by Calico
They slipped inside, pushing it shut and locked and listening for the
thunder of their pursuers coming down the corridor, then ran to the window.
Vic stared blankly at the welded catch, realising he'd have to smash the
window open, wishing it was lower so he could get the angle right and risk
less in the way of being shredded to pieces by flying glass, and then he
ducked sideways as Mac barrelled past him and jumped and forced the lock.
"Nice one," Vic said, and they both scrambled through the window and stopped
suddenly, staring down at the ground forty feet below.
"Shit," Mac muttered, and Vic felt an awful lot of him want to scramble
backwards and pull the window fast behind them—instincts ignoring the fact
that that wouldn't relieve their situation at all.
"Gotta jump," he said, forcedly neutral, fiercely alert for the sound of the
opposition behind them.
"Yeah," Mac said, as they started edging down the sloping roof until their
toes dipped into the gutter and their heels rocked on uneven slates.
"Okay," Vic said, casting his eyes across the dizzily-distant ground,
looking for something—anything—to break their fall.
Swimming pool. Might reach it. If they could get a running start—but that
was leaving them to the mercy of the loose roof tiles, at risk of sliding
and falling altogether, bad idea—so maybe, dive and pray, hope to hit the
water. A gamble: to fall uninjured into shallow water you needed legs
spread, arms spread, head high. To land like that on dry land would leave a
big bloody pulp of splintered bones piercing through skin and flesh like a
Halloween pincushion.
There again, to fall onto dry land in any position would probably disable
too many limbs for them to flee bullets successfully. So, the pool seemed to
be the only chance at survival, even if they were gonna have to sacrifice
even the remotest possibility of landing uninjured on grass.
Whatever happened, they needed to do the same thing. He opened his mouth to
speak, became aware Mac was watching him. "Swimming pool," he said lamely,
pointing, watching Mac nod, unsettled by the fierce heat in Mac's eyes.
"Too risky, but our only hope," Mac agreed, then touched Vic's shoulder,
steadying them. "I love you, Vic," he bit off, low and earnest. The air
froze and rocked around them. "You have to know that."
Vic drew in a shocked silent breath, mind stuttering and churning, feeling
like his thoughts were flying out his eyes. It was too soon. They weren't
here yet. Mac hadn't shown any indication of this, of love. Mac's love
belonged to Li Ann, they all knew that, even if it was only to be shattered
on her gracefully studied indifference, each aftermath leaving Vic pick up
the morosely ardent pieces and fuck them into an oblivion strong enough to
make Mac habitable again.
Mac was watching him closely, intense, hanging on the shocked parting of his
lips. What was he supposed to do, say it back? Before they died, because it
was foolish in the extreme to imagine they could take this fall and land
running away from the guns at their backs—and about those guns—
"I love you too," he said quickly, fervently, realising abruptly that Mac
wasn't gonna jump until he said it, and it wasn't true, wasn't wasn't
wasn't, except that why then was ice running through him, why was his heart
beating double time?
Adrenaline, you stupid fuck.
"I know," Mac said, and jumped, and Vic heard a rustle behind them and then
smashed glass, and then a crush of sound like white noise and realised yes,
Mac had made it—He jumped, toes pushing hard off the edge of the roof,
giving him that extra momentum, Mac's voice fizzing through his nerves, and
the air was cushioned but the ground was reaching for him fast, and then the
furious blue glass of the water was chopping beneath him and he was hitting
it hard—
He was underwater, ringing with the absence of noise, eyes stinging, lungs
demanding air. The soles of his feet slammed into the unyielding bottom of
the pool, shock lashing up his legs and ringing in his thighs, and he almost
gasped before catching himself and feeling a flick of grim humour stop his
throat. Bad idea, Mansfield. Don't play with the fishies just yet. He tensed
his legs, almost concerned they might not function, then summoned strength
into the abused muscles and pushed himself up hard.
There was a moment of sickly smoothness and then he was seeing the light
grow before him, water thinning and thinning, finally breaking the surface
and snatching a mist-laden lungful of air.
"C'mon," Mac hissed. He already was crouched at the edge of the pool, eyes
fixed on the roof they'd jumped from—impossibly far away, Vic realised,
skin stinging indignantly everywhere—with his hand outstretched to pull
Vic out.
Vic lurched for the side, dragged himself out, let Mac's strength ease the
weight on his sore arms. Mac hauled him up, and they broke into a sodden
sprint, feet slapping the ground like wet hands clapping, trying to run on
jarred legs without staggering with pain.
"Shit," Vic managed, because he had to say something, even though it was
instantly eaten away by the wind. Mac's words, curling up hotly inside him,
were buoying him even as they weighed him down.
They reached the edge of the carpark, skittering on tiny loose stones, and
dove for the cover of a bristly half-height ornamental hedge. The gunshots
had disappeared, but that didn't mean they were safe. In fact, one false
move—
"This way," Mac said quietly, crawling along the ground, knees scrunching in
the crisp white gravel, leaving indents for Vic to follow in.
Vic followed. He kept his head low, shivering in wet clothes, reloading his
gun in almost-nerveless fingers. He concentrated on not concentrating on
Mac, dripping and sexy, blackness unconsciously picking up white dust and
wearing it like an invitation.
Vic wanted to lick it off his skin, taste chlorine and chalk and the
saccharine bitterness of Mac's sweat mixed into an outdoors cocktail. Wanted
to grab the thighs flexing in front of him and drag them to a halt, strip
down Mac's pants and roll onto his back and wriggle his head between Mac's
parted knees, wanted to make Mac fuck his mouth into the hard spiky ground.
Imagine, Mac's angry helplessness, Vic's hands gripping his chilled thighs,
fingers sliding up to spread his naked ass to the thorn-laced wind. Warmth
growing beneath his hands, blood churning beneath Mac's skin, a few muttered
curses as Mac swayed and then capitulated and started working his cock
deeper into Vic's mouth.
The salt would rise against his lips as he sucked harder, Mac's hips
starting to snap faster, unwilling and involuntary, sliding deep, helpless
to stop as Vic welcomed him yet deeper and held him there.
Mac's eyes would stop focusing, attention sliding and shattering, staring at
his hands, white fists clenching and unclenching around handfuls of small
spiny rocks, dropping his head and staring viciously at Vic's mouth and
closed eyes, watching him swallow his cock against the cold unyielding
ground.
And Vic would suck harder, forgetting to be provocative and just trying to
inhale him, like a junkie striving for heated oblivion, desperately seeking
to eclipse the rest of his life. Harder and harder, climbing, adrenaline
whiting out everything but the present, the gravel, the lurid salt-sweet and
agitated blood, and his heartbeat, fluttering around his ears.
Okay, this really wasn't love.
Or professional.
He shook his head, concentrating on not concentrating on Mac, concentrating
on his discomfort instead. Sharp stones dug into his palms, his knees. Their
progress seemed impossibly slow, impossibly loud. His pants were too tight,
affecting his balance. Blood banged into his brain and was shunted off round
his body, clumsier than usual.
"Okay," Mac said eventually, stopping at the end of the hedge. Vic crawled
up beside him, and they both rose to one knee. The landscape was familiar,
ornamental grounds sloping away in a criss-cross of polite horticulture, a
web of intricate greenery and stark white gravel, the stern bulk of the
house set as a redbrick spider.
"On three," Vic said, nodding at the dark, thorny area behind the maze, and
Mac nodded.
"Gotcha."
"Wait," Vic said, words welling up sour into his mouth. "Earlier."
He had to say something, had to elaborate. He enjoyed Mac, knew that was
mutual, but didn't feel they could qualify it... that way. He could live
without Mac, if pressed; he liked the sex, liked the edge to their contact,
liked the distraction from the rest of his life—but he could survive
without him. This was light: every time he fell, he left parts of himself
behind when they walked away. So. It wasn't love. And it was important for
Mac to know that.
"What about it?" Mac looked preoccupied, eyes zeroed in on the house, on a
figure searching furtively round some bushes. He was still some distance
away, totally safe, but there were always more.
"On the roof," Vic qualified, hoping he wouldn't have to spell it out.
"Oh, that," Mac said, with a kind of crooked grin. "Don't worry about it."
He didn't look like the sort of guy who'd just made an impromptu
declaration. The words, curled in Vic's stomach, reared up into a seething
sort of anxiety. Anger. "Worry about—wait, what, lemme guess, that was for
dramatic effect? Before you jumped?"
Mac shrugged, meeting his eyes, sparkling with amusement. Slightly cruel.
"Of course. As last words went—Well, you know. But don't worry about it,
really."
"I didn't mean it either," Vic said honestly, helplessly. "It just seemed
the right thing to say."
Mac actually looked kind for a moment, a sympathy of sorts rising in his
eyes. "Yeah," he said, "okay."
"I didn't," Vic insisted, frustrated that Mac's expression was bordering on
an indulgent smile.
"Vic, it doesn't matter," Mac said, and Vic knew he'd protested too much,
just secured the whole damn thing to a certainty in Mac's mind. "Now, let's
get going," Mac said, and Vic forced himself to look away and focus on the
thorny hedges, the men in the distance, the shouts as someone found
something and brought a whole lot more men scampering down.
"On three, two, one—"
They were running, shivering, fists cramped around guns, Vic no longer
buoyed.
he last door in the corridor looked significantly more welcoming, simply
because the alternative was to turn back and give up the stealth game and
face far more many security men than they had bullets. Plus, it wasn't
locked: it must be fate.
