kiss prompt! whatever ship you fancy!! a heated kiss while holding them by the throat
title: look what you've done to me
word count: 2.2k
rating: general
pairing: mackenzie boyd / john sugden
warnings: strong language, my very late realisation that writing john is tough (but my commitment to the bit prevailed)
summary: john drives mack to the hospital because he saves lives. unfortunately, mack is rather ungrateful about it
title from stockholm syndrome, feel free to send me a kiss 💋
Mackenzie’s drifting in and out of consciousness in the backseat, alternating between pitiful whimpers and garbled words which are mostly indecipherable, but the tone he delivers them in makes it quite obvious he’s unimpressed by the situation.
Honestly, John thinks he should be a little more grateful.
After all the stunts Mack’s pulled over the last few weeks, he’s lucky to be alive, let alone en route to the hospital. John could’ve killed him — a crueller man surely would’ve, that day in the woods. A shot straight through the head or the heart, maybe a severing of the spinal cord. Quick and painless or slow and painful, archer’s choice.
But John doesn’t kill people. Would make an exception should the universe give him a clean line of sight on Robert — his brother more a hindrance than a human, a blight on the lives of everyone who knows him; a curse Aaron will never be freed from — but he’d be forgiven for that, he knows.
The divine powers that be wouldn’t begrudge him ridding the world of Robert. They’d probably welcome John into heaven with open arms and show him to some hero’s suite beyond the pearly gates.
Mack doesn’t deserve to die, though. His biggest crime is being an idiot, which unfortunately doesn’t warrant the death penalty, so John’s doing what he does best and saving the unappreciative prick’s life.
“We there ye’?” slurs Mack.
A glance in the rearview mirror shows he’s got an arm thrown over his eyes, the other wrapped around his middle. Blood seeps through his bandages, crimson smeared with brown where grime’s started to discolour his shirt.
He looks like he’s in agony. It’s nothing compared to the migraine his bleating’s causing John.
“The car’s still moving,” John replies around the clench of his jaw. “What do you think?”
Mack grumbles something no doubt unsavoury, cuts himself off with a hiss of pain that John decides is well-deserved. Might teach him some manners, like shock therapy or something.
“I could’ve left you there,” John continues. “You’d’ve died and it wouldn’t have been my fault. Natural causes. Succumbing to your injuries.”
Mack huffs a shaky exhale. “Injuries you caused.”
John rolls his eyes. “I stopped the infection. Not my fault your body couldn’t fight off the rest.”
“Yeah, ‘s’all my fault. Forgot I asked to be kidnapped.”
“Well, you did,” snaps John, “when you started pokin’ your nose into my business. You were askin’ for trouble, Mackenzie. You can’t be upset that you got it.”
Mack makes a noise of disagreement. John turns up the radio.
“But in your dreams, whatever they be, Dream a little dream of me.”
It’s an old cassette tape, but the classics are a classic for a reason. With any luck the dulcet tones of The Mamas & The Papas will lull Mack into a deep enough sleep that he doesn’t wake up. Can’t blame that on John, can he? If he’s too thick to wake himself up, that’s on him.
Thankfully there’s not too much traffic about, and John’s fairly confident he can make it in good enough time that he’ll still get to the depot before Caleb clocks off for the day. Everything’s going exactly according to plan.
By the time he’s pulling into the hospital car park, Mack’s stirring again. John knows that because the first words he mutters are, “‘M awake”, and annoyance flares in his chest, anger simmering hot under his skin.
“I wish you’d died,” John grits out, unable to hold back the thought.
Mack hacks a dry cough. Serves him right for turnin’ his nose up at the water bottle John offered before they set off. As if he’d go through the trouble of driving him to the hospital just to poison him — case in point, Mackenzie truly is stupid.
“Right back atcha,” he wheezes.
John gets out of the car, slams his door with more force than necessary. Doesn’t matter now. He’s gonna have to abandon the thing here, what with ANPR and a target on his back. There’s probably wanted posters up by now — his face plastered to telephone boxes and trees and notice boards in every building within a ten mile radius at least.
God, he hopes they haven’t let Robert pick the picture.
He yanks open the back door, revels in the way Mack flinches at the light. Blacked out windows — yet another thing the bloke’s been ungrateful about. He’s going to have a right miserable time under the bright lights in the hospital, and John debates, for a split second, hiding out long enough to witness it.
A bit of last minute entertainment to lift his spirits.
Alas, John’s survival instincts are significantly better than Mackenzie Boyd’s, so he knows not to linger where he’s not welcome.
“Right, c’mon then,” he mutters, securing his hands under Mack’s armpits and practically dragging him out of the car. He’s heavy even with some of his muscle definition lost between his diet of mostly protein bars and bottled water, a well-built man with firm shoulders and biceps twice the width of John’s forearms easily.
Even with the scraggly beard and the terrible personal hygiene, Mack’s an attractive bloke. John would be hard pressed to deny that. In another life he might’ve tried to pursue him, even — for a one night stand, that is. John’s never really been one for relationships, sans Aaron, and that’s not worked out too well for him, all things considered.
It’s not Aaron’s fault, of course.
Robert is a poison dripping in his ear and infecting his heart. John’ll extract it, eventually; when he’s in a better headspace with a place set up ready for Aaron to join him. Maybe between them they’ll convince Victoria and Harry to come with, though John’s not really in the business of taking no for an answer when it comes to big decisions like that.
Sometimes people shouldn’t be allowed to think for themselves. They lack rationality and focus on the bigger picture. John can see it with startling clarity.
“You’re a bastard.”
He can also see a nose in need of a good punch, and it’s attached to the face of a man who’s staring at him with such contempt it’s a wonder John hasn’t dropped dead from sheer force of will.
“You’ve said that already. Twice.”
“Have I?” Mack seems genuinely bewildered for a moment. Possible concussion, John muses. But then he shakes his head, winces at the sharp movement, and says, “You deserve to hear it again.”
John smiles, tight-lipped. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, it is.”
One second Mack’s upright, arm thrown around John’s shoulders for support. The next John steps back, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, moaning in pain. John leans against the car, twirls his keys around his finger with a bored expression.
“Ready to stop being a brat?”
“No.”
John raises an eyebrow. “I could leave you to crawl to the main entrance. Y’know, if a car doesn’t hit you first.”
“Why are ya helpin’ me?”
“Because I’m not your enemy, Mackenzie.”
“Coulda fooled me.” The snark has lost most of its harshness, leaving him sounding like a stroppy toddler having a tantrum on the ground.
Taking pity on him, John lifts him back up. The two of them start limping in the direction of the hospital entrance, silence interspersed with the occasional grunt from Mack followed by John’s teeth grinding audibly.
Mack might just be the worst patient he’s ever had. Such a drama queen.
The plan is simple: dump Mack in a wheelchair just outside the doors then make a break for it — maybe hop in a taxi if he dares, or otherwise hope his legs can carry him back to Emmerdale at a decent enough pace that he isn’t forced to hide out there overnight, waiting for Caleb to start his shift again bright and early.
Except there’s clearly not an ounce of self-preservation behind those pretty, glazed over eyes because the second they see a glimpse of a scrubs-clad figure in the distance, Mack shouts, “Help!” with all his strength, dissolving into a coughing fit a moment later.
John doesn’t waste a second, grabs him by the lapels of his disgusting jacket and pulls them ‘round the nearest corner. He shoves Mack hard against the wall, hears the crack of skull on brick, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way his pulse jumps beneath the forearm John’s pressing against his throat.
“I’m starting to get really sick of you.”
Mack’s bottom lip juts out, quivering. “Looks like you’ll get your wish soon enough, eh? Runnin’ away and never comin’ back — you really think you can get away with that?”
John thinks about telling him about how he will be coming back. He’s got every intention of rescuing Aaron from the prison he’s been trapped inside, of forging a better life away from all this. It’s this inexplicable desire inside him, one that urges him to spill everything to Mack as though he were some confessional capable of absolving his guilt.
Nobody’s ever listened the way Mack listens. It’s exhilarating, addictive, terrifying. Mack knows too much. John wants to tell him more.
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
“So that’s it.” Mack tilts his head as much as John allows, doesn’t try to fight back. Seeing another human being must’ve spooked him because he’s pliant now it’s just the two of them again, ready to comply.
Like a soldier falling into line behind his General. Mack’s a lot like Aidan in some ways.
“That’s it,” repeats John, studying the expression on his face. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there’s a flicker of disappointment there. Perhaps Mack’s grown fond of him, or he’d developed some sort of affinity for living on rations in the dark and can’t stomach the thought of the clinically bright hospital and its vomit-inducing food menu.
“You gonna tell me where you’re headed?”
John scoffs. “Nice try. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Mack purses his lips. They’re dry and cracked, and John’s gaze is drawn to them for a beat too long. His facial hair isn’t doing him any favours, overgrown and unkempt, but Mack’s still a handsome bloke — Aaron’s said as much on a couple of occasions, after a few too many beers because loose lips sink ships and John’s always known the best time to strike.
If Aaron were here, John thinks he’d want him to comfort Mack in some way.
He’s about to be poked and prodded by strangers, reunited with a wife who thinks so little of him and a sister who hasn’t so much as blinked at his absence. They were willing to believe the worst of him, and Mack’s soft enough that he’ll probably accept their apologies with grace because he doesn’t know he deserves more.
John flexes his arm, feels the Adam’s apple bob beneath it.
“You’re starin’,” murmurs Mack.
“Just thinking.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
John laughs, mirthless. “You should learn when to shut up,” he says without heat.
“You’ll have to make me.”
So he does.
John’s still holding Mack by the throat, using the position to force his head back further until he’s in just the right position. John swipes his tongue along chapped lips, and Mack opens up for him as if by instinct alone, a guttural groan torn from deep in his throat.
It’s messy, all clacking teeth and tentative tongues, vibrations formed and swallowed in the cadence of their moans. Mack’s breathing is uneven and he goes limp in John’s hold, fully gives himself over to the moment.
It feels like it lasts for a lifetime. In reality, there’s barely time to commit it to memory before Mack’s forehead comes crashing against John’s own, sending him reeling backwards.
“What the fuck was that?” demands Mack, slumped against the wall with a hand over his mouth.
John shakes his head. “You asked for it.”
“I think I’d remember that!”
“You’ll have to make me,” mocks John.
Mack squawks indignantly. “I didn’t mean like that!”
“If you try to tell anyone, they’ll just blame it on your concussion,” John claims. It’s a possibility — one he hopes Aaron buys into, because it’ll be a helluva lot harder to persuade him to start their new life if he’s got it in his head that John’s secretly having it off with his best mate.
“If you stick around any longer you’ll get caught,” retorts Mack.
It’s a solid point. If Mack were smarter, he would’ve kept stalling, let John stammer out explanations or apologies or beg for his silence until someone arrived to witness them and call the police.
Or maybe Mack could’ve done all that and he’s choosing not to.
The thought makes something in John’s chest stir. He nods, steels himself for the task ahead.
Something tells John he hasn’t seen the last of Mackenzie Boyd. He finds he doesn’t mind the thought as much as he probably should. If nothing else, Aaron will be thrilled to see his mate again once they’re settled.
“Goodbye, Mackenzie.”
“Good riddance, John.”
John might be more inclined to believe him if he weren’t still pressing his fingertips to his lips, watching him leave with pupils blown wide from something more than just a mild concussion.
