Title: Badlands
Author: stellaluna_
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex and language
Pairing: Mac/Danny
Summary: Ten moments in two lives. Danny/Mac. Section headings and inspiration taken from Bruce Springsteen's album Nebraska.
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.
Notes: Thanks to gin200168 and scarletts_awry, who read sections of this in draft and, more importantly, patiently tolerated my wailing.

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i. Nebraska

Events have a way of shading and blurring in Mac's mind as time goes on. He no longer remembers when he first became aware of the presence of evil in the world; he only knows that it exists. The only Devil he believes in is the tragic antihero in Milton, but people have never needed Lucifer to do terrible things to each other, save as an excuse. He learned this in the Marines, in Beirut and Sarajevo, and he learned it again after he started at the NYPD; and one more time when the Towers fell. Sometimes he wonders how long it'll be before the lesson can be considered learned, before the world no longer tries to teach it to him over and over again. He doesn't think it can happen until he frees himself of his own small, casual evils, the tiny hurts and accidental cruelties. And that can't ever happen as long as he's still breathing. His only regrets are for the people he's loved, the ones he drags down with him.

He reads books about Starkweather for awhile, trying to understand, to figure out what could make a man do those things, but it doesn't work. He stops when he realizes that his only true memory of Starkweather -- under a different name -- is an image of Martin Sheen being led away in shackles on washed-out celluloid, dust blowing in drifts around him. The shackles are in front where everyone can see, and Sissy Spacek's hair tangles in the wind. Mac thinks of the people he's lost, instead, of lovers he's kissed and caressed who are now dust themselves, the breaths he shared with them running down to nothing at all, the skin he left teethmarks in now only a memory of a memory. He closes his eyes to block it out and a thousand volts arc across his vision. His hands clench into involuntary fists, but he doesn't have an erection, not at all. Despite his Midwestern childhood, he never dreams of the Great Plains.

ii. Atlantic City

This is Mac's guilty secret, or one of them: When he holds Danny outside the hospital, he finds there's an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with sympathy, or even compassion. The sensation of Danny's body pressed to his isn't an unfamiliar one, and never mind how long it's been since the last time. He tries not to acknowledge it, but he's nonetheless aware of it as he listens to Danny's shuddering gasps gradually quiet and the rhythm of his breathing return to normal. Finally Danny steps away and says that he should get back to Louie and Mac tells him to call when he knows something, and Danny says he will.

Mac means to go then, but before he realizes what he's doing, he reaches out and cups Danny's face in one hand, and strokes his thumb across his cheek. He's only wiping away a tear. Only that. But Danny turns his head and kisses the palm of his hand, the dry touch of his lips there and gone almost before Mac can register its presence; and then he's gone too, back through the hospital doors, without saying goodnight. Mac stands there for another minute and then turns to leave, and his chest is tighter than ever with the sense of expiation and loss.

A few evenings later, Mac's doorbell rings late at night, and he's not at all surprised to find Danny standing there. He lets him in without saying a word, and Danny's eyes, when the two of them turn to face each other, are shadowed and lost; but his mouth against Mac's is a balm. It isn't over: it never has been over, and neither of them have ever been lucky men. They fall together.

iii. Mansion on the Hill

Danny is fascinated by the facades of the mansions and townhouses he visits in the course of the job. They're places that, in almost any other profession, he'd probably have no reason to even look twice at, and yet here he is, walking right in the front doors like he belongs. He likes the older buildings the best, the ones on the north end of Fifth Avenue and in the historic section of Harlem. They've changed the least since the earlier centuries when they were built, and so they're the most interesting. Danny thinks that his issues with class and money are as tangled as anyone's, but he doesn't have the same strong reactions that some officers do. These people are rich fucks, sure, and some of them are pretty goddamn useless, but that's not the whole story. A staple feature of his childhood had been driving to the rich people's neighborhood to look at the lights during the holidays, and this, at least, he remembers with something close to unalloyed pleasure. So he's mostly okay with the swells until they start murdering each other.

He can remember his father ranting on, after he'd gotten a few drinks in him, about assholes who didn't know what it was like to work for a living, but he also remembers years when there would suddenly be new furniture in the living room and when his father would take them all down to the corner bar and buy a round of drinks for the house. Even then, Danny had been smart enough not to ask where it had all come from, just like later on he knew not to ask Louie too many questions about the roll of bills in his back pocket or the mysterious packages he carried around. Good God, how the money rolled in.

Mac, though, is something else again. They work a case together on upper Park, and the air around Mac seems to shimmer with resentment and anger from the moment they step through the doors. He snaps at the witnesses and is barely-contained impatient, and Danny can't figure it. Mac acts like he's crazy when he brings it up, and Danny takes the hint and drops the subject. He doesn't forget about it, though, because he's started to realize Mac always acts like this when the subject of wealth comes up, and he keeps this observation to himself, too. Both of them have their secrets, and they've learned to survive by not asking the hard questions. It's the only way they'll ever last.

iv. Johnny 99

Danny testifies in court on a rainy Thursday, bland recitation of facts he's done a hundred times before, and when he's done, he's thanked and excused. As he's leaving, he can't help a glance over at the defendant. Stupid kid, he thinks. Lost his job, jacked a convenience store, gut-shot the clerk. An accident, the kid kept insisting, as if it made a difference, and Danny looks at his well-worn suit and the stunned look in his eyes and thinks it might even be true. Not his problem, though, and the kid's mother and girlfriend are sobbing out in the hallway. Danny pushes past them into a cold gray morning, tugging at his tie, and Could've been me goes through his head too quickly for him to dismiss the voice. Not that he has any unsolved murders on his soul, but there are other things he was never caught for. Could've been me up there if I was a little too stupid or just plain unlucky, and he climbs into the car and flicks on the windshield wipers, and leaves it all behind.

It's still raining when he goes to see Mac that night. Mac backs him into the wall and kisses him hard like they're both drowning, and squeezes his thigh when he comes, but his eyes are far-away and as gray as the rain, and Danny remembers too late that he's known all along how this is going to end. He thinks about how easy it is to pull a trigger even without a gun, to be backed into a corner where that starts to seem like a way out. To be in a place where it's the only way out. The inside of his head is bright with an executioner's song, and there's no blood here, no physical violence and no blaring siren, but no one needs to die for certain kinds of murder to be committed, not always. All it takes is a moment of clarity. Any man might do the same.

v. Highway Patrolman

There's blood between them now, staining the side of Danny's neck and the white shoulder of his shirt where Mac presses his face into it; he can feel it still pouring from his nose and split lip. He hadn't meant for things to end this way, had never meant them to escalate this far, but Danny had been the one to throw the first punch, not him, and maybe somehow it's fitting. After all, they've been out of control for a long time. Danny writhes against him and Mac eases up on twisting his arm behind his back so that he can reach around and undo Danny's belt buckle, then push his jeans down past his hips. He's nowhere near ready when Mac slides a finger into him, and Mac is about to pull back and tell him that, but then Danny moans and shoves back insistently, and Mac grabs him by the hips and gives in. He closes his eyes and pushes deeper, and he comes with blood still running into his mouth and with his fingers wrapped around Danny's cock. Danny comes seconds later and then goes boneless in between Mac and the wall, shuddering. Mac slips out of him and, unthinking, starts to tilt Danny's head back for a kiss.

"No." Danny zips up his pants and steps away. There's still blood on his face and his shirt, and he doesn't bother to wipe it off. Mac fixes his own pants and looks at Danny, and he'll wonder, later, what was in his face in that moment to make Danny laugh the way he does, to throw back his head and stare at the ceiling and shrug in disbelief. "Don't look at me like you're sorry, you liar. Don't fucking do that. You were the one to turn your back on me, and don't you dare try to tell me otherwise," and Danny wrenches himself away and then he's gone. Mac listens to his footsteps recede down the hall; he walks fast, but doesn't run.

Mac goes over and shuts the door again. There was nothing else he could have done, he tells himself. Not the way he just fucked Danny; he already regrets that, despite the way his body is still pulsing with the aftershocks of desire. But what they said to each other before: what he said to Danny, what made Danny throw that punch and forced Mac to defend himself. It was the only possible way out. He's gone to the mat for Danny over and over again, and if they try to stay together, the future can only bring more trouble. He hasn't turned his back on Danny; he's only extricated the both of them from a bad situation, and some day Danny will understand that.

He touches his lip and then his nose, wincing, and he has to swallow hard to keep from gagging against the bright copper tang of blood in the back of his throat. Everything he's done, he's done for Danny.

vi. State Trooper

Jersey Turnpike just after dark, and Danny can't make himself sit still after the day they've just spent cooped up in a dusty courthouse records room. Nervous taptaptap on the window until he catches Mac's glare and subsides with a muttered apology, quiet then until he spots a familiar exit sign, and "We used to come cruising out this way, me and Louie," he says to Mac. Deeper night falls over the Turnpike and he doesn't say anything else, doesn't tell Mac about the other memory that's just come to mind.

The night of Atlantic City hadn't been the only night he'd tried to run with Louie, not at all; and he's 16 years old and in the backseat of Sonny Sassone's ancient Thunderbird, Louie up front with Sonny and he doesn't remember where Sal Czabo had been that night, doesn't care. They've been going too fast for miles. Louie laughs and Sonny slides quicksilver from amusement to something darker, too many teeth in his smile and it makes Danny sink lower in the backseat, pray Jesus Mary and Joseph not to be noticed. He remembers the road was a black slick, hell-lit with neon. He counts the exit signs and doesn't look around, and suddenly there are headlights in the distance and the faint sound he's been hearing beneath the bass on the car stereo resolves itself into a siren.

The bottom drops out of Danny's stomach and now the other two hear it, too. Louie is still laughing, but Sonny reaches across him and yanks the glove compartment open, and then there's a gun in his hand. It glitters under the distant lights; it's the whole world. Jesus Sonny put it away, Louie not laughing now, and Danny keeps on not saying a word. He wants to close his eyes while he prays, but all he does is watch the headlights get closer and listen to the siren wail get louder. A speeding ticket would suck, but he knows this has gone far beyond that. Mr. State Trooper in the black-and-white has no idea, no fucking clue at all. He thinks he's going to pull over a bunch of troublemaking teenagers, and if he only knew how things will change for him if he pulls them over. He's got a wife at home, maybe, who he'll never see again; he'll think of her while he lies bleeding out his life by the side of the Turnpike, and she'll cry for him when the other troopers come and tell her that her husband's dead.

The black-and-white is close, and Sonny's got the gun cocked, face hard and relentless, and then it's even with them and Danny stops breathing. The car goes past them without stopping or even slowing. Up front, Sonny and Louie start to laugh again. Danny says nothing, and watches the taillights disappear. He never even saw the trooper's face.

"Yeah," Danny says to Mac. "Me and Louie, we had us some times." Mac nods without taking his eyes off the road, and Danny goes back to staring out the window. He doesn't know why he thought of that just now.

vii. Used Cars

The old neighborhood is silent and nearly deserted on Sunday afternoon. Wind whistles down the canyon of the empty boulevard and dust swirls around Danny's feet. This is what the city will look like when the end comes, he thinks; empty streets always disturb him on a visceral level. He's glad enough not to see anybody, though, because he didn't come here for a friendly family visit. He's done his level best to stay away from the house, to avoid the street where his parents live and the corner bar where his father drinks on weekend afternoons and most weekday evenings. If pressed, he would have to confess that he's not entirely sure why he's here, why he felt driven out of his apartment on his day off and compelled to drive all way up here, just to walk around and hope that he doesn't see anyone. Hell, he could do that in his own neighborhood, and there he'd have a much better guarantee of not running into any old faces from the past.

Or any old ghosts. Or so he'd like to believe, but by now he's come to realize that this isn't the way it works. He knows the old cliché, that a man can't run from his sins, that even if he changes his environment he's still going to be the same old him. It's true, Danny knows it's true, and here he is trying again anyway. The ghosts are with him all the time now, and he thinks they've even followed him up here to the Bronx: some of them were here to start with, but there are others that he's been trying to outrun, and here they are anyway, keeping pace with him on this lonely street corner. He doesn't know what he's going to do anymore. All he knows is that he's tired of spinning in circles, tired of making the same old mistakes and of fighting against something that he maybe can't escape. Maybe he doesn't even want to escape it, not really, but either way he can't go on being haunted.

Smoke is rising gently from the husk of a burned-out car in an empty lot. Danny watches it and admits to himself, for the first time in forever, what he really wants.

viii. Open All Night

Gravel crunches beneath the wheels of Mac's car as he pulls off the road, and as he kills the engine he's plunged into darkness. The other car has its lights off and is idling back near the tree line, but as Mac watches a tiny spark flares to life and Danny's face is briefly illuminated by the end of his cigarette. Mac takes a deep breath and wonders how they've gotten to this, and then gets out of the car. He can see only a little bit here, just enough to catch it when Danny glances in his direction and gives him a brief nod. The door lock clicks softly, and then he climbs into the passenger seat. Neither of them says hello. Danny takes one more quick drag on the cigarette and stabs it out, then turns to face Mac. He kisses him then, mouth hot and insistent, and Mac gives into it the way he knew he would the whole way out here, all that long hour driving through the night and watching the highway lights loom toward him and then fade in the distance.

Danny's hands are cold and his mouth tastes like tobacco, and in the confines of the car, he can't be anything but much too close. He leans back against the window and strokes himself until he's good and ready to let Mac touch him, a little smile playing across his lips, and Mac watches, hands clenching into fists. Finally, Danny reaches over and pushes his fingers into Mac's mouth. Mac licks pre-come from his hand until Danny can't even fake holding back his moan, and then, because it's going to be dawn soon, they fuck in the backseat. Danny comes with a silent tremor, mouth opening a little, and Mac closes his eyes and presses his face into Danny's hair, and shakes and shakes.

Mac drives back home alone in his own car, still tasting Danny on his tongue, and the first red ribbons of daylight turn the highway into something surreal. Even after setting the heater as high as it'll go, he's still shaking, and he's clumsy when he turns on the radio and scans through the stations. News, commercials, some awful pop song, a Southern-inflected preacher on a gospel station who takes him by surprise. At last he finds some real rock, guitar and drums with a good, hard beat, and he stays with that, even turning the volume up louder. He thinks of Danny again, of his face in the dark and the feel of his hands, and this arrangement of theirs is a stabbing pain in his chest. There's no salvation to be found on this tired highway, he thinks, but it's the rising sun that makes his eyes burn and that makes him pull on a pair of sunglasses against the glare.

ix. My Father's House

Insomnia, Mac believes, is beginning to cloud his judgment. Stella frowns at him and asks him if he's feeling all right. After a week or two she gives up asking, but he knows that she hasn't forgotten about it. Danny still won't quite meet his eyes whenever they pass each other in the hallways, but that has nothing to do with his lack of sleep. The world begins to feel like it's peeling back in layers, like his skin is coated with an invisible layer of dust. He stops going home most nights, because he knows what's waiting for him there: an empty bed that he'll never sleep in, hours of television he doesn't want to watch, and far too many memories. He walks around the city instead, and although this doesn't keep the memories at bay, they turn out to be easier to bear, somehow, when he's in motion.

Standing outside a revival movie house one night and blinking blearily up at the marquee, he remembers the time he spent reading about Starkweather, trying to impose meaning, or at least order, on something that could never be understood. That leads him, inevitably, to recalling once more the people he's lost. He's not a lucky man, not at all, and he thinks of his father's slow, horrible death, and how even today he doesn't know if he did the right thing by refusing the request to hasten it along. Maybe it doesn't matter, because he'd stopped being welcome in his father's life long before the cancer had struck, and there's a tiny part of him that resents how his father had only been willing to overlook that once he needed something from him.

But most of the time, it's not his father he sees when he walks the dark streets and when ghosts flicker in his peripheral vision; it's everyone else. All the people he'd loved in very different ways, everyone who's now lost forever. He imagines a gravestone in the middle of Washington Square Park one night, shimmering in and out of existence just beneath the Arch, but it vanishes for good before he can get close enough to read the name. Jesus fucking Christ, he needs to sleep. He presses a hand to his eyes. So many people, and so many lost chances. So many black marks on his soul. He can't change the past, but he's so sick of living like that now, and after a while he starts to realize what he wants to do. It takes him some time before he's able to sort out whether he's come to this decision just in some misguided attempt to atone for sins that he simply can no longer purge himself of or if it's what he truly wants now; and it takes him even longer, once he finally understands, to sort out what he's going to do about it.

When he knows, he tries to act before he has too long to think about it, or to talk himself out of it. He lets one of his nighttime walks take him where it will, and when he's standing in front of the closed door, even so, he almost turns and walks away at the last minute. It would be so easy to do that; it would be so easy to leave this behind him, along with all the other doors that are closed and locked forever. The street is dark, and now it's his skin that's beginning to peel back from his bones.

Mac rings the doorbell.

x. Reason to Believe

He and Mac have been talking for what feels like hours before Danny finally realizes how late it's gotten. Mac looks drawn and pale and nearly lost in the shadows, but Danny doesn't want him to go. "You want to stay?" he asks after awhile, trying to sound diffident. "Save you the trip back." Mac gives a slow nod, looking into his eyes, and Danny puts a hand to the center of his back as they walk down the hall together.

"People forget," Mac says, and it takes Danny a moment, but then he understands that Mac's only continuing the conversation they've been having. "They say they do."

Danny frowns. "That's bullshit," he says. "I remember all of it." All the things he'd rather forget; he doesn't specify that, because he figures Mac knows.

"Maybe we're just unlucky." There's too much weariness in Mac's bowed head, and Danny just wants to step over to him, soothe away the worry lines and the aching tension. He does the next best thing, and doesn't bother with the light as he shrugs out of his sweater.

They go slow once they're in bed together. Mac's hands stroke up and down his back at a steady pace, and his kisses are even slower, a long, deliberate press of his mouth against Danny's as they move in each other's arms. Danny rolls them over and pushes him back into the pillows after awhile, and Mac goes willingly, reaching up and sliding his fingers into Danny's hair, kissing him a little harder now and lifting his hips up off the mattress. Danny kisses him back, gasping a little when Mac sinks his teeth into his lower lip. Their fingers are wrapped around each other's cocks and their mouths are together when they both come. Mac lets out a moan, tensing against him, and Danny just lets himself go, arching and whispering, "Oh, fuck," as it hits him.

Mac lies next to him afterward, tracing little circles on his hipbone, and Danny looks up at the ceiling. "So what now?" he asks.

"I don't know," Mac says. "I just..." He stops.

"Just what?"

"I can't make promises," he says at last. "I don't know what's going to happen."

"That's okay. I'd rather hear you say that than..." Danny shrugs. "Than anything else."

There's a bright moon rising over the city when Danny goes to the window later that night. Mac comes over and stands with him, arms around his waist, and they look out at it without talking. The streets are dark, but the moon is full and white; he can see almost all the way to the river from here.

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