Title: Two O'Clock on a Tuesday Night
Author: stellaluna_
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mac/Danny
Summary: There are no adequate words at times like these. Danny/Mac. Set approximately two years in the future, with spoilers for "Run Silent, Run Deep".
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.
Notes: Written by request for chelletoo in the Give me the title of a piece of fic that you think I should write meme.

***

Mac stands in the hallway looking into the visitors' lounge. The two cups of coffee he's holding are so hot against his palms that he keeps having to shift his grip, and every time he does he's afraid he'll drop one or both of them. Behind him, down the hall, he can hear the constant soft hum of various machines, the low ticks and beeps as the hospital moves through the deepest hours of the night.

In front of him, in the lounge, Danny sits slumped on a vinyl couch, staring at a television that Mac knows by now is tuned to CNN 24 hours a day, like televisions in airports and other in-between places, like all televisions anywhere that's neither here nor there. Danny hasn't noticed him yet, and Mac is taking advantage of this opportunity to look at him unobserved. He keeps telling himself that he shouldn't, that he should either go in or walk away, and he keeps on not moving even so.

Danny's face, in the blue glow of the screen, is pale and weary and tense, and he looks much older, suddenly, than he really is. His cheeks are hollow and covered in a four-day growth of stubble, and Mac can see, even from here, even in the uncertain light, how wrinkled his clothes are. This is what Danny will look like when he's old, Mac thinks; this is what he'll look like after twenty or thirty more years of harsh blows.

Or this may be what he'll look like all the time from now on. People don't always bounce back, even resilient people like Danny, and the look in Danny's unfocused eyes right now is one Mac has seen before, in the mirror in the morning and for seconds, here and there, when light and shadow have met at a precise angle in the glass walls of his office.

The horror of that strikes Mac full-force, and suddenly he can't stand to look at Danny like this for one more minute. He shifts his grip on the coffee again and clears his throat, and when Danny turns his head, Mac steps into the room.

"Hey, Mac," Danny says. His voice is scratchy, like he hasn't spoken in hours. "What are you doing here?"

"Got off-duty at midnight," Mac says. "Thought I'd stop in."

"You didn't have to do that." Danny looks up at him. There's still tension in his face, lines of exhaustion sunk deep, but his gaze now is focused and alert.

"I brought coffee," Mac says, and holds the cup out.

"Thanks." Danny takes it. Their fingers brush, and Mac sees the touch flare in Danny's eyes. "Guess I could use some."

Mac sits down next to him. "How's it going?"

Danny shakes his head. "No change."

"Are the doctors still saying it could take some time?"

"Yeah." Danny sips his coffee. "They keep saying that, but..."

"Then wait and see. You're doing all you can." Mac knows this is inadequate, but he also knows that there are really no adequate words at times like these, that all he can do is work with what little he has available to him.

"I guess." Danny's gaze moves back to the TV screen. "I hate this fucking closed captioning. You know how many typos they make?"

"A lot?" Mac asks. He's noticed the same thing, in airports.

"Yeah." Danny looks down at the cup between his hands. "Don't you want to get some sleep before your next shift?"

"I have to be in at eight," Mac says. "Not much turnaround time."

"That's right. I forgot: you don't sleep." There's no rancor in Danny's voice. "But you must have better things to do than this."

Mac tries to look like he's considering the statement. "Not really," he says.

"You didn't have to do that," Danny says again, but he moves closer to Mac on the couch. "Talk to me."

Mac frowns. "I don't -- "

"Just tell me about your day. Tell me what cases you're working. Whatever." The words are casual, but Danny's eyes are fixed on his, and there's a faint pleading note in his tone.

"All right," Mac says, and to his surprise, he finds himself smiling a little. "All right, I can do that."

"Great." Danny leans back, sinking lower into the couch, but not moving from Mac's side. "I'm just gonna close my eyes while I listen."

"Hawkes and I got called to a scene out in Elmhurst," Mac says. "Near Queens Boulevard. Vic was a Caucasian male, three GSWs to the head and chest."

Danny nods, and his eyes flicker beneath the closed lids. The blue glow from the screen bounces off his glasses and spills across the sharp planes of his face. He looks, now, neither old nor young, neither sorrowful nor carefree. His thigh is warm against Mac's, the exposed line of his throat arched and vulnerable. Mac holds his coffee cup tightly, keeping his hands still in his lap.

He goes on talking, watching Danny's face as he does.

***