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.ficlet: Displacement - D/M (NTG POV) PG13ish
Title: Displacement
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG13/Rish for naughty words, vaguely humorous.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Advertisements: Eyefucking. UST. New Tech Guy POV. Coincidentally for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 challenge #12, "humor," though it was written mostly because ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stillane thought it would be a great idea.
Notes: Some time ago,stillane and I noticed that New Tech Guy (who does have an actual name) was the target of Danny and Martin's displaced UST, and stillane suggested a fic should be written about it.
DISPLACEMENT
James “Mac” MacAvoy watched mutely as Danny Taylor strode purposefully in his direction, and only became aware that he was staring when Taylor got close enough for Mac to see the beginnings of that trademark smirk of his.
Oh, my God. Mac forced himself to look back at his computer screen. He’d just finished spending ten minutes with Special Agent Fitzgerald and didn’t know if he was up to dealing with his teammate. Pretend you’re working on the email trace. You’re really busy. Maybe he’ll go away. Maybe –
No, Taylor was right there, standing, like, micrometers away and bending even closer. Drape of silk tie over Mac’s shoulder – he could practically feel it, shushing gently across his left ear – and in silence he watched as Taylor reached across the desk and picked up a pen.
He had one right there in the breast pocket of his coat, Mac thought vaguely. Why’d he need to pick one up?
When Mac had first signed on to the Missing Persons department, the tech he was replacing had told him that Taylor, while a good guy, would flirt with anything that moved. And he was very good at it.
“He got to me,” the tech had admitted, “and I’m married. With kids.”
Mac had shrugged it off as office gossip, and so was completely overcome the first time Taylor had bent over his shoulder and given him the full benefit of that smirk and those dark eyes of his. He definitely got to Mac, and Mac had a girlfriend. A serious girlfriend.
“So...” Lazy, hazy drawl and oh God no, he wasn’t going to be able to stand this. Why did this have to happen to him? “Do we know where those emails came from?”
Taylor was flipping Mac’s pen between his fingers – long, graceful fingers, Mac’s brain supplied – as he spoke, that grin plastered on his face. Mac focused desperately on his computer screen.
He was going to break this time, Mac thought. He’d have to find some way to end this before he did.
Because Fitzgerald had spent ten minutes leaning over Mac’s other shoulder to look at a voiceprint analysis for himself, tie a hideously colored blur in the corner of Mac’s vision, asking questions about... something Mac couldn’t remember, like he wasn’t flagrantly violating Mac’s personal space at all. He’d been checking through some of the data, expertly clicking his way through the various screens like he knew as much about computers as Mac himself and that was... Well, it was like a geeky way of flirting but Mac was definitely not going to think about that.
And then there were these random comments that Mac would have called suggestive if they hadn’t come from a clean-cut guy like Martin Fitzgerald.
But then again.
“Mac? The emails?”
Mac looked up and God help him, Taylor was smirking down at him, positively radiant with satisfaction at making Mac’s life the miserable hell that it was, eyes dark and the way he was looking... Mac couldn’t identify it, but it was weirdly like being undressed mentally.
He was not going there.
Taylor leaned in a bit closer, faint hint of cologne wafting over Mac, who swallowed heavily.
This right here was what the old tech had been talking about.
He’d begun squeaking out some answer about the missing girl’s online journal when he saw Fitzgerald moving swiftly through the office, heading for the corridor. Heading in the direction of the tech room and Mac prayed that Fitzgerald was going somewhere else – Malone’s office, the elevator, home, an interview – anywhere but the –
Fitzgerald unceremoniously pushed his way through the glass door, eyes narrowing as he turned in their direction. Mac sensed Taylor withdrawing a bit – though still, Mac thought helplessly, holding his, Mac’s, pen – and yeah, there it was, this weird sort of lightening, like the full weight of Taylor’s flirtation had shifted somewhere else.
Specifically, in the direction of Martin Fitzgerald, who was looking at Taylor in a way that Mac could only describe as eyefucking – he couldn’t say how, only it was the way he was looking at Taylor, hard and significant and not hiding the fact that he was doing it and Taylor was looking right back at him, like they were – were the only people in the room and were having visual sex or something like that.
Exactly like Taylor had been looking at him not too long ago.
And then, in that single blinding instant, Mac understood what was going on.
“I’m a target!”
Taylor and Fitzgerald turned to look at him, as though genuinely surprised to see that he was still sitting there, like he should have left during their stupid eyefuck session.
Which he should have done, Mac supposed.
“What?” Fitzgerald asked. “A target?”
“For you two” Mac said furiously. “I took a psychology class in college. You two are displacing all of – of that onto me, with your flirting and playing with my pen and your eyefucking and everything, and I’m sick of it.”
“What are you talking about?” Taylor this time, folding his arms across his chest. He glanced over at Fitzgerald, a micro-eyefuck this time, like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, the bastard.
“That!” Mac pointed at Fitzgerald for emphasis. “The way you two were looking at each other just now, that’s the way you keep looking at me, and it’s obvious you two, like, want each other. I can’t take it! No one can. That’s why the other tech guy left, I bet, because the two of you were coming on to him when all you really want to do is sleep with each other.”
“Oh.” Fitzgerald blinked at Mac in surprise and then looked at Taylor. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Mac said, before Taylor could say anything. “So do you think maybe you could, you know, stop displacing now? It’s getting really uncomfortable, and I have a girlfriend...”
“Poor girl,” Taylor said sympathetically, and by the time Mac realized that Taylor had just insulted him and managed to work up a comeback, Taylor was impatiently pushing Fitzgerald out the door and down the hall to... somewhere.
To where, Mac didn’t want to know.
Sort of.
* * *
That had all happened on a Friday, so Mac had two days to recover, and speculate as to what had happened after he’d shouted at (shouted at) two real FBI agents and told them to sleep with each other. Amy, the girlfriend, had complained about his distraction the entire weekend, but he couldn’t help it.
He was back at work Monday morning and in the process of turning on his computer when he saw a new pen, exactly like the one Taylor had taken on Friday, sitting on his desk, a ribbon tied around it.
-end-
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG13/Rish for naughty words, vaguely humorous.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Advertisements: Eyefucking. UST. New Tech Guy POV. Coincidentally for
wordclaim50 challenge #12, "humor," though it was written mostly because stillane thought it would be a great idea.Notes: Some time ago,
stillane and I noticed that New Tech Guy (who does have an actual name) was the target of Danny and Martin's displaced UST, and stillane suggested a fic should be written about it.DISPLACEMENT
James “Mac” MacAvoy watched mutely as Danny Taylor strode purposefully in his direction, and only became aware that he was staring when Taylor got close enough for Mac to see the beginnings of that trademark smirk of his.
Oh, my God. Mac forced himself to look back at his computer screen. He’d just finished spending ten minutes with Special Agent Fitzgerald and didn’t know if he was up to dealing with his teammate. Pretend you’re working on the email trace. You’re really busy. Maybe he’ll go away. Maybe –
No, Taylor was right there, standing, like, micrometers away and bending even closer. Drape of silk tie over Mac’s shoulder – he could practically feel it, shushing gently across his left ear – and in silence he watched as Taylor reached across the desk and picked up a pen.
He had one right there in the breast pocket of his coat, Mac thought vaguely. Why’d he need to pick one up?
When Mac had first signed on to the Missing Persons department, the tech he was replacing had told him that Taylor, while a good guy, would flirt with anything that moved. And he was very good at it.
“He got to me,” the tech had admitted, “and I’m married. With kids.”
Mac had shrugged it off as office gossip, and so was completely overcome the first time Taylor had bent over his shoulder and given him the full benefit of that smirk and those dark eyes of his. He definitely got to Mac, and Mac had a girlfriend. A serious girlfriend.
“So...” Lazy, hazy drawl and oh God no, he wasn’t going to be able to stand this. Why did this have to happen to him? “Do we know where those emails came from?”
Taylor was flipping Mac’s pen between his fingers – long, graceful fingers, Mac’s brain supplied – as he spoke, that grin plastered on his face. Mac focused desperately on his computer screen.
He was going to break this time, Mac thought. He’d have to find some way to end this before he did.
Because Fitzgerald had spent ten minutes leaning over Mac’s other shoulder to look at a voiceprint analysis for himself, tie a hideously colored blur in the corner of Mac’s vision, asking questions about... something Mac couldn’t remember, like he wasn’t flagrantly violating Mac’s personal space at all. He’d been checking through some of the data, expertly clicking his way through the various screens like he knew as much about computers as Mac himself and that was... Well, it was like a geeky way of flirting but Mac was definitely not going to think about that.
And then there were these random comments that Mac would have called suggestive if they hadn’t come from a clean-cut guy like Martin Fitzgerald.
But then again.
“Mac? The emails?”
Mac looked up and God help him, Taylor was smirking down at him, positively radiant with satisfaction at making Mac’s life the miserable hell that it was, eyes dark and the way he was looking... Mac couldn’t identify it, but it was weirdly like being undressed mentally.
He was not going there.
Taylor leaned in a bit closer, faint hint of cologne wafting over Mac, who swallowed heavily.
This right here was what the old tech had been talking about.
He’d begun squeaking out some answer about the missing girl’s online journal when he saw Fitzgerald moving swiftly through the office, heading for the corridor. Heading in the direction of the tech room and Mac prayed that Fitzgerald was going somewhere else – Malone’s office, the elevator, home, an interview – anywhere but the –
Fitzgerald unceremoniously pushed his way through the glass door, eyes narrowing as he turned in their direction. Mac sensed Taylor withdrawing a bit – though still, Mac thought helplessly, holding his, Mac’s, pen – and yeah, there it was, this weird sort of lightening, like the full weight of Taylor’s flirtation had shifted somewhere else.
Specifically, in the direction of Martin Fitzgerald, who was looking at Taylor in a way that Mac could only describe as eyefucking – he couldn’t say how, only it was the way he was looking at Taylor, hard and significant and not hiding the fact that he was doing it and Taylor was looking right back at him, like they were – were the only people in the room and were having visual sex or something like that.
Exactly like Taylor had been looking at him not too long ago.
And then, in that single blinding instant, Mac understood what was going on.
“I’m a target!”
Taylor and Fitzgerald turned to look at him, as though genuinely surprised to see that he was still sitting there, like he should have left during their stupid eyefuck session.
Which he should have done, Mac supposed.
“What?” Fitzgerald asked. “A target?”
“For you two” Mac said furiously. “I took a psychology class in college. You two are displacing all of – of that onto me, with your flirting and playing with my pen and your eyefucking and everything, and I’m sick of it.”
“What are you talking about?” Taylor this time, folding his arms across his chest. He glanced over at Fitzgerald, a micro-eyefuck this time, like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, the bastard.
“That!” Mac pointed at Fitzgerald for emphasis. “The way you two were looking at each other just now, that’s the way you keep looking at me, and it’s obvious you two, like, want each other. I can’t take it! No one can. That’s why the other tech guy left, I bet, because the two of you were coming on to him when all you really want to do is sleep with each other.”
“Oh.” Fitzgerald blinked at Mac in surprise and then looked at Taylor. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Mac said, before Taylor could say anything. “So do you think maybe you could, you know, stop displacing now? It’s getting really uncomfortable, and I have a girlfriend...”
“Poor girl,” Taylor said sympathetically, and by the time Mac realized that Taylor had just insulted him and managed to work up a comeback, Taylor was impatiently pushing Fitzgerald out the door and down the hall to... somewhere.
To where, Mac didn’t want to know.
Sort of.
That had all happened on a Friday, so Mac had two days to recover, and speculate as to what had happened after he’d shouted at (shouted at) two real FBI agents and told them to sleep with each other. Amy, the girlfriend, had complained about his distraction the entire weekend, but he couldn’t help it.
He was back at work Monday morning and in the process of turning on his computer when he saw a new pen, exactly like the one Taylor had taken on Friday, sitting on his desk, a ribbon tied around it.
-end-
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PS I know there's the longer one waiting for me... I promise I'll read it tomorrow. I'm so slow!
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