I Think I Wanna Marry You - A Mac & Archer...Prequel? (Patreon)

Here it is. The Mac and Archer mini-fic nobody asked for (except Mac & Archer who refused to let it go) This is part one of what happened that night in Vegas. In part 2, I'll finish out the night with some of the other flashes that Archer remembered of that night if you want. The plan for the week is to focus on Ranger, the Halloween mini-fics, a Learning Curve chapter maybe and maybe a Night Movers chapter over the weekend.

“I need you to get o’ my level,” Mac slurred, one arm draped over Archer’s shoulder, the other waving his highball glass like a trophy.

How the hell had he even managed to Houdini that glass out of the casino? Archer was almost certain he’d taken it away before they left. He made another attempt to wrestle it free, but Mac just grinned and held it aloft, well out of reach. Archer wasn’t short, but Mac was a giant, an unsteady, weaving giant, leaning all his weight against Archer’s much leaner frame and nearly knocking them both sideways.

It took Archer longer than it should to realize his giant ginger was avoiding the pools of light splashed across the pavement by the streetlamps. Like it was a game. He huffed out a laugh, trying to shift the man’s weight into something manageable. Useless. Mac was heavy, and drunk, and ridiculously pleased with himself.

“I don’t think I have time to get on your level. We have a meeting in the morning, remember?” Archer asked, amused. “How many drinks did you even have?”

“I’m no’ gonna lie–s’lot.” Mac leaned in close, his tone conspiratorial. “Harlow can really hold her s’liquor. Liquor.”

Archer smirked, oddly charmed by this version of him. “And why exactly did you decide to get this hammered?”

“Courage.”

“Courage?” Archer asked, laughing outright now. “For what?”

Mac suddenly dropped out of sight. Archer’s frown deepened when he realized the man was down on both knees in the middle of the asphalt, wearing an expression of almost childlike concentration.

“Whacha doin’ down there?” Archer asked, glancing around at the passersby laughing at the spectacle. “Bit public for you to be on your knees for me, don’t you think?”

Mac clasped his hand between both of his, gazing up with wide, earnest eyes that sucker-punched Archer’s chest. For a split second, Archer’s lungs refused to work, Mac looked like he meant every damn word even in his drunken haze.

“Marry me, Katniss.”

Archer’s heartbeat skittered to a halt.

He’s drunk. He has to be drunk. There was no universe where Archer could take the proposal seriously, but the words still hit him like a lightning strike. And how could he refuse? Mac looked so fucking earnest, so heartbreakingly sincere. He wouldn’t remember in the morning anyway.

“You don’t have a ring,” Archer said, arching a brow, keeping his tone teasing even as something raw curled hot in his chest. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

Mac scoffed, adorably affronted, and dropped Archer’s hand to dig furiously through his pockets. After a lot of rifling and a frustrated grunt, he produced the ugliest plastic diamond ring Archer had ever seen, huge, cartoonish, the kind usually worn at bachelorette parties.

Mac shoved it triumphantly in his face. “Now will you marry me?”

Archer couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of him. He really was so fucking adorable like this. So adorable Archer’s fingers itched to drag him up and kiss the drunken grin right off his face.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Archer demanded, looking around as people passed and stared. “Did you rob a bachelorette party?”

He heard the shocked gasps and giggles from the other patrons as they passed, a few even cheering at Mac’s impromptu proposal, the plastic bauble hovering under Archer’s chin, clutched between his massive fingers.

“Becky–” Mac frowned. “No, Brittany. Bridg–Bridget? She’s having her bride thingie. She said I could have it.”

Archer frowned. “Why did she give you a plastic ring?”

Mac looked at him like he was an idiot. “Cause I asked, duh.”

Archer bit his lip, shaking his head. “I think maybe we should go home.” He reached down, trying to coax Mac up, but the man went stubbornly limp, pure dead weight.

“Not until you marry me,” Mac countered, sulky. “I need you to marry me.”

“Why? Are you pregnant?” Archer deadpanned.

Mac giggled–actually giggled. “You wanna get me pregnant, Katniss? I’m game. But after the wedding. I’m a lady.”

Archer sighed, dropping onto his knees in front of him, cupping his flushed face in both hands until Mac’s unfocused gaze found his. The warmth of his skin beneath Archer’s palms was almost distracting, heat bleeding up his arms in a way that felt far too intimate for a joke.

“You are, in fact, not a lady. You are a man. A very large man.”

Mac snorted, smirking as he jabbed Archer with the ring. “Yeah, I am.”

Archer let out another helpless laugh. “I think we should head back to the Watch.”

“No,” Mac whined.

“No?” Archer echoed. “Why not?”

Mac waved the ring like a toddler throwing a tantrum, his whole body in on the act. “Marry meeeee.”

“If I say I’ll think about it, can we get off the ground?” Archer asked, already picturing tomorrow’s headlines.

“Will you wear the ring?” Mac pouted.

“Fine.” Archer sighed, holding out his left hand. “Give me the ring.”

Mac slid it onto his finger, scowling when it immediately slipped free. He shoved it back on with a little too much force.

Archer winced. “I got it. You just focus on standing.”

He adjusted the ridiculous party favor, relieved to see the cheap band was at least adjustable. A quick squeeze anchored it in place. He wiggled his fingers with mock flourish.

“There. Happy? Let’s go home.”

“No, let’s go to Treasure Island,” Mac insisted.

“The hotel?” Archer blinked. “Why?”

Mac frowned. “I wanna see the pirate show.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, but they stopped that show a long time ago.”

Mac’s face fell. “Oh. I love pirates.”

Archer rolled his eyes, standing and offering his hand down. “Get up, you big baby. You wanna see pirates? I know just the place.”

His heart skipped when Mac’s entire face lit up like a kid at Christmas. He finally let Archer haul him to his feet, a task that nearly buckled Archer’s knees. Mac’s body pressed flush to his, heavy and solid, his laugh warm against Archer’s neck. For one dizzying second, Archer wondered what it would be like if this closeness wasn’t just because Mac was drunk.

He handed Mac’s glass to a girl walking by with a group of friends, asking her to return it to the bar. She grinned, tipped it back, downed the last swallow herself, then let out something between a cheer and a battle cry. Her friends roared back in unison. Archer shook his head. Young people were insane.

He tried the number for the car service, but nobody answered. After a second failed attempt and no sign of the car in sight, he gave up. He pulled up the app then ordered an Uber black, relieved to see it was only minutes away. 

When the Cadillac Escalade pulled up, Archer muscled Mac into the backseat, climbing in after him, the blast of AC refreshing after twenty minutes outside. Mac immediately collapsed against him, curling around his body like he owned it. One big hand dropped onto Archer’s thigh and slid higher, settling brazenly into his lap.

Archer’s gaze snapped to the driver. A woman about their age with strawberry blonde curls and a few lines around her eyes.

She met his gaze in the rearview, her smirk sharp. “Pirates?”

“No, he ‘sa poker player,” Mac slurred, grinning dopily. “An’ my future hub’sand.”

Archer huffed, shaking his head. To the driver, he said, “Yes. Pirates, please.”

She nodded, amusement obvious. “I’m Annie. There’s water and snacks in the back if you want to try to sober him up a bit.”

“Thank you,” Archer murmured, then hissed when Mac’s mouth found his throat, sucking noisily at the sensitive skin while his fingers tugged at Archer’s zipper.

“You’re famous, right?” Annie asked, as if nothing indecent was happening in the backseat. “I’ve seen you before.”

“He’sa Mulvaney,” Mac announced proudly against Archer’s skin.

“Oh, right. The one always doing crazy shit. Didn’t you steal a gondola in Venice once?”

“Did I?” Archer asked, distracted as Mac’s palm pressed firmly over the growing bulge in his pants. “Hard to say. I’ve done a lot of stupid things when drunk.”

“You don’t say,” Annie murmured, her eyes switching from the view ahead, to the view in the back, enough to let Archer know they had an audience.

And unlike the limo, there was no partition to raise. 

Mac worked at the zipper again, clumsy but determined. Archer caught his hand once, twice, but Mac just whined against his neck, biting down hard enough to make Archer shiver. Then his pout turned lethal, and a second later his hand shoved boldly past the waistband.

Archer groaned, catching Annie’s gaze in the mirror. “I’ll give you a huge tip if you tell no one about this.”

She smirked once more, eyes bright with mischief. “You don’t have to tip me at all if I can watch.”

Heat licked up Archer’s spine. Filthy. Reckless. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of shit he lived for.

“Just don’t crash the car,” he muttered, turning his head to meet Mac’s mouth.

“I’m an excellent multitasker,” she promised.

Archer believed her. He didn’t care. A backseat blowjob–or hell, just a handjob–wouldn’t crack his top twenty humiliating stunts. But this didn’t feel like humiliation. Not with Mac kissing him like that, drunk and determined, like every sound Archer made belonged to him.

Mac’s tongue slid deep, stealing his breath, while his big hand wrapped around Archer’s cock with startling certainty. His palm was hot, rough, sticky from the lingering liquor on his skin. The first stroke had Archer jerking up into his fist with a broken sound he didn’t mean to make.

“Fuck–” he gasped, hips stuttering as Mac tightened his grip, stroking him harder, faster, sloppy but so fucking eager. Mac kissed him through it, swallowing every grunt, every whine, his noises desperate and possessive like Archer’s pleasure was oxygen.

Archer’s fingers tangled in Mac’s hair, tugging him closer, needing more. Mac groaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating through Archer’s chest as he pumped his cock with growing rhythm, thumb swiping clumsily over the head, smearing precome down the length of him.

“Goddamn,” Archer hissed, biting at Mac’s lower lip, trying not to buck up too hard and draw more attention than they already had. But fuck, it felt too good, the heat of his hand, the filthy sound of slick skin, the scrape of teeth against his throat.

He was already close, shamefully close, and the worst part was he didn’t give a damn. Mac’s name spilled out of him in a rough whisper as his orgasm barreled through him. He jerked hard into Mac’s hand, spurting hot across his knuckles, muffling his cry against Mac’s mouth as if the kiss could hide the way he came undone.

He collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving, while Mac leaned back looking smug and wrecked in equal measure.

A box of tissues appeared between them. Annie’s voice was bone-dry. “Don’t get your jizz all over the seats. They’re leather.”

Archer grimaced, grabbing the tissues to clean himself up and swipe down Mac’s sticky hand before tucking himself back in. Only then did he notice the SUV wasn’t moving anymore. They’d already reached their destination.

Archer pushed open the door. “Thanks, Annie.”

“No, no. Thank you,” she called back, giving him a look so blatant Archer almost tripped. Just as Mac lumbered out, Annie called, “Wait.”

He frowned when she grabbed something from the console and handed it over. “I’m also a private driver on the side. If you and your…friend ever want another chauffeur so you can keep your, uh, hands free.”

Archer barked a laugh, slipping the card into his pocket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The moment Annie pulled away from the curb, Archer yanked Mac into a darkened alley, intent on returning the favor. But when he pressed against him, Mac wasn’t even hard. 

Before Archer could tease him, Mac flipped their positions, shoving Archer back against the rough brick and devouring his mouth with a kiss so deep Archer forgot what he’d been planning. Mac’s weight pinned him, his tongue fucking into Archer’s mouth like he owned it, and Archer let him, hands fisting in his shirt because it felt too good to stop.

They stood there tangled up in each other until Archer finally broke away, breathless, grabbing Mac’s hand to drag him toward the bar.

Inside, Mac froze. His eyes went wide as he took in the decor, every inch of the place styled like the belly of a pirate ship. Gleaming wood, ship wheels, coils of rope. Blue fishtank light spilled across the bar, tropical fish drifting lazily behind the glass. Pictures of dogs in pirate costumes hung everywhere, turning the whole space into a fever dream of cursed pirate pups.

Mac laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Archer, pointing at a framed pug with a tiny eye patch.

“Archer Mulvaney!” a woman’s voice shrieked. “I thought you died!”

Archer turned toward the girl striding over in a scandalously short pirate costume, grinning. “‘The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,’” he quoted, spreading his arms. “Hello, love. Good to see you.”

She launched herself into his arms, squeezing him tight. Archer caught the flash of Mac’s stormy expression over her shoulder. But her attention didn’t linger on Archer, her gaze slid up Mac’s towering frame like she was mentally mapping how to climb him.

“And who’s your friend?”

“Fiancé,” Mac declared loudly, swaying slightly on his feet.

Yasmine whipped back around, eyes going wide. “You’re getting married?!”

The entire bar turned to stare.

So much for low-key.

Archer closed his eyes, counted to ten, then held up his left hand. The gaudy plastic ring gleamed under the bar lights. Proof enough.

The place erupted in cheers.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Yasmine said, pulling them to a booth planted dead-center against the back wall.

Minutes later, a massive fishbowl cocktail with two straws landed in front of them. The liquid inside was an ominous neon blue, smelling like instant regret.

“Drink up or walk the plank!” the bartender bellowed, pointing to a board jutting over the floor like some cheap carnival stunt.

Archer opened his mouth to protest, but Mac had already yanked the fishbowl toward him with both hands. “If you don’, I will.”

“Okay, okay.” Archer pulled it back before Mac drowned himself. “But you’ve had enough. You’re cut off.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Mac said, giving him a jaunty salute that had Archer snorting. 

Mac was most definitely not cut off.

But by the time Mac started ‘helping’ him finish the massive drink, Archer’s resolve had melted at the edges, vision going pleasantly fuzzy. Now it was Archer leaning against Mac, not the other way around, as strangers rotated through their booth, each spinning another wild tale of Archer’s supposed drunken antics from prior visits.

“When’s the wedding?” Yasmine asked when she finally got a break, plopping into the booth, dark ponytail swinging over one shoulder, brown eyes glittering like she was rooting for chaos.

“We just got engaged today,” Archer said, lifting his left hand again. The plastic ring slumped sideways, as if exhausted. He laughed. “We have plenty of time.”

There was no way Mac would remember proposing in the morning. Still, Archer realized–alarmingly–that he didn’t hate the idea of spending forever with him the way he probably should.

“Les’ get married tonight,” Mac slurred suddenly. “Why wait? We’re in Vegas.”

Archer rubbed his cheek against Mac’s shoulder, snuggling closer in spite of himself. “I don’t think our parents would approve.”

“Aren’t you guys, like, in your forties?” Yasmine asked, clearly trying to stir the pot.

Ouch. 

“Do you need your parents’ permission to get married?” she continued. 

“Yeah, what she said,” Mac crowed, pointing at Yasmine. “I like you, even if you tried to hit on my fian’she. Fiance’. My tongue feels numb.”

Yasmine laughed. “Sweetie, I’m married. To that guy, right there.” She pointed to an attractive man in a Hawaiian shirt with a bald head and bushy mustache. “The owner.”

Archer had met him several times but couldn’t recall his name. 

Mac’s face crumpled. “Oh.”

“I just appreciate a pretty man,” she teased, eyes darting between them. “And you’re both very pretty.”

“Your husband doesn’t min’?” Mac asked, brow furrowed.

Her grin turned salacious. “My husband also appreciates a pretty man from time to time.”

Archer chuckled and forced himself upright. When he glanced at Mac, the man was staring at him with that same stormy, intent expression.

“What?” Archer asked, suddenly off-balance.

“Les’ get married now.”

Archer’s stomach flipped. “Are you serious? You’re hammered. We cannot get married.”

“I have an idea,” Yasmine cut in, chin propped on her palm, mischief radiating off her. “Do the plank challenge. If you make it to the end without falling off, you wait. But if you fall, you get married tonight. Elvis impersonator and all. We’ll even book the chapel for you before you go.”

The bar erupted in cheers before Archer could find an excuse.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“How’s it work?” he finally asked warily, brain fogged with alcohol.

“Set ‘er up, baby!” Yasmine called, grinning wickedly.

“I–I just asked how it worked,” Archer muttered under his breath, though the crowd was already chanting.

Mac leaned in, lips brushing Archer’s ear. “Do you not wanna marry me?”

Archer’s chest clenched. “I don’t want you to wake up and regret marrying me,” he admitted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Mac pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye, the neon lights catching and turning his gaze molten gold. “You’re crazy. I’ve been stupid in love wit’ you since the day we met.”

Archer’s heart stuttered violently. It wasn’t just the booze; something about the raw sincerity in Mac’s voice cracked him wide open. The bar noise faded for a beat, and all Archer could hear was the rush of his own pulse and the truth hanging between them.

“You can’t just say shit like that,” Archer whispered, his throat tight.

Mac kissed him slow and deep, and Archer melted into it, just like he always did when it came to Mac. Fuck, he was so weak for him.

“Save it for the honeymoon, boys,” Yasmine’s husband called from behind the bar. 

Carl? Craig? Something with a C. 

Archer didn’t care.

He looked at the long stretch of wood jutting out over a shallow kiddie pool, glowing under the same garish blue lights as the fishtanks. With a resigned sigh, he stood. Mac followed until they reached the little stage, then collapsed happily onto the barstool closest to the plank.

Yasmine took center stage, balancing a tray of ten shot glasses in one hand and a mic in the other. Her pirate skirt swished as she turned to face the crowd.

“Hey, all you swashbucklers,” she called. “We got a real treat tonight. Archer Mulvaney is gonna walk the plank…for love.” She dragged out the word love, giving it a syrupy flourish. 

The place erupted into cheers, whoops, and stomps.

“My brothers are going to be so sad they missed this,” Archer muttered, earning a loud laugh from someone in the crowd.

Yasmine lifted the tray high. “For those of you new here, here’s how it works: ten shots, ten questions. Every correct answer keeps him steady. Every wrong answer means one step closer to the edge and another shot. Fall in the pool, you lose, and it’s straight to the chapel for our lovebirds. Make it through all ten, plank still under your feet, and you win.”

The bar roared their approval.

Archer stepped up onto the wood, staring at the water below, trying to gauge how many footsteps he had to the edge. It glowed an unnatural neon blue, the exact shade of the abandoned fishbowl drink still sweating on the table.

“You gotta turn around, sweetie,” Yasmine called. “No peeking at how close you are to the edge.”

“I rarely know how close I am to the edge,” Archer quipped, pivoting smoothly to face her.

The crowd laughed, Mac’s being the loudest.

Yasmine pressed the first shot into his hand. He downed it, grimacing as it burned its way down his throat. Still, it was nothing compared to the heat of Mac’s gaze boring into him from the bar.

“Question one: What’s the traditional pirate flag with a skull and crossbones called?”

“The Jolly Roger.”

“Correct!” she cried, thrusting a fist into the air. A wave of boos rose up from the crowd, Mac’s loudest of all.

“Where’s the love?” she teased.

“In a Vegas wedding chapel!” someone shouted.

Archer’s lips twitched. He accepted the next shot. This one tasted like sweetened battery acid. He forced it down, shuddering.

“Question two: Which pirate was the most successful female in history, commanding a fleet of thousands in China?”

Archer’s brain hiccupped. “Um…Chang…fuck. Chang—Shit, I got nothing.”

Yasmine made a dramatic buzzing noise. “Ooh, so close. Ching Shih.”

Fuck.

Archer staggered back a step. The board shifted beneath his feet, and the crowd gasped as if he were an Olympic gymnast about to splatter off the balance beam. Mac, of course, looked absolutely gleeful.

Shot number three hit his palm. Tequila. Gross. It burned down his throat, dragging a full-body shiver out of him.

“Question three: Pirates often wore eyepatches not just for injuries but for what clever reason?”

This one Archer knew. “To keep one eye adjusted to the dark below deck.”

“Correct!” Yasmine cheered, though with noticeably less enthusiasm this time.

Archer swayed, blinking hard. Between the shots, the lights, and the weight of Mac’s eyes locked on him, he felt less like he was balancing on a plank and more like he was balancing on the edge of something much bigger. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay steady.

Once again the crowd grumbled their displeasure, but Archer barely heard them. He only had eyes for Mac, watching anxiously from his barstool, every muscle taut. Archer’s chest burned with something he didn’t have a name for.

Yasmine handed him his next shot. He tossed it back, his stomach protesting. When he tried to put the glass on the tray, he almost missed. That wasn’t good.

“Question four: What was the name of Blackbeard’s flagship?”

“Queen…fuck.” Archer blinked, but the answer wouldn’t come. “Um, Queen…Elizabeth?”

“Wrong,” Yasmine sang. “The Queen Anne’s Revenge.”

Archer sighed and stepped back, the board flexing dangerously under his heels. How many steps until the edge? He turned instinctively, and froze when he caught Mac’s gaze. The look on Mac’s face wasn’t playful anymore. It was raw, worried, like Archer’s next move meant everything. Something dangerous stirred low in his chest. He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted this man. 

Not the time, he told himself, shaking it off.

The next shot made his tongue curl, bitter and acidic. He gagged, forced it down, swayed dangerously before steadying himself.

“Question five: What animal was stereotypically kept as a pirate’s pet?”

“Parrot.”

“Correct.”

Another shot.

“Question six: Who was the pirate queen of Ireland in the 1500s?”

“Grace O’Malley,” Archer said, words blurring together.

“Correct.”

“How the fuck did he know that?” someone shouted.

“It was the name of one of the boats in the sailing club at our high school,” Archer muttered, grinning sloppily.

The crowd booed again, but Yasmine waved them quiet.

“Question eight: What year did the Golden Age of Piracy roughly end?”

“I have no idea,” Archer admitted. He staggered another step back, arms out, the board wobbling beneath him. Gasps rippled through the bar like he was perched ten stories up instead of one measly foot.

Mac’s eyes tracked his feet, jaw tight. He looked terrified.

“Only two more questions!” Yasmine cried. “Get them right and you win. Get them wrong…” She let the threat dangle.

Archer choked down the next shot, something syrupy that made his teeth ache.

“Question nine: Which two female pirates sailed with Calico Jack?”

Anne Bonny and Mary Read.

“I…I’m not sure,” he heard himself lie.

He braced for the plunge, but when he stepped back, wood still met his heels. Still on the plank.

Yasmine handed him the final shot. It went down like antifreeze, sweet and lethal.

“Final question: In pirate slang, what does ‘booty’ mean?”

The crowd groaned in unison, but Archer barely heard them. He looked straight at Mac.

Mac’s face crumpled, heartbreak flashing naked across his expression. And Archer realized, with brutal clarity, he didn’t want to win. Winning meant walking away. And for once, he didn’t want to escape.

He held Mac’s gaze, then deliberately bent his knees and leapt from the plank.

“Oops,” Archer said as water splashed around him. “Guess I lose.”

The entire bar crooned a collective awww.

Mac was on him in an instant, hauling him up, spinning him around like Archer weighed nothing.

“Archer groaned, clutching his stomach. “I’m gonna puke if you keep doing that, darling.”

Mac didn’t relinquish him entirely but he stopped the spinning. It took an alarming amount of time for Archer’s brain to also stop spinning.  

Yasmine ran up. “You two stay right here. I’m gonna get the chapel on the phone and see when they can marry you!” 

She was gone before he could even acknowledge her statement. When he glanced up at Mac, he was looking down at him like he was trying to read something on his face.  

“What? What’s wrong?” Archer asked, his tongue thick and clumsy.

“You won’t regret this, right?”

Archer shook his head, though the words he wanted lodged in his throat like broken glass. Instead, he wrapped his arms tight around him right there in the middle of the bar like they were all alone. Archer had always been guarded, jaded…a loner. He’d built an entire persona to keep people out, sharp edges, quick wit, smoke and mirrors. But Mac had waltzed straight through every wall he’d ever built, like they’d never been there in the first place.

No matter how many times Archer had tried to reclaim his space, his distance, Mac had refused. Refused to back down, refused to let go, refused to believe Archer when he said he wasn’t worth the trouble. Anyone else, Archer would’ve called it obsession, a red flag flapping in the wind. But Mac wasn’t anyone else. He was steady, relentless in the best ways, the greenest of green flags, the only one Archer had ever wanted to run toward instead of away from.

And for the first time in his life, Archer didn’t want to let go.