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Mac
This was insane. Objectively, absolutely, clinically insane.
He should’ve been stressed out of his mind, ducking through alleyways and weaving into crowds with a notorious assassin at his side and half a dozen mercenaries combing the streets behind them. He should’ve been furious that his cover had blown, that Murdoc had somehow shown up to complicate things, and that their only escape route funneled them into a noisy bar district alive with neon and bass.
But he wasn’t. Instead, god help him, he was having fun.
The noise, the crowd, the chaos, it was all cover, all camouflage. He caught Murdoc’s eye once between a swarm of college kids and a couple making out against a taxi, and the man was grinning, wild and sharp and alive in a way Mac felt down in his own chest. For a second, it almost felt like a game.
And then the danger snapped back into focus. A shout, too close. A glint of metal in the crowd. They’d been spotted. Murdoc’s hand closed around his wrist before he could react, yanking him sideways into a narrow gap between two buildings. Mac’s back hit brick. Murdoc pressed close, one arm braced above his shoulder, the other still gripping his wrist like he’d never let go.
Mac opened his mouth to snap something, demand, insult, anything, but Murdoc’s eyes were already on his, bright in the neon spill, and his voice came low, urgent, right against his ear.
A girl in sequins bumped his shoulder, laughing, a drink sloshing neon blue down her arm. Someone else shouted from a balcony above, tossing confetti that stuck to Mac’s damp hair. It was ridiculous. It was cover. He let the current drag him along, Murdoc a half-step behind, always just close enough that Mac could feel the tug of gravity between them.
"This is insane." He muttered under his breath, but he could feel himself smiling.
"I know!" Murdoc shouted back over the throb of music, "Isn't it fun?"
Mac didn’t want to agree, but his pulse betrayed him. He ducked past a bouncer, slipped between two tables on a sidewalk patio, and the world became light and color and noise. Murdoc followed, grabbing Mac's hand as they went, ensuring they weren't seperated by the thrum of the crowd.
They slipped through a group of guys chanting over pitchers of beer. Murdoc snatched a fry off someone’s plate mid-stride, popped it in his mouth, and winked at Mac when he caught him.
"Seriously?" Mac raised an eyebrow.
"I’m blending in." Murdoc said, all innocence.
Mac nearly tripped on a curb as he tried very, very hard not to laugh.
Then the shouts came again, closer this time. The mercs had followed them into the crush of bodies. Mac risked a glance over his shoulder, saw a pair of them scanning the street. Too close.
Murdoc noticed too. His grin sharpened, "Time for theatrics."
Before Mac could think, Murdoc tugged him into the narrow space between two buildings. Brick scraped his shoulder blades, neon cut across Murdoc’s face in fractured colors, and suddenly it was just the two of them in a pocket of shadow, breath loud, hearts pounding.
And then the assassin leaned in, arm braced above Mac’s head, eyes too bright, too close.
"Can I kiss you?" He asked.
Mac blinked, "What?"
Murdoc didn’t waver. His voice was low, urgent, yet still slightly amused, "Two men pressed together in the shadows here? We'll blend in too well, they’ll walk right past us."
Mac’s brain caught up half a second too late. Of course it was cover. Of course Murdoc was using this as an excuse. And, annoyingly, it was also a good idea. He could feel the mercenaries closing in, the press of the crowd funneling them closer, the danger rising.
"Macgyver." Murdoc’s tone went sing-song, "Yes or no."
Mac swallowed. He should’ve said no. Should’ve shoved Murdoc away and bolted back into the crowd. But the words came out anyway, quiet, betraying him, "Yes."
The grin that flickered across Murdoc’s face was quick, feral, and then there wasn’t any space left between them. The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was heat and urgency, Murdoc’s hand sliding up to cradle his jaw, tilting his face just so. Mac expected it to feel like a distraction, a performance, something false to keep up the cover. Instead it hit like a live wire. The brick at his back, the pulse pounding in his ears, the taste of salt and neon and danger, and Murdoc’s mouth on his like they had been heading here the whole time.
It was good. Too good.
Mac’s hands fisted in Murdoc’s coat before he realized he’d grabbed him. His lips parted without meaning to. The world shrank down to the press of bodies, the throb of bass, the sharp edge of need cutting through the panic. He felt Murdoc smile against his mouth, infuriating, delighted, like he’d just won some kind of prize.
And maybe he had.
The shouts moved past them. Footsteps receded. The mercs were gone. They were safe. Mac dragged in a shaky breath when they finally broke apart, foreheads still nearly touching. The assassin’s smile was dazzling under the fractured neon light.
"Well." Murdoc murmured, voice smug and breathless all at once, "I think we sold it."
Mac rolled his eyes, trying and failing to slow his pulse, "You’re unbearable."
"And kissable." Murdoc added brightly, already tugging him back toward the crowd.
He huffed, because it wasn’t worth arguing when his face felt hot and his hands still remembered the weight of Murdoc’s coat. They slipped into the current of bodies again, ducking and weaving, and suddenly they were both laughing, quiet, sharp little bursts of disbelief that somehow carried them through the crush of neon and beer-scented air until they were free.
By the time they were safe behind the door of Murdoc's safehouse, they were exhausted. Mac leaned against the wall, catching his breath, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. Murdoc locked the door behind them, turned, and leaned there too, shoulders heaving, eyes still bright from the chase.
For a moment neither spoke. Then Murdoc tilted his head, eyes bright and curious, "Can I kiss you again?"
Mac looked at him, startled. The question landed differently here, without the excuse of a crowd or the press of mercenaries in the street. Just them. Just the memory of what they’d already done still buzzing like electricity in his veins.
His mouth was dry, but his lips quirked into a half-smile and he found himself saying, "Yeah, yeah you can."
Murdoc didn’t waste a second. He pushed away from the door, closed the few feet between them, and kissed him again. Slower this time. Less cover, less heat-of-the-moment, more deliberate.
Mac had told himself he was going to break it off quickly. Just a quick kiss to punctuate the night, prove he wasn’t rattled. But somehow his hands ended up in Murdoc’s hair, pulling him closer, and Murdoc’s arm slid around his waist like it belonged there. The kiss deepened, and then there was no point pretending it was anything other than what it was.
They broke apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both grinning like idiots. And then Murdoc whispered, almost giddy, "Again?"
Mac should’ve said no. He laughed instead and pulled him closer. The third kiss was messier, half-laughing, teeth knocking, Murdoc’s hand cradling his jaw like Mac might disappear if he let go. By the fourth, Mac was pushing him backward toward the couch, both of them tripping over their own boots, still tangled up in each other’s mouths.
They collapsed onto the cushions, Mac half sprawled on top, Murdoc pulling him down like gravity itself had taken sides. The kisses kept coming, softer now, drawn out, like they couldn’t quite stop testing the shape of this new thing between them. At some point the edge bled out of it. The adrenaline dulled, the laughter softened, and Mac realized Murdoc had gone quiet beneath him, head tipped back against the arm of the couch. His eyes were closed, lashes long against his cheek, and he looked content.
Warmth spread through his chest, unexpected and stubborn. He settled more comfortably against Murdoc, let his eyes close too, the taste of liquor and neon and too many kisses still lingering.
Murdoc’s voice was drowsy when it came, muffled into Mac’s hair, "Do you want to do this again tomorrow?"
Mac murmured into his chest, "You mean getting hunted by mercenaries or… this?"
"This." Murdoc’s smile was audible, "You. Me. You know."
Mac snorted softly, but the protest never quite reached his throat. His body had already made the decision for him, relaxing into the solid weight of Murdoc’s chest, letting the rise and fall of their breathing sync in a way that felt dangerously natural.
"Sure." He said finally, quiet but certain.
Murdoc let out a pleased little hum, the kind that buzzed against Mac’s skin. His arm tightened around Mac’s waist, tugging him just a little closer, like he wanted to make absolutely sure he wasn’t dreaming. And Mac sunk into the warmth under him and let his eyelids grow heavy, adrenaline giving way to sleep.