Oh, The Places You'll Go

(The Snappily Titled) Four Times Guy Didn't Say 'Thank You' And One Time He Did

Notes: Written for my dearest lordessrenegade's birthday. *smishes her* Thanks to leiascully for beta. *smishes her also*


"Here we go," says Mac, waving a cup of coffee under Guy's nose.

"Yeah. Put it on the table," says Guy, not shifting his gaze from the paper he is reading. There are strange things afoot in the FTSE 100 and Guy's inheritance depends on the definition of strange being 'mildly peculiar' and not 'Oh ye gods and little kitties! Bail! Bail! Abandon ship!'

"You're welcome," says Mac and Guy merely grunts in return.

Ten minutes later Guy folds the paper and notices the mug, contents still vaguely steaming. He takes a sip. It's good — the expensive stuff — strong and black, just what he needs. He drinks it down in four gulps and stands, caffeine-primed to face down the worst of humanity that the East Hampton Trust has to offer. And he doesn't just mean that weird chick from HR, Joanna Whassername.

***

"Oh," says Mac. "Stupid, stupid." He smacks his forehead with a wet-sounding slap.

"Well, yes," says Guy, relaxed to the point of zombification, arms behind his head, legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table. "Isn't that one of the three basic facts of life? I'm all major deities' gift to creation, Anna Kournikova's arse tastes like strawberries and cream and you, my ginger friend, are stupid."

"No, yes and no," replies Mac, throwing a packet in Guy's general direction.

Guy considers trying to catch it but decides against expending valuable energy that could better be spent persuading the new dark-haired, big-titted radiologist into a compromising position. The packet drops in his lap; it appears to be sandwiches. Guy cocks his head enquiringly.

"Picked up egg by mistake, didn't I?" explains Mac, looking intently at his immaculately-groomed fingernails. "Can't eat egg. Not since the unfortunate incident with the rubber chicken and the curling tongs."

"Right," says Guy. "Shame," and he tears into the packet and starts to eat. He doesn't notice the tiny, fleeting crease between Mac's eyebrows.

The sandwich is delicious and Guy knows from experience he'll spend half the afternoon repeating the pleasure (and a substantial part of the morning regretting it — he makes a note to himself: buy air freshener) — egg has a tendency to linger. Guy looks over at Mac fidgeting in his chair. So does Mac, he thinks.

***

Sometimes the weeks drag. Doctors' weeks are not like other people's. They can start half way through, swap day for night at seemingly random intervals whilst each day simultaneously manages to last both 12 and 72 hours.

This is such a week. Guy's been on-call three nights out of five because of staff shortages (strange how tropical diseases seem to be rife in the world of London-based anaesthetists) and he's worked on some seriously shitty cases. Not all of them made it off the table alive and it wasn't even his fault. This time.

Shattered, he leans at the bar, sure only of one thing, that if he alters his angle of incline by a mere degree either way, he's going down. And not in the good way, either. Then there's a firm arm around his shoulder and he's being propelled to a seat. He considers letting his face smash on the table — it's a sure-fire way of getting to sleep quickly, if with more pain that his usual counting naked Guys trick — but before his muddled brain can decide, there's a pint of Guinness placed exactly where his nose would be if he went with the smash plan and Guy's been brought up to treat alcohol with the respect it deserves. Besides, he doesn't like getting his face wet.

His hand grasps the pint glass automatically and he sinks half of it in one go. The seat next to him creaks and Guy musters up the energy to look round at his angel of mercy. Pale eyes stare back at him, smirking lips a dark gash in pasty, freckly skin. Oh. Him.

"Better?" asks Mac.

"No," says Guy. "Ask me again after four years' sleep."

Guy's head is heavy, he needs to rest it. He goes to lean his head into his hand but his elbow glances off the table and he ends up punching himself in the mouth instead. "Typical," he mutters, rubbing at his lower jaw.

"Oh dear, you are a sleepy little bunny, aren't you?" says Mac in a brisk voice that sounds rather too much like Guy's first (and most beloved) Nanny for Guy's liking. "Need more beer? A lift home? A swift kick up the arse?"

Guy shakes his head at all these suggestions.

Mac quirks one eyebrow. "What do you need?" he asks and the tone is new, but lost on Guy.

"What I need is to rewind the day sixteen hours and for you to forcibly remove the scalpel from that fucking butcher Randall. You should have worked on the Turner kid," he half-shouts and then freezes, eyes wide, astonished at the words that have escaped. Arse. People aren't supposed to know he cares. He isn't supposed to know he cares. Slippery slope. Before he can say 'fuck off you fucking fuckwits', people will be asking him to sponsor their pathetic attempts to contribute to the wider community by climbing into vats of baked beans or expecting him to water their plants when they go away (and not kill them) or, god forbid, not run screaming from the Geriatric ward because of the overwhelming smell of wee.

He stands up sharply, narrowly avoiding knocking over the remainder of his drink. "Shit. Home."

Mac stands, too. "I'll take you," he says, laying a warm hand on Guy's arm.

Guy thinks there's something he should say, but he can't quite remember.

"Yes," he says instead.

***

Guy leans over the toilet again, arms tight around cool porcelain. He's pretty sure that there's nothing left to bring up, what with the amount of chunks that are already floating in the water and decorating the walls of the bowl, strange patterns like they're telling his fortune or something, but it's best to be certain. He retches and brings up bile. Nope, right first time. Bloody celebrating, why did it always have to get so out of hand? Guy knows he'll feel better if only the room would stop spinning round long enough for him to work out if he's on the floor or the ceiling. He keeps trying to pin it down but the sink insists on whooshing past in a manner that Guy can only describe as flirtatious.

A hand moves in slow, soothing circles on his back and Guy rests his face on the toilet seat, waiting to see if he's hit by another wave of nausea. If he was a bookie, he'd only be taking odds-on bets. The regular motion of the hand helps, though. He groans; the sound echoes around the bowl and causes a twinge to shoot through his already throbbing head.

"Twelfth pint just that little bit too far, was it? Constitution only that of a teenage ox, not a fully-grown member of the family Bovinae?" Mac's hand is as steady as his voice is shaky with amusement.

"'no' beer," slurs Guy. "'s biryani. Bad prawns, bad!"

"If that's what you want to believe, my over-sized block of Emmental, then far be it from me to shatter your illusion." Mac's hand slides up Guy's back and squeezes Guy's neck between finger and thumb. Guy's arms relax a little around the bowl and he finds he can close his eyes without the world attempting to tip itself upside-down.

"'f I had long hair, you'd be holding it back f'me, wou'n't you, big jessy?"

Guy doesn't listen to the answer as nausea washes through him again and he makes another attempt to enter the Guinness Book of World Records by being the first man to turn himself entirely inside out by vomiting. The words 'put' and 'out' float past his brain but disappear without finding anything to latch on to.

A seemingly interminable time later, during which he has sung to, cursed and cried at the toilet in turns, it appears to be over. Guy forces his arms to uncurl from his new best (and worst) inanimate friend and sits up, shaky and sore all over. Mac, still there, reaches past Guy to pull the flush and then kneels in front of him, doing his concerned-surgeon face. That's how Guy knows he must really have been close to death, or at least that he looks as rough as a twenty-stone dwarf after a half-marathon. Good thing it's just Mac, he thinks, and not some hot babe he's trying to pull. Good old Mac, always there.

Mac reaches out a hand and thumbs Guy's cheek. Guy pulls a face.

"Yeah. Little bit clinging on there, didn't want it to feel left out," says Mac, wiping his hand on a sheet of toilet paper and tossing it after the rest.

"Right," says Guy and swallows. That's a mistake because his mouth tastes like shit. Like shit on a shitty stick on a hot day. He winces and pulls his lips over his teeth.

"Attractive, Secretan, very attractive." Mac squats and tucks his hands under Guy's armpits. "C'mon now, let's get out of here, it smells like Geriatrics."

Guy manages a smile and then tries to get to his feet with Mac's help. It's not at all elegant and includes a vague attempt at the splits but eventually they're both upright, Mac's arm slung around Guy's back, taking his weight. Mac props Guy up against cool tiles momentarily in order to get the door open, keeping one hand firm against Guy's shoulder to stop him slipping. Guy sees Mac's eyes flick around the cubicle and sees his lips move, but he thinks he must have misheard because there's no way Mac just said, "Oh god, I think I might have a fetish." No way at all.

"Mac," says Guy, feeling an unusual warm feeling that he supposes other people may consider to be gratitude.

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing."

***

It's a strange state of affairs. Guy hasn't got laid in weeks. Weeks! It's a situation so unheard of as to warrant a full-on research project; graphs, statistics, probability logs, the whole lot. Guy's not sure he can make sense of it; the new intake of student nurses arrived a month ago, including two incredibly hot Swedish twins as well as a fair smattering of other beddable candidates and it's not as if Guy's not horny. He's incredibly horny. He's stupid with horniness — there was a near-fatal accident in a routine in-growing toenail op the other day because the slow inflate/deflate of the breathing apparatus had got Guy so turned on that he'd forgotten to keep an eye on the isoflurane levels. Oops.

So, candidates, horniness and natural charm — what exactly is the hold up? Guy decides to give the matter some thought. After he's has another wank, of course, he's half-hard almost all the time and it's driving him mental, he's even found himself hovering near those beds with the vibrating mattresses. Of course, he'd probably have to get the patients out of them first ...

Guy finds his hand has already wormed its way into his scrubs before he's even checked the coast is clear. It's late evening now and he should be safe from interruption — he'll get paged before anyone makes it as far as his anaesthesia room anyway. He wraps his fingers around Big Guy and gives it a little tug. Ah, yes, that's just what the handsome, half-Swiss doctor ordered, he thinks and closes his eyes. He starts off slow, he's in no rush, but it isn't long until Big Guy's wanting a promotion to Fucking Huge and Guy tugs at the drawstrings on his scrubs and pushes them down over his hips, giving himself room to do his best solo work.

He lets his thumb desultorily run up and down one side of his shaft, fingers squeezing with the perfect amount of pressure to get his engine running. His Porsche, water-cooled, turbo engine. With his other hand he squeezes his balls with a gentle rhythm sending spikes of pleasure shooting up his spine. God, he's so good at fucking himself he doesn't know why he ever bothers with adding someone else into the equation.

Just then the blackness behind Guy's eyelids flashes red and he realises that the door has been opened. He freezes, heart thumping and cracks his eyes, hoping he's enough in the shadows to remain undiscovered. There's a silhouette in the doorway that sharpens into focus as he squints. A tall, lanky silhouette with more hair than belongs on someone that size. Hair that he knows to be of the ginger variety.

Ah.

He closes his eyes again and hopes. If Jimmy Saville had turned up at this point and asked him what he was hoping for, Guy wouldn't have been able to say. The blackness settles back behind his eyelids and there's silence.

Only not quite, because Guy can't control the harshness of his breathing, cock still lying heavy and needy in his hand and he thinks he can hear something else, a quieter counterpoint. There's a split second when he considers shoving himself back in his pants, bullshitting his way through with his usual wit and verve but then he decides he's with Magnus Magnusson on this one — he's started, so he'll finish — and fuck the consequences. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and lets his hand get back to business.

Guy manages two strokes before a touch on his wrist stills him and the best partnership he's ever had is being torn asunder — now he knows how Lennon and McCartney felt. The sensation of loss doesn't last long, however, before he feels two hands grasp his thighs, pushing them apart and then more pressure as his legs take the weight of someone sinking to their knees. Guy starts to hyperventilate a little — this is really going to happen — and it does. Mac's mouth finds Guy's cock and his lips slide over the swollen head, sucking it down like he does this kind of thing every day. And maybe he does. Guy has no idea. In fact, if someone had told him right at this moment that the Americans make great chocolate and the Swiss make lousy watches he would believe them, no questions asked.

Mac gently removes Guy's other hand from where it's frozen in shock around his balls and lays it on his head. Guy fumbles blindly at Mac's hair, half-stroking, half-tugging, which is nicely symmetrical, because that's exactly what Mac is doing to him. That and something absurdly good with his tongue that makes Guy gurgle in a high pitched tone only usually found in gaggles of teenage girls talking about periods and boys. Guy's too far gone to be embarrassed about it.

It's weird; Guy's had plenty of blowjobs before, from amateur to professional, and they've done the business, sure, but none of them have made his stomach clench and his heart feel like it's going to burst out of his ribcage (and possibly burst into song), not like this. He tangles his fingers more tightly in Mac's hair and grips his shoulder with his other hand. Mac licks and sucks and strokes and caresses and Guy thinks there should be a cloud past Cloud 9. He wants Cloud 10.

"Mac," he pants against his will. "Move now, or forever hold my ... you know, spunk."

Mac stays exactly where he is and it's the not-movement that does for Guy and he comes harder than anyone who's had five wanks in the last 48 hours has any right to. He slumps in the chair as Mac licks him clean (Mac! Licks him clean! The day could not get weirder.) and reorganises his clothing, tying the drawstring of Guy's scrubs with nimble fingers.

Guy's fingers are still in Mac's hair. He has no real thoughts about moving them. He opens his eyes, almost surprised to find they were closed. Mac's looking up at him and it's dark in the room but Guy knows it could be streaming sunlight and he still wouldn't be able to work out what Mac is thinking. A rush of warmth floods through Guy and it holds echoes of another time.

He takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he says.

And Mac says, "About fucking time."


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