Title: Learning to Let Go
Author: stellaluna_
Rating: R
Pairing: Danny/Mac.
Summary: Mac is trying to let go of the past. Post-ep for "The Thing About Heroes...".
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.

***

The world is strange and bright, and Mac closes his eyes as Danny sinks to his knees in front of him. Lights flash on the insides of his eyelids, increasing his sense of vertigo, and he opens them again in a hurry. He looks across the room, toward the window; neither of them thought to close the blinds, and he can see the span of the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. It's reassuring. He lets the lights fill his eyes, and then he looks down at Danny.

"Okay?" Danny asks.

"Okay," Mac says. He hears his voice echo. It sounds the same as always, as far as he can tell, for all he pays attention. Never heard you sound so Chicago, Flack had said to him, less than a day ago, after they'd gone to the hotel and he'd told his story, finally, for the first time in thirty years. But that had been in another city. He doesn't think there's any trace of it left now.

He reaches a hand out to Danny. "You don't have to -- we can go to bed if you want."

Danny shakes his head. "We can do that later," he says, and puts one hand on Mac's hip. He traces the hollow, the curve of bone, with his thumb, and the warmth of his palm is like a brand on Mac's skin, even through his pants. He imagines what Danny's touch will feel like on bare flesh, and the thought sends a hot lick of desire through his body. He squeezes his eyes shut again, just for a second, and when he opens them, Danny begins to spider his fingers along the line of his hip, one at a time until he's worked them past his belt and has the edge of Mac's shirt in his hand.

Mac stares down at Danny as he begins to pull the shirt free of Mac's pants. Danny's cheeks are flushed and his lips are parted just a little, but his eyes are calm, as if he weren't on his knees at all. As if he hadn't kept his hand on Mac's leg through the whole drive over here. As if they hadn't kissed frantic and hungry as soon as they got inside, or as if he hadn't started breathing faster as Mac rubbed his hands up and down his back.

Now Danny looks up into Mac's face and pulls his shirt out of his pants. The material comes free, and Mac waits for the touch of Danny's fingers. Danny lifts his other hand and starts to unbutton the shirt, instead. Mac twists a little, unable to help it, wondering how long Danny is going to draw this out and knowing that however long he does, however much he prolongs this, he'll go along with it. He'll let himself be guided. He doesn't have the strength to do anything else.

Danny doesn't make him wait very long at all; he undoes the first three or four buttons and then presses the palm of his hand to Mac's stomach. Mac draws in a quick breath at the touch, and Danny smiles a little, then leans closer. Close enough so that Mac can't look into his eyes, close enough that his breath raises the little hairs on Mac's stomach. He reaches down and touches the crown of Danny's head, stroking, and he looks across the room again, at the window and the lights on the bridge.

Maybe it's only the travel that's getting to him, that's making the edges of everything stand out in such hyper-real relief. Never mind that the time change between here and Chicago is only an hour, or that he hadn't been there even twenty-four hours; it's a lot to process over the course of just a few days, and he knows he hasn't had time yet to work it through in his head. Chicago had been a shock to his senses, strange and too familiar all at once. It would have been even if he hadn't found the body in the Tribune Building, hadn't had to relive a night he'd thought was long since dead and buried.

This is here. This is now. Chicago is a thousand miles behind him, and Drew Bedford is locked up tight in the Tombs. All of that is then, over, or it will be soon enough. Now is this room, the Brooklyn Bridge in his eyes, Danny's hot breath on his skin and the way his hair feels as Mac twines his fingers through it.

Danny leans in even closer and brings up his hands again, pressing them to Mac's thighs as he brushes his mouth over his bare skin. Mac hears himself draw in another breath, and he can't help pushing his hips forward, trying to push himself tighter into Danny's searching mouth. Danny's hands spread wide across his thighs as he starts to apply a little bit of pressure, and Mac realizes for the first time how hard he is already, how the ache is beginning to move through his entire body. He arches his hips again, and Danny lifts his head.

"Easy," Danny says in a low voice. "Let it go." He puts one hand on Mac's belt buckle. "Let it all go. I got you."

He should fight this, Mac thinks; he should, at least, offer more resistance than he does. But he's tired, too tired for artifice, and he can still feel the day weighing heavily on his shoulders. The day, and all the months that preceded it, all the sleepless nights and worry and arcane clues like stones in the ocean. He's too tired not to want this. Too tired to tell himself that he doesn't, that he shouldn't.

Danny is now. Danny knows all about being haunted. Danny will know how to take him through this, how to take him out of this.

Mac looks into Danny's eyes, and he sees for the first time how Danny is lit by the bridge, how the city lights are right here in his face; his eyes are glowing with them. He nods. He doesn't trust his voice.

He doesn't have to, because Danny is already unbuckling his belt as Mac leans back against the wall and closes his eyes one final time, waiting to be lifted into the light, letting Danny's hands anchor him.

***