#Swatseason8 #NCISVERSE #Macsey #Reese S.W.A.T., NCISverse, The Blacklist, White Collar, White Collar Renaissance, FBI: International, Person of Interest, SOA
people are literally so boring a male character will kill 10000 people and steal candy from babies and theyll be like omg thats my king! but a female character is rude once and theyre like i hope she dies violently
At this height, only a couple floors from the very top of the office’s highrise, you feel further from the ground than you do close to it. The clouds hovering all around and the stars they mask feel more tangible than the vehicles dotting the streets below, innumerate sets of headlights reduced to pinpricks so small and vibrant that they might as well be the bright stars above.
As happily as you’d give the rest of the night gazing out the windows at the sights all around, the harsh glare of your computer screen is never far out of your peripheral. Having been working on this particular settlement document since eight o’clock of the past evening, the neatly-typed words and their meaning have lost all relevance to you - and as you lean away from your cluttered desk to dig the heels of your palms into your tired eyes, the serifs swirl against a black backdrop that you worry you’ll never stop seeing.
“Still in the trenches?”
“Fuck me!”
At the sound of a deep voice emerging from right next to your desk, your heart lurches into your throat as you shout in surprise. Your hands fly to the arms of your chair, claw-like against the soft leather rests, as you push yourself back in fright - only for the source of the shock to be your annoyingly cool-headed protector for the day, a salt and pepper-haired sergeant who’s now trying admirably hard to conceal a smile as he balances two paper cups nestled in a holder one hand and closes your office door with the other.
“I know stealth is the name of the game and all, but wouldn’t giving me a fucking heart attack from creeping into the room be a little counter-intuitive?” You manage to get out, around a jagged breath as the adrenaline starts to ebb away. The heavy door closes quietly, and you rub a hand over your face to try and retain some bit of dignity.
“Well, I think the fact that I was halfway into the room before you noticed me is another reason why you need me here.” He - David, as he’s told you to call him - puts forward amicably.
From the cardboard holder in his hand, he takes one of the cups and sets it before you on the table like a peace offering. “Besides, I thought you could do with something to help you through the night.”
It’s a brown coffee cup, from the nice kiosk downstairs - and from the tag on the side, he must’ve sent for them himself. It’s the same as the two on the other side of your desk, one emptied and the other half-full and gone cold from all your attention having been poured into this document. The tea inside is piping hot, and just how you like it; another unsettingly attentive cop trick you’ve grown distasteful of.
“So you’ve got jokes now.” You murmur into the plastic lid. “Since when have you had jokes?”
He smiles, and it’s a sight. As muchas you enjoy, or tolerate, the spirited back-and-forths with his co-owner and their staff, there’s something about Sergeant Kay and his grounding presence that’s different. He’s been on your detail more and more lately, as the threat to your life has worsened with the nearing of the court date, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that you’ve grown fond of his company. Maybe in ways that don’t entirely befit your situation.
“I’ve always had jokes.” His tone is neutral - not sharp, not mocking, just calm in a weirdly patient way. Lifting one suited shoulder, humor undercuts his tone as he lifts his own cup. “It’s just taken this long for you to talk to me for long enough to hear them.”
“Yeah.” Swallowing thickly, you turn your gaze to your lap and drag your thumbnail over the ridges in the cardboard sleeve in lieu of having to look at him. “Suppose I’ve not been a wonderful client so far, have I?”
In the quiet of the office, his exhale rises like smoke to fill the silence. He shifts, leaning against the thick oak of the desk, and stretches out his free hand atop a strong thigh - which, you realise, is missing the gold wedding band he’d donned when you first met him all those months ago.
“Few people can honestly say they’ve experienced the kind of pressure you’re under at the minute.” He says, softening. Forcing your attention back to him, you’re shocked by just how bare you feel under his gaze - though given his standing in the LAPD, he was sure to be familiar with the details of the case, even if his private security firm wasn’t the one that your senior associates had rushed to hire to ensure your safety.
From where you stand now, on the plateau of it all, everything just seems so ridiculous. The threats delivered every which way - to your personal phone, the PO box in your building, uttered to your face by seemingly friendly strangers - your tires slashed and windshield broken, and the gutwrenching night when you arrived home to find your apartment trashed. All done in warning, too; God knows what would happen when they decided they actually wanted to hurt you.
All because you were hired to after what was, unknown to both you and your client, a mob front for damages that seem so benign looking back. Shit that you’d blown through getting cold called over in school was what’d put your head squarely on the chopping block, and had already claimed lives it has no business in taking.
It feels as though he looks right past that, all through the mess on the surface and right down to where the overwhelming fear and fatigue this whole situation has kept you ensnared in for so long brews sourly in the pit of your stomach. You’ve known many a private security worker and many more cops, and it’s not a trait unique to them - no, it seems it’s just unique to him. To David.
“And hell, hearing Sanchez moan about the trouble you give him has been the high points of my days lately.”
The spell breaks, then, but honestly you’re kind of glad for it. The tilt of his head in concession makes the light catch on the silver in his beard and, smiling, you lean back a little in your chair and cross one ankle over the other.
“Your days must be fairly bleak, so.”
Kissing his teeth, he looks like he’s contemplating your words for a second before rebuking you in a thoughtful manner. “If yours had started getting any better, your bosses wouldn’t still have us around.”
“Guess there is that.” You nod, with no defence to hand, and he laughs. Forcing your eyes away from him and back to the ever-blinking cursor and where it remains, a surge of dread blooms deep in your chest and you shake your tired head. “Christ, I might as well be reading the manufacturer’s tags for this fucking thing at this stage.”
“You need to rest.” He tells you, almost right away. You bite your tongue as a comment about his age and authoritativeness rises to the back of your throat, but settle to just watch on as he places his coffee down on the desk and faces you with crossed arms and a softened brow. “How long have you been at this now? And I know you’re going out to talk with the lead on the Homeland team tomorrow, that’s gonna need a clear head.”
You can’t help but grin up at him, arching a brow as you drum your fingertips on the near-empty cup. “You pay that much attention to all your client’s schedules, even when you’re not assigned to them?”
“Select few.” He’s got an answer for everything, you’re quickly learning. Casting a look down at the face of his watch, he’s quiet for a moment before placidly presenting the idea to you. “Give it fifteen minutes. I’ll wake you, and you can get right back to- “
He waves his hand at the papers covering your desk, wrinkles forming around his kind eyes in his confusion. The sight makes you smile even wider, and with the hands of tiredness gripping ever-tigher at you, you’re more agreeable than you’d usually be.
“Fifteen.”
“Not a second more.” Your curtness has no effect on him, and he holds his hands up before him in defeat. “I know better than to try and argue with a lawyer, believe.”
“Alright.” You nod, and after a beat you make to push yourself up off the chair.
“Alright.” You nod, and after a beat you make to push yourself up off the chair.
Pangs of stiffness shoot up through your back, but you walk them off as you pad over to the largely disused sofa at the other side of the room. The windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling here, and you can see that the streets have grown quieter and darker since you examined them last. You’re not quite sure if this lessens your perpetual unease, or heightens it.
You toe off your shoes, half-clumsy from tiredness, which David has the good grace to turn his back to. Arranging yourself on the small sofa isn’t woefully easy but right now, it feels comparable to the lushest of king beds underneath your exhausted body and no sooner than you’ve tucked your legs almost comfortably half up to your chest and rested your cheek against the back of the sofa do you feel yourself start to drift off to sleep.
…
A soft creak of carpeted floor under heavy feet, and a shadow falling across your face.
“David?” You croak out, barely awake and yet his name is the first thing on your lips. A self-annoyed exhale follows, and the footsteps grow less careful as he stands before you.
“S’okay.” He promises quietly. Still trying to blink yourself awake, you can’t see what it is he’s at - but you can feel soft fabric against the bare skin of your folded arms as he drapes something across you that wards off the cool air. “You just looked cold.”
His suit jacket. Warm from his body, smelling faintly of his cologne.
That perks you up, forcing you to look up at him through bleary eyes. You think he’s smiling down at you, but it looks too different a smile. Too… intimate. Too fond, for what you know you to be to each other. All that said, and you can barely look away.
In that haze of realisation, all you can dumbly muster up is this. “You’re gonna be broke up from sitting over there.”
At your stilted nod over to the creaky armchair and desk reserved for your many minders, his smile deepens and he frowns jokingly down at you. “I thought I was supposed to be the one worrying about you?”
“You can still do that from over here.” Shaking off the dregs of sleep, you shift under your borrowed blanket and nod down at the empty space at the foot of the couch. “What time does Sanchez relieve you?”
“He’s already downstairs.” David tells you, in that kind of aghast way he seems to reserve just for his partner. Your offer seems to have taken him by surprise, and his Adam’s apple bobs behind his pressed collar as he swallows deeply but continues on. “Think he’s a little more fond of that blonde night secretary than he lets on.”
“So surely he won’t be so wrapped up in his courtship that he won’t let some masked murderer into the building.” “Sit. Rest up for a minute.”
He hesitates for a beat, casting a look over his shoulder, before accepting. The sofa dips under his weight, disused springs creaking their protests, and you’re thankful for his jacket to hide behind as the warm press of his wrought torso against your legs forces heat to your cheeks.
“Call me Deacon.” He says softly, like it wasn’t enough, adjusting the side of his jacket tighter around your back with a light hand. “Everyone does.”
Heavy eyes look out at him over the collar of his jacket, and he can hear the testing tone of your voice before you even speak. “Sanchez doesn’t.”
Resting his arm on the low back of the sofa, David - Deacon - smiles reservedly. “Jury’s still out on him.”
“And it’s in on me?” Sleep taints your words with a murmured quality as your eyes begin closing once more, but that lawyerly self-assuredness is never far.
“You could say.” Deacon soothes, sleep belying his own words as he settles back against the cushions. “Get some sleep, yeah?”
A murmured agreement goes understood, and you’re vaguely aware of a strong hand patting your knee affirmatively before you’re pulled back under.
…
Seven AM on the button, and the building’s sharply fluorescent overhead lights flicker to life. Many a time you’ve awoken to them - asleep in a boardroom after succumbing to late discovery sessions, head buried in your desk after trial prep ran into the small hours, even once where you arrived back in the afternoon after a gruelling court day, and awoke the next morning after the spent energy caught up with you - but none with your bodyguard’s jacket draped over your sleeping body, and with the man himself asleep next to you with his arm laid over your crooked knees.
Through the glass panel of your office door, a grey-suited frame sits in the hallway with his back to the door - and craning your neck as your personal cell lights up with a notification, a text from Sanchez with a picture of the both of you attached awaits. Along with a promise that he’ll only use this as blackmail to keep you in line for a couple months, at most.
Deacon’s still asleep beside you, broad chest rising and falling evenly. His arm is warm over your legs, heavy and protective, and your heart hammers behind your ribs. All the knowledge and wisdom imbued to you over the years, and you’re still not quite sure what to do with the knowledge that the measly few hours of sleep that you’d got with him by your side had been the first ones of real rest since it became necessary for him to come into your life.
feat. 50-squad!reader, minor injury, established relationship, fluff
Seven stitches. One on the little gash on the flat of your hand from catching on the gravel when you fell, two on your cheek where the banker’s gaudy class ring had connected with your cheek and five dotted across the laceration across your shoulder blade from the tumble on the pavement when he refused to listen to Stevens’ orders to leave the office lobby willingly.
Though it’s little of a consolation, you definitely could’ve come off worse. Whilst the shittiest call of your and Stevens’ patrol day was removing an unruly ex-employee from a trading firm, Rocker and Cabrera had caught a biker shootout at a pleasant half-hour into the shift. The two of you had swung by to visit them in the hospital, where thankfully their injuries were minimal - but the laughing fits brought on by the many blue band-aids dotted Stevens’ bald head probably hadn’t done a world of good for Cabrera’s bruised ribs, or Rocker’s fractured collarbone.
Back at HQ, the halls are comfortably quiet. It’d seemed to be an easy day for most everyone else, with only a barricade call and some community demonstrations, and much to your dismay 20-Squad had missed all of it by being out on a training day with Homeland Security. Irate as you are that your perpetual rivals got to get off so easy when you ended the day crawling out of a finance company’s meticulously manicured rosebushes, there was a not-small part of you that took a great deal of comfort in the days where you knew your girlfriend was guaranteed to return home to you safe.
That’s why her teammates’ rousing shows of sympathy- which tend to sound a considerable amount like dementedly cruel jabs - are an awful lot easier to swallow as they tumble into the locker room after you. Clapping at Tan’s hand on your shoulder as he promises that the stark, swollen stitches only add to your charm, Zoe finally traipses in and the sound of her laughter brightens things for you almost instantaneously.
Her locker lays across the room, in line with the rest of 20-Squad’s, so your back is to her as you take a seat on the metal bunch to pull your boots on. Behind you, the sounds of her shucking her heaviest gear into her locker can be heard above the many conversations bouncing off the walls and in but a minute, she pads across the room and squeezes your drooped, injured shoulder gently. “Rough day?”
Tilting your head up at her, baring your bruised face to her in its awful entirety, you show her a sweet smile even as her eyes widen in surprise. “You could say.”
“Fuck.” Her dark eyes flit up and down your face as she reaches to hold your face in a gloved hand, tilting your face to the side and taking in the new additions. For their awful appearance, the injuries are largely superficial and having seen you through much worse, Zoe can tell - which begets her easy grin, and the pointed tap of her thumb on your bottom lip. “Lucky he didn’t get your good side.”
Swatting her hand away in feigned offence, you look on slack-jawed as she laughs on the walk back over to her locker. “Lucky for me, or you?!”
“Me, obviously. I’m the one who has to look at you.” Zoe pipes up as she changes, much to everyone else’s unmitigated delight. She casts a wry look over her shoulder, one that you can only bite your cheek at, and you hide a smile as you finish lacing up your boots and ready yourself to head home with her.
“Gonna be pretty hard to see me through the living room wall.” You tell her, forcing a grumble, as she finally finishes up. She doesn’t believe you, not one bit, but makes like she does with a contemplative look - but still shoulders your bag off of your bad arm, and holds the side of your head to press a kiss to your bruised cheek as she leads you out the door home.
Oh hey thanks for replying! I'd love to read a blue and mackey fic. Fluff and angst would be great. I'd also love for them to go undercover (if possible) as a couple. Would love to see your take on that. I uploaded some of them here on IG under this same username (you and search for bluemac on my page). Or if it's easier for you, I upload them all on IG under the username Fin.amir 😊
Using your message because I've engaged with you before to let everyone know that I'm going to focus right now on writing more of what I want rather than what people request. Obviously requests are still accepted but they might not be answered at least for awhile. Writing will probably also be happening more on AO3 than here. All of the shows in my bio are still the shows that I'll write for. I'm so sorry to all who requested and if you want to re request to get it back in my box I'm fine with that and might get around to it if I get the inspiration for it but right this second just feeling burnt out. 🫶🏻
Why does Devin Gamble have less than five posts with her hashtag??? Is no one besides me and @blathannabeaga freaking out about her????? And if so how are you keeping your composure?
