Chapter Text
There’s a lot of blood. More blood than Mack knows what to do with.
“Hey, Chester, stay with me buddy, okay?” His own hands are trembling as he presses down on the bullet wound. He can’t tell where it is exactly—somewhere in Chester’s lower right abdomen. He doesn’t know how bad it is. All he knows is that there’s a lot of blood.
“It’s fine…it’s fine–” Chester says, his eyes glassy and staring at some distant point in the sky. He lets out a laugh. “Mack, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fucking fine!” Spittle flies from Mack’s mouth as he yells. “Just, hey, hold pressure right here, okay? Right here–” He moves Chester’s hand over the wet tear in his shirt. “I–I gotta radio for backup.”
The suspect is gone. Mack doesn’t give a fuck. Two people run over from the street.
“Is he okay?”
“NO, HE’S NOT FUCKING OKAY.”
“Mack, I’m fine,” Chester says again, face pale. “I just have an extra hole, now.”
“Pressure right here, buddy.” Mack’s hands are covered in blood. Chester’s hands are covered in blood. Mack stumbles to his feet, ears still ringing from the sound of the gunshot that tore a hole in his partner. He addresses the approaching onlookers. “Either of you a fucking doctor?!”
The two men shake their heads.
“Fuck!” Mack looks down at his hands and hastily wipes off Chester’s blood onto his pants. “Can you stay with him? I need to get help.”
One of the men nods. “Yeah, no problem. What’s his name?”
“Chester.”
Mack sprints out of the alleyway and towards the street. Behind him he hears one of the men say “Hey, Chester–” before he’s out of earshot.
Their vehicle is a few blocks away, and Mack is breathing hard by the time he wrenches the door open and lunges for the radio.
“Come in 41, this is Sergeant Mack Torson. 10-33 at the corner of Main and Foushee. I repeat: 10-33. Officer down. Gunshot wound to lower right abdomen. I need fucking assistance NOW! OVER!"
“10-4 Sergeant Torson,” comes Jules’s infuriatingly steady voice. “Dispatching medical assistance to you now. Main and Foushee. Over.”
Mack drops the hand radio and pulls out the under-seat compartment, tools scattering across the floorboard. The first aid kit is fucking useless—gauze and disinfectant and plasters. Mack grabs the largest squares of gauze in the kit, tape, and gloves, and then slams the door shut, sprinting back down the street.
The two men are still kneeling by Chester as he runs up.
“Move–move…” He drops to his knees hard, feeling the skin scrape beneath his pants. “Hey, buddy,” he says, voice shaking. “We got people on the way, alright? So I just need you to stay awake for me.”
“Copy that, cueball,” Chester says weakly. He lets out a hoarse laugh, then groans in pain, clenching his teeth as he speaks. “Hey, is it weird that I feel it all the way down my leg?”
“Just stop saying shit, alright?” Mack wriggles the latex gloves onto his hands and gently peels Chester’s blood-soaked shirt up. “Shit-shit-shit…” The wound is oozing steadily. “Okay, this is probably gonna suck, but just gotta bear with me.” Mack tears open the sterile packaging and begins to spread the gauze across Chester’s stomach. The wound is just above his hip bone—maybe lucky enough to have missed his kidneys.
“Can we do anything?” one of the men asks.
“Some water would be super cool.” Chester says through clenched teeth, his eyes still trained on the sky. “I’m thirsty as fuck…”
One man darts away while the other remains.
Mack secures the gauze with tape that barely sticks—there’s too much blood. He pulls off the gloves and leans over Chester, extending three fingers. “Hey, hey… How many fingers am I holding up?”
“I got shot in the stomach, Mack, not hit in the head.”
“Answer the goddamn question.”
“Three.”
“Okay, cool. What’s my middle name?”
“Douglas.”
Mack is running out of things to ask. “Uh… Tell me about the time you faked your own death.”
“Mack,” Chester grits out, squeezing his eyes shut. “Didn’t you tell me to stop saying shit? Lemme just… die in peace.”
“You’re not gonna fucking die, you asshole.”
Chester lets out a wheeze, smirking. “Hey, y’know the upside to this?” He opens his eyes again, actually meeting Mack’s gaze. “At least he didn’t shoot my dick off…”
Mack lets out a hysterical-sounding bark of a laugh. “Yeah, that’s because the target is too small.”
“You can’t say that in front of civilians." Chester gestures limply to the man standing a few feet away. “Now you gotta pull my pants down and show him how big it is.” He shifts his head slightly to look at the man. “I have a huge dick.”
“Uh…” the man says.
Just then the other man returns with a bottle of Frittte-brand water, handing it over. “Here.”
“Thanks,” Mack says, taking it and twisting the top off. “Hey, dickless, water time.” He cups the back of Chester’s head to help him drink. Mack’s hand is covered in dry blood. “Just a sip, ok? Otherwise it’ll just leak out the hole in your stomach.”
A bit of water dribbles out the side of Chester’s mouth as he tries to sip. Mack wipes it away with the back of his hand, smearing blood across Chester’s cheek.
“You’re a real natural at this whole caretaker thing,” Chester comments as Mack helps him gently lay his head back down against the pavement, his speech beginning to slur. “I’ll put in a good word for you in heaven…”
“If you don’t shut the fuck up–”
The wail of sirens swells in the distance. Mack turns to the two bystanders. “You’re both free to go. Thanks for sticking around.”
The men hesitate. “Okay… Yeah, sorry we couldn’t be of more help.” One moves to shake Mack’s hand, then stalls, staring at the blood.
Mack waves them away with a dismissive flick. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Good luck,” the other says.
The men retreat. The sirens get closer. Mack leans over Chester and gruffly pushes his hair out of his face, petting his head in what he hopes is a soothing motion. Chester reaches up and grips Mack’s forearm with a blood-covered hand.
“Hey Mack?”
“Yeah?”
Chester looks at him, eyes wide and wet. He’s begun to shake ever so slightly. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ die.”
“You’re not gonna die.” Mack assures, more confident than he feels. He clasps Chester’s hand in one of his, cupping the side of his face with the other. “Look at me, alright? I’ve fucking got you. You’re gonna be fine.”
Chester swallows and nods, his gaze flickering back to the sky.
“Okay,” he says as the medics arrive.
—
Mack washes the blood from his hands, his body numb. The water that spirals the drain is rust colored as he slowly and methodically rubs each of his fingers. His pants and shirt are stiff with dried blood, but he doesn’t have any change of clothes at the precinct. When he dries his hands, a red crust lingers beneath each of his fingernails. All he can smell is iron.
They’d rushed Chester into surgery immediately upon their return, and Gottlieb barked at Mack to stay out of his goddamn operating room. So, Mack wandered into the locker rooms in a dissociative haze, ignoring the concerned looks from his colleagues.
He throws the paper towel away, then turns to lean against the counter, looking his own reflection in the eye. He feels like a twelve-year-old boy staring at a picture of grown man. Shoving away from the counter, he takes a stumbling step towards the door and leaves the locker room.
There’s no news for the first hour, so Mack sits in a chair outside of the lazareth ward staring at the opposite wall, thinking about all of the things he could have done differently. He barely notices when Vic appears. He shakes Mack from his thoughts with a firm hand to his shoulder.
“Hey. How you holding up?”
“Peachy.”
“He still in surgery?”
“Yeah.”
Vic takes a seat beside him, leaning his forearms against his knees as he clasps his hands together. “If you give me a rundown of what happened, I’ll write up the report for you.”
Mack lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “We tailed the guy who matched our perp’s description. Didn’t realize he was packing heat. He fired off a few rounds at us as he fled. And,” he gestures to the medical bay door, “he blew a hole in my goddamn partner.”
“Do you know which direction he went?”
Mack shakes his head. “I was, uh…distracted.” He leans forward, holds his head in his hands. “Fucking stupid…”
“It’s fine,” Vic assures. “This is just for the report. I’m not fucking scolding you.”
“Hey,” comes a new voice. “I heard McLaine got shot.”
Mack and Vic both look up to see John McCoy approaching. He looks like he’s about to leave for the night—leather jacket donned, his thick, dark hair pulled back into a low tail, sunglasses perched atop his head, even though the sun has already set.
“Yeah,” Mack says.
“He gonna live?”
“He’s still in surgery,” Vic replies, his demeanor darkening. “The response time was quick, so his chances are good.”
Mack’s focus returns to his own feet, unsure of what to say. McCoy always manages to make him feel like a loser and a fake cop, even when he’s being nice to him. “I probably fucking botched the whole process. So who knows.”
“Chin up, kid,” McCoy says. He affects a casual stance, crossing his arms over his chest. “Losing your first partner is always the worst. But it gets easier.”
“The fuck is wrong with you?” spits Vic, getting to his feet.
“What?” McCoy shrugs. “It’s just the truth. You always put the kiddie gloves on, Vicquemare. Just tell him how it is.”
“McLaine is literally still alive,” Vic retorts, all venom. “He’s in surgery.”
“Well, there’s always the chance he won’t survive surgery.”
Mack nods numbly. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Vic says, whirling on him. “It’s not fucking fine. What the fuck—that’s your goddamn brother in arms in there!”
“We’re all expendable, Satellite-Officer,” McCoy says as he uncrosses his arms. “We’re a militia, remember? Not a fucking book club.”
Vic is quiet, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Anyway, I’m gonna head out for a drink,” McCoy says, turning his attention back to Mack. “You wanna join?”
Vic mutters something under his breath before striding off, as dark as a stormcloud.
Mack watches him go, unable to meet McCoy’s eye. “Uh, nah man. Thanks though. I’m gonna…wait until Chester gets out of surgery. Y’know, in case he…lives.”
McCoy nods in understanding. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He gives a little two-finger salute before turning on his heel and exiting the waiting room.
Mack’s eyes return to his feet, and the minutes tick by in silence.
You’re too soft, he thinks. McCoy is right. It is what it is. If Chester dies–
The thought is aborted as soon as it forms, and he feels a welling pressure behind his eyes, his throat clenching tight. Straightening up, he clears his throat, smacks his own cheek a few times. “Get your shit together,” he grumbles, smacking himself one final time, as hard as he can manage. “Get your fucking shit together.”
Just then, the lazareth doors swing open, and Mack leaps to his feet. Gottlieb is still in his surgeon’s gown, hair in a cap.
“Well, he’s alive,” he says tiredly. “He’s coming up from anesthesia now and asked for you. Just keep it quick. He’s groggy and on a lot of painkillers.”
The relief that floods Mack’s body tingles through his extremities, like stepping into a hot shower on a freezing day, and he lets out a heaving sigh. “Cool. Yeah. No problem.”
He follows Gottlieb through the long infirmary to the very back of the room where a gaggle of his assistants are cleaning tools and pushing carts around. Chester’s bed is partitioned off with hanging curtains. Gottlieb draws one of the curtains back and gestures Mack in, before swishing it closed behind him.
Chester’s eyes are closed. He looks remarkably small lying there in a medical gown beneath a thin blanket. (He needs another blanket. One isn’t enough). Mack steps over to the side of the slender bed and pulls up the folding chair situated beside it. He sits down with a grunt and an exhale.
Chester’s eyes flutter open marginally, still half-lidded. Slowly, he turns his head to look at Mack more directly, his eyes tracking sluggishly across his face. Then he smiles, all dopey and dimples. “Hey.”
“Hey, asshole,” Mack responds, his voice even more hoarse than usual. He clears his throat, but doesn’t know what else to say.
Chester raises a limp hand, gesturing weakly to the IV drip on the opposite side of the bed. “This shit’s good…” he says slowly and with a slight slur. “You want some?”
Mack lets out a wheeze of a laugh. “Maybe later.”
Chester’s hand lingers upright, propped up by his elbow, swaying as he tries to hold it steady. Mack reaches out and clasps it, leaning fully against the bed at his side. He stares at Chester’s face for a long moment, looking from freckle to freckle, and Chester stares back.
“I’m sorry,” Mack finally whispers.
Slightly delayed, Chester smiles again. “What’cha sorry for…big guy?” He swallows, licks his chapped lips. “Unless… unless you shot me… and then lied… about it.” His smile widens, even as his eyes stay half-lidded.
“No. If it was me, I wouldn’t have missed,” Mack says, cracking a smile. “I would have definitely shot your dick off.”
“Noooo…” Chester’s head flops back against the pillow. “Leave my dick alone…”
Mack shushes him with a laugh, looking over his shoulder, but only curtains surround them. “Don’t be saying that kind of shit so loud.”
“You…said it first…”
“Yeah, because you cracked that fucking joke earlier.”
“Did I…?”
Mack just laughs and shakes his head in disbelief. Chester’s hand wriggles in his, and he loosens his grip, only to have Chester reach out and slide his fingers along Mack’s jaw, cupping the side of his face.
“It’s all good,” Chester slurs, blinking slowly. His thumb traces the ridge of Mack’s cheekbone. “You’re sweet.”
A flutter of something erupts behind Mack’s sternum and he pulls back. “Okay, I think that’s, uh… I think you’ve had enough drugs.” He gets to his feet. “I’m gonna get Gottlieb.”
“Noooo…” Chester whines again, his head lolling to the side dramatically. “My drugs…”
“You need to sleep.”
“Wait–” Chester paws at Mack’s hand, not quite able to reach it. “Wait, wait… c’mere…”
“What?” Mack steps closer, and Chester slides his hand back into Mack’s, tugging.
“C’mere…” He grins another dopey, wide grin, eyes barely open to slits. “You should…kiss me.”
Mack jolts, jerking his hand out of Chester’s grip. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
“Drugs…” Chester says, still grinning. “But you should.”
“Like hell I am.” Mack dips to look beneath the curtain wall, seeing no nearby feet, then turns back to Chester. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Maaaack…” Chester pleads. “I almost died.”
“Yeah, I know, shithead, I was there.”
“Kiss me,” Chester says again softly, biting at his lower lip. “I’ll get better faster if you do.”
“Did they give you gay drugs?” Mack hisses under his breath. “The hell are you on about?”
“I’m…just on enough shit…” Chester closes his eyes and hums, “...to finally ask.”
Finally? Mack can feel his own pulse in his throat.
“Please,” Chester says, opening his eyes and looking at Mack with no real humor. “Just one…” He drops his voice to a whisper. “It’ll be a secret.” He lifts a hand and points to his cheek.
Cheek. Cheek kiss. Mildly less gay. Mack lets out a long exhale. “Fine. Only because you almost died.”
“Yaaaay…” Chester says softly with a wide smile.
Mack leans in, bracing his hands on either side of Chester’s shoulders, and plants a quick kiss to Chester’s left cheek.
“Now this side,” Chester says, flopping his head to the side and pointing at his right cheek.
Mack laughs. “You shit.” But he leans in and kisses Chester’s right cheek.
“Now…here….” He points at his lips, looking Mack in the eyes, his expression glazed and distant, but unmistakably lustful.
“The fuck has gotten into you?” Mack whispers, but doesn’t move away.
“Just seems like…” Chester swallows, licks his lips with a smile. “Seems like a good idea.” He attempts to shrug, which mostly causes his head to loll towards Mack a bit. “C’mon…” His gaze drops to Mack’s mouth. “Last one, I promise.”
Mack’s heart is beating hard enough that it pounds like a bass drum in his own ears. “If you use this against me, I’ll make you wish that bullet hit you between the goddamn eyes.”
“Noo…” Chester reaches up and grabs Mack by the front of his shirt, gently pulling him forward. “This is…just for me…”
Mack takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and leans forward. Their lips brush. Chester smells like medical soap and iodine. He offers a chaste, close-mouthed kiss, but Chester’s grip on Mack’s shirt doesn’t loosen. Chester tugs, pulling him forward and pressing his lips to Mack’s harder, opening his mouth slightly. For whatever goddamn reason, Mack kisses him back, working his mouth against Chester’s rhythmically as he exhales across his face. The sound of their kiss is too loud in the quiet infirmary. Just pretend he’s a chick, Mack thinks, but that either backfires, or his body decides it's suddenly gay, because Mack feels his dick twitch to life.
Chester lets out a soft groan as their tongues tentatively touch, and Mack abruptly pulls away, stars bursting behind his eyes from standing up too fast.
“Okay, that’s–” He’s breathing hard. “That’s enough of that.”
Chester is breathing hard too, his cheeks flushed and lips wet. Mack’s eyes dart down to see the outline of his cock beneath the thin blanket, and he feels a surge of panic.
“I’m gonna get you another blanket.”
He jerks back the curtains, quickly closing them behind him. By some miracle, their end of the infirmary is empty, both Gottlieb and his primary assistant stand at the far opposite side, each looking at a clipboard and seemingly oblivious to anything that might have just happened. Scanning the spare beds, Mack grabs a blanket from one of the empty cots, then quickly strides back over to Chester’s partitioned room. When he pulls the curtain back, Chester’s eyes are closed, but flutter open as soon as Mack approaches.
“Here.” Mack spreads the blanket out and flutters it down over top of him. “Now sleep it off.” The bullet wound and the gay shit, he thinks.
“Maaack…” Chester whines.
“Fucking what?!” Mack snaps, still breathing hard.
Chester just grins at him, drugged and loose. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Mack starts to turn away, then doubles back, pointing a finger at Chester. “Seriously. Don’t fucking mention it. Ever again.”
Chester just laughs and closes his eyes.