s chest, pinching a nipple and scratching his blunt nails over the fabric of his t-shirt.
“Not tonight,” Don said. “You go ahead.”
Danny frowned slightly. “What do you mean, not tonight?” he asked and turned to switch on the light.
“It means, not tonight,” was the answer.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Danny’s frown deepened when Don didn’t turn around to look at them. “Are you feeling okay? Are you okay? Do you need something?”
Don sat up, still with his back to them, and wrapped his arms around his stomach protectively. “I’m fine, how often do I need to tell you? I’m just…not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood?” Danny repeated incredulously. “Don, you haven’t been in the mood ever since you came home!”
Don didn’t answer. It annoyed Danny even more. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a single word, Mac had put his arm on his shoulder and had squeezed gently, and he shut his mouth with an audible sound.
“Don?” Mac asked softly. “Are you in pain?”
He had seen the slight wince Don had tried to hide when sitting up, and the protective way he had curled his arms around himself.
“A bit,” Don said after a moment. “Just…sore. Sorry, Mac.” He stood up. “You two go ahead and have some fun. I’ll…” he waved in the general direction of the kitchen and left the bedroom.
Danny was silent for a moment, and then he asked:
“What the hell was that?”
Mac didn’t answer. He had no answer. He only had theories, and like every good CSI, he tried not to jump to conclusions. Instead he followed the evidence.
In this case, the evidence led him to the living room.
Danny didn’t protest when Mac kissed him apologetically and got up to follow their wayward lover. He already felt bad for the way he had pushed Don, when basically he was just happy that he was home, that he was okay.
That he was alive.
The apartment was dark and filled with shadows, but Mac didn’t need light to find his way.
His eyes slowly adjusted from the light in the bedroom to the abrupt darkness in the living room and he needed a few moments before he saw Don curled up on the couch.
“Hey,” he whispered, for no apparent reason, and sat down next to him. “What’s wrong?”
His hand reached out and settled on Don’s leg, stroking softly, while he waited for an answer.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Don said stubbornly before taking a deep breath. “Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean that I want to have sex every night.”
“I know,” Mac said.
“I just don’t feel like sex,” Don added after a while.
“Okay.”
“And Danny just doesn’t get it!”
“Hm.”
His hand wandered slowly upwards, over the bony kneecap, and along the outer side of Don’s thigh. He felt how Don relaxed into his touch, until he reached his hip and stroked even higher.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he offered after a long while.
“At this point, I’m not sure,” Don admitted and shifted away from him to sit up.
“Maybe you don’t want to hear it at this point,” Mac admitted, “But I think it’s important. Especially at this point.”
Don sighed. “You’ve been talking to Hawkes,” he guessed, “about some deeply philosophical questions.”
Mac chuckled. “Maybe I have,” he admitted. “And maybe I’ve talked to a few others, as well.”
His hand sneaked back towards Don and rested warm and heavy against the edge of his shoulder. “I think you’re afraid.”
Don whipped around to face him, despite the darkness. Mac couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine what the younger man looked like at the moment: mouth in a thin, straight and angry line, his expressive blue eyes narrowed, his whole body tensing and ready to attack.
“I’m not afraid,” Don gritted out, and Mac added the tightly clenched fists and the clenched teeth to his mental image.
“I think you are,” he said calmly, soothingly, “And I think I can prove it.”
“Yeah?” The clipped tones indicated just how irritated Don felt, and Mac was sure that it wasn’t just because of the accusation of fear. Briefly he wondered – what if he was wrong? – but he didn’t allow himself to stop and consider the what ifs, no matter how much of an effort it was for him. Claire used to tease him about his inability to shut up his brain, and Danny was a lot like her in that regard, whenever he wasn’t caught up in his own problems.
Mac swallowed. If his theory was wrong, if his interpretation of the evidence was wrong, there was the big possibility that he might lose Don. And he wasn’t sure that he could handle that. He could admit that his greatest fear was to lose one of them, or both.
“Yes. Right here,” he said and took a deep breath. The next words would determinate if there was a future to this relationship, or if he just fucked everything up.
“Okay, prove it!” Don said. “That I want to see.”
Mac had his doubts about that, but he wouldn’t back down now. He couldn’t.
“You want me to prove it? Take off your shirt.”
He held his breath when Don stilled completely. The seconds went by, and the only sound was the soft ticking of the clock Mac had inherited from his grandfather, long years ago, when he had been so young and the world had seemed like a bright and happy place.
Before Claire – before they had met.
Mac took a careful breath to bring his fluttering nerves back under control. His heart pounded against his ribs as if it wanted to blast through them, an explosion like the one that had hurt Don so badly, and he half-feared that it would really happen and he had to relive the horror of that day, and the roar of his own blood became louder and threatened to overwhelm everything else.
“Mac…”
The simple act of listening to Don’s hesitating way of saying his name almost broke Mac’s heart, and he just wanted to pull him in his arms and protect him from the world, and at the same time, Mac realized that he couldn’t do that, not even if Don would allow it. He knew that Don wouldn’t allow it, not at this point, but the knowledge didn’t stop the desperate feeling of yearning.
“You’re afraid,” he repeated. “I think you’re right. Danny doesn’t understand this, and I pray that he never will.”
Don didn’t answer, and it almost made Mac stop talking. But he had started this, and he was determined to see this through.
“I prayed that you never would,” he added softly.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling,” Don said, “You don’t know…” he trailed off, and Mac realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that he was right.
It was the same feeling that made him go on, case after gruesome case – the heady feeling of having solved a puzzle, of having all pieces fall into place, and finally seeing the whole complicated picture.
“You think I don’t know what you’re going through?” he asked, allowing the affection and love that threatened to overwhelm him and burst his chest to color his voice. “Don…”
His hand clumsily groped for Don’s and squeezed it gently.
It hurt – the debris that had fallen on his wrist in the explosion had fractured it, and he had ignored it until the dark bruises had faded and the broken bone had begun healing itself. It still hurt sometimes, and he welcomed the pain and embraced it like a good old friend. It reminded him that he was still alive, that he could feel.
“Why not?” he simply asked.
“I can’t.”
Don’s voice was nothing but a rough whisper. “Mac, don’t make me…I just can’t do it. It’s…”
Again he trailed off, and Mac imagined him look down and bite his lip nervously, the way Don always did when he was dealing with something that breached his stoic NYPD homicide detective attitude.
“It’s what?” he prompted when Don didn’t finish the sentence.
“…ugly.”
He almost didn’t hear the whispered confession, but when he did, he almost felt giddy with relief.
He had not been wrong; he had not misread the evidence.
Of course he knew that Don probably had other issues to work through, and he was painfully familiar with the concept of post-traumatic stress disorder and survivor’s guilt, but he also was aware that he couldn’t turn back the time and save Don from all that. But what little he could contribute to ease the pain, he was willing to do.
“I want you to see something,” he murmured and tugged on Don’s hand, pulling it up to his lips to kiss the knuckles softly. “I want you to learn something.”
He couldn’t stop the flash of apprehensiveness, and not the self-conscious tightening of his muscles when he pulled his own t-shirt up and settled Don’s fingertips against the scar on his chest.
“I got this one in Beirut,” he said, trying to keep the tone of his voice easy and soothing. “And this one…” He guided Don’s hand over his chest and stomach, and the glide of rough fingertips over his flesh made him shiver and Goosebumps break out all over his body, “…when a suspect in a case stabbed me. This one…” again the fingers moved, “…is from a bullet.”
Of course Don already knew every scar on his body, including the one on the back of his thigh, where another bullet had barely missed his ass – “that would’ve been a pain,” he remembered Danny saying when he saw it first, and he also remembered the wicked grin on Danny’s face when he leaned down and kissed the rough patch of skin softly, and the way Mac had sucked in the air through his clenched teeth, the muscles in his body tensing at the sensation. But it had never occurred to him to ask about any of those scars. It had been an unspoken agreement – Mac rarely spoke about his past, and they tried not to bring it up, because they realized how painful it had to be for Mac. The memories of Claire’s death still haunted him occasionally.
He swallowed. “Mac…”
“Take off your shirt,” Mac requested softly.
Don still hesitated, but he didn’t flinch away when Mac reached slowly for him and grabbed the hem of his long-sleeved shirt. Mac remembered the feeling of baring himself like this to a loved person, letting them see everything – he had done it, more than once, for Claire, and he had been amazed and relieved every time she hadn’t turned away from him, from his broken and mutilated body, but had, instead, welcomed her in her warm and loving embrace.
He pulled the shirt up, over Don’s head, and dropped it to the floor. It was still dark, and he couldn’t see the scars, but he remembered all too well the wounds, and how he’d taken pictures right after the surgery.
“I love you,” he whispered and settled his hands against Don’s chest, feeling the wild and nervous heartbeat under his fingertips, body heat seeping into his palms and back into Don’s body. “Scars or no scars. I still love you. You’re still my Don.”
His hands wandered lower, his touch gentle and feather light, almost too light to feel, but he stayed away from the scarred area.
Don’s hand was back on his body, pulling at his t-shirt, desperate to feel warm skin, and Mac leaned closer and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” he whispered again. “And so does Danny.”
Don took a deep breath and grabbed Mac’s hand with his own. He placed Mac’s fingertips on his own scar, just like Mac had done only moments ago.
Mac kissed him again, a deep kiss, filled with the sweetness of love and the saltiness of unshed tears, and when he pulled back again, Don followed his move and pressed their foreheads together.
Danny was sitting up, a forensic journal in his lap, when they finally came back into the bedroom. When he saw Don, a blinding smile crossed his face, and he quickly tossed the journal down and scrambled off the bed. He wrapped his arms around Don and hugged him fiercely.
“I love you, idiot,” he whispered. “Don’t ever scare me again like that!”
Before Don could answer, Danny reached up and pulled his head down into a deep kiss. Mac watched the kiss, and how the rest of tension slowly left Don’s body, and he smiled softly.
They were not healed, not yet, but they had made a step in the right direction this night.
The End.
Author: Kathie
Rating: FRM
Warnings: Threesome, SPOILERS for Charge of this Post, H/C
Pairing: Mac/Don/Danny
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Mac, Don and Danny deal with the repercussions of the bombing in “Charge of this Post”. A bit of a post-ep.
Authors Notes: Dedicated to Ginny. For the wonderful feedback. Thank you. And for the rest of the CPWA, as well.
***
"Don?"
Danny took a careful step closer, but Don didn't move away from the window.
"Don?" Danny whispered again and put a hand on Don's back. The muscles there were tense and knotted, and Danny started to rub them softly.
"Are you okay?"
Don nodded and rested his forehead against the cool plane of the window. "'m fine," he muttered. "Just tired."
Danny nodded and continued the soft massage. "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested.
The muscles under his hands slowly loosened, and Danny couldn't stop the grin from forming.
"Come on, let's go and sit down," he said and wrapped an arm around Don's waist.
He immediately realized that it had been a mistake. Don was fine, the doctors had reassured them, but he would have scars for the rest of his life, and the area where they had pulled pieces of the bomb from his body was still tender.
Don stiffened in his arms, and Danny quickly released him from his embrace and took a step back. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, and when Don didn't reply, he quickly whirled around. "I'm calling Mac. We're going to the ER..."
"Danny."
The softly-spoken word stopped him mid-thought and mid-movement.
"I'm fine. Just tired," Don repeated and wrapped his arms around his chest. "I think I'm going to bed."
Danny nodded numbly. "Do you need anything?" he finally asked helplessly.
Don rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, really. I didn't lose my legs or anything."
"No, but..." Danny bit his lip. "I'm sorry," he finally offered.
"What for?" Don shrugged. "It's okay, Danny." He smiled at Danny, but it was only the shadow of his usual smile.
"I love you," Danny impulsively said. He didn't use those words often, and usually when he did, Don kissed him and accused him of being sentimental, but this time, he didn't even react.
"Don?"
Don blinked. "I'm going to bed. Are you waiting for Mac?" he asked.
Danny shrugged. "You go ahead. You need your rest. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Don looked down at his socked feet. "Night, Danny," he muttered and disappeared in the bedroom.
When Danny checked up on him ten minutes later, Don seemed to be asleep, wrapped tightly in the blankets.
Deciding that waiting for Mac was probably fruitless, considering the sheer mountain of paperwork that had grown on the man’s desk while Mac himself had been at the hospital, at Don’s bedside, he undressed in the dark bedroom and crawled into the bed.
He curled up next to Don, who was breathing deeply. “Don?” he whispered, but Don didn’t answer. Danny’s hand sneaked out without his conscious decision, expecting to touch warm skin over hard muscle. He frowned when his fingertips touched the expected heat, but it was covered with fabric.
Slowly his hand crept along the curve of Don’s spine, ghosting feather light touches over the shirt, over the curved edge of a shoulder blade and down his arm, and again up and over Don’s neck. He rubbed a strand of the soft hair between thumb and forefinger for a moment, before releasing it and spider walking his hand back down, along the sharp edge of Don’s vertebrae, until he found the waistband of his sweatpants.
He frowned slightly. Usually Don wore only his boxers to bed, like Danny himself – a compromise they had agreed on early in their relationship. Mac was the only one who was, occasionally, wearing pajamas, but Danny was working on that, slowly but surely.
“I love you, Don,” he whispered again, in the safety of the dark bedroom, before he let the sound of Don’s breathing lull him into sleep.
He woke briefly when the bed dipped under the additional weight of a third person, but a brush of lips over his and a muttered “it’s me” made him realize that it was, indeed, Mac who had found his way home.
He allowed Mac to unwrap his boneless and sleep warm body from the blankets and rearrange him, half across Mac’s broad chest, his fingers playing softly with the soft material of Mac’s t-shirt while he drifted between sleep and consciousness. Mac’s arm came up around him, naked skin, finally, and Danny hummed appreciatively.
He knew that, as soon as he would sink back into sleep, he would roll off Mac, but the sure and steady heartbeat under his ear soothed him, and Mac’s body heat, surrounding him from all sides, gave him a long-lost feeling of safety and home.
And with these half-thoughts, he finally drifted off to sleep, quickly followed by Mac.
In the darkness none of them saw the tight grip of white-knuckled fists on the sheet, or the unfocused look of blue eyes in the dark, turned away from them.
~*~*~
Mac woke up from a kick to his shin. Without checking he knew that it was around 3 am, and without moving a single muscle, he knew that it had been Don who had kicked him. Danny’s head was still pillowed on his chest, his fingers twisted half in, half under his t-shirt, and the only sound that filled the room was the occasional rustling of blankets and the soft breathing of three grown men.
Danny shifted slightly, and Mac’s arm automatically tightened around him.
“Don?” Danny whispered softly and stretched his arm to touch Don and soothe his sleep.
Don stiffened. “I’m fine, go back to sleep,” he whispered roughly. Mac frowned slightly. The slight hitch in his young lover’s voice told him that Don was far from fine.
“You sure?” Danny asked softly.
“Yeah. Go back to sleep before Mac wakes up.”
Mac stretched his own hand towards Don and settled it on the curve of his waist. “I’m awake.”
There was a brief silence, then Don sighed. “Go back to sleep,” he repeated, and if his voice sounded slightly choked, it was because he was tired and because Mac imagined things. “You have to be up in four hours.”
Danny leaned up on an elbow. “But now that we’re all up…” he began and let his hand wander suggestively over Mac’s chest, pinching a nipple and scratching his blunt nails over the fabric of his t-shirt.
“Not tonight,” Don said. “You go ahead.”
Danny frowned slightly. “What do you mean, not tonight?” he asked and turned to switch on the light.
“It means, not tonight,” was the answer.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Danny’s frown deepened when Don didn’t turn around to look at them. “Are you feeling okay? Are you okay? Do you need something?”
Don sat up, still with his back to them, and wrapped his arms around his stomach protectively. “I’m fine, how often do I need to tell you? I’m just…not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood?” Danny repeated incredulously. “Don, you haven’t been in the mood ever since you came home!”
Don didn’t answer. It annoyed Danny even more. He opened his mouth, but before he could say a single word, Mac had put his arm on his shoulder and had squeezed gently, and he shut his mouth with an audible sound.
“Don?” Mac asked softly. “Are you in pain?”
He had seen the slight wince Don had tried to hide when sitting up, and the protective way he had curled his arms around himself.
“A bit,” Don said after a moment. “Just…sore. Sorry, Mac.” He stood up. “You two go ahead and have some fun. I’ll…” he waved in the general direction of the kitchen and left the bedroom.
Danny was silent for a moment, and then he asked:
“What the hell was that?”
Mac didn’t answer. He had no answer. He only had theories, and like every good CSI, he tried not to jump to conclusions. Instead he followed the evidence.
In this case, the evidence led him to the living room.
Danny didn’t protest when Mac kissed him apologetically and got up to follow their wayward lover. He already felt bad for the way he had pushed Don, when basically he was just happy that he was home, that he was okay.
That he was alive.
The apartment was dark and filled with shadows, but Mac didn’t need light to find his way.
His eyes slowly adjusted from the light in the bedroom to the abrupt darkness in the living room and he needed a few moments before he saw Don curled up on the couch.
“Hey,” he whispered, for no apparent reason, and sat down next to him. “What’s wrong?”
His hand reached out and settled on Don’s leg, stroking softly, while he waited for an answer.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Don said stubbornly before taking a deep breath. “Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean that I want to have sex every night.”
“I know,” Mac said.
“I just don’t feel like sex,” Don added after a while.
“Okay.”
“And Danny just doesn’t get it!”
“Hm.”
His hand wandered slowly upwards, over the bony kneecap, and along the outer side of Don’s thigh. He felt how Don relaxed into his touch, until he reached his hip and stroked even higher.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he offered after a long while.
“At this point, I’m not sure,” Don admitted and shifted away from him to sit up.
“Maybe you don’t want to hear it at this point,” Mac admitted, “But I think it’s important. Especially at this point.”
Don sighed. “You’ve been talking to Hawkes,” he guessed, “about some deeply philosophical questions.”
Mac chuckled. “Maybe I have,” he admitted. “And maybe I’ve talked to a few others, as well.”
His hand sneaked back towards Don and rested warm and heavy against the edge of his shoulder. “I think you’re afraid.”
Don whipped around to face him, despite the darkness. Mac couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine what the younger man looked like at the moment: mouth in a thin, straight and angry line, his expressive blue eyes narrowed, his whole body tensing and ready to attack.
“I’m not afraid,” Don gritted out, and Mac added the tightly clenched fists and the clenched teeth to his mental image.
“I think you are,” he said calmly, soothingly, “And I think I can prove it.”
“Yeah?” The clipped tones indicated just how irritated Don felt, and Mac was sure that it wasn’t just because of the accusation of fear. Briefly he wondered – what if he was wrong? – but he didn’t allow himself to stop and consider the what ifs, no matter how much of an effort it was for him. Claire used to tease him about his inability to shut up his brain, and Danny was a lot like her in that regard, whenever he wasn’t caught up in his own problems.
Mac swallowed. If his theory was wrong, if his interpretation of the evidence was wrong, there was the big possibility that he might lose Don. And he wasn’t sure that he could handle that. He could admit that his greatest fear was to lose one of them, or both.
“Yes. Right here,” he said and took a deep breath. The next words would determinate if there was a future to this relationship, or if he just fucked everything up.
“Okay, prove it!” Don said. “That I want to see.”
Mac had his doubts about that, but he wouldn’t back down now. He couldn’t.
“You want me to prove it? Take off your shirt.”
He held his breath when Don stilled completely. The seconds went by, and the only sound was the soft ticking of the clock Mac had inherited from his grandfather, long years ago, when he had been so young and the world had seemed like a bright and happy place.
Before Claire – before they had met.
Mac took a careful breath to bring his fluttering nerves back under control. His heart pounded against his ribs as if it wanted to blast through them, an explosion like the one that had hurt Don so badly, and he half-feared that it would really happen and he had to relive the horror of that day, and the roar of his own blood became louder and threatened to overwhelm everything else.
“Mac…”
The simple act of listening to Don’s hesitating way of saying his name almost broke Mac’s heart, and he just wanted to pull him in his arms and protect him from the world, and at the same time, Mac realized that he couldn’t do that, not even if Don would allow it. He knew that Don wouldn’t allow it, not at this point, but the knowledge didn’t stop the desperate feeling of yearning.
“You’re afraid,” he repeated. “I think you’re right. Danny doesn’t understand this, and I pray that he never will.”
Don didn’t answer, and it almost made Mac stop talking. But he had started this, and he was determined to see this through.
“I prayed that you never would,” he added softly.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling,” Don said, “You don’t know…” he trailed off, and Mac realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that he was right.
It was the same feeling that made him go on, case after gruesome case – the heady feeling of having solved a puzzle, of having all pieces fall into place, and finally seeing the whole complicated picture.
“You think I don’t know what you’re going through?” he asked, allowing the affection and love that threatened to overwhelm him and burst his chest to color his voice. “Don…”
His hand clumsily groped for Don’s and squeezed it gently.
It hurt – the debris that had fallen on his wrist in the explosion had fractured it, and he had ignored it until the dark bruises had faded and the broken bone had begun healing itself. It still hurt sometimes, and he welcomed the pain and embraced it like a good old friend. It reminded him that he was still alive, that he could feel.
“Why not?” he simply asked.
“I can’t.”
Don’s voice was nothing but a rough whisper. “Mac, don’t make me…I just can’t do it. It’s…”
Again he trailed off, and Mac imagined him look down and bite his lip nervously, the way Don always did when he was dealing with something that breached his stoic NYPD homicide detective attitude.
“It’s what?” he prompted when Don didn’t finish the sentence.
“…ugly.”
He almost didn’t hear the whispered confession, but when he did, he almost felt giddy with relief.
He had not been wrong; he had not misread the evidence.
Of course he knew that Don probably had other issues to work through, and he was painfully familiar with the concept of post-traumatic stress disorder and survivor’s guilt, but he also was aware that he couldn’t turn back the time and save Don from all that. But what little he could contribute to ease the pain, he was willing to do.
“I want you to see something,” he murmured and tugged on Don’s hand, pulling it up to his lips to kiss the knuckles softly. “I want you to learn something.”
He couldn’t stop the flash of apprehensiveness, and not the self-conscious tightening of his muscles when he pulled his own t-shirt up and settled Don’s fingertips against the scar on his chest.
“I got this one in Beirut,” he said, trying to keep the tone of his voice easy and soothing. “And this one…” He guided Don’s hand over his chest and stomach, and the glide of rough fingertips over his flesh made him shiver and Goosebumps break out all over his body, “…when a suspect in a case stabbed me. This one…” again the fingers moved, “…is from a bullet.”
Of course Don already knew every scar on his body, including the one on the back of his thigh, where another bullet had barely missed his ass – “that would’ve been a pain,” he remembered Danny saying when he saw it first, and he also remembered the wicked grin on Danny’s face when he leaned down and kissed the rough patch of skin softly, and the way Mac had sucked in the air through his clenched teeth, the muscles in his body tensing at the sensation. But it had never occurred to him to ask about any of those scars. It had been an unspoken agreement – Mac rarely spoke about his past, and they tried not to bring it up, because they realized how painful it had to be for Mac. The memories of Claire’s death still haunted him occasionally.
He swallowed. “Mac…”
“Take off your shirt,” Mac requested softly.
Don still hesitated, but he didn’t flinch away when Mac reached slowly for him and grabbed the hem of his long-sleeved shirt. Mac remembered the feeling of baring himself like this to a loved person, letting them see everything – he had done it, more than once, for Claire, and he had been amazed and relieved every time she hadn’t turned away from him, from his broken and mutilated body, but had, instead, welcomed her in her warm and loving embrace.
He pulled the shirt up, over Don’s head, and dropped it to the floor. It was still dark, and he couldn’t see the scars, but he remembered all too well the wounds, and how he’d taken pictures right after the surgery.
“I love you,” he whispered and settled his hands against Don’s chest, feeling the wild and nervous heartbeat under his fingertips, body heat seeping into his palms and back into Don’s body. “Scars or no scars. I still love you. You’re still my Don.”
His hands wandered lower, his touch gentle and feather light, almost too light to feel, but he stayed away from the scarred area.
Don’s hand was back on his body, pulling at his t-shirt, desperate to feel warm skin, and Mac leaned closer and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” he whispered again. “And so does Danny.”
Don took a deep breath and grabbed Mac’s hand with his own. He placed Mac’s fingertips on his own scar, just like Mac had done only moments ago.
Mac kissed him again, a deep kiss, filled with the sweetness of love and the saltiness of unshed tears, and when he pulled back again, Don followed his move and pressed their foreheads together.
Danny was sitting up, a forensic journal in his lap, when they finally came back into the bedroom. When he saw Don, a blinding smile crossed his face, and he quickly tossed the journal down and scrambled off the bed. He wrapped his arms around Don and hugged him fiercely.
“I love you, idiot,” he whispered. “Don’t ever scare me again like that!”
Before Don could answer, Danny reached up and pulled his head down into a deep kiss. Mac watched the kiss, and how the rest of tension slowly left Don’s body, and he smiled softly.
They were not healed, not yet, but they had made a step in the right direction this night.
The End.