mooging | Fic: Green Wing, Mac/Guy, R ~ A pair of binocular (incorrect)

I AM SPAMMING YOU ALL, I am very sorry.

This kind of attacked me out of nowhere and forced me to write it, so, er, I clearly had no say in the matter. Also, I wrote it at my dad's, who does not know I write gaaaays, so I kept having to be like 'NO NOT WRITING ANYTHING no you cannot read it' and angling the notebook away so he wouldn't read words like 'wanking' or 'cock' or 'twat' and make me have A Talk with him. Good times?

ANYWAY, here is a fic for your faces.

Title: A pair of binocular (incorrect)
Rating: R
Fandom/Pairing: Green Wing; Mac/Guy
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: Green Wing belongs to Victoria Pile, I own nooothing.
Summary: Involving Guy being stubborn and a whole lot of alcohol.

Guy is kissing Mac.

Mac is kissing Guy.

Guy says, "What are we doing?"

Mac merely smiles enigmatically and slides a leg between Guy’s, and Guy says, "Uuuuung."

A hand follows the thigh and suddenly Mac is gently wanking him off, because Guy has got hard somehow, and Guy is getting all agitated and red in the face, his knees are going all weak, and a pink elephant wanders past wearing a party hat and singing Wuthering Heights.

"Ignore it," says Mac, and Guy wakes up.

He wakes up in sweat-slick sheets tangled around his legs, and that’s not all that’s wet in his bed. Guy really hates coming in his sleep: it’s all of the mess and none of the fun, and Guy is nothing if not fun-loving.

Guy shifts stickily in the bed and snaps, "Jesus fuck."

ii)

"You’re a wanker," says Guy, and then, wrinkling his nose, "you know, metaphorically. You probably don’t even wank – and if you do, you just wank your own stupid ginger cock and I don’t care, because you’re a guy and I’m a Guy, and you wouldn’t be wanking off anyone else because you’re a guy – no, you’re not Guy, I’m Guy – and you wouldn’t be wanking me off because we’re both guys – but I’m the only Guy – so, you know, fuck off."

Briefly, there is silence.

Then, Mac says, "Right, good to know," and pushes one of the several empty pint glasses away from Guy. Guy clutches protectively at the half-full glass in his hand.

"Mine," he slurs.

"Yours," Mac agrees.

"Not yours though, ha ha," says Guy, and slugs back the rest of the pint without blinking. "Thassa spot," he says, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He beckons Mac closer. Mac rolls his eyes and leans towards him, over the multitude of empty glasses. Guy waits. Mac waits. Mac raises an eyebrow – and then Guy belches loudly in his face.

"Oh, excellent," says Mac, retreating back to his side of the table, where there is a notable lack of alcohol consumption. Guy laughs inanely for about a minute and then signals the bartender obnoxiously.

"Ah – I don’t think so," says Mac quickly, shaking his head at the bartender. It is the kind of head-shake that says ‘I am very sorry for my slovenly drunken comrade’ whilst simultaneously intimating that the nodder and the noddee live merrily together in a sober land of superiority and skip through the fields of righteousness nightly.

"Wan’ a drink," insists Guy, heavy arms flailing ineptly and drunkenly in what he believes is Mac’s general direction. "Gerroff me, you snooty ginger poof."

"I’m nowhere near you," says Mac, who isn’t. "Here’s your drink." He hands Guy an empty glass. Guy seizes it with relish.

"Bloody right ‘here’s your drink’," Guy tells him, putting his nose into the glass. Distorted, it comes out, "Boo rat has a dick."

"That’s nice," says Mac, long-sufferingly.

Guy peers accusingly at him through the bottom of his glass. He now appears to be using it as a telescope. "Why aren’t you drinking?"

Mac says, "Well, when you dragged me down here and ordered three pints for yourself and stole half a bowl of peanuts from behind the bar with a remarkable lack of subtlety, I thought perhaps you might need a lift home later. You know, from someone who isn’t a sozzled Swiss bastard."

"Nor’a bastard," says Guy, with as much dignity as a man with a pair of boxers on his head can carry off -- ("I need protecting from unwelcome advances," he’d told Mac, very seriously, after his third pint; "You need something," Mac had said, doing nothing to stop him, "but I don’t think a pair of pants on your head is the key here.").

Mac says, "I think we should probably go now."

"No," says Guy, remarkably firmly. "And what kind of gratitude is that? I bring you here to get fucking drunk – no fucking, shut up – and for no reason at all, no dreams, no fucking because we’re guys – I’m Guy – where’s my other binocular?" And he collapses, face first, onto the table.

One of the empty glasses falls over.

Mac looks at him, somewhere between amused and fond. "Come on," he says gently. "Home."

He heaves Guy’s arm over his shoulders and pulls him in close to his side, arm looped around Guy’s waist. Guy stumbles blearily and half-consciously forwards and Mac supports him slowly out, steering him carefully through the door.

"I’m Guy!" pipes Guy, as the door swings shut behind them, and Mac says, in an odd, low, voice, "Yes, you are."

iii)

"Mention this again and I’ll gas your knackers off," mutters Guy sinisterly, lying with his head in a toilet in the Gents on the second floor of the hospital the next day, and Mac smiles behind his hand as he leans on the cubicle door, says okay and passes Guy a damp paper towel.

iv)

Guy can’t sleep. Well, no, he probably could sleep if he tried but he’s not going to fucking try, is he, not with Those Dreams still threatening to re-surface. Bloody Mac. Bloody Mac and bloody hat-wearing pink elephants.

Guy dials the phone.

"I hate you," he says, when Mac picks up.

He hears Mac sigh. "Are you dying?" Mac asks.

"No."

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Are you otherwise in need of emergency assistance, more so than the daily state of your Swiss Twattitude would suggest?"

"No," says Guy, emphatically, "and what is this, 20 bloody questions from ginger wank control? Do you want me to pant for you? Do you want me to make monosyllabic noises while you touch your scrawny little dick? You do, I know, but try to contain yourself. It’s late."

"You do remember that you called me?" says Mac, but he doesn’t sound offended. He sounds like he’s smiling.

"Fuck off," says Guy, originally.

"Yeah," says Mac, "yeah, all right," and Guy is left listening to the dial tone.

Just before Mac hangs up, Guy hears him hesitate, draw breath as though about to say something – something different, and Guy’s traitorous heart goes ka-thump all erratic and inexplicable, but Mac doesn’t say anything and the dial tone talks Guy’s heart-rate down on its own instead.

Guy puts the phone down too.

When he eventually falls asleep, he dreams of surgeon’s hands and surgeon’s mouth and surgeon scrubs around surgeon ankles, and of Mac saying "oh," and "oh," and "Guy," until the morning.

"I’ve decided you should suck me off," announces Guy, in the locker room.

Mac doesn’t even turn around. "Why?"

"Because you should," says Guy, as if this is perfectly obvious.

"I think not, actually" says Mac, shutting his locker with a towel clutched in one hand. He squares his shoulders for some reason Guy can’t immediately work out, continues, "And if I were to consider putting my mouth anywhere near your rotting genitals, I’d need a better reason than ‘because I should’ to risk death by Switzerland’s one-man sexually transmitted disease."

"Gnnnnn," says Guy, slamming his hands down onto the bench he is sitting on. "Fucking do it, all right?"

"…No?" says Mac, like Guy is so far beyond stupid that he must only be addressed in simple tones of disbelief, and Guy rankles furiously, stands up, and backs Mac against his locker until they are standing nose-to-angry-nose. "Ooh," says Mac, "now I must agree to your demands what with you being so strong and forceful and what-have-you."

"Shut up," Guy growls, "and suck my super Swiss cock, you nonce."

"I’d really rather not," says Mac. He still sounds calm, unruffled and placid, and Guy bares his teeth at him, blood going hissy and frothy and frustrated.

"Look," says Guy, gathering speed, "you have been in my fucking head all fucking week, and I did not give you permission to be there, so, either you suck me off or I will pull out your eyes and stamp them into slimy eye-sperm, because it is your fault that you are in my brain."

Mac stares at him.

Feeling he lacked flourish, Guy adds, "So there."

Slowly, Mac says, "You’ve been thinking about me?"

Guy says, with as much sarcasm as he can muster, "Well worked out, genius – do they really let you wield scalpels?" It is, admittedly, not the wittiest thing he has ever said.

Mac says, brow furrowed, "In a sex way?"

Guy says, "Yessssssss," all whiny and petulant between his teeth, blushing hot and distressingly, and pressing into Mac’s chest.

Mac nods. "Right," he says. "Then I think you should suck my cock, seeing as you find me so irresistible."

It is Guy’s turn to stare.

Mac puts his hands on Guy’s shoulders and pushes him to his knees; Guy hits the floor, caught off-guard and more than a little stunned. After a beat, he fumbles with the drawstrings on Mac’s scrubs and they shuffle together in an ungainly way into a shower stall. Guy kicks the door shut.

Mac says, sounding slightly short of breath, "And you’d better be fucking good, Secretan."

vi)

Guy is good.

vii)

Very good.

Now I go to watch Sense and Sensibilty (tv version), my thoughts on which are: Elinor <<<<< Emma Thompson, everyone else :D. It amuses me how their Edward is like Hugh Grant v.2, but, like, with an emotional range.