Sundown
By
The water was quiet, a low hiss of surf the only consistent sound. Rose stood on the porch of the beach house, a glass of wine in her hand, sipping it as she looked out over the Atlantic. It was sullen in the fading light, a dirty dark grey color. The wind that whipped around her hair held a smell of rain in it, and the heavy clouds were low in the sky.
She lounged in the doorway. The beach house was small and secluded, set behind the sand dunes of the beach. It was a pale and faded wooden structure, its paint peeling after years of merciless sun and exposure to the ocean. Rose loved it, loved the creak of the floorboards, the bleached wood and old-fashioned appliances in it. The house had been one of the first things she’d bought with HIT money, and she’d paid for it outright, buying both the cottage and the surrounding three lots around it. Privacy was dear for those in her line of work, and she wasn’t about to quibble over the cost. This little section of South Carolina was hers now, and she came here as often as she could.
Right now it was the off-season, the colder less popular time of the year when only the locals stayed around. The beaches were deserted, and Rose liked it that way. She spent her days walking the tide line, collecting the odd shell or sand dollar, staring out at the ruffled water and thinking. She thought a lot of Mac.
At the moment, Rose was wearing one of his button down shirts and a pair of ancient demin shorts so faded they were almost white. The shirt was big, and barely buttoned; she had the sleeves rolled up high. All the windows on the first floor of the small house were open, and the cotton curtains snapped in the breeze; Rose sipped her wine, and listened to the wind. It hissed through the sea oats and carried the sound of the surf to her.
The moment was peaceful, but empty, like the beach itself. She had her solitude and it refreshed her spirit, but deep within her was a growing need, one she didn’t want to examine too closely. Thinking about that hunger would make it intensify, and right now she settled for a vague hope rather than a specific promise. Mac was the best, and if his need matched her own, well—
She sighed, setting the wineglass on the fencing of the porch, running a hand through her loose hair. Each gust of breeze was a little cooler than the last, and the clouds were scudding along over the horizon. It would be twilight soon, the soft mauve fading into deeper indigo, and the sand white and soft under the dark sky.
She scuffed her bare feet on the rickety wooden porch and thought about painting her toenails; something pale and subtle. A creak made her look up.
He stepped onto the porch slowly, shifting his weight with deliberate grace like a jungle cat sure of his footing and territory. Rose felt her pulse surge, a faint pounding in her ears in response to the sight of him in front of her, big and relentless. His broad shoulders in a thin fisherman’s sweater, torn jeans, bare feet. The breeze tousled his long hair, sweeping it around his stern face. Dark hungry eyes locked on hers, and a frisson of fear went up her spine while a surge of heat dropped between her thighs.
“Come here—“ he growled.
Rose paused a beat before moving forward into the wall of his chest. The body heat rising off of him was strong, warming her before she even touched him. MacGyver’s hands encircled her wrists and he held them behind her back against the swell of her rump. Purposefully he widened his stance, bringing his heavy groin to grind against hers, denim to denim as he breathed down into her face. The breeze mingled their hair.
“Two months. Sixty-one days. One thousand four hundred forty hours. Eighty six thousand four hundred minutes since my aching cock was squeezing into your slick pussy—“ he rasped, chest hitching as he spoke. Rose let her mouth open, watching him struggle for control; his long dark lashes against his high cheekbones. She let her tongue touch his lips, wetly circling them. His grip on her wrists tightened to the point of pain, and he thrust his bulging fly harder between her thighs, forcing Rose up against him.
“Fifty one million eight hundred and forty thousand seconds—“ she sighed. Her breasts ached as they rubbed against his sweater, her entire frame tingling and tense, eager for his. Mac’s smile was tight and bleak, the heavy scent of his hard male body making her a little lightheaded with desire. He rocked forward again, hips swinging low to stroke his straining ridge in a rough upward mockery of sex, denim on denim. Rose squirmed, her mouth opening as she sucked in a breath. Desperately she slid one leg up along the outside of his, hooking her heel around his hard ass, pulling him against her and savoring the feel of his body leaning eagerly into hers.
“Oh God, I want you, Mac, want you IN me—“ she moaned in a tight voice, aching and needy, not caring where they were. Mac abruptly let her go and stepped back, drawing his big shoulders up and taking a deep breath. Rose wobbled, nearly losing her balance, but caught herself at the last second. She bit back a little sob. He gave a bitter chuckle.
“In my thoughts ALL the time Rose, couldn’t lose the memory of you, the scent of your hot skin, the slick kiss of your sex—“ he reached for the front of her shirt and yanked it open; a few buttons rattled across the porch in protest. Rose arched her neck letting him stare at her naked chest, breasts taut and aroused. Mac licked his dry mouth.
“Hungry for you endlessly, it never stopped Rose, never went away, not even when I pumped myself dry and pretended it was good enough, oh God!“
Rose slid her hands into her shorts, pushing them from her hips, letting them slide down over her thighs and calves until they rested on her feet. Mac nodded, dazed.
“Show me. Show me ALL of you Rose, I want to see it, want to watch you so much—“
With deliberate slowness she stepped free of the shorts and lifted her chin, eyes half closed as she struggled with the hot waves of desire pulsing wickedly through her stomach and straight between her legs. She rubbed her hands over her breasts, the torn shirt sagging around her shoulders as she did. Mesmerized, Mac watched her fingers slide around her breasts; toy brazenly with her hard nipples. Rose gave a strangled sigh.
“Damn it, Mac, every night I’d lie in bed and touch myself, thinking about you. About your body, remembering how your tongue tasted, and how heavy you were on my stomach—“ she taunted. Mac’s hands slid along the hard muscles on the front of his thighs even as he stared at her. Rose shifted her hips, her touch slow and moving south as she spoke again, her voice throaty and wild.
“Drove myself crazy. I’d rub myself, tease my own pussy and the noises I made—begging you, ordering you to kiss me there, lick and suck me—“ her fingers glided down into the forest of auburn curls between her thighs, raking through the thick down. Mac groaned.
“Fuuuuuuuck---“ he hoarsely growled, his chest hitching again. His big hands fumbled as he yanked open his straining fly. Freed, his big cock swelled forth, flushed and dripping as he gripped it. His dark eyes glittered with a searing lust, and Rose felt a little animal cry come out of her throat at the sight of him standing there, so swollen for her. Her hands slid lower, and she widened her stance.
“Watch me, Mac—like this, baby. I’d caress and play with my hot little box, feel the honey dripping out of me.” Rose taunted. Her fingers glided in loving strokes, lasciviously toying along her glistening cleft, massaging it delicately. Mac’s hand tightened on his cock. Rose sighed, licking her lips. The utterly insane excitement of pleasuring herself out in the open while MacGyver watched was pushing her very close to the edge, and she began to move her fingers faster, savoring the erotic power over him.
“Come HERE—“ Mac hissed.
She shook her head.
For a long moment they stood locked in a sensual duel for dominance, neither one willing to submit. Rose felt her stomach begin to tighten as she started the slow hot tumble towards mindless release. Her fingers danced faster.
Mac moved like a striking snake. His big hot hands caught her bare hips and yanked her forward to slam up against the iron bar of his cock. Instinctively Rose reached to balance herself, her own hands flying to Mac’s sweater covered shoulders, snagging the thin wool. She hissed as his burning shaft slid wetly, perfectly up between the slick folds of her sex, gliding on top of the hard little button she’d been caressing. Mac threw his head back and the moan that climbed out of his throat was just enough to tip her over the edge.
Rose came, hard.
Mac bucked his hips, stroking himself against her, his shaft trapped between their grinding bodies. The moment spun out in a tangle of heated friction so shockingly intense it hovered on the edge of pain. Rose’s head lolled as she clung to Mac, her fingers digging through his sweater. His voice was wet and hot in her face.
“I’m going to COME, God, I’m going to come so HARD and I’m not even IN you—“ he grunted, furious at his straining sweaty cock. Cupping the nape of her neck, Mac urged Rose to look down, to watch the passionate tango of their naked hips. Rose shuddered under the force of his thrusts. With a long growl of surrender, Mac came, thick spurts gushing between his hard athletic stomach and hers, slick and hot and seemingly endless.
They barely managed to stay standing, swaying together; Mac locked his arms around Rose’s small waist and dropped his mouth to her shoulder. She clung to him, lost for a time in the smells, the feel of Mac in her arms. The first cold gust of rain began to fall.
*** **** ****
They didn’t talk. Moving in warm tandem, they showered and tumbled into the spool bed on the second floor, settling themselves together like two halves of a puzzle. Rose contented herself with listening to his strong heartbeat as she rested her head on Mac’s bare chest and toyed with the curls between his nipples. He lazily stroked a hand down the curve of her bare spine, his palm pressing with warm possessiveness.
Rose sighed. Moments of perfect contentment were few and far between in a life like hers. She felt his chuckle as much as heard it.
“You sound pleased,” he broke the silence in a low tone. She shifted to look up at him in the dim candlelight smiling with a rare sweetness, her long red hair tumbling down.
“Close to it—“ Rose agreed.
“Oh? And what small stumbling block mars the serenity of this second, Tyro?” he challenged her softly, reaching up to brush his fingertips over the smooth curve of her cheek, trailing them down her chin.
“Perfection will be when you’re IN me, MacGyver mine—deep and slow all night. THAT will be worth living for.”
His dark eyes shone, and through the depths she found the glimmer that was hers alone.
“Striving for perfection is always a worthy goal—“ he remarked, shifting so she could feel the heat of his lanky body, the eager thrust of his rising shaft against her thigh. Rose flicked a tongue over her lips, feeling the restless ache of need building between her thighs. She raised her face to his, and for a moment caught the shadow of another expression there, a lonely longing one. Swiftly she moved to kiss it away.
“Lay it aside, MacGyver—it will wait until tomorrow,” she urged him as her hands moved to his shoulders, pulling him down to her. His long bangs brushed her face as his firm mouth descended on hers. The slow rise of passion was deep, profound. Rose kept her eyes open, drinking him in, his muscles, his scars, his restless hunger. Mac moved slowly but not gently, his need for her blatantly unapologetic. When Rose lazily lifted her hips, he seized them and thrust hard, his big frame pinning hers under him onto the cool sheets.
Rose lost herself in the intimate cocoon of the moment, licking his sweat as it rolled down his throat, cradling him in her hips as they rocked together. Dimly she knew he was making love to her soul as much as her body, and that insight sent a hot shudder that left her weak and close to tears. Mac held back longer than Rose thought any man could, and when he finally came, it was as relentless and scalding and deep enough to fulfill her craving.
In the dark, the wind whistled through the open window, a summer chill riding
on the last of the storm. Rose spoke sleepily into the warm flesh of MacGyver’s
shoulder.
“You have an assignment for me.”
“No my love. This one is—personal. Not an assignment with dossiers and photos and layers of impersonal information. This one is—“ he struggled; she could feel tension steal through is lean frame.
“—Private. I’m honored. Who is it?”
A sigh leaked out of the man beside her, a deep painful release.
“In upstate New York is a small private hospital. They serve the terminal cases of the very rich, Tyro. In that hospital lies a young man. He has been there a long time—very nearly eight years. Nurses and doctors and physical therapists have all been treating him ever since he was admitted as a coma patient with no chance of revival.”
Rose said nothing; she held back from giving any sign of the inner turmoil swirling through her and stayed still. After a moment, Mac continued.
“Money buys so much, Rose, but it’s all nothing in the end. The best medical care, the most upscale facilities—none of these replace hope. And for this boy, there is no hope. His higher brain function is nonexistent, his immune system is collapsing, his organs are failing. He’s been little better than a vegetable for almost a decade.”
Mac’s head shifted, and he pulled Rose closer into his warm embrace, hands lightly stroking her hair. She shivered, her jaw aching as she fought against tears.
“You want me to—?”
“—End his torment. He’s dying by slow pain-filled inches, Tyro, crawling towards a death that is still a long way off. The nurses and doctors are too money-minded to let him go quickly. I need you to give him release.”
“Yes,” she whispered back urgently. No doubt, no hesitation. Reaching for Mac’s face, she cupped it in her hands, kissing him softly.
“That’s good,” he replied in a low, grave tone that closed the discussion.
*** *** ***
The halls of Willow Terrace were clean and quiet; Rose could see the faint reflection of herself along the bright tiles on the floor. The walls were a tasteful green, the sounds of hospital business were muted. Even the PA system was low and gentle; the pages for the doctors were almost apologetic in tone.
Rose rubbed her nose. Her grey wig itched, the padding felt awkward, and the glasses kept sliding down, but she forced herself to shuffle slowly, pushing the floor buffer ahead of her. She didn’t look at the doors, but kept her attention on the reception desk that dominated the central atrium. The nurse there waved her over.
“Where’s Carla?” she demanded, looking at the laminated badge dangling from Rose’s uniform.
“Don’t know. They called me at three and asked me to fill in’s all I know.”
“Oh. Probably car trouble again. Well could you start at the far end tonight? The noise of that thing always gives me a headache.”
“Sure,” Rose shrugged her shoulders, projecting supreme indifference as she leaned on the floor buffer. “Whatever. Where can I put my lunch cooler?”
“The break room is one flight up, behind Supply room One,” came the absent reply as the nurse reached for a ringing phone. Rose lumbered away slowly, pushing the buffer, keeping her shoulders hunched. Carefully she noted the placards on the doors now: Lamont, F. 119, Li Po, C. 117, Trandle, D. 115—
And there, at the far end of the hall: Malloy, S 113. Having noted it, she moved past and around the corner to the gleaming brushed steel doors of the elevator, thinking and waiting.
*** *** ****
He was thin, Rose realized sadly. The boy’s long legs and lanky frame lay on the foam mattress barely making a dent in the padding. The beeps and tics and hisses of the medical monitors and respirators filled the quiet of the room, taking up the space where songs and laughter and yells should be in a boy’s life. Rose reached over and stroked his hair.
It was as limp and lifeless as well, a dull brown lying neatly against his skull. His pale complexion had an unhealthy yellow tint that told her his kidneys were starting to fail. A tracery of blue veins showed through along his forearm, and the translucence of his skin told of years under artificial light. Rose let her gaze move to the boy’s face, to his closed eyes.
S. Malloy had long lashes and the faint shadow of an adolescent’s first whiskers along his strong chin. His nose was rounded, but the profile of it looked familiar; Rose felt weary intuition wash over her. Tubes in his nose, tubes in his mouth, monitors clipped everywhere along his arms and temples-- She ran a gentle finger over the graceful rim of his ear, noting how heated he was, knowing the fever was terminal.
Breaking from her reverie, Rose reached into her blouse, pulling the tiny bottle from the warm haven between her breasts. She shook it lightly.
“This will be quick, and painless—“ she murmured brokenly, opening the bottle and pulling the dropper out. Gently, she leaned over him and lifted an eyelid back, letting one heavy blue drop fall into his blank gaze, repeating it swiftly with his other eye. She recapped the bottle and shoved it down the front of her dress.
The boy’s body stiffened. Rose bent down and pressed a kiss against his cheek, her hands on his bony shoulders, holding onto him as the drug took instant effect. With a slow peaceful sigh, the boy’s frame relaxed; his head lolled, the thin wasted muscles along his throat slackening. Rose squeezed her eyelids shut tightly, not wanting her tears to fall just yet.
So hard.
It was so hard with the shadows of Mac on this boy’s face, to look down into familiar features trapped here by genetics and bad luck. Rose felt her intuition harden into sorrowing certainty as she pulled back from the body and studied him carefully.
In death he was tranquil, the long limbs unclenched and loose, the soft fan of his lashes dark against his cheek. She touched his mouth, wishing dimly that he hadn’t died a virgin. Slowly she got off the bed and went to the door, then headed down the hallway, snagging a passing orderly by the sleeve.
“I think there’s something wrong with that guy—“ Rose forced her voice to sound fearful instead of sad. The attendant glanced impatiently at the door she had gestured to.
“If there’s something wrong the monitors will tell us. What were you doing in there?”
“Well one of the machines was blaring really loud—“
“What? Oh shit, not again—“ agitated, the orderly pulled away from Rose and hurried into the room, leaving her standing with her buffer in the hall. The muted alarm rang out a few seconds later. A nurse scurried out from behind the station desk and ran into the room; a minute later three more rolled a cart down the hall, swiftly passing Rose, who began to trudge down towards the front desk, her vision prismed through her tears.
*** *** ***
The quiet stretched on through the afternoon. Rose shifted, feeling weary and flat, empty of all the sorrow and pain, cried out. Her eyes stung a little, and she could feel the tightness of her cheeks as they dried with the salt on them.
“You should have TOLD me,” she repeated for the ninth time, her voice threaded with pain and anger. To emphasis it, she pounded her palm on the arm wrapped around her shoulders; MacGyver didn’t move under the blow. Instead, he made a small noise of agreement and pulled her closer back against him.
“Tyro, I was in a desperate situation. I needed your compassionate ruthlessness, your loving detachment from the moment and all it encompassed,” he murmured into her hair. She tightened her grip on his arm.
The two of them were sitting on the slope of a sandune facing the green-grey of the Atlantic, watching the arch and roll of the waves, watching the glide of the lacy foam stretching out between each crash. Rose sat between MacGyver’s knees, letting him wrap himself around her in a protective fashion. The sun hung low in the sky behind them, and the first hints of twilight colored the deserted beach in hues of lavender and grey. Rose gave a hitching sigh.
“Tell me,” she ordered. MacGyver sighed, and dipped his head to rest his chin on her shoulder, whispering into her ear.
“His mother was a lover of mine many years ago, Rose. Kate was a maverick in the true sense of the word, and caused me no end of trouble in her determination to interfere with my assassinations.”
“She was with Interpol?”
“No, she was a stringer for Reuters who managed on a lucky shot to take my photo before I brought down a Latin dictator. In my younger days I was careless and thought I could elude her. But she was bright and ruthless—“ he trailed off, lost in memory. Rose gave an annoyed sigh that brought a faint smile to his mouth.
“I said ruthless, not GOOD. A tryst or two was enough for me to realize she was a self-promoting woman with no interest in me beyond the notoriety of having bedded an assassin. She and I never crossed paths again after our affair.”
“But the boy—“ Rose prompted. MacGyver’s grip around her shoulders tightened;
through their sweaters she could feel his muscles.
“The boy—I knew Kate had a son and vaguely I wondered whom she had married—my life was busy enough that I didn’t have much time to ponder that of past lovers. Associates and informants kept track of her for me as they did for countless others. I knew Kate took the child with her on assignment, and that struck me as foolish. When she met her death in China I was not surprised. My contacts told me the child had been shot as well, but was in a primitive hospital there and not expected to survive.”
Rose turned her head; MacGyver’s was so close that his breath warmed her mouth. She stared into his rich coffee eyes and he spoke again.
“I cannot tell you what prompted me to have the boy brought back to the States—not pity or a sense of honor, certainly. In hindsight I choose to believe it was a subconscious knowledge of who he truly was, but even then I wasn’t certain, Rose. All I DO know is that when I walked into his room for the first time and saw him lying there, a strong sturdy sun-browned ten year old—I KNEW.”
“You knew—“
“My coloring. My nose. My eyes, Tyro—the same brown from generations of MacGyvers before me. I saw the boy and knew he was my son.”
Rose sighed at the sound of his low, pain-scarred voice. She lifted her chin, letting him kiss her gently, MacGyver’s lips resting on hers as if to cool the anguish of his words. He spoke in a rush against her mouth.
“Comatose, Brain dead, irrevocably vegetative—over and over I heard those diagnoses, Rose. No one could help the boy. He had been shot twice at close range and too much time had passed between the injury and his receiving care. I brought him to Willow Terrace and kept him there, paid for his medical care, his physical therapy, his drugs. For the first few years the doctors gave me slim hope, but as more time passed it became apparent even to me that he was never going to recover. I couldn’t stand the fawning looks of the nurses, the false cheer of the doctors.”
“Milking your for your money?”
“Yes. My son had spent his boyhood in a hospital bed, Tyro. Now he would be a man, with no chance of ever LIVING a life worthy of that name. I had to end it.”
Rose drew a shaky breath at the sight of MacGyver’s eyes. The hot tears dripped down his face as he set his fine jaw in a hard line. She touched his cheek and he shuddered.
“And you couldn’t do it. Not yourself, not after loving the boy for eight lonely years—“ she murmured with painful insight, “So you had to ask someone, TRUST someone with your secret—“
“Ah my dear little Rose—“ he managed bleakly resting his forehead on the back of her neck. “So compassionate and so strong. After killing and reviving and LOVING me even after all I dragged you through, I knew you had the will to release Sam—“
In his arms, Rose trembled, brushing her hair back to give herself a moment to catch her breath. She nodded very slowly. Along the waterline, a pair of seagulls skimmed over the low waves, moving in graceful tandem. She watched them until they soared off, savoring a sense of peace the two birds seemed to leave in their wake. Mac shifted behind her, kissing her neck.
“I feel—“ she began softly, not sure how to put into words the wounded tenderness flooding through her. MacGyver’s mouth on her skin was very good.
“--Purified,” he finished for her. Rose nodded; the word was precisely right. He tightened his embrace around her shoulders and when he spoke again, his voice held a lightness she’d never heard before.
“The wasted soul of my son, released—more like my own has been freed, Tyro. You will never know how grateful I am to you, how indebted, my love.”
Rose smiled, feeling the blue of evening creep around them.
“This is all I need,” Mac sighed with her after a moment, “The solitude and you.”
The scent of the ocean and the touch of the cool sand under her helped frame the moment, and she knew that for the rest of her life, this sweet memory would encompass her definition of perfection.
END