Rating: Gen

Spoilers: season three through 'Some Buried Bones'.

Disclaimer: given how much this franchise makes, I can only *wish* I owned it. Alas.

Notes: much gratitude to MaryKate for yet! another! beta. This story was written for the fifth annual "A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words" challenge. My picture is here.

LIFE PRESERVER by Jayne Leitch
2007

After Claire's death, Mac dreamt of drowning. But it wasn't water he sank into, that closed over his head and filled his nose and mouth and made him choke; it was dust. Particles fine as flour and gritty as sand, settling on his skin, burning his eyes, coating the inside of his throat with every breath until he woke up desperate to clear the phantom residue from his lungs. Before he was even fully awake he'd stumble into the bathroom, coughing and retching, and gulp cold water straight from the tap.

When he stopped being able to sleep at all, he had absolutely no reason to wonder why.

*

Reed eats like he's still growing. Mac's watching him inhale a sub the approximate length and thickness of his own arm when the kid's cell phone rings; the music, full of drums and distortion, is vaguely familiar, something Mac's heard in the background of a store or diner somewhere. Reed, busy chewing, gives him a wry look and mutes the ringer.

Mac sends a wry look of his own right back. "That the sort of music you're into?"

Reed shrugs. "Depends; I like a lot of stuff. Whatever I hear, mostly." He goes to take another bite, then puts it off to add, "Not country, though."

"You like the blues?"

Another shrug buys the time for him to finish chewing. "Yeah, I guess. I don't love 'em."

Mac chuckles, shaking his head. "You will. Sooner or later, everybody loves the blues."

The corners of Reed's eyes crinkle; he tilts his head, offers his crooked smile. "Everybody?"

It takes Mac a second to answer: he's caught off-guard by the eyes, the smile. He remembers a storm knocking out the electricity one thick summer afternoon; hours spent with his guitar by the grey light from the window; Claire listening, eyes heavy-lidded, from where she'd stretched out on the floor to stay cool. The pads of his fingers tingle with sense-memory. "Yeah."

*

When he told Peyton about Reed, she understood. She said, "Meeting him like that, so unexpectedly, must have been difficult," and, "It's good that you're taking the time to get to know him," and, "I'd like to meet him someday."

Until that moment, it hadn't even occurred to him to tell Reed about Peyton. And then, in a sharp instant he was ashamed of later, he wished he hadn't told Peyton anything at all.

*

He's just dropped Reed off back at the dorm and is about to pull away from the curb when Reed turns and jogs back, waving at him to stop. "I was going to give you a copy of my article," he explains, leaning in the passenger window, and Mac puts the car back into park.

The student manning the front desk glances up as they enter, trades a nod of familiarity with Reed, and lets them pass without asking for ID. Mac notes the lax security--particularly galling given the bruises only just faded yellow on Reed's face--then wonders if the student mistook him for family.

Reed's room is only marginally less messy than the last time Mac saw it; nevertheless, Reed makes a beeline for a stack of papers on the floor at the end of his bed and rummages for only a second before pulling out a copy of the university paper. He runs his hands over it once or twice, grinning with nervous pride, smoothing out crinkles before handing it over. "There it is: college journalism at its finest."

Mac looks down at the front page: headlines about secret societies and exam cheats, pictures of Brian Miller and Eddie Williams, columns of text ending in directions to the next page for the rest of the story. He glances up, smiling. "This is good, Reed. Congratulations." He goes to open the paper to the next page--see how much space the story was given--but two short lines of type catch his eye, and he pauses. "'Story by Reed Garrett and Brian Miller.'"

When he looks up again, Reed's looking away, his head ducked, his grin faded to a subdued quirk of his mouth. "Kings and Shadows was Brian's story," he says, his hands curling at his sides. "Giving him his byline was pretty much the least I could do."

Mac watches Reed fight with his emotions, the heart on his sleeve just another aching reminder of Claire, and tries to find something to say that's not too professional or inane. "Reed. Your mother...she would've been very proud of you." He pauses, measuring the tightness in Reed's shoulders, the redness rimming his eyes, and the uncomfortable knot in his own chest. Then he adds, roughly, "I'm proud of you, son."

Reed flinches with his whole body. Mac tries to swallow his embarrassment, the knot in his chest twisting and hardening. He's about to step back, put some distance between them again, when Reed answers. "You know what it's like to miss somebody you never met?" He looks up; Mac, expecting anger or blame, finds only raw grief. "I don't miss her like you do, Mac. I can't." One corner of his mouth twitches upwards, but it's a humourless gesture. "I wish I could."

The knot breaks. Mac reaches for him without thinking, wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close; as soon as their bodies touch all the tension flows from Reed and he hugs back, arms locked around him, face pressed into the side of Mac's neck. Mac, eyes closed, feels the worn cotton of Reed's shirt under his palms, the tickle of Reed's hair on his cheek, the warm rush of breath against his throat. He waits for it to become awkward, for Reed to loosen his grip, for this strange moment of relief to be stretched so far it can't help but break.

It doesn't happen. Mac tightens his hold.

*

That night, he dreams of drowning. He sinks without struggling into cool, placid water, and breathes deep.

End.

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